wideeyedfunk

Category: Pets

They are all completely unpredictable.

  • Kitchen Transcendence

    I meant to take a nap. Sunday afternoons are for napping.  Especially rainy Sunday afternoons. Really especially rainy Sunday afternoons that were preceded by a two-mile morning run in the park during a down pour. Blech in all directions on that little event: run (yuck), run for two miles (yuck), run in the rain (yuck).

    I looked at Hamish the Corgi and he gazed back at me, content laying in a sea of his own shed hair. We sighed at the same moment. Time for the Oreck Fun Police.

    hamish-10-2-2016

    Together, with Miss-Tibbit-the-Useless, we dusted and whirred around the downstairs. Miss Tibbit curled on the red tufted settee in the front parlor. Hamish lounged on the orange passion flower upholstered Victorian settee in the living room. Each dog picking the furniture piece that best set off their shiny, shedding fur. I put away boots, hung up coats, dog towels, and discarded umbrellas.

    I straightened pictures, cleaned up eviscerated dog toys guts. And I vacuumed. And vacuumed. And vacuumed. Tip: dogs shed. You’re welcome.

    oreck-1
    oreck-2

    When it was all over, the last hairy tuft sucked into the Fun Police maw, the Sunday paper and I settled in at the kitchen table. I turned off the loud music, put on some of my new blue lipstick (color name: Frostbite – maybe she’s born with it, maybe it’s hypothermia), and tuned into the Amazon Classical for Concentration (or whatever) station.

    It was nice. The legs of the WideEyedSpouse were visible, dangling from under the Mighty Pathfinder in the garage. Dogs were sleeping. The Fun Police was parked back in the municipal garage. And I was clipping coupons. Just the good ones. A dollar off a defrizz serum. Two dollars off hand lotion. Three, three dollars off razors, my goodness, and then…the back of my neck started tingling.

    I looked up, scissors open and ready to clip, and listened. A warm cello sound strand came out of the living room and wrapped around me. My back sparkled, my heart pounded, and something full and wonderful and gloaming rose up from my middle and into my head and down my arms.

    I sat alone in my clean house, at my kitchen table, hair-unbrushed, scissors-poised, lips-a-blue, and I burgeoned with a joy of life too vast, too awesome for me to hold. I could feel it swirl through me and out into the universe, leaving me still in my soul and so glad to be alive in that moment.

    Thank you J.S. Bach for your Cello Suite No. 1 in G Major. Thank you Yo-Yo Ma for your playing.You made a humble moment transcendental. Your gifts are appreciated.

  • Independence Day.

    Thanks to the bold minds and brave signers of the Declaration of Independence, and their willingness to see it through we are here now:  equal, free of abuses, repeated injuries,  and usurpations from Government, free of a Government which refuses to pass laws, free from the obstruction of justice, free of taxation without representation…er.

    Ok.

    Well.

    Thanks to the bold minds and etc. etc. were here now: basking in a glorious summer day of picnics and simply joys. The people of the WideEyedHousehold came of age in one of the New Jersey shore towns, working to serve the holidays of one hundred thousand city-folk. Now, we wallow in the quietude and privacy of a day of independence, without obligation.

    Sweet Tibbit the Useless-Little-Black dog waits patiently for more raspberries to ripen on the thicket in back yard. She already harvested all within reach using her front nibble teeth, stretching her neck, balancing her dainty toes on the edges of the raised beds to reach more. Hamish watches, pretty sure this is Not Allowed but not sure enough to administer chastisement.  I rescued enough for yard-raspberry French-toast for breakfast.

    SmokedThe WideEyedSpouse hovers over the bounty of his 16-hour overnight pork shoulder smoke. Ten pounds of darkly barked smoked pork await conversion into pulled pork sandwiches, tacos, omelets, pizzas, stews, Shepherd’s pies, burritos, lettuce wraps, grilled cheeses, soups, stir-frys – who knows what desperate lengths we’ll go to.

    The baby-toe cactus and the Venus-fly-trap feel it too, exploding with vegetation regeneration in mad blooms, and yes, picnicking in the case of the fly-trap. A desiccated gnat carcass is revealed as one trap slowly reopens in the morning sun.

    Plants

    I stand on the freshly scrubbed front porch, watching the flag undulate lazily over the bees tending their lavender in the garden. Main Street is quiet for once. Instead of driving here and there, bustling and hustling, the Good People of Buffalo seem to be taking the day. The park was full this morning of bikes and kids and dogs and golfers. We weaved and bobbed among them all on the park loop until my bike chain broke – creeee-clank – and then we walked with them.

    Flag

    Independence Day.

  • The interview ends with a worm.

    We’re here with Hamish the Corgi and Miss Tibbit-the-useless-little-black-dog. It’s painting season again here at the WideEyedDomicile. The Bosses are up on the scaffolding along the northwest side this season, scraping and painting yet another architectural complexity.

    We asked Miss Tibbit what she thinks of the house painting activity.

    “Well,” she looked either thoughtful or vacant, it isn’t easy to tell, “it is really pretty boring. We just sit around in the yard. There’s not much to do.”

    Hamish looked sideways at her. “That’s a negative attitude.” Tibbit snorted. “Look at them up there,” Hamish waved his nose upward, “they stay in one place for hours at a time and I can keep my eye on them.”

    “Whatever,” Miss Tibbit seemed doubtful. She sniffed the air and “Hey, there’s a worm over there!” She spun on her hind legs and took off.

    “What??” Hamish ran after her.

    Another day, more of the house painted. We’ll check back in with the WideEyedHousehold next week.

    Dogs

  • Epic morning walkies

    The WideEyedSpouse scored a vintage Royal Racer sled on walkies last evening. There it was, plonked in the trash with an old broom, crumbling wood, and a broken snow shovel. A little yellow sticker on it says “SALE. $1.00”. The sticker itself is old.

    I was going to write about that for a bit.

    Then Hamish ran through a giant pile of crumbly leaves with a big smile and bouncy ears. The universe might have been created so that Corgis would have the opportunity to run through leaf piles on a sunny fall day. The joy-power generated might fuel cosmological function.

    But the morning uni-blocker walkies this morning turned interesting on me. Characters and circumstances converged and the mundane transformed to epic.

    We crossed the street in the wrong place because a young man on our sidewalk looked nervous about passing Hamish and Miss Tibbit. This unexpected act suggested adventure to the Corgi and the Useless-Little-Black-Dog. “What are we doing over HERE?!” they exclaimed to one another. Peeing on the neighbors rose bushes it looked like to me.

    A young female dressed entirely in black with long blond hair nearly to her knees appeared ahead of us. She looked back at us every few seconds. Hamish stared at her. We crossed the street in another strange place – before the Cigar Man’s house and after the dying oak tree. “We NEVER cross here,” Hamish said, sniffing down the middle of the road, lingering to try to cause trouble with the bicycle coming.

    “PPPSSSSSHHHHH-ACK!” Miss Tibbit lunged at the tabby cat sitting next to a redbud tree. She jumped and barked in mad joy. She smiled at Hamish – “Almost,” she laughed, “almost.” My heart and head pounded with unnecessary adrenaline.

    We rounded the corner with the nine foot privet. Never can tell what’s behind it. Today a foot in teeteringly high leather strappy pumps appeared, followed by the rest of a mid 60s woman in tight jeans, leather jacket and full face make up with smoke easing from nose, mouth, and hand. “Oh, look at him!” she set her coffee down to pat Hamish, who stopped to receive his due. “Let me show you a picture of my dog,” she said. Tibbit jumped up and down next to me. We peered at a smart phone screen, smoke whirling around us in an alchemical haze. “Oh, that’s a big dog,” I said, looking at a massive border collie on a 2 inch screen. The person flip, flip, flipped through her images, stopping on a close up of two legs pressed together. “Now that’s someone’s thighs,” she said, “don’t know how that picture got in there. I thought it was a butt at first.” Flip flip flip…

    The giant yellow mastiff from down the street turned the corner. Silence. Stillness. A low whistle sounded in the air, marking the standoff. Hamish, Tibbit, and I dove behind the hedge, the mastiff owner dragged him behind a parked mini-van, the woman gazed at her cell phone screen – who’s thighs were they?

    Sweating, breathing hard, and soaked in perfumey cigarette smoke, we made it to the end of the block where a shaved-headed man endlessly, hopelessly raked leaves in a giant yard. He threw his rake down to greet Hamish. Tibbit jumped up and down. “I’ve had a lot of dogs,” he told me, “and you control them by making them sit every time they act out.” He looked at Miss Tibbit who sat quietly by my side, head atilt, curious. Miss Tibbit and I looked at each other, then at him. “Oh,” he said. Hamish peed on the leaf pile behind him.

    Then we ran. We ran and ran and ran. Through leaves, over cracked sidewalks, around a corner and across the street again. Parked in front of our house a car steamed, hood up, nearly done for. Hamish paused, interested. He glanced at Tibbit, “Shall we?” “Cookie,” I stated firmly, I could see our door, I could feel the end of journey, I longed for my desk. Dragging feet, head low, Hamish and Tibbit followed me in, listened to the slam of the door, and bid farewell to the very best part of their day. Until afternoon walkies.

  • Should I be proud that I outsmarted dogs?

    We’re out of dog biscuits.

    No, I mean, we’re OUT of DOG biscuits. Cookies. Snackies. Num nums. Call them whatever you want, doesn’t change the fact that the jar is EMP-TY.

    The WideEyedHousehold economy runs on milkbones. I don’t want to hear a lot of noise about dogs should listen.  They listen just fine when they want to. And when they don’t want to, I rattle the cookie jar lid, sharpens their hearing right up.

    I carry a pocketful of cookies pretty much all the time. Dogs are less apt to be nervy when there’s a pocketful of cookies around.

    But we ran out. No Cheerios to replace them. No Cheez-its, chips, or peanut-butter-stuffed-pretzels. Nothing. The WideEyedSpouse and I are on our own. I opened the fridge, hardboil some eggs? Too messy. Cut some cheese chunks? No, I’ll end up eating it all linty from my pocket and everything. Arugula? That’s just panic talking.

    My eye fell on the bin of dog dinner kibble on the bottom shelf of the pantry. The dogs like it there so they can hang out near it. Sniff it. Stand near it. Lick the edges. I had a sneaky, underhanded, dishonest thought about that kibble and the empty dog cookie jar. No one was around – Miss Tibbit was upstairs policing Ancient Wiggins the Cat, Hamish was policing Miss Tibbit.

    Slowly, quietly, so so so so carefully I scooped a handful of kibble and threw it in the cookie jar. Sound travels faster than the speed of light in the WideEyedHousehold and after an ultradense clatter of dog feet on the steps, they stood, waiting, staring at the cookie jar. Glancing at me.

    “Who wants a cookie?” I asked. Hamish ooched his butt forward and Tibbit sat firmly. I lifted the cookie jar lid, selected two pieces of boring, everyday, nothing special dinner kibble and flipped them in the air. “Snap!” Snap!” They trotted off to harass the cat some more.

    I smiled the Grinch’s smile.

  • Surrender to the Sweatpants

    Miss Tibbit-the-Useless-Little-Black-Dog is pressed against me here on the sofa. She is super fluffy and still a little damp. Hamish is asleep in his chair looking rumpled. We all had a tense evening and I made an early surrender to the sweatpants.

    You know what I’m talking about. There comes a point when a person submits to the notion that the day is over. That there is no need to be in any way presentable. In this moment, sweatpants are the only choice. Not pajamas because those aren’t even clothes. Sweatpants. Elastic waist. Sometimes, preferably, elastic ankles. Droopy. Large. Sickeningly comforting. So horrifying that even if the house were on fire I’d change into other pants.

    Mine are 11 years old. I bought them when I was writing my PhD thesis and I vowed I would wear no other pants until it was finished. That took four months. Now they are a faded navy blue. They have zips at the ankles just in case I’m being active and need to shed my sporty outer layer. That’s just funny to think about, really.  Because sweatpants activities in the WideEyedHousehold include 1) getting another glass of wine, and 2) watching tv. They used up their energy and intellectual capacity during the thesis writing.

    Today I lost a conflict with a copier/scanner, fed the dermestid beetles, struggled to make sense of conflicting bone measuring schemes, researched grants, skimmed an entire volume on the extinction and extirpation of birds in Oceania. I returned overdue books to the library and filed paperwork in three places. I was thinking about the sweatpants before 3pm.

    Then, just when the day should be verging toward evening: The Laundromutt.

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    Members of the WideEyedHousehold are cleaner. Softer. Less objectionable. But worn down to the bone. WideEyedSpouse just walked past my end of the sofa – in pajamas. “Straight to pajamas?” I asked. “I’m cutting out the middle man,” he said.

  • You can’t drink the ocean.

    You can’t drink the ocean.

    Hamish the Corgi, Miss Tibbit the Useless Little Black Dog, and I piled into my parent’s old Chevy truck. I opened the passenger window just enough for Tibbit’s head and shoulders and so that Hamish could get his nose into the air. Any more than that and Miss Tibbit would shove her entire body out of the window and air surf her way to the beach. As it was her ears flapped in the rainy wind of Upper Township while we cruised through the marshes and neighborhoods on the way to the beach.

    The WideEyedHousehold was on a mini-break to the shore – and while the WideEyedSpouse wasted his time inland, meeting with a friend and talking about cars, moto-cross, and computers, the dogs and I hit the beach.

    We walked for a few miles but in the dense fog we couldn’t tell. Our feet were moving but the scenery didn’t change. Gulls flapped at Hamish when he ran in looping arcs around them. He was bound to be frustrated in his corgi heart, no one told the gulls that they were meant to be herded. Miss Tibbit sniffed a hermit crab carcass all over, she’ll know that carcass when she meets it again. I took deep breaths of the one hundred percent humid, salt air. It made the back of my neck tingle and I felt the positive energy to my toes. The Buffalo winter soot clogging my lungs eased a bit. My hair grew and grew into a witchy curling mass that reeked of ocean.

    Hamish sampled a tide pool. “Hack,” he said and looked at me. “You can’t drink the ocean,” I told him. “Haaaack,” he said. Miss Tibbit tip-toed on hind legs to see the giant yellow claw truck hauling metal drain tubes around on the beach. She barked at it. “Monster!” she yelled and hopped up and down. “Monster!” Hamish didn’t see what the fuss was all about.

    We clambered back into the truck and the dogs fought for prime positioning. Too bad they couldn’t decide which was prime position: window or shoved up against me. They aren’t used to riding up front on a bench seat – were we in a car or on the sofa? Time to rest or time to sniff? Confusing. Miss Tibbit ended up sitting next to me like a person without personal boundaries – pressed tight against my side and watching the road with me. I could feel her tilting her head left and right as I did to check for traffic at stop signs.

    Starving and thirsty, and not sure if these were my problems or the dogs were using mind control on me, I hit a Wawa convenience store for hot dogs and something to drink. My hot dog had ketchup and mustard, Hamish and Miss Tibbit shared a plain one, minus the roll. I poured water into the empty container. Hamish appreciated getting that nasty ocean taste out of his mouth. Miss Tibbit liked drinking hot dog flavored water. “The best water ever,” I could tell she was thinking.

    We drove home, ocean-blown, bellies full, content. Windshield wipers flapping against the pouring rain, dog eyes drooping heavily in the warmth of the truck.

  • A good mattress.

    I love a good mattress. You just don’t see too many of them at this time of year. Maybe it’s so cold that people aren’t moving here and there as often in the winter. Maybe there’re good ones under all the snow banks – I don’t know but I miss seeing them.

    We were out on patrol two days ago when it got a little warmer. I didn’t even have to wear that horrible coat. I HATE that coat. A lot.

    …

    Oh, right, we were out checking our blocks a couple of days ago and there it was. A big, floppy mattress slung across a snowbank. I ran right to it and shoved my face into a really nice looking dark spot dribbled down the side. I breathed in hard and snorted back out. I rolled my eyes back in my head so I could really concentrate.

    I snuffled my chin hairs along the edge, to catch interesting spots along the whole length. I sneezed and looked around. No one seemed to be in a hurry so I hopped up on top. I pressed my nose here, and there, and over there. I can’t even tell you what feast of scents I had – I’ve been stuck in that house and yard for days because it hurts outside and this mattress was a real treat.

    Hamish popped up onto the side of the mattress. No! Mine! I lunged at him and he left. Probably peed on something, that’s all he does on patrol. I could tell we were moving on soon so I took a bunch of fast, small sniffs all over the middle and edges, storing them up to think about later. I really do like a good mattress.

    Guest writer: Miss Tibbit-the-Useless-Little-Black-Dog

    Tibbit on the Sofa

  • Hamish the Corgi, Almost a Person

    Hamish the Corgi is almost a person. He has plans. He has dignity. He is hampered in life only by his tiny, T. Rex front legs and his lack of thumbs. Sometimes while he watches me analyze data and write I just know he gets it. And if he could speak in my language he would engage in discourse.

    But then. A bug wanders past. It is happening right now. I can see him trying to ignore it but first his eyes, then his ears flickered in the direction of the bug. It’s one of those triangular bodied bugs, the Brown Marmorated Stink Bug, that show up in the winter sometimes.  Hamish can’t resist a good stink bug.

    He is sprawled on the floor, holding the stink bug cupped in his meaty little paws. Oops, it just “escaped” and he had to pounce a little to get it back in the dog paw corral. I guess that got boring and he just rolled onto his side and rubbed his face all over the bug. He is laying there, all corgi limp, and I figure that he likes the feeling of the stink bug wiggling between his cheek and the wood floor.

    As we sit here in the office, me with my article draft and data tables, Hamish with his Marmorated Stink Bug, I begin to wonder about Hamish’s plans, dignity, and potential. It just is not easy to look intellectually engaged when you are laying on your side, pressing a stink bug into the floor with your cheek and a crazy look in your eyes. Try it, you’ll see.

    The stink bug made it from the wood floor to the carpet (probably an epic-heroic journey through corgi whiskers and fur) and I thought I might intervene and toss the little bug out the window before its stink got rubbed into the rug. Hamish sat up and glared at me when I leaned forward from my chair. Okaaaay. I sat back.

    So here we are. Détente.

    I will give Hamish a moment to resolve the situation on his own.

    He is holding Stink Bug in his paw corral again. Thinking.

    He just leaned in to nose around in the paw corral. His mouth opened a little and, oh man, he did it, that bug is Gone. Down the gullet after some dramatic lip curled chewing.

    And there we have it. Hamish is not, in fact, a person.

  • The benevolent dictator at Christmas.

    My absolute dominion over the thousands of beings in my WidedEyedDemesne is of the gentlest nature. This is my moral and ethical choice – as you know, with great power comes great responsibility. In the holiday season, I strive to make the lives of my WideEyedSubjects shine brightly.

    For Hamish the Corgi, a stuffed Olaf the Snowman waits under the tree – Sven the Reindeer is sitting next to him, having no notion that he is a gift for Miss Tibbit and that his days are short. Fitz (the betta fish are always named Fitz) will have a new moss ball. Wiggins the Ancient Cat received a teeth cleaning and three extractions – the vet tells me this was a gift of life. This almost made my heart swell in direct proportion to the shrinking of the WideEyedTreasury.

    Innocents waiting under the tree.
    Innocents waiting under the tree.

    The hundreds of red wigglers in the worm bin, so content to ooze in the dim moistness – I’ve got three eggs shells and some mushroom stems for them. Wiggle worms, and squirm. Enjoy your holiday feast and think warm thoughts of my largess as you produce compost for the territorial gardens.

    And my dermestid subjects, my thousands of loyal flesh eating beetles, for generations of their heritage I ’ve cared for them. Do they have oral histories of their arrival into my territories? Do they teach each new larval group of the great hand which delivers food and water under a searing bright light? When food grows scarce and all flesh is consumed from the skeletons, do they pour libations and perform sacrifice to me?

    Dermestid territory, let the feast begin!
    Dermestid territory, let the feast begin!

    My dermestids will be pleased with any gift, but I want them to grow and prosper and be content in the coming winter for my freezer is full of specimens to deflesh and I’ll need the hungry bellies of their young. I thought long, resting my chin in hand, what will please them? Ah, it came to me…the bison head, the fine fats and proteins of the bison brain, rare and rich gifts that all can share.  Feast well my small subjects!

    Merry Christmas Friends. May you also have a fine day of love, kindness, and feasting.