wideeyedfunk

Tag: pets

  • Provisions

    We ripped through the night in the Mighty Pathfinder, Enrique Iglesias’ Bailando thumping from the speakers, windows open, warm winds blowing. The WideEyedSpouse didn’t slow for a mad-big construction bump and the Mighty P lurched and waggled excitingly. “Bailandoooo!” the Spouse wailed.

    An old man on a porch swing creaked back and forth in time to the song when our crazed journey paused at a traffic light, and a flashing neon sign wanted to be on the beat but couldn’t get there –an electric version of me trying for the rhythm but never finding it. Cracked sidewalks sketchy bus stops stinky gas stations barking dogs blatting broken muffler cars – they are all better in the languid warm of long summer evening.

    I smiled out into the evening air, crumpling my reusable grocery sacks tight to me.  My heart felt full and light and easy. Buoyant. Which was nice because there hasn’t been much joy in the WideEyedHomestead since my pal Hamish the Corgi died a few weeks ago.

    It’s my big question, my conundrum again, from where does this mad joy come? And why do I feel it best when I’m faced with the outrageous complexity of life in this world?

     

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  • 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.

  • 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.

  • My work colleagues are dogs. And no, I’m not a sheepherder.

    Miss Tibbit the Useless Little Black Dog and Hamish the Corgi work with me all the day long. And they work hard on their dog chores. Miss Tibbit holds the cushion down on the chair. Hamish holds the chair in position. They sigh and stretch and mumble over their tasks. Every now and again, Hamish has to squirm into a better holding position, Miss Tibbit must squeeze herself tighter into her little dog-round position.

    Today Miss Tibbit worked in the window seat in the front parlor. Hamish occupied himself with holding down the old red settee.

    Dogs

    I was so lonely. The keys wouldn’t type right on the keyboard. The words wouldn’t come in my careful writing. The day was bleak.

    DogcolleaguesNow we’re back up here for the evening round of work. Sweet Tibbit is snoring and twitching with her full post-dinner belly and Hamish looks like he may have actually passed out. And, sure, the WideEyedSpouse is across the room, sighing and creaking around in his chair doing mysterious Spouse office things.  But he’s with me in here only a couple of hours a day. My real work colleagues are over there on the floor and in the corner chair.

    Sometimes I think it might be smart to haul myself up to the University to work. There are people there. It is just barely possible that I would benefit from some human interaction in my puzzling life.

  • Sweet Tibbit gets her money’s worth out of a jelly bean.

    Hamish the Corgi and Miss Tibbit can’t stop thinking about jelly beans.

    DogsI’m looking at Sweet Tibbit now and she’s laying on the window seat gazing into the middle distance. She seems vacuous, blank-eyed, awaiting stimulus. I assure you she is thinking about jelly beans.  Hamish is lounged on the sofa, chin propped and contemplative. He is also thinking about jelly beans.

    Because they are dogs, they both like, or rather, don’t dislike, every color jelly bean. I believe that there is a slight preference for pink, red and purple jelly beans over black, orange, and green. It is hard to tell with Hamish because he crunch-gulps so swiftly that the experience is over by the time his Corgi brain has the opportunity to form an opinion.

    Tibbit (2)Sweet Tibbit, she savors a jelly bean. She snuffles the bean with her strangely mobile little black nose.  If it proves acceptable (and it always does but certain colors are approved more quickly), if acceptable Sweet Tibbit takes the bean with her tiny front nibble teeth and pursed lips. It disappears into her maw. Her catfish-like whiskers twitch as she repositions her prize to her molars. This is a mistake Sweet Tibbit makes every time. Really, every time.

    The bean embeds into Miss Tibbit’s molars.

    We all watch Miss Tibbit make rictus faces and chew with great exaggerated jaw movement. Her awkwardly too-big-for-her-mouth tongue flaps around. She pauses and looks at us. Makes a little test chew. Nope, not done. The rictus, chewing, flapping tongue scene starts again.

    Hamish feels an injustice has been perpetrated. He glances from Sweet Tibbit eating her jelly bean to me to the jelly bean bag. His meaning is quite clear. Miss Tibbit’s jelly bean was obviously better than the cheezy little one he got.

    As I reach into the jelly bean bag for another one, Miss Tibbit abruptly stops chewing and looks pointedly at my hand. She is trying to demonstrate that she is ready for another bean.  I hold my hand in the bag for a moment. Tibbit stares. I wait. I can see her lips trying to pull back into a rictus for more chewing. She is forcibly restraining them. I wait. Ricuts, flap, flap flap of the tongue.

    Miss Tibbit gets more out of a single jelly bean than anyone I have ever seen. Sweet Tibbit, so simple, so sweet.

  • Three’s Company, Two’s Just Awkward

    As it turns out, Miss Tibbit the Useless Little Black Dog and I don’t have all that much to say to each other. Hamish the Corgi was in the dog hospital yesterday. This left Miss Tibbit and I alone in the house.

    Hamish left early in the morning, and Miss Tibbit sat on the bed and stared out the window at the Pathfinder as it left the driveway. When the truck was out of sight, she turned to look at me over her shoulder. I shrugged at her. What could I say? Hamish went somewhere and she didn’t.

    Morning walkies were weird. Miss Tibbit didn’t pull at the leash. She didn’t bark at other dogs. She sniffed everything twice as hard as normal, lingering over the little hedge branch that sticks out too far and rubs against EVERY dog who walks past. I think she sniffed the bark right off of it. She kept aiming quick little glances back at me.

    Tibbit (2)The office situation was even odd. I sat at the desk, clacketing away as normal. Miss Tibbit sauntered in and sat, sort of sideways, and looked at me from the corners of her eyes. She seemed to have something to say but wasn’t comfortable enough to break the silence. We made accidental eye contact over and over again. It was awkward.

    Evidently Miss Tibbit and I just aren’t all that close. Hamish the Corgi is my best friend. He is Miss Tibbit’s best friend. But Tibbit and I seem to inhabit an acquaintance kind of friendscape. We realized yesterday that while we do spend a lot of time together, we are spending that time with Hamish not with each other.

    I tried to make it better, like you do when you are in an uncomfortable social setting, “uh, good girl,” I told her and patted her on the head. She went along with my attempt to form a connection, but she yawned with a squeak at the end. Grasping at any distraction, I suggested we go downstairs for lunch.  I figured if we were doing something it would be less noticeable that we didn’t have anything to talk about. Well, that lasted about 30 seconds. Once her lunch was gone, we were at the same impasse. A lot of time and no real interest in each other. We stood in the kitchen, whistling to ourselves and faking absorption with the fridge magnets and the nutrition information on food wrapper labels.

    “Well,” I said, fed up with the whole thing, “now we know.” Miss Tibbit tried to look agreeably insightful. It wasn’t easy, she was stretched up on her hind legs trying to lick the butter dish on the counter at the time. We went back up to the office. I typed and clicked the mouse. Miss Tibbit napped in the chair. We ignored the space on the floor between us where Hamish usually lays and waited for our uncomfortable day to end.

  • Lemme me see the other side.

    I’ll tell you what. I have lived in Minnesota. I know what cold feels like. I spent a couple of winters in Anchorage. I know what big snow looks like. I grew up at the South Jersey shore.  I am familiar with bone cutting, sand carrying, January winds that administer the midseason microdermabrasion treatments. Stings a bit when the feeling comes back into your cheeks.

    Now I’m in Buffalo. And I am becoming expert in the wintry mix. Sloppy.  Gusty. Raw. The Christmas pine garlands are flopping all over the place. And dog walks are wretched.

    “Yeah.”

    Sorry, that was Miss Tibbit interrupting us. This afternoon she pranced onto the back porch, got blasted in the face with a sleety snow, and turned around to come back inside. Wasn’t worth it. No thank you ma’am.

    Buffalo winter means that Hamish the Corgi and Sweet Tibbit come home from walkies with salty wet feet. Hamish’s undercarriage is a cindery mucky mess. Every time. (The cat just sneezed in my wine by the way. Just saying. Nice moment.) If I leave the dogs alone I have mud on the sofa, salt foot prints all over the house, maybe a sick dog because I guess they aren’t supposed to lick that rock salt.

    So. Every day, several times a day, we do the lemme see the other side routine.  The dogs know and when it is gross outside they climb the first set of steps and wait for me in the hall landing. I unglove, unshoe, unhat, uncoat, unscarf, grab the dog towel, and crouch down. Hamish stands stiffly in front of me and presents his near foot – usually port side, held high in the air. I wipe it, rub his chest under there. Let go. He steps forward and balances his weight on the starboard side. I wipe the back foot, wipe the belly, let go. Miss Tibbit, who is anxious that this isn’t going fast enough, pushes past. “Lemme see the other side,” I tell Hamish.

    He steps forward a bit, performs a Corgi K-turn, hoves into reach and presents his starboard foot. Wipe. Forward. Wipe. “Next,” I say. Miss Tibbit appears in my face, one front foot in the air. Wipe. She steps forward. Back foot wipe. “Other side,” I say, like a train conductor announcing the stop. Tibbit steps away and carefully negotiates a turn, presenting the other front foot. Wipe. Forward. Wipe.

    The dogs assemble conveniently near the dog treat storage area while I drape the dog towel on the heater. It’s irritating, the dogs get rubbed with a warm towel after the Buffalo winter walks. What am I running here, a dog spa?

    Anyway, I rattle the lid of the treat jar and toss snacks into waiting maws. “Alright,” I tell them, “I’ve got work to do,” and we head back up to the desk. Oh boy, only a couple of hours until the next Buffalo winter dog walk.