Thank You from the Addiverse

Here's to Wild Mama. Thank you for reading every post.

The end of this chapter--this blog--is upon us. People are ticking and tocking, snapping and chatting, vlogging and reeling. The Boomers are looking mighty out-of-date, out-of-touch and out of time. The Addiverse is no different.

The timing is perfect for the closing of this blog.
I’ve entered a new decade.
I've entered the "third act" of this play called life.
We’re moving to a new house.
Menopause is firmly set. 

Beginnings after endings. I know there will be a new creative adventure, as beginnings following endings. What that will be, I do not know. When I do know, I’ll post a link/info/invite/warning label on this final entry.

As I’ve note in the previous 15 posts, I decided to go out in style, featuring 16 of my favorite blogs, which represent my 16 years of blogging. Today, I write the final post. In preparation for this momentous event, I zipped back to the first entry. After all, one should finish where they started.

Interestingly to me, there is only one post from 2005. Why interestingly? Because I would have sworn I posted more one time during that inaugural month of blogging.
I know I started the blog in December 2005…
I remember setting up the blog…
I remember the reasons to I began to blog…
Perhaps I am delirious.
Perhaps there really was only one post… seeing as the first post is dated 12/31/2005, it stands to reason it is the only 2005 post.
Doesn't matter than I would’ve bet dollars to donuts there would be more than one entry.
The blog does not lie.
Insert shoulder shrug here.

Let’s start with the original blog and then I will close with some words of wisdom.
Or, words of ridiculousness.
Hold that thought.

Welcome to the Addiverse: The Inaugural Blog

Welcome to the Addiverse... forget the universe, this is the Addiverse... what a strange place it is.

No editing.
No spell check.
No grammar patrol.
Mundane ramblings of no redeeming value.
Therapy for me; laughs for you.

The ice cream cake roll photo has nothing to do with anything besides illustrating my love of delicious, naughty, always-chocolatey sugar products.
It's an addiction.
I am powerless and its unmanageable.
Ask me if I care.

Now, dog diarrhea....

Meet Lucy, Bark of Poteidaia: a 17 lb shih tzu/Maltese mix, affectionately named after Lucy Lawless and Gabrielle, Bard of Poteidaia.
Lucy is definitely NOT a foo foo dog...
she's more like if Ellen DeGeneres was a dog, she'd be Lucy.
Why she's so big, we have no idea but the mama swears she really is shih tzu and Maltese but we remain skeptical.

Today, Lucy got into some disgustingly rich raccoon poop after running away on my watch. I know better not to let her go outside without her leash, but I learn the hard way. Sometimes, I don’t learn at all. Anyway, she runs straight across the street--never a good thing--and flocks right to this giant pile of the most vile-smelling poop on the face of the earth. I put our other dog (Freckles Warrior Princess--a shih tzu/Lhasa mix with a bad attitude and a worse underbite) in the car and go to get Lucy.

I can smell her from the street. This is not a good thing.

I swear she is smiling while rolling around and eating this mess, getting all covered with the present from the neighborhood critter, smacking her lips in delight. Dear god, my eyes were watering when I picked her up--this was no regular poop. She's covered with shit and I'm trying to carry her at arm's length and Freckles is watching from the car wondering what the hell is going on. I have to get Lucy into the house for an emergency bath. With Lucy in one arm, I open the car door and Freckles plops out. I leave the car and carry her at arm's length.

I can go get the car later.

Lucy is loving every minute of the tasty poop she is licking off her fur as I'm trying to carry her....and then....

When I get to our house, I immediately sense that the wife is NOT amused that
(1) Lucy was off her leash when I know she is just going to run away,
(2) that Lucy had indeed run away and had rolled in poop,
(3) that Lucy now smelled like something that died three months ago,
(4) that I smelled like something died three months ago and,
(5) that Lucy has been eating this crap (literally).

Now, I know you don't know the wife yet, but let me just say she is very fastidious-obsessive-compulsive-clean-rule-following woman and she is NOT entertained by me, poop or Lucy at this moment.

The bath went swimmingly (pun intended). Soon, we were smelling fresh as daisies. All seemed to be going fabulously in the Addiverse. The car was back home. Freckles was fine. Lucy smelled better. I was kinda-sorta forgiven.

All that poop eating led to Lucy getting sick. Of course it did. I'm talking exploding diarrhea. Not just a little case of shooting poop--we're talking shit flying everywhere. For days.

The wife was no longer speaking to me or Lucy at this point. We were both in the doghouse. Freckles, having more brain capacity than me and Lucy together, was smart enough to lie low and wait out the storm from somewhere under a bed.

Due to the poop patrol needs, I slept on the floor with Lucy, as every time she woke up and stood up to go outside, poop would machine-gun right out of her poor little butt. Woof! So, when she'd wake up, I'd grab her and run out the front door. I had to take two days off work to stay home with her....after all, it was my fault she was shooting shit.

I finally took Lucy to the vet 'cuz the diarrhea wasn't getting any better and I was tired of not sleeping and because the wife was getting more irritated by the milli-second. (Who can blame her? Cleaning up diarrhea every two hours isn't very fun and the new carpeting really didn't need such initiation.) I try to scoop up some poop for the vet to look at, but it's REALLY hard to pick up dog diarrhea. I got some in the baggie and off Lucy and I went.

The vet and the assistant get this HORRIFIED look on their faces when they hear the words "raccoon feces." It is obvious it is a very bad thing for dogs to eat racoon poop. I guess there's some bad juju with raccoon poop--trust me, I did a lot of research on the web and found this poop to be a bad, bad thing--for people and for pets--and these ladies didn't do anything to calm my sleep-deprived nerves. They sent us back home with directions to feed the Bark of Poteidaia some rice with hamburger.

(Side note: the web is amazing--who woulda thunk you could find photos of raccoon poop on the web? There are all sorts of pictures of it. Close ups, in various settings, with different textures. Is this a great world or what?)

Suffice it to say, it took several more days and an injection from the vet (for Lucy, not me) to get things back to "normal" in the Addiverse. 

None of us have had the balls to find out if we have the yucky raccoon worm problem that is out there.
I figure time will tell.
Time and poop.
Time and poop.

As for me, ask me if Lucy's been outside without her leash since then...

...okay, maybe once. Twice? Lucy and I live on the edge.

Don't tell the wife.
***************************************************

Thank you for visiting the Addiverse. 

A place where it's okay to dig ice cream cake out of the garbage,

A place to recycle a Bible,

A place to celebrate friends a family,

A place to mourn, celebrate, recognize,

A place for free therapy,

A place of ridiculousness,

A place of exaggeration,

A place of the truth with not a shred of exaggeration,

A place of no redeeming value, 

except for a laugh or two along the way. 

Sophomoric dribble--

still dribbling from my brain, sixteen years later.
*************************************
I daresay the blog will not age well, 

but it will stand in time no matter how it ages.

Perhaps many years in the future, someone will find the Addiverse and think, "what the hell IS this?" and then take a few moments to peruse the contents of the Addiverse.

Hard to say if the documentation of a this slice of time will bring clarity
or confusion
or angst
or happiness
or something very personal
or guttural
to the unsuspecting visitor. 

We end at the beginning. 

It's been fun.

Until we meet again,

Thank you from the Addiverse.

And remember: Don't tell the wife.

**********************************************

Day of Fathers

Ah, blog #2C of 16. Just one more blog to go after you read the final sentence of this particular diddy. 

I hadn’t planned on this entry to be this entry. But, seeing as it is Father’s Day as I sit down to type this, it seems perfectly fitting. I’ve taken the original Father’s Day post from a few years back and added a eulogy. It’s my blog, so why not?

I. Father's Day. 

Today' is Father's Day, which means dads of all kinds are being celebrated and/or remembered and/or scorned.
Good dads
Not-so-good dads
Great dads
Loving dads
Absent dads
Unknown dads
Want to be dads
Step-dads
Adopted dads
Working dads
Unemployed dads
Coach dads
Couch potato dads
Stud dads
Your dad
My dad.

There are Father-in law dads
Grandpa dads
Great grandpa dads
Brother dads
Uncle dads
Mom dads.

Father of our country
Father of the bride
Father knows best
God the Father.

Dog dads
Gay dads
Single Dads
Divorced dads
Quiet Dads
Boisterous dads
Cool dads
Nerd dads
Diaper changing dads
Dads in fancy offices
Dads in prison.

Dads are complicated.
Dad jokes are corny.
Dad status is not reliant on biology.

Bible dads.... Lots of Bible Dads.

Missing dads
Present dads
Military dads
Distracted dads
Attentive dads
Beer belly dads
Physically sick dads
Healthy dads
Responsible dads
Not-so-responsible dads.

Is your dad a caring dad

an abusive dad
a corny dad
a sleeping-on-the-couch-saying-he-is-watching-TV dad?

Perhaps your dad is a
hero dad
a long gone dad
Accepting dad
Spiteful dad
Funny dad
Famous Dad
Beloved dad
Tough guy dad
Pushover dad.

Father
Daddy
Dad
Papa
Pops
Daddy-oh.
Insert his name here.

Here's to your dad
My dad
The dad of your choice.

II. Eulogy
My father passed away during the height of COVID.
Not of COVID, just during COVID.
I spit on COVID for myriad reasons--
This being the biggest reason of all.
My father didn’t want any service or fanfare,
His Five Wishes were very simple and humble.
Because of COVID, his wishes came fully to fruition.
We honored his wishes without even trying,
as, like for so many others, COVID robbed opportunity to have service or fanfare.

Had I the chance to give a eulogy--and, I would have given a eulogy--
I would have used index cards
To ensure I remembered to mention what I wanted to mention.
I would not cry.
I’d read my index cards
Be proud
Be brave
Be humorous...
And then probably throw up in the parking lot after everything was said and done.

My father was a simple yet complicated man
Generous
Determined
A man seemingly of few words with so much to say.
Loyal
Hard working to a fault
Proud.

He projected an impenetrable exterior
Protecting a well-hidden tender heart.

A Formidable presence… Sarcastic, Reflective, Self-assured
Authentic.
Resilient.
Determined to understand things he didn’t understand.
Always right, even when not!

Those of us who knew him knew different versions of who he was--
After all, he was a son, brother, husband, dad
Uncle, grandfather, friend, long lost relative…
An employee, employer and boss.
A product of Arkansas
From poverty to riches
He brought the American Dream alive for our family.
His love of progress scored us the first microwave on the block
The first VCR of anyone I knew
Giant-ass speakers to best hear favorite music…
Shaft… you’re damn right.

A Ford man
Sporting a Torino as a family vehicle
Ensuring my mom looked sporty in her Mustang.
Trust me, she looked sporty.

He tried to teach me how to swim--that didn't go so well. 

He tried to teach me to bowl—utter failure on my part, not his.
He tried to teach me how to play the drum pad along to the Carpenters Greatest Hits album.
My dad turned down promotions so we could finish school where we started.
He quietly made sacrifices
countless times
So others could enjoy what he enjoyed.

While growing up, there were many times I did not understand him.
I always wanted to be like him.
I always admired, loved and respected him.

My father is not “gone”
He lives in my sister’s facial expressions
Her mannerisms
Her words.
Sometimes I look at her and I am blown away
How much she looks and acts like him
Without even knowing

Without even trying.

My father is not “gone”
He lives in my mother’s heart
In her stories
In her love of roses
In her bowling approach.

My father is not gone.
He lives in my sarcasm
In my workaholism
In my love of football
In my quiet sacrifices for the greater good.

My father passed away during the height of COVID.
Not of COVID, just during COVID.
My father didn’t want any service or fanfare,
Because of COVID, his wishes came fully to fruition.
Despite COVID,
Despite the passage of time
Despite the bizarre obstacles of today’s world
It’s not too late to honor him.

It’s not too late to remember him.
It’s not to late to celebrate him.
And for that reason, I post this entry today
Father’s Day.
I honor, remember and celebrate him.
Just as others honor, remember and celebrate their dads.

 

 

 

III. Fathers. 

Good dads, Not-so-good dads, Great dads, Loving dads.

Absent dads, Unknown dads, Step-dads, Adopted dads.
Working dads, Unemployed dads, Coach dads, Couch potato dads.

Dads are complicated. Dad jokes are corny.

Father, Daddy, Dad, Papa, Pops, Daddy-oh, Insert his name here.
Here's to your dad.
Here’s to my dad.
Here’s to the dad of your choice.

Happy Father’s Day to all, indeed.

*******************************************

#2B: Supporting Cast Members in the Addiverse

 Pre-Preface: The timing for the final posts of this blog could not be more perfect. We are closing one chapter of our lives and opening a new one. We are selling our house and moving. The Addiverse started here and it shall retire here. Another great sign from the Universe.

Preface: The time of this blog has come and gone. The influencers have crushed blogs beyond recognition. Let’s face it--the caboose of the Boomer train has arrived at the station. I’m going out in style, featuring 16 blogs, representing the 16 years of blogging.

Here is 2B--Supporting Cast members in the Addiverse, a conglomeration of several old posts to tell the tale of those who have visited the Addiverse.

“MJagger had a GREAT idea—she suggested that I have a “blog party” and invite everyone who has been mentioned in the blog. Supporting cast members. I thought that sounded fabulous and thus started digging through the archives to see who would be on the guest list.”

Family & friends,
clients and pets,
stuffed animals and spirit guides,
co-workers and TV stars,
poop lovers and religious icons—
Baby and Adult Jesus.
Peruse the blog and you find them all.

Those who have moved on…
Harvey the one-boob-wonder,
Cloudy the Hamster,
Grover, my spirit guide.
Mr. Winkle,
Stella the 72 year old Xanax addict,
Mary the merry-go-round-riding smelly-crotch girl,
Gert the smoking bra babe,
Slim Jim Triathlon Friend.

Those who have changed my life…
my appendix surgeon,
the doctor who performed my colonoscopies,
they mystery pooper at work (always look after the toilet flushes),
My Beloved Lady Chiropractor,
The turkey of 1996,
My hair-a-pist.

The wife gets top billing on the guest list, as she is probably the most mentioned person in the Addiverse, quite to her dismay….and, she’ll get stuck cleaning up after the party, so she best be at the top of the list. To keep her company, I’ll invite Dr. Pasture and Frieda Fibroid.

Wild mama and Lady Di read this blog, so they will be guests of honor.

Since it was her idea for the party and because she is a friend extraordinaire (who just happens to have a stalker mentality about Madonna & still speaks to me when most people would not), MJagger (the professional seat-hopper at concerts) is also at the top of the list.

Since we’ll need something to do at this party, we’ll go bowling. Wild Mama and Father John (who made the Addiverse possible) will lead the bowling brigade. Lady Di, Chief BIL, Nieces #1, #2 and #3 are mandatory attendees. Hitting the alleys with us will be The Gaybors, Bitty Bichon, our friend the Warrior; Griffin-door, Three Hawk, Argo Warrior Princess… and, My Work Children.

Rounding out the guest list are friends hiding in the wings…
Blue Eyes and Master Reiki,
Patty Party Pecs and Phalange-a-slam,
Pee Peeker and Ingabor Logjammer,
Ms. UConn, Ms. Tennessee,
Spotted Owl and Einsteina Vagina,
Rita Rulebook (formerly known as Little Debbie Sneezeclumper).

For good measure, I’ll invite HotDiggity (the anal gland-impaired dog) and the racoon that laid the killer poop that almost killed Lucy after she ate it. I figure a few famous blog-mentioned people should do me the honor of attending--Jillian, Jackie (mentor of my 2007 hairdo), She who must not be named, Madonna, Gaga, Xena, the cast of Grey’s Anatomy, the current Doctor Who and Brett Favre.

Of course, there are things and events that made this blog what it is. Such topics deserve recognition as we reflect on the closing of an era. Thus, I sing praise of (1) lemon cake, (2) an appendectomy and, (3) a Thanksgiving dinner.

(1) Ode to a Lemon Cake 

Anyone who has known me for more than 20 minutes knows that I am a raging chocolaholic. I'm one of those people who gladly puts M&Ms on a slice of pizza (you don't??), includes chocolate with breakfast every day (breakfast of champions), bypasses a "real" meal to leave more for chocolate-infused anything (life is short). So, it may seem rather strange--misplaced or misguided, even for me to sing praise to something other than beans of cocoa. This cake with tiny bites of tangy lemon heaven—leaves my mouth watering and my heart happy.. 

The first time I ate this lemon cake was at a dinner party. Color me skeptical. It wasn’t chocolate but it was pretty—after all, yellow is a happy color and the blueberries made nice contrast. I reminded myself that comparing a lemon cake to a rich, dark, gooey chocolate cake isn't really a fair comparison--it's like comparing apples to.....lemons. 

That damn lemon cake was so good that I announced I would like this cake for my birthday. I then continued to eat morsel after delicious morsel, immediately forgetting that I ever spoke aloud about the birthday cake. I might have had three pieces. Might have.

Fast forward a few months to my day of birth.  I hadn't thought much about my birthday and wasn't expecting anything. I certainly didn't think about a lemon cornmeal cake. Imagine my surprise when I returned home after a long, stinky, sticky, hot day of work only to find the wife had made me the "Lemon Cornmeal Cake with Lemon Glaze and Crushed Blueberry Sauce" (from Bon Appetit, for those of you who are wondering). I was stunned. Overjoyed. Excited! 

I love that cake. I love it so much that I want to weep when I eat it. It's not a cake everyone will like. It's not a cake I'd associate with me in any capacity. But, I love it. I love it so much I am going to write an ode to it I love it so much I deem it necessary to write an ode about it. Thank you, dear wife, for remembering my comment of how I wanted this cake for my birthday. Thank you for taking the time to make it.

Bright little ball of sunshine 
beaming from the plate 
tangy yet sweet
glaze glimmering,
inviting sifted powdered sugar and lemon juice 
simple beauty,
simple elegance. 
How can something so sour be so sweet? 

Rays of sunshine 
Bites of heaven Morsels of love
My lips pucker with the first sour but sweet bite. 

The tanginess whets my appetite for more 
I shut my eyes to enjoy every golden mouthful. 

Cornmeal texture
 buttermilk delight
Lemon peels oozing zest 
I am in love with you, Lemon Cornmeal Cake!

Bright yellow swims in a sea of blue berries
bobbing on the surface 
sauce slo-o-o-owly dripping 
sauce slowly seeping in 
sauce bringing just the right balance of color, of taste, of texture, of love. 
Called a rustic cake with zing from lemon glaze 
I know you will make a great companion to breakfast, lunch or dinner 
I picture you next to ice cream 
I picture you in my bowl of cereal 
I picture you with whipped cream... 
who dares not love you? 

Lemon Cornmeal Cake
such an earthly delight.
I still love you, beans of cocoa but,
for this moment in time 
for this moment of sunshine 
for this glorious mouth-watering moment 
lemon outshines the wrapper of a Dove Dark chocolate square and I cheat on you.
I feel no guilt, no remorse. 

Bright little ball of sunshine 
beaming from the plate
tangy yet sweet simple beauty,
simple elegance. 
How can something so sour be so sweet?

*******************************************************

(2) The Appendectomy.

It's 2003. For creative blog purposes and in homage to one of my favorite TV shows, I’ve combine the true story of my appendicitis with the characters of Grey’s Anatomy. If you don’t watch the show, you will still be able to glean the true facts of the appendectomy, but it won’t be half as fun. BTW, this was in the days before we all carried cell phones. I think I had a pager. So, I couldn’t call the wife. I was stuck at a bookstore until she physically returned.

And yes, I really did get pictures of my ovaries and cervix out of all this.

Scene One: Feel like shit
[Arrive at home, early afternoon.]
The Wife: What’s wrong? Why are you home so early?
Me: I dunno—I don’t feel right.
Me: [plop down on couch. Ugh.]
Izzie: You look like shit.
Meredith: You’re home early. It’s only 2 PM on a workday.
The Wife: Don’t forget we have dinner plans with Phlange-a-slam, Little Debbie Sneezeclumper and Suzuki Di Franco.
Me: [The thought of food makes me nauseous. How the hell am I gonna eat?]
Me: “Perhaps it’s just a gas bubble.”
Izzie: Maybe a muffin will help. Eat a muffin. That might help.
Meredith: A gas bubble. I don’t think it’s a gas bubble.
Izzie: She just needs a muffin. I’ll bake some muffins.

Scene Two: Refuse Dinner
[At the restaurant, with wife and friends.]
The Wife: Aren’t you going to eat?
Me: No, something is wrong in my gut. I must have a giant poop stuck somewhere in my colon.
Me: [Always go with constipation or a gas bubble when experiencing gastrointestinal distress, that’s my motto.]
George: Are you going to eat that? I’ll eat that.
Izzy: You look like shit. You should have had a muffin.
McAddi: Are you pregnant? If you’re pregnant, I can help you.
Me: I am SO not pregnant.
George: Are you wearing clean underwear? You know, well, in case it’s not a gas bubble. “
Me: Of course I have clean underwear on.
George: My mom always preaches how important it is to wear clean underwear.
McAddi: Are you sure you’re not pregnant?
Christina: She is SO not pregnant.

Scene Three: Moment of Insight
Me: A caffeine/chocolate-laced product might be a delightful way to feel better. Let’s go to “Books at Barnes.”
Suzuki: I’ll go.
The Wife: We’ll drop you off at the bookstore and come get you when we’re done shopping
Me: [Yeah, yeah. Jesus, just go already! I need a Frappaccino.]
Me [bent over, just about crawling to a table, start sipping on the drink of the gods. Hunch over the table.]
Suzuki: You don’t look so good.
Me: I’m sorry I’m such lousy company. But, this is a tasty frappaccino. [take a slurp from the straw]
Me: I’m gonna do what all good nerds do: Go get a medical textbook and bring it to the table.
Why go to the doctor when you can find the answer yourself? I’m going to get a medical textbook.
Bailey: What the hell are you doing in the medical textbook section? You don’t look so good.
Christina: I didn’t even know you knew how to read.
Izzie: She just needs a muffin.
Me: [grabs a copy of the Merck’s Manual, flips through the pages. Flip, flip, flip. Damn, it sure does look like it’s appendicitis—at least it is according to this book. NO!]
Me: It HAS to be a gas bubble! Maybe an egg shooting out of an ovary.
McAddi: I can help you if it’s a problem with an ovary.
Me: I hope it’s not my ovary.
[I waddle back to the table, book in hand.]
Me: “I think it’s my appendix.”
[The guy at the next table overhears this and looks horrified. He scoots his table a few inches away from us.]
Me: I hope I’m wrong but…
Me [Continue to drink my Frappaccino. The wife—who has the car—has yet to return.]
Me [quietly]: I need to go the emergency room.
Cristina: I am scrubbing in for this surgery.
Meredith: I had my appendix out in season three. It really wasn’t that bad.
Me: There is NO WAY I am having my appendix out. I am TOO OLD for this nonsense! Don’t like ten year olds get their appendix out?

We wait. And, wait. The wife and friends finally arrive at the bookstore. At this point, I’m pale and no longer joking around.  
Me: Please take me to the ER.
The wife: [silent and horrified] Get it. Let’s go.

Scene Four: Crawl to ER
Me [Crawl/hobble/waddle to the desk]
Receptionist [looks at me]
Me: [literally bent over] I’m not sure what’s wrong but…
[She waits to hear no more, brings me right in.]
(Hint: always clutch your chest or bend over with an appendicitis, and there will be no sitting in a crowded ER waiting room.)
Enter wife and shoppers.
Me: If I’m going to have to be in an ER, we are SO going to have a good time.
[Hear laughing. See us laugh, tell jokes, talk about stealing the cross off the wall, decide this is not a good thing to do when possibly facing surgery—you don’t want the ol’ J.C. pissed off at you.]
Meredith: I’m going to get some blood for bloodwork.
Cristina: Duh. That’s what blood is for.
Izzie: Can I draw the blood?
Bailey: NO! You are under psychiatric care and can’t do a thing. DO…NOT….TOUCH….THIS…PATIENT.
Wife goes green, almost passes out.

See Suzuki, Phlang, Little Debbie and the wife telling poop stories, having a delightful time
Bailey: What the hell is going on in here? You are going to get thrown out of that ER if you take that crucifix off the wall.
Me: You know you have true friends when they are willing to sit in a boring ER with you, hours on end.
Cristina: ER s are not boring. Do you need surgery? I want to do your surgery.
Izzie: Can I scrub in?
Bailey: NO!
Me: What about that McAddi? Can she scrub in?
Alex: I am not doing an appendectomy. How about a rhinoplasty while you’re in there?
[Pain. Laughter. Pain. Laughter.]
Me: There is NO WAY this is my appendix. I’m just constipated. Or an egg shot out of an ovary the “wrong” way.
Bailey: Get a CAT scan. STAT.
George: You’ll have to drink volumes of luscious chalk shakes over the next two hours.
Me: Now, THERE’S a boring way to spend time late in the evening.
[See wife, the poor thing, looking like she needs medical attention more than I did. See Suzuki watching me choke down the chalk.]
Cristina: The CAT scan was an utter failure—why? Because you are so damned constipated, we literally can’t see anything but a bowel full of shit.
[Shows me the xray.]
George: Wow, that is a giant intestine of white matter blocking out the view of everything else. That’s a lot of shit.
ME: I TOLD you was constipated! And, for this I took out my belly button ring?

[We are now into the wee hours of the morning and there is little I can do but come to my senses and admit that my appendix needs to come out. My friends are more than exhausted. They are true troopers. Everyone should have such good friends.]
McAddi goes home because her shift ended.
Me: Damn.
McDreamy: You need surgery.
Me: Um, aren’t you a Neurosurgeon?
McDreamy: Yes. Why do you ask?
Me: So, why are you doing my surgery?
McDreamy: It’s a holiday. Besides, my hair looks so good, I want to show it off.
Meredith: You always look steamy. Even at 3 AM.
Burke: Derek, are you really going to waste your time with an appendectomy?
Me: Um, I can hear you!
George: She can hear you.
Burke: Shut up, queerbait.
Meredith: Really. I had my appendix out. It’s really nothing.
Cristina: Did you just call him a… queerbait?
Izzie: Can I scrub in now?
Bailey: NO!
Meredith: I’m sure he didn’t mean to call George that.
McDreamy [pushes on my belly….holds it…and, when he lets go, I see stars. White light. Searing pain. The pain was absolutely horrific].
Me: I read about “rebound pain” being the hallmark of an appendicitis.
(Side note: see? Those medical text books at the bookstore do come in handy)
Me: I’m convinced! PLEASE take the damned thing out…. Please rip it out.
Chief of Surgery: Burke, did you just call George a derogatory name?
Burke: (and I quote) I can neither defend nor explain my behavior.
Cristina: I so want to have sex with you.
McDreamy: Burke, any tremors? If not, I can make sure you have some.
George: I am gay, so what?
Burke: Queerbait.
Me: Can we just take the damned thing out?
Wife passes out.
End scene.

Scene Five: Machine-gun-diarrhea
See them rolling me to surgery. See me beg them to stop. See me jump off the gurney. Literally. See me drag my IV bag to the bathroom. Suddenly, see shit flying out of my butt. Serious amounts of shit.

Meredith: Uh oh, that barium chalk stuff is deciding NOW is the time to come out.
Cristina: THIS is why I want to be a cardiothoracic surgeon. No shit. Literally no shit.
Bailey: Izzie, clean this up.
Me [in bathroom, projectile, machine-gun diarrhea flying out of my butt]
Bailey: Are you stalling in there?
Me: No, I’m having serious poop problems.
(Side note: you know, I have always wondered how my clients at work miss the toilet…how does one miss the toilet when pooping? Now, I know. I know because I shot shit everywhere. It was an explosion matched by no other. Shit hit the toilet, the floor, the wall, my gown…..it was a veritable shit fest.)
[See me doing the best I can to clean everything up. I’m wiping the walls as fast as I can and there is nothing I can do about my gown except get back on the gurney will the poop-stained gown and go to surgery like nothing is wrong.]
Cristina: Is that poop on your gown?
Meredith: I’m sure her poop-stained gown won’t be the talk of surgery.
Ales: Hey, she forgot to take off her undies—allow me.
See Alex remove my dirty undies and place them in a garbage bag by my head on the gurney.
(Side note: See how important it is to wear clean undies?).
Izzie: There’s poop on her gown. Can I scrub in?
Bailey: NO!

I’m lying on the gurnee in the freezing-cold operating room. I look up at McSteamy.
Me: I want photos of my insides.
McDreamy: Photos.
Me: Yeah, photos. You’ll be doing the scope-thing-with-a-camera; the least I can get out of this is some pictures.
Meredith: Izzy, aren’t you glad she didn’t eat any muffins? She would have aspirated on them.
Enter Dr. McSteamy, plastic surgeon.
McSteamy: Someone need a nose job?
Me: No, an appendectomy.
McSteamy: that is one big honker you got there. Sure would look better with plastic surgery.
Enter Callie. (For no reason but because I like her and it’s my story.)

Scene Six: Recovery
Cut to me laughing and I’m talking to some nurse in the recovery room. See me looking at my very-ugly-red-black wormlike appendix. See me having a good time.
See me realize I am awake and the surgery is over and it’s…..hey! It’s like 9 AM!

Me: What the hell happened?
McSteamy: I gave you a nose job.
Me: No way!
McSteamy: Just kidding. Too bad, though. You could use one.
McDreamy: I couldn’t find your appendix--A simple surgery took over three hours long because your appendix was somewhere hiding by a kidney. I had to open you up the “old fashioned” way, remove your intestines, plop them on your belly, dig around, cut the pup off and shove your intestines back in.
Meredith: He looks so handsome while shoving those intestines back in you.
McDreamy: Meredith, You snore.
Meredith: Derek, you have bad breath.
Me: Can I eat? I’m hungry.

Fade to black.
**********************************************

(3) Thanksgiving, 1996.  

It all started out so innocently. I decided (for some very unknown reason) to invite my family to the house for a traditional Thanksgiving Dinner. This was in the day that I was not welcomed at the wife’s family dinner, so I must have thought it a good idea to have my family of origin over for the day.

As I am not known for my cooking prowess, this should have struck all of us as extremely odd and as a very bad idea.

The wife traveled off in the wee hours toward Cheddarland, leaving me behind to create the perfect culinary delight of thanks. It was a horrible, miserable day—wind howling, dark grey clouds hovering, garbage blowing by in the cold November breeze. I was a bit worried about the wife driving on such a lousy day, but I had a dinner to worry about, so I put her out of my mind and turned to the stove.

First things first—I stared at the turkey…
looked at the belly button
read the directions,
stared at the turkey,
looked at the belly button.
Turned on the oven. 
Stared at the turkey.

I knew enough to pull the giblets out of the inside of the bird, so I had a moment of pride in the kitchen. I plopped those frozen goodies into the sink and returned to staring at the bird. I took out one of those turkey baggies—you know, one of those plastic cooking bags—and wrapped ol’ Tom Turkey in the bag. (I think I wiped him down with some butter before wrapping him up, but I can’t say for sure.) I tied up the bag, shoved the bagged bird into the giant aluminum pan and turned on the oven.

I am all puffed up because I am on schedule and I am in charge of my turkey! Then… thirty minutes later…..

….the power goes out.

No oven. Can’t open the refrigerator. No heat. No microwave.

I don’t immediately panic because there are four hours before anything needs to happen, as it’s four hours before my family will arrive. Still… the turkey has only been cooking for 30 minutes. Everything I need besides the corn is in the refrigerator and I certainly can't open that door. I pace.

I realized it was going to get mighty cold in the house without heat. So, I decided to make a fire in the fireplace as means of heating the house and giving it a warm, cozy holiday feel.

Words of wisdom: DO NOT make a fire in the fireplace on the windiest day of the year.

I start the fire even though I hear the wind whipping down the chimney and into the fireplace. It doesn’t dawn on me this might not be a good thing. I get that puppy burning and then wind whips in and FILLS the house with smoke and soot and ashes and embers. I’m not kidding. Soot everywhere! 

I look at the what used to be white lampshade and think OH SHIT! This is SO not good. I’m trying to put the fire out, I’m trying to stop the soot, I’m dumb enough to close the flue in an effort to keep the wind from howling in, but this only means ALL the smoke now comes into the house. I reopen the flue, choking through the dust.

Insult to injury, the fire alarms start going off. I now have to open the windows and doors. And, I thought it was cold before all this nonsense started.

I am in sheer panic. It’s been two hours without electricity, the house is freezing and smoky, the turkey is rotting in the oven and there is nothing I can do….

….so I call the wife, who is just sitting down to a delicious home-made dinner with her family. Like she can do anything.

Three and a half hours later, the power comes on. I leap up in joy, crank the heat, crank the oven, start opening cans and boxes like mad, put the pie in the oven next to the turkey.....

I figure turning the oven WAY up will make everything cook faster. I’m serious.

My family shows up and I explain what has happened. My father, who has been in the food service business his entire life, gives a skeptical-we-are-all-going-to-die-if-we-eat-that-turkey look to me, but I prevail. We have to wait several hours for dinner, as the turkey needed time. Of course, I forget about the pie and burn the PISS out of it. (Black crust. Mmmm. Tasty.) In the meantime, I’m heating canned corn and mashing potatoes. I peek in at the turkey and notice….

….hey! I can’t see the belly button!

Where did it go? I know it was in there when I started cooking this thing. I call my father over and point out that I can’t see the belly button anymore. We decide it must have popped out and thus the turkey must be done.

He helps take the bird out of the oven and I ask for his assistance with the carving of the turkey. We look at the bird and kind of have quizzical looks—something is wrong here, but I can’t put my finger on it. 

He goes to start carving….and nothing. There is like NO meat. I FREAK OUT. This is like a 20-zillion pound turkey and he’s carving bones. 

He looks at me,
looks at the turkey,
gives me that smirk look he has...
and flips the turkey over in the pan.

I have cooked it upside down. When he flips it over, we can see the belly button. Go figure.

Suffice it to say, it was a nightmare of a meal. 
The turkey was a hockey puck,
the pie was black,
the corn was cold,
the potatoes were lumpy,
the house was smoky,
the furniture was sooty...

Well, at least the Stove top Stuffing wasn't a complete loss. 

My father, always one to have the last word, says, “no one ever said you could cook.”

Touche.

I’ve been a vegetarian ever since. Gobble Gobble!
********************************************

#2A.2 of 16: Dos Perritas

Here we are, the second-to-last post, broken into three--well, technically four--parts: 2A.1, 2A.2, 2B and 2C. New posts but with old stuff thrown in. This is #2A.2: The Dogs (Bandido and Rosita).

Pre-Rescue.
I knew we wanted to rescue a dog if we ever decided to get another party pup. (No poodles or chihuahuas. All others welcome. Hold that thought…) Enter serendipity. Quite by accident, we learn about Texas-based Tracy's Paws Rescue. Without expectation of being chosen, I apply for the August Chicago Event and then let it go. I put the entire thing in the Universe's hands and went on with my life...

....for twenty four hours. Within a day, TracysPawsRescue called my references, my vet and then me.

I was SHOCKED when the Adoption Manager called. When asked about the perfect dog, I provided a description that the wife had given me: under 20 pounds, young but not a puppy, non-shedding, female and with no awful medical issues. Bonus points if the dog has two eyes. While interviewing me, she paused (no pun intended) and then asked, "would you consider a smaller dog?" So, now I'm being interviewed AND I'm being asked if I would consider a smaller dog.
Could this get any better? The Universe was out of control.
A small white female,
some non-shedding type pup.
A poodle, perhaps.
Eight pounds of fluff, to be exact.
Perhaps two or three years old.
If I had to pick something for the wife, this would be it.
By the end of the conversation, we were approved for adoption (she had already talked to our references and vet) and we were put in touch with the foster mom.

 (Hmmmm… a poodle. Wait, didn’t we say we didn’t want a poodle? No, we couldn’t have said that. We love poodles.)

Foster mama had lots to say, which helped paint a picture of the pup in question. I’m giddy. Then, the Universe took a turn of yet another thing I hadn't seen coming: the little white dog had bonded with a scruffy brownish chihuahua-ish street dog and they had been inseparable since being picked up together at a high kill shelter. She said, “They share a bone at the same time, they eat out of the same dish, they sleep in the same bed.”

The Universe morphed this into a two-for-one scenario. I knew there was no way I could separate them. None. Zero. Zilch. If I wanted the white ball of fluff, the scrappy brown dog would have to be in tow. I dreaded telling the wife this. It was hard enough for her to consider having a dog again. Having to consider TWO dogs might push her over the edge.

(Hmmmm… a chihuahua mix. Wait, didn’t we say we didn’t want a chihuahua? No, we couldn’t have said that. We love chihuahuas.)

I didn't know what to do. After talking to the wife by phone, she said I should come home and we could talk about it, decide. I warned her I was all in.

I guess she was all in, too as on the counter were two little dog baskets, two dog food containers and two squeaky toys. I contacted the Adoption Manager and secured our new little furry friends. They are now officially ours. Paid in full, posted as adopted.

We have won the lottery. 
********************************

Week One.
The wife and I quickly learn we know not what we are doing.
Our new pups do not understand the concept of leashes or collars or going for a walk.
Rosita demonstrates that walking on tables is normal behavior.
Bandido does not understand the concept of toys.
Neither know how to navigate stairs.
They certainly do not yet know their names.
Bandido likes to pee on top of Rosita's poop.
Rosita likes to poop in the house.
Thankfully, Bandido does not pee on Rosita’s in-house poop.
Bandido has yet to make a peep.
Rosita always has something to say.
Bandido is scared of everything.
Rosita is oblivious and indifferent.

 Yes, Bandido is a girl with a boy’s name. I named her. Of course I did. Her given name was Beatrice. Nope. Not a Beatrice. Her full name is Maritza Bandido, not Beatrice. The wife named Rosita. She named her after the singing pig in Sing! I deemed her full name to be Senorita Rosita Luisa Amelia. Her given name was Amelia, so I kept that part. And yes, I do call her Senorita Rosita Luisa Amelia.

They are so little.
Bandido is afraid of the water bowl.
Why does Bandido lift her leg to pee?
Why is Rosita on the table?
***************************************

Week Three.
We've had a case of diarrhea (Rosita, not me), a trip to the vet (to get an official diagnosis of: diarrhea), 21 hours without peeing (Rosita, not me--I can't go without peeing), an escapee from the harness (Bandido, doing something of which I didn't even think possible), undisclosed injuries (mine) and an Olympic-worthy runaway romp (Rosita).

They’ve learned to navigate stairs.
Bandido has barked once or twice.
She still doesn’t understand toys.
None of us understand Rosita.
Rosita does not care that we need to go to work so she needs to pee.
She pees when she deems it time.
Rosita swims in the water bowl.
Sometimes she just stands in it.
Sometimes she tries to sit in it.
No wonder Bandido was afraid of the water dish.

While on a walk this morning, I scared the piss out of poor Bandido by tripping and falling over her. (The wife was out of town. These things only happen when she is not here.) When I slammed onto the pavement, it scared Bandido so badly that she Houdini-like slipped out of her harness and ran away. From my panicked-sidewalk view, I watched in horror as she bolted down the street. (Thankfully, my glasses stayed firmly on my face and Rosita stayed by my side. Had she run away and/or I didn't have my glasses, this would have been a totally different adventure.) I got my sorry ass up off the sidewalk and limped home as fast as I could, carrying Rosita so I wouldn’t lose her, too. Suffice it to say, Maritza Bandido ran back to our house (yay—she knows where we live!), bound up the deck stairs (yay—smart dog!), and hid in the corner of the open outdoor crate (YAY!--Thank you, Baby Jesus). The poor thing was blurry with shaking. It took quite a bit of reassurance and a whole lot of treats to convince her I am not a psycho mass murderer.

I put five bucks in her therapy fund for the terror I caused her.

The next morning, Senorita Rosita Luisa Amelia had her own dog dash. She is FAST. Fast and furious… and naughty. Cunning. How did she get away this morning, you chastise? Well, let me tell you. It’s 5 A.M. We are following our morning routine. We are at the front door, returning to the house after the party pups have done their duty….

I open the door…
I bend over to take their leashes/collars off, as I always do…
Rosita steps as if she's walking into the house and.....
BAM! She streaks around my legs and is G.O.N.E.

I am holding an empty collar. GONE!

Have you ever tried to catch a dog that doesn't know its name? It's not fun. I'm not sure why I bother yelling Rosita's name because she is clueless in that department. I'm sure the neighbors are quite entertained as I'm running across their lawns--in flip flops and boxer shorts and no bra--yelling "GOD DAMMIT, ROSITA!" at 5 A.M.

For the record, I move mighty fast for someone wearing no bra, sporting flip flops, hobbling from yesterday’s tumble and dragging along a terrified chihuahua. 

I'm running,
yelling,
swearing.
I kick off my flip flops so I can run faster.
I’m getting cuts on my legs from the brush.
I just stepped on something squishy.

I actually had to wait until she squatted to pee to catch her. Mid-stream, I picked her up and carried her home. No sense in yelling at her. I didn’t put her down until we were well into the house. I can't do two dog-n-dashes in the same morning.

The wife asked why Rosita looked dirty and scruffy. I'm sweating and not looking spiffy, either. I tell the Wife that it's tough to stay clean when you've been in the brush. I explain how the event transpired. She looks less than amused—with any of us.

There were prickers in my hair.
Cuts on my arms.
Mud on my feet.
Bandido looks terrified, as usual.
Rosita has moved on to table surfing
oblivious to the prickers in her hair and mud on her feet.

As I stand there, my feet are itching like crazy.
Dear god, were we running in poison ivy?

*********************************
Three Months.
They know the sound of a peanut butter jar being opened…
the jingle of their leashes…
the flushing of the toilet in the middle of the night (meaning: one of us is awake and we should come say hello).
They bark at everything:
the chime on my laptop,
doorbells on TV,
the actual doorbell,
the opening of the neighbor's garage,
the damn squirrel taunting them on the deck,
the sound of the UPS truck.
They've figured out that when the wife or I go to the basement it means we might be getting them a bone to chew.
They survived their first taste of snow--just a dusting, but a new experience for them, to be sure.
They've made it known they don't exactly love wearing their winter coats.

Bandido no longer tries to pee on her sister (yes, ON her).
Bandido's hair continues to grow--little tufts here and there.
Rosita has expanded her girth.
I swear Bandido is taller.  

Rosita remains on her own mission:
She doesn’t respond to her name unless it’s convenient…
She doesn’t do “tricks” on command unless she feels like it…
She swims in her water dish when she wants to…
She views us as her servants.

We remain unable to catch the "Ninja Pooper" before she ninja poops.
Someone manages to leave us a warm turd in the living room…
A steaming pile in the corner of the bedroom…
A present in the kitchen.
We never see her leave our site and yet, there it is: the ninja poop.

Three months. Already or only?

Yes.

****************************************

#2A.1 of #16: The Dogs

I am panicking now, as reflected by the time between the previous post and this post. The decision of what posts to close this blog with weighs heavily. (I still have a lot to say-er, write and I'm still mad I put the "birth through the window" so early in the countdown.) So, I'm going to do something unplanned: I'm going to make the second-to-last post be three parts long: 2A, 2B and 2C. They will be mostly new posts but with old stuff thrown in. This is #2A.1: The Dogs. Freckles and Lucy. Rosita and Bandido will featured in 2A.2. Settle in and buckle up.

It took me 16 years and buying a house to convince the wife to let me get a dog. Sixteen years. Finally, one fine August afternoon, she agreed to go look at dogs. I remember it clearly: I was laying on the couch because it was too hot to be outside. Her words results in my chin dropping to the floor. I was in the car before she finished the sentence.

Enter Freckles Warrior Princess. 

I let the wife pick the dog, as she was the one being kind enough to let me have a dog. She wanted a Shih Tzu with an underbite. Go figure. She picked out what she thought was the "quiet" one. Cute, not as hyper as the other dogs, friendly enough. 

Turns out the damn dog had Girardi and wasn't feeling well, hence the calm demeanor. Surprise!

Honestly, we didn't know what the hell we were doing. After all, she had never had a dog and it had been since childhood that I had one. She really didn't like dogs. And, she was just about to start the school year--a terrible time to get a dog for an already stressed out teacher. We didn't know what to name her, so when a friend suggested Freckles, as related to the freckles on her nose, we agreed. Such a cute name.

Turns out the damn dog only had nose freckles for about a month and then they disappeared. Surprise!

I deemed her Freckles Warrior Princess to denote a ferocity that did not exist. Besides, such a regal name honored my favorite TV hero. Her start as a family member was a bit tentative. I almost squished her with the garage door. All that soft serve Giardia-fueled poop did nothing to enamor the wife. The whining from the crate hurt my little dog-loving heart. With medication, time, more solid poop and increased attention to safety from me, we fell into a rhythm of a happy little family.

Freckles was smart... and stubborn. She learned quickly how to potty outside, but that didn't mean she always chose to do so. In fact, there were times she would walk right in front of us, look us dead in the eye and squat, peeing on the carpet in a most purposeful fashion. Seeing as she was so smart and was being an ass about the whole potty-on-the-carpet thing, I hung a bell on the door frame so I could teach her how to ring the bell when she wanted to go outside. She learned quickly how to do this. It was almost amazing.

Turns out the damn dog only rang the bell when she wanted a treat. She wasn't dumb. Surprise!

In fact, she would walk over to the bell and WHACK it with her paw. If we didn't respond quickly enough, she would WHACK it again... and again... and again. There were a few times she whacked the bell right off the doorframe. So much for ringing the bell to go potty. 

Freckles was a Canine Good Citizen and a therapy dog. Well, until she wasn't. She did great in class and she did great during testing. She got her little therapy dog tag and I made her a little name tag and she was ready to start visiting people and hanging out at work.

Turns out the damn dog didn't like people, didn't want to sit on laps and wasn't gonna therapize anyone. Surprise!

After two years, I decided Freckles needed a friend. A co-worker brought a box of puppies to the office (OMG A BOX OF PUPPIES!!!!) and I picked out a feisty one. These shih-tzu/Maltese cuties were too little to take home yet and I still had to convince the wife that two dogs were better than one and I had to make sure Freckles was on board. I wrote a check as a deposit and braced to tell the wife. Of course, it was the start of the school year--again. We took Freckles over to the lady's house so the pups could meet each other. All the puppies were running around, with the one I picked being the wild thing of the bunch. Freckles seemed okay with the puppy, so I wrote the check and we took the puppy home.

Enter Lucy, Bark of Poteidaia. 

Since I technically named Freckles, the wife got to name puppy #2. She said she always wanted to name a pet Lucy, so Lucy it was. I added the rest of the name. Of course I did. 

Lucy was a LOT of fun. In fact, she was spunky beyond compare. Well, she was a lot of fun when we weren't trying to walk her on a leash. She would SCREAM like we were killing her. I'm sure the neighbors were amused. It took a lot of non-walks to get her to walk on a leash without screaming. It was quickly evident that Lucy was the complete opposite of Freckles, which was fine by us. Lucy LOVED Freckles. She would pounce on her, chase her, try to play with her. 

Turns out the damn dog didn't want a playmate. Surprise!

Freckles tolerated Lucy. Tolerated, nothing more. I swear Freckles would glare at us with a "you have GOT to be kidding me" look upon her smooshed little Shih Tzu face whenever Lucy would pounce on her. We lost big parent points with Freckles. In fact, Freckles stopped liking other dogs. She morphed into Cujo when other dogs would walk by. Whether she was trying to protect Lucy or she was afraid we were going to bring another dog home (hence, she warned other dogs to keep away), I do not know. 

Lucy was always in trouble. At least she didn't poop in the house. The wife and Freckles seemed less than entertained by me and Lucy, But, I know deep down inside they were both chuckling.

When Freckles was nine years old, she got deathly ill. I won't describe the scene. Let's just say lots of bodily fluids were involved. The vet couldn't figure out what was wrong. Many interventions, medications and I.V.s later, I knew I had to ask. I'm standing in the vet exam room, crying. I ask, "is it time?" And, the vet quietly answered, "no, it is not time." So, I had a talk with Freckles. I made her promise that she would live until age 16 if I spent money on her to help her live. Who needs furniture money for furniture? It was spent the furniture money--most happily--on Freckles. 

Yes, she kept her promise--no surprise. I told you she was loyal.

Lucy decided to spend our money in another way. A much more creative way. She had this sore on her face that just wouldn't heal. It was beneath her eye, kinda sorta on her snout/cheek. As it wasn't getting better, I took her to the vet. I tell the vet tech about the sore. She looks at Lucy, she looks at me, she looks at Lucy. I can tell immediately that she knows what is wrong. Uh oh! She gets the vet, who looks at me, looks at Lucy, looks at the vet tech. I am freaked out. WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG?!!! The vet asks the vet tech, "do you know what that is?" and the vet tech answers, "yes, I do." The vet then asks me if I know what it is. EXCUSE ME--IF I KNEW WHAT IT WAS, I WOULDN'T BE THERE! I shake my head "no." 

"That's not a scratch. It's her tooth." the vet says.

Confused, I repeated, "it's her tooth."

"Yup. It's the root of one of her molars. It's poking out of her snout." 

Dear god, I felt like a REALLY, really bad mama. 

My dog has a tooth poking out of her snout and I didn't even know that was a thing. Surprise!

A lot of money and a little dental surgery solved the issue.... although nine other teeth basically fell out while they were removing the molar. Thankfully, I was not charged for the extractions because--well.... they weren't technically extracted. They fell out. Seems her habit of sleeping with a stuffed squeaky in her mouth was really bad for her teeth. So much for being a good mama at all. 

Although younger, Lucy was the first to depart. She made it easy for us. She let us know exactly when it was time. There were no questions or second guesses. For that, I am eternally grateful. Only two weeks from time of her cancer diagnosis, she let us know it was time. Talk about fast growing cancer. Poor Freckles. She was basically blind and deaf by the time Lucy was no more. Freckles would stand in the kitchen, staring, waiting for her pain-in-the-ass sister to show up once again. She'd let out a bark every once in awhile. I don't think Freckles ever got over it, although she'd deny she ever liked her sister. 

As for Freckles, she lived out her days eating treats, refusing to walk, getting eye drops four times a day and remaining loyal. She too made it easy. If we still had that bell on the door, she would've whacked it and said, "it's time." I thanked her giving me my money's worth. She was a dog of her word. She was an old soul who meant business. She was a one-eyed wonder. She was large and in charge. 

She was an amazing gift, worth the wait of sixteen dog-less years, in trade for sixteen dog-filled years. 

No need to get maudlin. Let's end with me saying I have a bazillion of stories about these two party pups. Maybe two bazillion. How Freckles ran away, how Lucy rolled in raccoon poop, how Freckles would lay down in the shade on walks, how Lucy kept the wife awake with all the slurping. I didn't hear it, so the wife would WHACK me and tell me to "MAKE HER STOP IT!" So much for any of us sleeping. 

The puppy shower they threw me at work...

The grossness of anal gland juice...

Lucy's fear of the rumble strips on the tollway...

Sitting on the lawn with the gaybors and their dogs, enjoying the cool summer evenings...

Fleas JUMPING off Lucy as we're getting to leave for our Civil Union Ceremony...

The sound of puking in the middle of the night...

Frantically looking for runaway Freckles, right as were to leave to see the wife's sister graduate from college, running around the neighborhood, screaming her name....

...all the while she's sitting at the front door. Surprise!