Sunday, April 28, 2013

Smoke-n-Mow

Today was the day--I was going to take the new lawn mower on its inaugural journey.  This beauty was purchased last fall in preparation of the new season.  Self-propelled, rear wheel drive, electric start, horsepower to beat the band...a real beauty.  Our old lawn mower, older than our high school aged nieces, was retired after one too many rounds of the lawn and a lack of self-propelling anything except us--we were the propellers.  It puttered, sputtered and spit oil like there was no tomorrow.  Although it served us well, it was time for it to go.

Before embarking on the journey across the lawn, I ask the wife to show me how to use this thing:

Me: So, How do I use this?

The Wife: Well, you pull this to keep it running, you hold in these little handles to propel the wheels, you push this button to start it.

Me: No primer?

The Wife: Not that I know of.

Me: I push this button and go?

The wife: Yes.  Be careful.  You're going to be running behind that thing. It's not like our old mower.

Me: Get your camera phone, then.

I asked her a few more mundane questions, to which she had no answer.

Me: Didn't you read the owners manual?

The Wife: I did.

Me: Maybe you should read it again.

I push the button and it purrs like a kitten.  A KITTEN!  I pull in the little "let's get going" handles and I.GET.GOING.  I mean, I'm like a horse shooting out of the gate.

I am ZOOMING around the lawn, yee-haw-ing all the way.  This is nothing like our old mower.  I mean, I sweated doing the lawn, pushing that thing across the tundra.  This thing is a breeze.  No pushing--just hanging on for the ride.  I begin to think about how much I am going to love mowing the lawn...when....

Now, I swear to you, I am not making this up.  I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried.  The neighbor was outside, so she can vouch for me.....

As I cross the back lawn, big, thick puffs of smoke starts pouring out of the motor. A horrific-but-familiar smell permeates the air.  Then, EVERYTHING is spewing smoke and oil--yes, oil!  I let go of the bar and the motor cuts off.

The back yard looks like a rock concert smoke machine gone wrong.

I hear from the side of the house, out of view: "Are you all right?"

Dead god, it's the wife and she's headed toward the brand new now-smoking lawn mower!  There is nowhere to hide.  I look to the neighbor who is for some reason sitting on the ground in the back of her lot.  "That doesn't look good," she says.  "You're telling me," I answer.

That's when the wife sees it.  I don't even have to turn around to look at her--I know what she looks like at this very given moment.  I want to scream out "I DIDN'T DO ANYTHING!" but there is no way to prove this; after all, I was the one behind the wheel.

I keep staring at the lawn mower, hoping it will speak to me of its woes.  That's when I see it.  The oil cap has fallen off/blown off and that is where the oil is spewing from.  I'm not sure if the thing was loose or blew up or whatever--it doesn't matter because it's too late and everything is covered in oil--hence, the billowing smoke and familiar smell of burning oil.  There really is oil everywhere and the thing just keeps smoking.

The wife: What happened?

Me: I dunno.  I was mowing the lawn and it started spewing smoke.  Look! The oil cap fell off.  That's why there is oil.

The Wife: I don't know whether to cry now or later.

She walks away.

I look at the neighbor and shrug my shoulders.  (She's the same neighbor that saw me blow up the riding lawn mower a few years back, where flames were literally shooting out of the engine.  I'm sure she thinks I did something to lead to this debacle.) I decide to push the mower to the front of the house where it can cool off and not set the lawn on fire.  As I'm pushing, I keep thinking about how I didn't do anything wrong. I didn't run over anything.  I didn't fall over anything.  I didn't push any buttons.  I leave Smoky the Lawn Mower in the driveway, far away from anything flammable.  I hop on the riding lawn mower, not only because I have to mow the lawn but also because it will drive me far away from the wife AND it will be so loud I won't be able to hear her.

Thankfully, the wife decides she caused the problem.  "I didn't put the cap back on right."  As I didn't touch it (heck, I didn't even know it existed), I am off the hook.  Thank you, baby jesus!

I tell her we should take it back--after all, how can an oil cap shoot off of a running mower like that? She assured me it was her failure to tighten the lid that led to the problem and that it isn't the manufacturer's fault for such an accident.  I'm skeptical.  I'm still thinking this should be exchanged but I'm just the mower minion, not the mower Lord.

Suffice it to say the wife spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning the new mower.  It looks brand new again.  She wiped it and cleaned it and polished it.  I hope she knows it is going to smoke like a chimney the next time we fire it up, as all that oil is still on the motor.  I'm not saying a word.  Heck, I'm not gonna offer to mow the lawn.....

...I'm just gonna pull weeds.  I don't think I can blow anything up doing that.

Thursday, April 25, 2013

Spin.Me.Round.


I write my blogs with no disrespect to those I serve.  Please do not misconstrue my irreverence as disrespect or worse. I am passionate about my work and love the clientele of which I serve. I have the best job ever.  I ask that you employ a sense of humor and leave your PC at the door. 

This is a re-work of a very early blog entry, improved one billion percent.  Well, at least I think so. 

As a professional in the mental health field, I have faced many unusual situations: I’ve had to asked a naked client living in a port-a-potty to consider alternate living arrangements; I’ve interviewed a young man wearing nothing but a strategically placed washcloth in the emergency room; I’ve cleaned up after a client who has purposefully shat all over the bathroom walls and floor. So, you would think taking a group of persons with chronic mental illness to an amusement park would really be a piece of cake.  

Oh, how wrong you would be.

Me: “So, what special event should we do this year?”

Client A: “We want to go to [insert name of least favorite amusement park here].”

Me: (trying not to poke eyes out) “We went there last year.” (My attempt to deflect this choice is met with groans.)

Client B: “But, that’s where we want to go!”

Me: “So you want to ride a school bus for two hours, go without a smoke break, spend your month’s income on a crappy lunch and stand in line most of the day?”

Choir of clients: “YES!”

Me: "Wouldn't you rather have a picnic at the park, my treat?"

Choir of clients: "NO!"

Me: "What about going to that mall?"

Choir of clients: "NO!"

Me: So, you'll save your money, slather yourself with sun tan lotion and not smoke on the bus?"

Choir of clients: "YES!"

I suck it up and do what the clients want to do.  I arrange a trip to amusement park hell.

The day arrives and we arrive at the park unscathed.  I volunteer to stay with the “don’t-want-to-ride-the-rides-I’m-just-here-to-shop-and-eat” group, as I figure this to be the simplest use of my time and it would be the most fun.

Me: "Okay, so we'll stick together.  We'll get something to eat, go to the bathroom, check out a few rides." 

Mary: “I have to go to the bathroom.”

Me: "You want to go to the bathroom before we eat?"

Mary: "I HAVE TO GO TO THE BATHROOM!"

Me: It’s right here. We’ll stop.”  I remind everyone to wash their hands when done and to meet by the exit doors.

Mary: "I want to ride the carousel. You’ll let us come back to the carousel when we are done, right?”

Me: I look at the ride, then look at Mary. “We can do that after we go to the bathroom.”

Mary: Silent glare at me.  She does not believe me. Maybe the voices are telling her not to believe me.  Maybe she and the voices do not believe me one iota.

I point Mary to a stall and pick one of my own.  After arranging my toilet paper on the seat, I sit down to take advantage of my time in the bathroom.  Mary starts screaming.

Mary: “I CAN’T GET MY PANTS UNTIED!”

Me: “What?”

Mary: “MY PANTS ARE STUCK! I HAVE A KNOT!”

Me, realizing that her polyester pants with a tie at the top, waistband pulled up to the boobs, must have a knot. Mid-stream, I stopped and gave a listen…

MARY: “ARE YOU THERE? I SAID I CAN’T GET MY PANTS OFF!”

I thought about this, as she has worn these pants for the last forty seven years of her life and thus I’m a bit intrigued that at this particular point she can’t get them off. 

Schizophrenia does not usually render pant-removal impossible.

Mary wasn’t asking for help—she was screeching at the top of her lungs from within the stall, voice reverberating off the cement walls of the bathroom. "MY. PANTS. ARE. STUCK! HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME!"

I zipped my pants and got to her stall, assuring her the entire time.

Me: "I am right outside the stall."

Mary: "I can't get the knot out of my pants! I have to pee! I can't get my pants off! I AM GOING TO PEE IN MY PANTS!" 

Patrons are staring at me, so I politely smile and they smile back.  

Me: “Mary, I’m right outside the door.  Calm down and you’ll get those pants untied.”

Mary announced loudly, “I HAVE MY PERIOD!”

Oh dear god.

She added, “I NEED HELP WITH MY KOTEX!”

No, no, no. I don’t have a god-blessed Kotex with me. I’m not helping anyone with Kotex. People with schizophrenia don't need help with Kotex.  What is going on in there?

Mary opens the door. I have no choice but to untie her pants and to try and calm her. She is sweating—probably from all the yelling—and she’s got herself quite a knot in the pants.

Mary: “YOU HAVE TO STAY IN HERE WITH ME!”

Me: [politely decline] “Mary, you’re fine. Hold still so I can untie your pants.” 

By now, we’ve cleared out the bathroom, which actually is to our advantage—no long lines, no problems finding a stall for anyone, no worries about getting to the sink.

Mary: “STAY IN HERE!” She pulls her unknotted pants down. 

Me: Trying to stay conscious, despite the unmistakable stench of polyester pants, unchanged underwear and poor bathing habits wafting my way.

Me: “Mary, when is the last time you took a shower?”

Mary (muttering): “Last week.”

I back out of the stall, assuring her I am just giving her privacy but really I am just getting away from the funk. 

She opens the door and tries to hand me the used Kotex…

My god, my god, why have you abandoned me?!

Me: “Mary, I am so not taking that! Put it in the garbage!”

Mary: “BUT, I NEED TWO HANDS WHEN PULLING MY PANTS UP!”

Me: “For god sakes, Mary, you know how to do that, I’m not helping you.”

This pisses her off but for some reason, she indulges me and doesn’t argue about it. Pants pulled up to boobs, tie re-ried, Kotex in the garbage, she wanders out of the bathroom, hands unwashed. 

Mary: "I'm going to wait for you outside."

I take my eyes off of Mary for one millisecond so I can count our little group—all five are present—we turn to go shopping.

Wait a minute—all FIVE are present? I had SIX when we came into the park.

Mary. Mary is missing. With a heavy sigh, I tell everyone we are going to the merry-go-round, as I am sure that this is where she has gone. We stand staring at the ride, watching the horses go up and down, lights spinning in a circle, round and round and round…but, I don’t see Mary. It’s kind of hard to see as we are basically looking into the sun, so I figure we might have missed her. I instruct the group to go stand by the exit, as she’ll have to get off when the ride is over and we can meet her there.

The ride stops, the people get off….no Mary.

The ride starts, we stare at the horses, the ride stops, no Mary.

After the fourth ride completes and everyone exits, I decide to ask the attendants if they have seen Mary, describing her in the nicest, most politically-correct-manner possible.

The two young men laugh and point to the second level of the ride. “She’s up there,” they say, as they allow me on the ride. “We can’t help patrons—we can’t touch them.”

I stopped to stare at them—what on earth are they talking about?

“She’s stuck, says she can’t get off the horse,” the younger guy adds. “We can’t touch her—policy rules.”

I’m incredulous. How does someone get stuck on a merry-go-ground horse?

Sure enough, I walk around the circle and there she is, on a white horse in the inner ring of the ride. No wonder we couldn’t see her from the ground.

Mary: “I’m STUCK!” She is crying and sweating and snot is running all over her face. “I CAN’T GET OFF THE HORSE!”

She stands up on the horse, death grip on the gold pole. She sits immediately back down and begins screaming again. Parents are directing their children from the area. I go over to her and ask her to calm down and listen to me.

Mary: I CAN’T GET OFF I CAN’T GET OFF I CAN’T GET OFF!”  

Me: “If you listen to me, I can help you get off the horse.”  

We now start ride number Five. 

Me: How did you manage to get up there, anyways?”

Mary: Silence. She has no answer. Mary is only focused on getting off the ride.

I scratch my head, as she is indeed rather stuck. I am not strong enough to lift her off the horse by myself and the attendants can’t help me.

Me: “Mary, stand up and I’ll help you.” I move closely to her as she stands….unfortunately, this puts my face at crotch level. I gag noticeably and my eyes automatically water. Remind me to talk to her staff about hygiene skill stepping….

I feel the room spin, then realize it’s just that the ride has started again. Mary and her colorful horse are going up and down and up and down and up and down.  She has truly worked herself into a froth.

Me: “Mary, just sit down and wait for the ride to end.”

What seems like three days later, the ride ends and I begin to work frantically. I tell her to stand up; she does, then she sits right back down. I tell her to stand up and stay standing; she does and as I move toward her, I am gassed. I put my arms around her waist, bringing my face right smack dab in the danger zone. I tell her to lift her leg; she says she can’t.

We do this THREE MORE TIMES.

Finally, by the grace of god or some other being, her leg makes it over the saddle and her weight falls on to me. I groan and my knees buckle but I’m so happy her crotch is no longer in my face that I don’t care. She hangs on to my neck and squeezes tightly. We work our way off the ride and meet her waiting peers.

I am in no mood to talk to anyone and instead just point toward the parking lot. 

Another successful outing to the amusement park.

After the two hour ride home on the un-air-conditioned school bus, Mary announces she needs a ride home. I am fed up to THERE, irritated that Mary somehow has overlooked the need for transport home from the office.

Me: “Mary, you’re supposed to have a ride.”

Mary: “well, I don’t.”

Me: “Fine. You can ride in my car.”

Mary: Smiles.  Triumph!

It is hot.  It has been a long day.  I'm oozing with nausea from being on that ride so long. I am silent.  Tired.  Crabby.

Mary: [from the back seat] “What’s that smell in your car?”

I bite my tongue.  I know what is going on and I can tell you it's not me or the car.  

Mary: “This car really has a smell. What is that smell? It’s horrible!”

I open the windows and bite harder. I think my tongue is bleeding.  I drive and remind myself that the clients don't always have the best hygiene because they are too busy dealing with their symptoms and don't have time to worry about things like hygiene.

Mary: "Really.  I don't like that smell.  What is that smell? I DON'T LIKE IT!"

I use every shred of my very being not to say something.

She asks one too many times.  I scream out, “IT’S YOU!”

It’s a very quiet ride home until we pull up to Mary’s apartment.

Mary: "I'm sorry about the smell."

Me: "It's all right, Mary.  Just take a shower and put on clean clothes."

Mary: "And, a new Kotex."

Me: "And, a new Kotex."

As Mary  exits the car, she asks “Can go to Great America again next year?”

All I can tell you is that blanked out after repeatedly hitting my head on the steering wheel......

Tuesday, April 16, 2013

End of the Bunny Trail

Thankfully, this incident happened well after Easter.

Yesterday, when I stopped by to let the dogs out at lunch, I noticed a very large....thing...in the grass.  It was definitely made of fur and it was most decidedly missing tufts of fur, as said fur tufts were fluffing about in the air.  I inched closer to see what furry creature had found its way onto our law, creeping all the way just in case the thing was not dead.  I thought it was a bunny but thought it too big to be a bunny.  I considered that it was a really little coyote, as it had coyote color fur.  It wasn't a bird as there were no feathers involved.  It didn't look like a raccoon, possum or neighborhood cat.  It's then I saw the ears.

Bunny.  Definitely a bunny.  "Okay," I muttered to myself, "I can handle a dead bunny."

I peered at the poor thing.  "Huh.  I didn't know bunnies were that big."  It was big. Like dog size big. Like bionic bunny big.

I crept closer.  Now, I don't want or need to get too graphic here, so suffice it to say (1) it was dead; (2) it hadn't been dead a long time; (3) it did not have a pleasant death; (4) something didn't get to enjoy its whole lunch because there was still a lot to be had with this dead bunny.  It was a very handsome bunny, all legs and cotton tail in tact.  May I just say that its eyes were wide open and that it had cute little bunny teeth?  (I got pretty close for my inspection.)  It had a look on its face that suggested an unpleasant ending.

I knew I couldn't leave the bunny in its current place of rest, as our dogs would want part of the tasty treat and I know the neighbor dog would be all over it (literally--it's a hunting dog with a taste for critters of all kinds).  Thing is, I'm not exactly good at removing dead things from the yard.  I had to talk myself through this.

I stood in the yard and contemplated my options aloud. "Okay, it's dead.  I'm sure it's dead.  It's dead, isn't it? Heck, I can't touch that.  What the hell IS that, anyways? Boy, this must have been a hawk.  I'm sorry, Mr. Bunny.  How the hell am I gonna remove you from the lawn? I can't bury you.  You're too big. I can't put you in the garbage.  We'll have every wild animal in the neighborhood stalking our garage.  What to do. What to do......"

Being the creative art major that I am, I employed (1) a shovel; (2) a "pee-pee pad;" (3) gloves; (4) several large garbage bags; and (5) a permanent marker.  A pee pee pad is one of those absorbent things that you put in a hospital bed or on a chair for those who might "leak" or pee in the night (or wherever whenever). It's got the blue plastic backing and the cottony soft front.  I figured this was the perfect solution, as I could roll the bunny onto the pad, fold the half of the pad over the bunny, drag the pad into the garbage bag.

I laid the pee pee pad near the back of the bunny (the icky part I really didn't want to see--the part that gave me an idea a hawk had been involved in the ordeal) and planned on rolling the bunny toward the pad.  Of course, the wind kept blowing my pee pee pad away and so I had to figure out how I could stand on one corner of the pee pee pad while rolling the dead rabbit onto the pad.

I looked like I was playing a game of Twister, only without the dots.  "Right foot, pee pee pad."  "Left hand, shovel."

This is when I learned how much bunnies weigh.  Boy, this guy was heavier than a bowling ball and I'm not kidding.  I kept thinking how Mr. Bunny weighed as much as our dogs.  Who knew bunnies were so big? They don't look so big when hopping around on our lawn.

It's also when I learned that this guy was "fresh" and still limp.  He wasn't rolling for nothing.  He was fighting back.  His middle would roll but his feet stayed behind.  His feet and back rolled but his head flopped onto the grass.  I couldn't get all the parts to coordinate.

Needless to say, I finally got him on the pee pee pad and flopped half over Mr. Bunny.  I again started talking aloud, as I needed some encouragement to do the next task: DRAG.THE.BUNNY.

Oh, my I did not enjoy dragging that bunny.  The wind made it harder, as my garbage bag was whipping all over the place. I didn't want him to fall off the pee pee pad but I had to move him to get him into the bag.

It took a lot of work to get that damn bunny into the bag.  

Once in the bag, I put him in another bag.  Double bagging seemed important.  I thought about triple bagging, but that seemed a bit much.

I then did something that most people probably wouldn't have done: I wrote "DEAD BUNNY" on both sides of the bag.  Hey, I didn't want anyone thinking there was something fun in the bag.

I texted the wife and sent her some photos--none graphic, of course.  After asking me "are you sure it's not a coyote?" she texted me she'd call the county and have them remove the bunny from our property.  When she asked where he'd be, so she could tell the county guy, I assured her "He's under the pine tree, in a white garbage bag labeled DEAD BUNNY."

No missing that.

I'm glad to report that the dead bunny bag was gone by bed time.  Either the county guy came along and got our "road kill" or someone got a big surprise....

.....hopefully not a seven year old looking for Peter Cotton Tail.


Thursday, April 11, 2013

Enjoy the Ride

Now that I am old and crusty, I feel it my obligation to spew words of dated wisdom to my eldest niece, who is currently involved in an NCAA National tournament.  (How awesome is that? Rocking the N.C. Double A! Congratulations and good luck!) Now, I can pretend I actually know how exciting this might be, as I did attend a national-level tournament in college: our softball team went to the NAIA nationals in Texas.  Ah, the stories of the road trip--two white vans zipping down the highway, staying in Motel Sixes, getting slaughtered by giant women from Nebraska (corn fed farm girls with arms the size of tree trunks). We were in way over our head....this was the inaugural season for the college softball team.  (Lest you think I'm a softball goddess, let me assure you that I wasn't exactly tearing up the field and our team wasn't going around the Midwest crushing opponents--we were just good enough to squeak into the national tournament and I was good enough to be on the college team.) Despite our quick exit from the tournament, we found ourselves giggling into the wee hours, watching a team mate hang upside down off the balcony, eating chili before the 16 hour van ride....good times. Great times, actually. Thing is, all I have are the memories....I didn't have a camera (a real camera--the kind with actual film that you had to take somewhere to get developed).  Memories are nice, but photos would have been better.

Thankfully, we were too stupid (ignorant? naive?) to be nervous.  We had a really good time.  Sure, we were intimidated by the size of those Nebraskan corn-fed-giants, but we weren't freaked out, per se. Had I actually thought about what we were doing and that we were on the national level, I would probably have vomited on home plate and passed out as running to my position in the outfield.  We got one thing right on the trip: we had a really good time.

I will pass on recalling stories of our trip to national tournament two years later, as all stories would be too incriminating.

I hope that my niece can have half the fun we did.  The wife says, "we didn't realize the significance of the moment.  We were too busy having fun.  I guess that's good."  She adds, "even to this day, I don't think of that as a national tournament.  I think of it as a fun trip."  I think that's wonderful and the way it should be. When the wife and I talk about nationals, we don't talk about the games; we talk about the antics and the trip itself. Glorious!

It's a whole different world now.  Events are televised or streamed live on the Internet. Teams ride on buses or fly.  Pressure oozes from every corner of the collegiate sporting arenas.  There is potential to have all fun sucked right out of the journey.  College kids are too young for such nonsense.  College is supposed to be a psychological moratorium (Erikson's theory that young adults are actively involved in exploring different identities, given a break from the real world as they figure out who they are), not a time of such pressure.  Give me a bowl of chili and a bunch of farting athletes any day.  

If I were to spew words of wisdom to my NCAA-tournament niece, this is what I'd say to her:

  1. No matter what, enjoy the ride. Enjoy yourself.  Don't get sucked in to nerves or doubts. This is supposed to be fun.  This is where you are supposed to be.  You made it this far, so you know you've earned the right to be there. You are making history--what a great ride to enjoy! You will look back at this with pride and wonder (I know I wonder about the whole national softball tournament!). 
  2. Embrace the experience.  Embrace the bus ride, the food, the team, the hotel, the arena, the good shots, the bad shots, the missed shots, the amazing shots, the stupid comments, the compliments, the other teams, the crowd, the competition itself.  Embrace the entire experience as you enjoy the entire ride.  
  3. Take photos.  LOTS of photos. In this day of digital photography and cell phone cameras, this should not be an issue.  You cannot take too many photos--you can delete what you don't want.  Trust me when I say you will wish you had photos of this event if you don't have any.  Photos.  Lots of photos.  
  4. Breathe.  If doubt or anxiety or whatever creeps into your brain, your game, your being, just breathe.  You know how to do this.  Think of your shoe and the message to breathe.  
  5. Look around.  See this great thing you are doing! Be in the here and now. 
  6. Seize the moment! The wife, aka your sporty aunt, says "this is an opportunity of a moment to be seized." She should know.  She's seized many a sporting opportunity.  (I basically seized the moment to survive without injury.) Take an active role in this life event.  You'll have time to sleep and worry when you're old.  Who cares if you don't get as many hours of sleep as you usually do?
Good luck to you and your team. Be proud, do well, have fun....and, enjoy the ride.  May you leave no ten pin standing.

Saturday, April 06, 2013

In the Beginning it was all dogs and poop

I started writing this blog at the end of 2005, mainly in a pathetic but creative self-serving attempt to save myself from spending boatloads of money on therapy and to give myself a place to vomit all those thoughts swirling around in my head onto paper.  Fast forward to 2013.  I'm still self-serving and I'm still enamoured with babbling but my brain is a much quieter place to be--which is sad, in some ways, as I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss the constant chatter.  I think it might still be there but I can't remember because peri-menopause has left my brain fuzzy-fied.

Because it's been so long since I first started writing and because "Poop for Peace Day" is just around the corner, I thought it be a fabulous idea to feature a few of the first and/or some of my most favorite blog entries, inserting them between new posts.  Before publishing the favorites, I am certainly going to re-work them, as if I wanted you to go back and just read the original, I would give you the link and call it a day.  I figure a few new blogs with a "best and earliest of the Addiverse" blog might be a handsome idea. The following blog is a re-work of my first official blog entry, from the end of December 2005.  I think it explains nothing about the Addiverse except that I love my dogs more than I like most people and that I am obsessed by poop (of which I have never understood)...which in itself explains a lot......


Now, about that dog diarrhea.... allow me to introduce to you Lucy, Bark of Poteidaia, a 17 lb Shih Tzu/Maltese fancy mutt mix, affectionately named after Lucy Lawless and Gabrielle, Bard of Poteidaia (POE-ta-DEE-ah). The Bark is definitely NOT a foo foo dog. She's more like what Ellen DeGeneres would be if she were a dog.  Why Lucy is so big, we have no idea but the mama-non-breeder-breeder swears she really is shih tzu and malteze.  We remain skeptical.

Lucy is a certified "shot-out-of-a- dog-at-some-lady's-house" kind of dog. I got to meet Lucy when she was only four weeks old.  A co-worker brought in a box of puppies and who can resist a box of puppies? I took one look at that box and knew I was gonna have one of those puppies.  I didn't know how to tell the wife, after all, it took me 16 long years to get a dog and now I had the audacity to ask for number two.  I looked in the box and pointed to a puppy, announcing "THAT is the dog I want." I wrote a deposit check right then and there.  Lucy (I had already named her) was lively and obnoxious and hilarious and bouncing all over the cardboard box. I took photos of her and chased the wife around the house with them. I begged for dog number two. All that whining and begging got me what I asked for and we became a two-dog family.

Before I go further, I'd be remiss if I didn't tell you that Lucy has an older sister named Freckles Warrior Princess, the brainiac dog smart enough to avoid raccoon poop and antics that Lucy and I find ourselves drawn to.  Freckles is calm and refined and rule-abiding, much like the wife.  She used to be a certified "Canine Good Citizen, a registered therapy dog. I say used to be because when we got Lucy two years into FWP's tenure on the planet, Freckles became evil and morphed into a "Canine Bad Citizen" Dog.  So much for getting a second dog to keep the first dog company.  Freckles is a --gasp--pet store dog. We claim ignorance, as we didn't learn about the whole puppy mill thing until AFTER we purchased her.  We were mortified that we had contributed to this horror.  (We have since proclaimed our dismay over puppy mills and pet stores and the likes.) The wife picked her out, as she seemed to be the calmest one of the bunch. We later learned that she had such a bad case of Ghiradia that she could barely function. (That's a different poop story for a different day. Her poop was so infected that it just about wiggled when it came out.) It was a tough start to life--I almost killed her by accident the first night with this horrific flea collar, then I almost squished her under the garage door, then she had the ghiradia-soft-serve-poop that lasted for months. Despite her tough start to life, Freckles turned into a very gifted, ridiculously smart dog who crushed the competition in obedience class.  I am proud to say the trainer called her "the hardest working Shih Tzu in America." 

This dog was worth waiting 16 years for!

In an effort to properly introduce you to Ms. LBOP, I start with her efforts to get into some disgustingly rich, thick, piled-high raccoon poop after running away on my watch. I know better not to let her go outside without her leash, but I have to (repeatedly) learn the hard way and thus I skipped the leash with the hopes she'd stick around. I'm not sure if it's because I'm lazy, distracted, delirious, hopeful or confident, I decided this is a fabulous idea. 

It is not.  Lucy, being Lucy, runs straight across the street--never a good thing, not even looking both ways before crossing the street--and romps 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 under bite) in the car and go to get Lucy. I use the car because I know if I chase after Lucy, she will just keep running away.  With the car, I know she will get in, as what dog doesn't want to go for a ride in the car? I can smell her from the street. She's smiling and rolling and eating this mess, getting all covered with the present from the neighborhood critter, smacking her lips in delight. I drive the car three houses up, hop out and leave the passenger door open, hoping she will see it and run toward me....  

Of course, she doesn't.  Why leave tasty poop behind for a car ride? 

I get out of the car and try to sneak up on her.  Dear god, my eyes were watering when I picked her up--this was no regular poop. She's covered in sticky, disgusting, gag-producing goo 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 put her in the car as I can't carry her back to the house.  I know putting the car is going to be a VERY bad idea but I don't know what else to do.  I plop her in and burn a u-turn without looking.  

Gagging the whole way, I get her into the house for an emergency bath.  She seems to be loving every minute of the tasty poop and I can't get her to stop licking it off her fur! Unfortunately, the wife is home and she is NOT amused by anything that is transpiring before her eyes.  I lose big points for Lucy being off leash when I know she is just going to run away. I lose more points because Lucy had run away and had rolled in poop. I am in the negative points because Lucy--and the house and car--now smell like something died three months ago.  I might as well move out of the country because I too smell like something died three months ago. 

Did I mention that the wife is a very fastidious-obsessive-compulsive-clean-rule-following woman who is decidedly not a dog person? 
She is NOT entertained by me--or anything--at this moment.

Lucy and I live through the bath and through the wife's understandable fury.  As you can imagine, all that poop eating led to Lucy getting sick the next day. I'm talking exploding diarrhea. Not just a little case of shooting poop--we're talking flying everywhere. For days. After day three, the wife was no longer speaking to me or Lucy.  (Freckles, having more brain capacity than me and Lucy combined, was smart enough to lie low and wait out the storm from somewhere under a bed.) 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 had to take 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 doggie-poop-soup into 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," as this is a very bad thing for dogs to eat. I guess there's some bad juju with raccoon poop. They gave her an exam, asked if the yucky raccoon poop had worms in it (um, I can't say I took time to look), continued to look serious and stern,gave her a shot to get the shit to stop, then sent us home with directions to feed LBOP some rice with hamburger.  They demand we avoid raccoon poop with all our might.  
(If you want to understand their concern, google information on raccoon poop.  It's not a good thing to eat.)

Suffice it to say, Lucy is not good at following rules. I'm not good at following rules. We've been able to avoid raccoon poop but all those rules keep getting in the way.

Ten and a half years later, Lucy and I are still working on that.  The wife says we've improved but I think we've got a ways to go......

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The Addiverse wishes a speedy recovery, three hawk and Argo! Go get 'em grrrrrls!
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