He's a lover not a fighter

True story.

Yesterday morning I got up early, practically with the sun (why, oh why, can I not sleep in on vacation?? Never mind, it was beautiful outside). Greg got dressed to go on a bike ride and I settled down with my book in the front room (see previous post), Louie at my feet.

I watched Greg pedal away and got engrossed in my mystery novel. A few (15? 20?) minutes later Louie got up and wandered away toward the back of the house. Now and then I heard him sniffling and scuffling. At one point it sounded like he bumped into something (it happens a lot with his surfer dude haircut). I heard Greg's footsteps--way earlier than expected--so I got up, rounded the corner to the kitchen and called out "are you back already?" I saw a decidedly-not-Greg arm as someone turned around the corner to walk (scamper, run) away from me, Louie happily dancing at his heels, tickled to have a new friend.

Um.

Hello sir?

The guy, deer in the headlights and mortified, turned back at me (keep in mind, this is 6:30 a.m.) and stammered. "I'm so sorry...I'm the former caretaker of the cottage and I had to come get something out of the barn..."

Did I pepper him with questions?

For example, the barn isn't in here, is it?

Why didn't you knock first?

Why tiptoe around?

Did I threaten to call the police?

Did I refer to my karate skills or pick up a cleaver, ready to defend myself and my three sleeping children?

No, no, and no. Here's what I said, in the potentially dangerous situation I was in:

Oh, um, that's okay. I just thought you were my husband. He's out on...a...bike...ride.

Translation in criminalese: go right ahead and do whatever bad business you were up to, there's no one here to stop you! Happy to cooperate! Always thinking, that brain of mine. Safety first!

Anyway, he turned around lickety split, headed to the barn and left a few minutes later with his brother (license plate: my4sons).

I turned and looked at Louie sternly, my hands on my hips.

He looked up at me proudly, wagging his tail with a gentle smile on his muzzle. Translation in puppyese:

I did good, right? I welcomed him and licked him and followed him. I just love people. Treat? Sigh.

We're a couple of crime fighters, Louie and me. Please take away my McGruff neighborhood watch card. I'm a lousy watch dog, too.

p.s. I'm pretty sure they were legit. I'm checking with the owner just in case. Also, they really shouldn't just walk in the house. I know that much! (Or maybe he just needed to use the restroom?)

The call of shame

Last week I completely forgot to take Louie to his vet appointment, a make-up appointment for one I had to cancel.  I got a somewhat irritated message on my machine ("I don't know what happened, but you didn't come for your scheduled appointment. Please call and schedule another.  It's important that he's seen regularly." ).  Because I don't love using the phone (and especially when the other person is irritated with me), I waited until this Tuesday to call and make another appointment. As soon as I said my name, the receptionist knew who I was.  

"Oh yes, Louie's owner.  I have you right here." (translation=you are on our black list now).

I apologized profusely and tried to be charming.

Maybe it worked, maybe not.  But she offered me an appointment at 3:45 that afternoon.

"Great!  I'll be there."

That evening, we're having dinner and I look down at Louie.  I've looked at him all day but that particular glance reminds me.  Oh my WORD. I forgot to go to the appointment today. 

What kind of person can't remember to go to an appointment she has made that very day? One who is losing her mind, that's who.  They didn't even bother to call and leave an annoyed message.  If I was on the black list before, now I was on the outer darkness list.

So it had to be done.  The call of shame.  To make a THIRD make-up appointment for my dog in less than a week.  Was the frosty reception on the other end of the line my imagination? No.  I oozed humility and shame and apology.  We made the appointment and I could tell the receptionist was thinking "I won't hold my breath."  Ugh.  So it's come to this: I'm that person now.

Side story: When Lauren was 4 or 5, we went on a road trip.  Greg worked at a crazy-hours DC law firm so every stitch of the packing was left to me.  And the food for the car ride. And the entertaining games and coloring books.  And the beach toys.  We finally got in the car and were about an hour into the trip when Lauren asked "did you bring Pink Bear?"  I slapped my forehead.  "Oh, Pink Bear!  No, honey, I forgot.  I'm sorry."  Silence for a moment.  Then Lauren piped up "Geez, Mom, can't you even remember two things?"  Of course, it did no good to explain that I had actually remembered 10,497 things and had forgotten one.   

So, of course, here I am again.  The vet thinks I can't even remember two things.  But I want to make a copy of my calendar and bring it in and say "look here...these are all the appointments I did remember this week!  This is everything I'm keeping track of, so if I blew off the 5-minute shot appointment, I'm sorry.  But I'm really actually quite dependable."  

Instead, Project Help Mom Remember was instituted, a shock-and-awe reminder system. Maddy made a sign for the fridge LOUIE VET 9:30 TODAY.  Lauren texted me at 9 "remembr Louie 9:30."  Greg called from work.  Everything short of a string around my finger. Mission accomplished!

Snippets from my brain

Sometimes I wish I could have a different blog for every one of my interests--a design one, a kinda funny observations one, a more serious writing one, a photo one, a journal of our lives and happenings one, a parenting one (okay, I do sort of have that), etc. Instead I end up with this goulash of a site--everything just thrown in here. Sometimes--like today--it's all a jumble in one entry. Buckle your seat belts, folks, here we go...

Greg's Grandpa Lee sings "You are my Sunshine" to all the babies in the family, so it's become something of an anthem for us. (Although I have to stifle a grin when he gets to the line "my only sunshine" because, clearly, he has more than one sunshine in the world. He's very generous with doling out his sunshine status. Even inlaws like me are eligible!)

So when I found this handmade sign (at Yeehaw Industries, via the enchanting Snippet and Ink) I knew it must be ours. And that's all I have to say about that.

* * *

I just heard that An Inconvenient Truth will be made into an opera. REALLY, Al Gore? Are you sure you want to do that? Sounds like making a mystery novel from the tax code. Not sure how powerpoints will be translated into song. Not sure I even want to find out.

* * *

Our Memorial Day backyard party was great. Sadly, I took no pictures to document the event but trust me, it was a gorgeous day with a fun group of people. Kids played wiffle ball and on the trampoline, grownups enjoyed laughing and talking. People brought great food and we sat around and ate it until we were full and then we went ahead and ate it some more. Party #6 this year! It's my favorite new year's resolution by far. (But still not totally easy for me. This is the philosophy behind the resolution: I was an anxious hostess whenever I did a party so I decided to do a bunch of them to get over my anxiety and enjoy it. I'm getting there!)

* * *

I'm spending much of my life in the kitchen, the only room where the puppy is allowed to roam. He misses me when I go elsewhere in the house (I am his sunshine, his only sunshine, please don't take my sunshine away) so I mostly camp out here. Working. Folding laundry. Listening to NPR. Reading. Cooking. Eating. Eating again.

Note the curtain tied up off the floor so he doesn't playfully tug it down, the crate where he ostensibly sleeps, the various chew toys and towels on the floor. The chair in the foreground is next to a big long box blocking the entry to the rest of the house that we all have to climb over to get in and out of the kitchen. See the dog sleeping directly beneath the chair where I usually sit. Notice the open door to encourage house training and going uno and especially dos outside. So that's the miniature vision of our everyday life. He's cute but he's kind of taken over around here.

Greetings from the bottom of the well...

Who knew that a small change like adding a 9-pound puppy to the household would throw off my life so much? It's official: I'm a wimp. Causing me to ask: Is there such a syndrome as post-puppy-partum depression? I think I might have had a touch of it.

But we've all gotten acquainted and I'm realizing I really can put him in the crate and leave the house or shower or work (SO not like a baby!) so I'm slowly getting back to all my other details.

By the way, I promise this will not turn into a dog blog but here are the final few pending bits of info:

His name is Louis (we say it Louie)--a shout out to Louis Armstrong not the French kings (not that there's anything wrong with French kings or anything). It took us an embarrassingly long time to decide. (Or, rather, we had each decided on something different and WOULD NOT BE BUDGED). Apparently consensus builders we are not. After complex negotiations (and my take-charge moment at the vet) it's Louie. Unless something better comes along. Just kidding. Kind of.

Someone asked what breed he is. He's a Tibetan terrier (hopefully not Tibetan terror, which is what I first typed). They're supposed to be great companion dogs, very sensitive to their family, calm when inside and playful outside, and love to go in the car on adventures. As I said before, my marriage is riding on the hope that this is true. {Not really. G has been pretty great about Louie*. He even took him to soccer practice tonight.} A lot of the write-ups I found said that Tibetans have a great sense of humor. What does that mean in a dog? Does he pop up suddenly with a fake nose? Do impressions of cats? Tell knock-knock jokes?

So that's it for the dog lore. I promise to move on to talking about laundry (very plentiful here) or lilacs (they're gorgeous in our yard right now) or knuckle-cracking or something else equally fascinating.

*especially considering that he sleeps in his crate next to our bed. In order to minimize the night-time whining and crying. Greg didn't even want our BABIES, our very own posterity, to sleep in our room. But we tried it the other way, with the pup in the crate downstairs and he cried for hours. He doesn't say a peep in the crate when it's in our room. Louie 1, humans 0.

Meet the pup

Here's
Louie (as in Armstrong)/Theo (Thelonius)/Quincy (John Adams)/
Truman/Hank/Otis/Edmund
Simon/Charlie/Edward/Jasper/George/
Scout/Hugo/Waldo/Henry/Ralph
Pax/Dill/Huck/Ernest

If we were in a hospital with a baby,
the nurses would be giving us huge pressure to
decide already!
for birth certificate purposes.
Soon.

He is a sweetheart.
Already paper trained by the breeder (I know!)
Calm and snuggly when he's inside,
Prancy and funny when he's out playing.
So far no whining or crying,
although I think he misses his brothers.
{Keep your fingers crossed for us tonight...
we're doing the crate by the bed.}

I'm exhausted.
A little like bringing home a baby
without the post-birth aches and hormones.
{But just a little. Babies are babies, dogs are dogs.}
Truly, wish me luck for tonight.
I'm kinda dreading it.