Charlywalker's Blog












The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2011 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

A New York City subway train holds 1,200 people. This blog was viewed about 4,300 times in 2011. If it were a NYC subway train, it would take about 4 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.



{October 25, 2011}   Put on The Blog

I think I may try to post something once a day to drive the readers crazy or to possibly have them ask for more……

Last night I had a dream about Bill Gates. I have had dreams of famous people before but never one of this caliber or fortuitous in nature. I don’t know why Mr. Gates decided to pop into my castle in the air, maybe it’s the menopause gods messing with my brain; but he landed there anyway and the dream took place in an automobile.  He was driving of course, and I was in the passenger seat.

The car in the dream was not the one I actually found myself leaning on one cold afternoon outside the Westin Hotel while waiting for the airport Taxi to arrive. In the dream, this auto was a very sleek Cadillac Escolade with tinted windows…

  I have never had the pleasure to meet Mr. gates. I have only seen pictures of him on integral publications. I knew his dad was a lawyer in Seattle like mine was, and maybe, just maybe, they crossed paths a few times in the court house elevator to exchange briefs…….

Anyway….. as I was heading back to Los Angeles and awaiting a transport vehicle to pick me up along with the other less fortunate’s who couldn’t afford a cab, the “Sit-n-Wait” bench was occupied and I was left with standing room only. Nestled under the car port in the semi circular drive to the entrance of the Hotel I noticed a Mercedes abandoned sitting close to the pick up area.  I mozied on over and leaned my too- tired-to-stand-anymore- rump against the rear fender with one leg  propped atop my Hartman carry- on, balancing  the Times on my knee working on a  puzzle I started three days earlier. Just when I finished filling in an 11  letter word for Mega rich person who monopolizes the computer industry……….

I heard an attendant scatter about rustling a set of keys and running after a man walking towards the Teal car where I was resting my laurels and he tossed out a quiet yell:

“Here’s your keys Mr. Gates”.

My tuschie came off the back end of that car as if it had just sat down on  a wet seat on the Subway  headed to Coney Island. I slowly looked to my right to catch a glimpse of what I presumed might be the Billionaire,  (it could also have been my eighth  grade science teacher. Same name different incomes outcomes).  It turned out to be the Microsoft Mogul and I was hoping  he wasn’t going to instruct the attendant to have me removed and get his car dusted for commoner butt prints….

What I actually witnessed was Bill giving me a double take. He looked at me twice before he opened his car door to get in and didn’t utter a sound.

There are only a few reasons I can think of when someone looks at you twice:

one: you think you recognize that person,

two: you like what you see and you have to have seconds.

three: “what was this girl thinking resting on his specially made Teal Sadies as if it were a hitching post equipped with a watering hole. Why the nerve of that girl placing her back pocket of her designer jeans against my hand crafted rear panel indulging in the New York Times Puzzle. What,…..  she’s too good for the Seattle Times Sudoku??”.

O.k…That actually happened…..with the exception of the NY Times…..I  was reading the Horoscope section holding a pen………

My dream  last night about Mr. Gates opened with the two of us riding about in a giant SUV and he was yakking about how we were going  to go swimming at a club that my family belongs to.

He was very concerned about my “knowing how to swim”, and “do I like swimming”.( I didn’t know how to respond because it was 30 degrees out and snow was still on the ground and swimming was the last thing on my mind.)  As I sat there in the passenger seat groping for an answer that would honor the Mega- Trazillionaire, my puppy , Charly-dog, popped onto the dashboard and rummaged through the front seat of Gates car as if he owned it.

Mr. Gates started quizzing me about Charly-dog and asked: “what kind of food he eats” and “if the food was expensive” and “was it tasty“.

I informed him of the brand and mumbled that I had not yet sampled it.

Then I woke up. I woke up with a feeling that I had just held a private meeting with one of the top richest men in the country and our conversations centered around swimming and dog chow, instead of  great stock tips or insight to a new pc product.  I was left drowning in a  Pool of Purina……..

I don’t know about anyone else, but conquering menopause without medication is starting to have it’s effect on me.  The estrogen has now hit the subconscious below sea level. My anterior pituitary has reached its last droplets of hormonal secretions and is casting its FSH out to the sea of dreams. Flooding the GATES of  REM.  I use to have dreams that had me floating atop the clouds care-free……with no Dog interruptus……….

Thank God my puppy was there to witness the whole thing, he smiled at me in the morning as if everything went swimmingly well…..

spread the humor.




I just received notice of an acceptance package into a nursing program I had applied to over a year ago. I should be elated and bouncing off walls much like my puppy’s tennis ball when in play. Except I am not.

I am having mixed emotions about continuing this venture. I am an older student reinventing another career after playing stay-at-home-mom for the past fifteen years and sacrificing my worldly goods for the betterment of raising children. I am sitting on the white picket fence now about attending this program for many reasons;

One major issue is the cost of the program. This is an expenditure that has a healthy bite to it and I am at a time in my life where I should be mimicking menopause in the Mediterranean and petting my pup while we lap up the Chianti and gnaw on biscotti;  Instead of pawing at textbooks containing fonts that even my +250 reading glasses can’t pick up. Come to think of it the only glass worth picking up should be half full of red wine.

I am an older student and am competing with young bloods. So far I have been superseding  this nouveau wild bunch, but they still act like I’m the token geriatric for the course. Sometimes I feel as though I don’t have a dog’s chance in getting through this, much like the hits I have been getting lately on this blog,….. an all time low.  Someone suggested I turn this blog into a book, she actually called me a “good writer”. I have been tauted as being funny, clever, and witty, but never referenced as a good writer. To me that was an ultimate compliment. I started to give this writing a chance but I didn’t know how to transform my blogging into an actual book.

I was out with a friend the other day driving to a bar and grill to discuss,… well, to discuss,….. um, anything.   As she drove through the maze of rural blacktop now covered in dirty snow, I mentioned to her the prospectus of making this “Bloggie with Doggie” into a manuscript. She likened the idea but pondered on the meat of the book. I mentioned my thoughts to her about” aligning my puppy perils with the coping mechanisms of menopause…… without the prescribed meds”.

She turned the green Chevy Sedan through filthy snowbanks and muttered something about…. “making it more dirty..”.

I reiterated that that was a possibility and; “I guess I could add some porn to perk up the readers libido, after all doesn’t sex and filth sell well? Much  like my over priced puppy products at Pet Smartie?”.

My friend slowed down to a speed where I could recognize and read the street signs and she turned to me laughing:

“You Moron, I was referring to the snow, I can’t believe how dirty it is”.

 So I guess trying to add “Charly-dog Does Dallas” or “Deep doggie Throat” a dog’s fun with a Cautionary Tail, is not on the menu?

Fine then, just order me a martini that matches the melting snow…..Dirty……….. stirred not plowed.




My husband has been in Italy for the last month traveling about to various cities and waking up with a mint on his pillow and a do not disturb sign dangling from his hotel room door. He asked me if there was anything that I would like for him to bring back to me. I told him to bring the do not disturb sign.

While he has been working in the fields  under the Tuscan Sun soaking up the Chianti that was meant for me, I have been knee deep  trekking through a winter blizzard catering to children and a dog and shoveling a 20 yard drive way. I have come to the conclusion that I absolutely hate snow. I think snow should stay atop the mountains where it feels most at home and at peace instead of my street where eventually it ends a mixture of slush and gravel on the side of the road.

My dog is starting to hate the snow. It is no longer a novice for him where he romps and chases snowflakes. Now it is a chore and he will fight to the end to Not go out in the cold. Charly and I are having wrestling matches and he waits until I pin him to get his leash on. He actually retreats to his doggie bed and curls up in fetal position in rebellion. I don’t blame him, I don’t want to go out  into the white chasm that chills every hair on our heads.

 I have found one saving grace though, something that helps with the winter nights and warms the cockles. Whatever cockles are. I think Charly is losing his cockles soon. I have turned to brandishing wine. Wasn’t this the survival mechanism of the early explorers. Didn’t that trusty St. Bernard carry that lovely Keg of    Laphroaig Scotch twenty miles into the Rockies around his thick neck? I wonder if I could train Charly-dog to carry a stash for me when I’m out doing his nightly poo-poo walk. The walk that takes hours because he is so busy sniffing atop three feet of snow in order to locate his last leakage. The last potty stand that got buried under a glacier a week ago and is untraceable even to the most sensitive snoz.

If he could carry a flask of Grey goose around his puny neck accompanied by a saddle of green olives  I could walk him all night in a snow storm.  Work a plate of  appetizers on his back and I have a traveling bar at my disposal. Maybe I could train him to retrieve an Andes Creme de Menthe and place it on my pillow with the dent in the middle.

My dog is no bigger than a bottle of scotch so maybe I’ll have to attach a few airline miniatures behind his ears.  I have a few left over from when I grabbed a flight or two. Those days when I was free floating and had absolutely no responsibility , well, those were the days.  I was a flight attendant at one time. A time when flying was fun and you actually got a meal.  A time when you were thirty thousand feet above everyone else and  miniatures came in a caseload and not in a Bichon Frise packed in some ones Louis Vitton.

I see nothing wrong with a nip or two especially during the chilly nights or when your hormones are bouncing higher than Michael Jordan’s slam dunks. It can get lonely when your husband is away for a long time, but the company of a dog toting a flask of Martini’s could sublimate any longing that may  have entered your heart. There are a few things that can replace the warmth missing from the other side of the bed: A dry martini and a warm puppy. I believe that sums it up in a Dog shell.

Now, If he could accomplish the art of Shiatsu my husband need not return…………………




Dear Faithful Bloggers,

Due to the fact that I am inept at setting archives to my Blog site, I am going to burden you with some of my earlier work. I started this Blog after adopting a mongrel and wrote about my frustrations  with  Puppy-dom. Add Menopause, Motherhood, atypical Mayhem, and a touch of Merlot, I showered this blog with fact bearing sheer nonsense, in which I hope you will comment and: spread the humor….’Sincerely, CW.

The snow is melting and leaving spots on my yard looking like a patchwork quilt. I think the storms are fading and Spring is trying to hone in where it should have been weeks ago.

My puppy is fluent in making storm stools. I was worried how the winter would affect his potty rituals but Charly-dog came through like a trooper. A  pooper trooper. I think he is a little too proficient in relieving himself in the winter, because he now treats the now effacing green blemishes as if they are Poison Ivy patches.He now goes directly to the nearest snow pimple to drop his excess baggage. Maybe the ice on his fanny cools the burning sensation of those tough days of constipation when he swallowed everything lying loose on the floor. Maybe Charly has a case of Hemorrhoids and the snow acts like Preparation H.(hiney).

Whatever the case, he seems to have a hard time figuring out the changes on this planet. He’s only eight months and hasn’t experienced all four seasons to their fullest. Maybe I’ll have to keep a patch of white ongoing throughout the Spring in order to ease his transition. I could sculpt a make shift potty and keep it in the freezer and pull it out in the summer months.

Charly-dog has decided to mark his territory all over the lawn. This is something new to us and takes a lot of time. He likes to cover the entire acre and a half lifting his back leg onto specified areas. Areas that only HE can dick-tate. Charly will encompass the entire yard and stop every so often to spill a little content on his chosen spot. Not like the old days where he would pee for minutes and head home.

I think he actually enjoys this self empowerment  because his tail wags frivolously and he smiles with his eyes squinting as he looks upward.  I can almost hear his brain talking as he does his potty dance: “look what I can do..Look what I can do”.

I don’t mind this ritual now since the weather is getting warmer, but he started this practice during the height of subzero temperatures. I think he enjoyed imitating an arctic nomad wrapped in his own pelt fighting the frost. I think he believed he was the Yukon King  sniffing out Dirty Dan some where in Canada.

Sergeant Preston of the Yukon was one of the many TV shows my mother planted my pre-school ass in front of instead of helping me form Play-Doh letters. I loved watching the rugged adventures of a weathered Mountie and his dog and horse surviving the wilderness solving all the problems  of the Northwest Territory. All by themselves. All Sergeant Preston had was a smart Malamute dog and a horse named REX.

One episode had the Sergeant solving a murder and the only witness was a dog. Can you imagine that? Out in the vast frozen Yukon at the turn of the century and all he can attract is an abandoned dog? His malamute must have been in heat. More like Yukon Queen. I wonder if I were ever trapped somewhere if my puppy would try to rescue me as I yelled for help into his bobble head ears. Or would he respond much like he does to everything by running over to sniff whatever it is to pieces and then turn to chase a fleet of leaves.

I think the only thing Charly has in common with the Sergeant’s Malamute is the mute part. Anytime I call the dog it just falls on floppy deaf ears.I think Charly-dog hears me when I call and I think he chooses to ignore me. He likes to play tricks on me. He likes to curl up in a corner sunspot and lie there without making a sound watching me look for him throughout the entire house. He’s the same size and color of my son’s black & white back-pack which curls up in the same corner untouched for an entire weekend.

Menopause does strange things to your mind. Those missing hormones can play hide and seek with the optical department in your brain. I figured that out one time when my son asked me why I was offering a dog chew to his back-pack.

Spring is in the air and I think I’ll dye Charly’s fur to match the budding roses……..I highly doubt my son will tote a pink back pack….

spread the humor.



{July 23, 2011}   Some of the Best Laid Blogs

I am not a big planner in life.  I admire those people that carry their life in the palm of their pocket.  I tried to get inspired by those folks whose lives run on a PDA, but the best I can do is scribble notes on a giant desk calender and forget to look at it again.  Or the important data I just documented has a mishap with my cappuccino and is now rendered illegible.

Oh, I have planned vacations and booked flights, but it’s really not me doing the arrangements, it’s the booking agent that gets all the credit.  I know everything is handled through the information highway with precise technocality, but I am the person who downloads the material online while talking to the agent.  I need the comfort of a human voice that responds back with semi-logic and a  peppy emotion who entraps me to commit to a date and hand over my American Express card.

It seems that some of my best laid plans go awry no matter how methodically I  manage to orchestrate them in my mind.  For example:  Last night I planned a great nights sleep with Charly dog nesting at my ankles and  wake up refreshed and ready to prance off to the gym to endure a grueling workout sporting my matching Nike attire.

Instead….I woke up to a puddle of pee at the base of the bed.

My first inclination after I yanked the covers  off was to replicate that memorable scene from the Godfather where the studio head discovers the horses noggin beneath the bedding.

But…. it was early and I didn’t want to wake the sleeping teens down the corridor for fear of being doused with attitude and rolling eyes; or..worse yet… I believe my quasi adult children may have listed a retirement community on their cell phones……s(pee)d dial…….

It did cross (what’s left of) my mind,  that…well….er……did I have and accidental accident???

I know I’m in the drones of menopause and plumbing issues are near the top of the list of things that go bump in the night.  I did under go a surgical procedure  a few years ago that was performed by a robot harboring arms like a giant spider which has the same name of the artist who painted The Last Supper, and looked as though it was assembled  at NASA.  This was a procedure that was less invasive and could be executed in under two hours.  That is, if there are no complications.  Mine lasted five hours because the commander at the controls ripped a hole in my bladder which resulted in a 911 call to an in-House specialist. So, needless to say, that morning I thought I had sprung a leak.

As I toppled out of bed and began to  figure out a way to wake my husband and break the news to him that I just might be a victim of the Depends generation I realized:

Maybe it’s time to wake up and smell the urine.  No more  sailing that sea of denial that age and women don’t mix well in certain genres.  Might as well face the future and take it with a grain of cotton and imported materials with a flexible waistline……………

……..and that an over-sized puffy pant, while moderately absorbent and locks in odors, may be replacing my  Pink Victoria Secret  Lacy Wonder Scanty Panty.

As I climbed off the California King (mattress) my foot touched a breathing furry object semi cowered under the bed.  There lie Charly-dog staring at me with guilty big round eyes and shaking as if he were stuck in a winter storm without his coat. He glared with the kind of eyes you see in a Keane painting that  boarder on cuteness and crazy.   I noticed a dotted trail of pee that flowed in his direction and it didn’t take the Dream Team to figure who the culprit was in this voiding crime.  I’m surprised my pup didn’t grab my husbands Bruno Magli’s and leave and imprint in the carpet…..

I was angry at the dog and wanted to reprimand him for the dirty deed that happened during my REM slumber, but I didn’t get mad at Charly for his incidental accident on my dry clean only comforter.  I turned my anger into elation because it wasn’t me that suffered the indiscriminate incontinence…… it was my pup.

Oh Halleluja and pass the menopausal plate!  I have branded another age defying dilemma and will Prevail with Dignity-plus a Nu-Fit on age that Depends on the Tranquility  that life can Pull-Up.

I picked up my shivering puppy and held him tight and whispered in his bobble head that “everything will be O.K”.

Tonight my Plan is to take a Brief interlude and turn a Puppy-Pad into a Huggies Overniteoh..and..delete the retirement center’s number on my kids cell phones…

spread the humor.



{June 22, 2011}   Blog Your Brains Out

Let’s talk friendship(s).  My father use to say to me that in your life time you can count on one hand the people that are truly your friends……Excluding family  of course,……. Oh phew….there were probably a lot of fingers flying about within the Von Trapp household….

I think it has to do with how many lives you have touched along the way, I mean touched in a way that has left an indelible mark of remembrance.  My dad also mentioned that you can spark a good presence by the number of attendees at your funeral.  I don’t know how that got calculated being that one is not Soul(y) present to witness the guest book signatures, and I don’t know if that really holds true  if it is based on the total sum of the crowd.  If a high profile figure is laid to rest in a Hollywood cemetery and draws thousands of onlookers, is that anymore redeeming than an unknown soldier.  Does that signify that the “star” of the show touched more viewers through their celluloid hands than one figure who stood alone and gave a life for freedom?

I dunno….let me think……. did a major pop icon who allegedly overdosed on a controlled  substance injected by a member of the AMA……….touch my life in a way that I should consider him one of my candidates for my Friendship hand?   Nope.

 Did some brave unknown soul who fought for our country  and died while doing so to protect our country,…. did they touch my life and are they a candidate for my friendship hand?  Possibly.

The “Star” provided entertainment which we pay for whether we like the entertainment or not. The venue of this art was provided  for our listening and viewing pleasure.  There were a lot of passer-bys at this funeral  who  stood crying how much their life had been touched by this person.

I’m sorry, but that Peter Pan was so out of reach he barricaded himself behind a gate in order to never land too close to the public.  The only time he reached out his white glove was Pay-day after the concert.  Don’t get me wrong, I like music, artists, and entertainment, my position lays  resting on the point my father made regarding “touching lives” and “true friends” in ones’ life.

I mean  think about it….All the folks that visited the final resting place of an Iconic Hollywood star may have felt an intense affinity to this person, but in all honesty…would this person reciprocate even if they could?  I hardly doubt that the King of Pop would phone me up to come over for a Bar-B-Q at his ranch, or call one night to chat about recipes…….  I can’t imagine The Gloved One would throw down his gauntlet and post bail for an unknown or possibly donate what is left of his liver……Oh, but I digress………….

My father also said to keep your enemies close and family is your true friend.  That is true to a point.  I have a sister who once stole my boyfriend away from me behind my back.  It was hurtful and I lost my trust in her, yet to this day we still talk.  Do I trust her? ..Nope.  Do I keep her close?…um..Yep.

I have had hundreds of friends and acquaintances throughout my life and as I slowly ( and I do mean slowly) fight,…er..I mean..face my golden years, I  now find my friendship ring diminishing  down to two hands and one foot.  (I think my father never took the other appendages into account).  I find myself becoming highly selective on who I want around me with whatever time is left on this planet.  I do not have an opening for people that are not relative to my standards of what I consider a friendship to be.

I have a few incredible friends that I could call in the middle of the night and rant about the perils of parenting without repercussion and judgement.  These are folks that would bail me out of any situation with no questions asked and ask nothing in return for their favors.  These are people that would never leave you stranded and  stand by me through outlandish circumstances….no holds barred. These are friends that ask for nothing yet I give them everything, just because they are friends.  These are friends that have engaged in minor battles and yet we manage to come out without a scrape and find ourselves laughing at the tomfoolery over a Tom Collins.  These are people I tattoo on my friendship hand.

I guess standards of friendship vary amongst people, and maybe mine are highly idealistic, but I find when I don’t keep to my “code” some people just take advantage of you. Do I like that?…Nope.  Do I change that?…Yep.

That’s the beauty of aging and harbor hormones that get in the way….I don’t have time for people in wolf’s clothing.  (Well maybe I’d take some time to speak with a Blitzer in a Navy wool Blazer about a situation).  I will not have a friend just for friends sake, I like a valued individual with some depth and character and not centered on themselves for entertainment.

The group of  faces on my fingertips are imbedded indelibly on my friendship hand and I am honored to be able to reach out and touch their lives as much as they have stroked mine.  Do I like that?    Yep.      Do I want to change that?    Nope.

I have now passed on to my children the Handy words of wisdom from my father regarding friends and they  reacted as I did when I thought I was immortal, only they think of friends in terms of  acronym’s like; BFF and BFLS and TTYL….etc.

I guess their access of ridding unwanted friendships is at the touch of the hand and reaching for the DELETE button……..

well that was easy……..

spread the humor.




I have a friend that is angry. Her mind is upset with her body.  Her body wants to exacerbate her hybernating hormones and bring them out to the surface to face an all out war with her libido. She is so bewildered by this ipso facto that she is writing in quasi legal Latin jargon that her attorney father would utter when he was upset.  Every time she heard him shout In Loc0 Parentis, she figured he was trying to locate some local parents and trade her brother in for a golden retriever because he used his mothers fine crystal in a neighborhood water fight…again. Mea Culpa!

My friend had her female reproductive organs removed exactly two years ago in February and her Doctor did not place her on replacements; ad infinitum,….. until a month ago when she happen to mention that; ” while she enjoyed having sex; her vagina is in absentia followed by rigor mortis..“. In other words lacking a little of the moisture it had in her youth.

I will for warn all of you pre, post, or anytime in between, menopausal women: your Vee-Jay will quit on you. Your walls of Jericho will collapse and dry up and crack like the Great Lakes did 7000 years ago.  Your brain and hormones will still present themselves in an orderly fashion and aid you along in the passion and fever while starting to copulate, but come half time and LeBron James is about to do his slam dunk into that lovely basket everything comes to a rip roaring halt. The pain replaces the pleasure. The dry spell took over and all the K Y from Jelly-stone park can not help Yogi fall into his Pic-A-Nic basket without creating a Boo-Boo…modus operandi.

She thought this was just her. She thought this was a situation that only she had to keep In camera, until she had drinks with a colleague the other night who managed to have a slip of the labia and exclaimed she too, had the same situation. Maybe if we ran this situation across the Jersey Shore cast they’d get answers. I’m sure Snookie has no problems with  her nookie. Wait til she’s over fifty, I bet her shoreline will recede and her tide won’t ebb and flow like it use to. I’d like to see her habeas corpus reach terra firma after two kids…..et tu, Snookie??

My friend went into a twenty minute dissertation about her private parts during intercourse with a closing argument of “how and why is that fair to women:  just as we women are reaching the age of acquiescence and enjoying the act now doesn’t mean the damn thing has to dry up and quit on us”. God I love  a person who tells it like it is, even if it’s Martini induced.   Aqua vitae.

I educated my dear pre menopausal friend about the miracle drug of Estrogen. I explained how it comes in various forms; from oral to topical, and how replenishing this hormone that is starting to fade from our anterior pituitary, will recapture that rapture that has escaped through our vaginal portal.   Opus Dei.

This is no Davinci code; this is a miracle drug from your local Pharmacy that can ignite the heavens, prima facie, so your husband can provide pro bono ad infinitum…..quid pro quo…until you veni vedi veci….So you can Carpe Diem…until your hearts content; pain free.  Just remember this is a temporary fix and needs a refill………

Caveat  Emptor….…..



{May 15, 2010}   A Cut Blog Has No Pups

I’m frightened. My puppy gets his lively hood  whacked off in two days. I don’t know how to tell him that soon he will be heading to the Vet to get gassed and wake up with missing body parts and he will blame me for all this.

I vacillate on this subject daily on whether its the right thing to do or not. One EDO tells me it is necessary:”dogs need to be neutered, the only reason they are not is for breeding purposes only”.What if we treated humans with that theory? It might be an answer to the population problem.

I have been given pre-operative instructions for this procedure for my puppy:

1) no food or water after midnight,

2) drop off is between 8-8:30am with pick up at 4 & 6p.m. and,

 3) bring his rabies certificate.

Why the rabies certificate, are they afraid that when he wakes up from the anesthetic he’ll instinctively go to lick his balls and find them absent and go rabid on the staff?  I would.

I am having difficulty with this decision to pursue this procedure. I have listened to the pros and cons and they come out evenly and all I have left to make the final cut is to flip a coin. Heads he stays intact, and well ,tails.. he…er….wags less??

 I guess what really has me concern is rather selfish in nature, I am more concerned about how my dog is going to react to me after all is well and done. Is he going to greet me in the morning with those big puppy eyes staring at me in wonderment as to where his marbles went, and hopefully think we are amidst a game of hide and seek?

Or Is he going to turn on me and hate me for removing his man hood without his permission. Will he sink into a deep post sedation depression and never fetch another ball for me because the reminder is too traumatic?

I did not experience any aberrant behavior when my reproductive organs were removed. I may  have smirked a little at the intolerable complaints from my daughter about her monthly cramps. I could have expounded on the eleven hours of labor I endured before she emerged onto the family scene, but pay back’s a bitch.

I took my puppy to the  IN-humane society and pulled him over to the check in desk where he instinctively decided to take a monstrous poop on the linoleum. After the swat team came to clean it up the receptionist(?) aka Vet Tech,jumped out from behind the counter with a small hypo containing Chaniel Sedation and administered it into his chi-hua-hua hiney  with the artistry of a Ninja.

This medication had absolutely no effect on my puppy, he has the metabolism of a hummingbird.  Because of Charly’s incessant barking the Vet decided to take him before the other five Cats that have been waiting for hours. I was Grateful.

The receptionist /Tech came from behind and opened a large grey door with the paint peeling off the front and ushered us through the hallways of trapped animals. I was half expecting an operating room scenario with the aseptic arena of Grey’s Anatomy featuring Dr. McSteamy, but I was guided through a laundry room with a back exit to a small RV parked in the lot. I Had a very big notion to grab my dog like a foot ball and plow through the place mowing down non English speaking service attendants, while throwing the keys to my daughter and yelling “start the engine”. But in that moment of imagination my dog was already limp in my arms with a grin as wide as Montana. I left him there amongst the old coffee cup in the drivers seat and an unfinished Tasty Cake on the console.

Sometimes  you just have to close the trailer latch behind you and not look back at the over stuffed garbage can leaning against the aluminum siding. Sometimes some things are just out of your hands and you have to trust who ever or whatever is thrust upon you in a back alley parking lot.

Or sometimes you have to just get in your car and wait  nine hours right outside their entrance.



{May 10, 2010}   Like Blogs Breath

There is a God. He showed up in the form of my husband. I knew  there was a reason I married him after being single for 36 years. He fixed my Espresso machine.  I have always owned an espresso machine at one time or another in my life, it is as common to me as putting on a pair of shoes in the morning before you venture out for the day. Even if they are flip-flops.

 I’ve owned more cappuccino machines than I have dogs. I haven’t own a dog for the majority of my life, as a child growing up my family had dogs, but my brother took on most the responsibility with the family pet. I recall we had the large breed of dog, like a German Shepherd.  I didn’t spend a lot of time with this dog, because he had an affinity for my older brother. They were inseparable. I admired this Hatchi relationship and wondered why I could never tap into it and develop my own friendship with the dog.

 I was in elementary school at the time and much too busy with my new Evening in Paris Barbie. I was very wrapped up in my Barbie dream world as a kid, I spent more hours walking Barbie’s plastic poodle than my own dog. Maybe I just wasn’t ready for the commitment and work of caring for a pet . I liked my ideal make shift world of a Dream house that collapses and travels with you. When I set up Barbie’s world she was not bogged down with domestics, she would just fancy off to her inflexible chifforobe and don a glitter gown for her evening in the spotlight at Studio 54. Barbie’s Amana fridge was stocked with miniature green plastic soda bottles with home made labels displaying Dom Perignon scripted from a fine tip sharpie.  Barbie was always busy, she traveled and socialized with other Mattel friends, she did not have time to learn to cook, get married, or raise children. She did ,however ,always make time for her pink plastic poodle.

Eventually as I grew into an adult, Barbie and I did have one thing in common; we both made great reservations. I am not the best domestic nor the worst. I would rather be trekking in the Amazon then to have to make dinner for four at six p.m. I would rather be shooting a 22 at a rifle range at three in the afternoon than fight the grocery store lines for the two for one specials on Doritos for my kids lunches. I’d rather have the beds made, laundry complete, and the food cooked by someone other than me, and so would my family for that matter. Their clothes would be less wrinkled and the food would be tastier. My puppy even notices when my husband prepares his doggie dinner.  He transforms his daily Science kibbles into Gourmet  Giblets with Gravy.

Some people are blessed with a  green thumb for home-made behavior. My mind has always wandered like a piece of driftwood on the sea every time I spray a can of furniture polish over the coffee table. I start to Envision myself at a book signing at Barnes & Noble  and conversing with the public about my best seller and then the reality hits when I  get spritzed with the Endust in the face because the nozzle is reversed..again.

Domestic chores are a form of prison for me and the only escape is hiring a housekeeper. I would do that if my Dog liked strangers, but he doesn’t. He also hates vacuums. So a stranger toting a vacuum in my house is a lethal combination. I wonder what Barbie would do? Just fold up her dream house and retire to her Black patten leather carrying case wearing her  pink silk jammies with her plastic poodle by her side? Both laying there in a coma like trance until their next days play. I wonder when Barbie turned 50  if Matel had her estrogen levels checked.

Women in menopause need a life size Barbie case. A giant suitcase containing all their private possessions surrounding them as they  lie next to their dog, neither of them blinking,and to be carried off to unknown territories only to be emptied all over the living room carpet to set up residence.  Again.

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