Monday, January 17, 2011

Cat ladies can also love dogs

Ask anyone and they'll tell you I'm a cat lady. They fit perfectly with my personality and they're low maintenance. I've never really liked dogs; they're fun to play with, but I never connected with any of the ones my family had.

About three years ago, my parents adopted a dog from a local shelter to take with them when they went out to remote locations for work. They took her out into the shelter yard to get a feel for her and the first thing she did was proudly drop a deuce before taking off. Moments later, she returned with a stick to be thrown. It earned her the name Twiggy.

Since we've had her, Twiggy has become more than just a family pet. She's my little sister, my mom's baby. Twiggy pouts and sulks when she doesn't get her way or is in trouble. When someone sneezes, she hides. When she's scared, she lays on the floor next to dad's side of the bed. Mom even made her a Facebook page (that mom uses for Farmville).

Ron and I can both leave the house with no issues, but if mom and dad leave and she doesn't get to go along, she lays on the couch, head on the armrest closest to the door waiting. And if they don't bring her a treat, she pouts some more.

A mutt, probably with some terrier in her, Twiggy is one of the smartest dogs I've ever seen. She fetches, dances, waves, shakes, high-fives, sits, lays, and speaks. She shreds rope toys until the living room is covered with string. Twiggy also talks; she knows to make a certain sound when we ask if she wants it (a treat), when we tell her to say 'mama', and when she wants to go out.

Last Sunday night she went outside to play in the yard and a few moments after she went out, Ron came tearing out of his bedroom and threw the front door open. We thought she'd been shot. She ran in screaming in that terrifying way dogs do and dad and Ron took off outside to try and figure out what might have happened.

She was hurt, but she walked around alright and we got her to lay down for a while. In the morning she was still bleeding some, so mom, dad, and Ron braved the snow to take her to the vet. Twiggy has three wounds, the culprit likely a buck, and one of the horns went all the way through and out her skin. Luckily only skin (and her pride) was hurt, and the antler missed anything vital.

A week of pain meds, antibiotic wound cleaning, and lots of treats, Twiggy's doing a lot better. She's still healing, but the wounds are smaller and she's back to her old self. She still isn't allowed to go out on her own, but she has gone for a few rides in the car. In another week or so, my little canine sister will be just fine and back to chasing deer again. Because there's one more thing about her: she is stubborn as hell, and until she catches one of them things, she isn't going to stop.

Friday, January 7, 2011

Revenge is like a good scotch: twelve years old and shared.

My younger brother, everyone, is an idiot to say the least. He gets hurt a lot which means I get to laugh. So begins my recounting.

I belive I was ten or eleven when this story takes place, making my brother Ronnie around 8. The house we lived in had about three acres, and the people who lived there before us kept chickens. There was a large chicken house on one side of the property and instead of two posts, they had just used the two near by trees to wrap chicken wire around.

When we moved in, we took the wire down, but part of it had actually grown into the tree, so it was left there.

Ronnie, being an outdoorsy kid, spent hours outside roaming the property and the old chicken coop building was a sort of clubhouse. He also had an affinity for trees. Most of the trees were too tall to climb properly, with the sturdy branches being out of reach.

The chicken wire on the trees, however, gave him enough to grasp tightly so he could climb up. When he got to the top of the wire though, he was unable to climb any higher.

The easiest way down a tree, everyone knows, is to sort of slide down. He forgot about the wire. Sticking out at just the right angle and length, wire tore through his jeans, his underwear, and one of his testiculars.

He ran screaming into the house, holding his wee little boy. Now, my dad has always been there to take us to the hospital when we get hurt, always the one to make sure we were okay. He took one look at my brother's torn scrote and left dust down the road.

My mom had to take him screaming to the hospital and gramma met her there, which ended up being a good decision. It took my gramma on one arm, mom on another, and an orderly laying across Ronnie's legs so the doctor could stitch his sack.

If you'll remember, I stated Ronnie was around eight years old at the time. He was bouncing a 250+ lbs orderly like he was a drunk blonde girl on the back of a mechanical horse.

Finally, the doctor managed to sew it shut, and when they were leaving, mom saw the doctor sitting in the hall, head in his hands, shaking his head and looking close to throwing up. And when Ronnie ripped the stitch later, the doctor refused to redo it and just threw a butterfly bandage on the burst ball.

The moral of the story is not to climb trees with wires and not to piss off your sister who has a blog.

Sunday, January 2, 2011

I'm a pack of Camel Crush. Everyone wants me.

It really is amazing how people seem to forget that an actual human being is the one ringing up their various and sundry goods at stores. Once a person steps behind the register, I guess we become robots, there only to serve.

For the record, the answer to the question "How are you today?" is not "Marlboro lights." And I don't know if wolves raised you or something, but I'm pretty sure most people were taught to respond when someone says hello.

What makes this terrible is that a lot of the people ignoring cashiers were once in the retail business themselves and have felt just how soul crushing it is being constantly ignored by your fellow-man.

Enthusiasm or a huge grin isn't necessary; chances are I feel like shit too. I'm at work, it's par for the course. But your life isn't so bad that you can't at least say 'hey' to your poor cashier. And for the love of humanity, if she says she can't take your check, don't throw your cigarettes at her.

I'm asking for a stun gun for my birthday.