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Tuesday, April 6, 2010

Crouching Baby, Hidden Bichon Frise

"God pours life into death and death into life without a drop being spilled."  -Unknown

I'm in an odd mood this morning, and don't know where to go with it.  I'll say that I am utterly humbled by life's ornate beauty, by its intricacy, and its brevity.  The hard and fast things we count on each day to be there, immovable, are all just so much melting ice.  My thoughts and my prayers are with those that have both gained and lost family this weekend.

So I can probably lighten the pall around here with two stories from the week.  Now let me just say, I've had to skip MANY blog-worthy topics lately for the sake of time, and will yet again skip my take on revisiting that most preposterously pretentious fascinating of cities, DallasFreakingTexas.  That's probably a good thing, since I'll avoid making millions of people (probably including you) angry with me.

That's a 10 Minute Game Misconduct, Mister
The first story comes secondhand from my true love, Her Majesty:

Jack pretty much stays infected with some ague or noxious vapour or other.  (Come to think of it, he puts off quite a few noxious vapours all by himself.)  Anyway, HM takes him to our pediatrician last week, the wonderful yet fearsome Tigress.  The Tigress needs to clean out the sawdust, feathers, marbles, paperclips, pencils and beeswax from his ears.  No sweat, right?  Well, I'm told everything went from Serene Meadow to Nuclear Holocaust within about 3 seconds of digging.  The doc, the nurse, and HM all were lying on him to restrain the little booger, who was maaaaaaad about some strange lady excavating his ears with a Makita 18V cordless with a 1/2 inch spade bit.

Somehow, Mr. NastyPants gets a hand free from his oppressors, and sticks a thumb about 2 miles into Majesty's nose, holding her like a smallmouth bass with it and his forefinger.  About this time, HM figures out that something's going horribly wrong (Tigress is still enthusiastically digging away).  She notices a trace of red on Jack's arm.  Mr. I Fight Dirty's fingernail must have sliced her carotid artery or something, because she's now GUSHING BLOOD at an alarming rate.  For future reference, your copay does cover extreme trauma suffered while inside a doctor's office.

They finally exit the office, Jack 100% shocking pink with wrath, and Majesty sporting a custom made Kleenex snot rocket worthy of an NHL bench trainer.  I'm entering this kid in UFC the minute he hits the age limit.

I Left My Tranq Gun In My Other Pants
Next, it just wouldn't be right to deprive you of yet another dog story, if you missed the last one:

We dragged the dodgy-smelling and neurotic FMB along with us to Port of Mobile for Easter this weekend.  She's a house dog, but over there we stick her in the pool enclosure or the laundry room, which she despises.  She also has a bad habit of playing Houdini and running all around the neighborhood like she's high on crack when we're an hour away and completely helpless to shave her bald and auction her off for nothing rescue her.  The weather's not too warm, so I stick her in the garage on Friday night and head off to bed.

At precisely 2:01 am, I hear barking.  Crazy barking.  I think to myself, before falling back to sleep, "That better not be that idgit Belle."  Immediately, Majesty is telling me that sounds exactly like Belle, that it has to be Belle out there.  Awesome.

I pull on an inside-out tee shirt and stroll out to the garage in my boxers.  FMB looks at me meekly (from her proper place) as if to say, "Totally not me, dad!"  Now this has got me to thinking.  Exactly what is going on out there, busting up my sleep?

I amble out front towards the fracas and see a few dogs that sound like they're fighting.  I yell, "HEY!  WHAT'S GOING ON OVER THERE?!"  You know, like they're teenagers.  The dogs, two of them, stop and turn towards me.  There's a big black one and a little white French looking thing.  And they rush me.  I focus on Big Black wondering how I'm going to kill this dog with my bare hands.  I stand with my right fist cocked.  When they're both almost to me, Big Black eases up and wags his tail.  He wants to be friends.  Great.

Frenchy keeps coming, and wants a piece of me.  I can't believe it.  Once standing, I'm now bent over frontwards, ready to give Frenchy the Hammer of Justice from point blank range.  The dog looks mad (in the hydrophobic sense), and the little thing's snapping teeth look like a pack of churning razor blades, set on my destruction.

Nope, not going to put my hand in there.  It's 4th down; I'm going to punt.  I soccer kick as hard as I can with my bare foot, trying to sail Pierre into December 2015 - and he ducks it!  We take runs at each other for the next minute or two, each missing, each growling (really), as I back him up the street away from my Dad-in-law's house, and he finally relents and takes off with Big Black.

The first thought that hits me when I get back into the house is, "No little white dog gets away with that!" and I start looking for the baseball bats the grandparents gave everyone three years back.  And then reason kicks in and I head back to bed.

Be careful out there, y'all.  If you're in Mobile and see a little French dog, he means business.  You run.  Just run.

Photo Caption:  What happens when you combine lots of water, a shortage of clothes, and a sudden pee attack during a diaper change pit stop?  Baby rides redneck.

2 comments:

Cindy Deister said...

Loving the dog story...all about dogs these days, now that my kiddos are cutting the apron strings by slowly unraveling one strand at a time. A game of fetch eases it.

Jennifer Reinsch said...

Love the redneck baby photo. Hope you guys made the trip fairly uneventfully.