They've Lost Their Minds

This morning started out real good, like always.

Daddy said, "Let's go for aWALKIE." This is very good. I love my den (which they call CRATE), but after all night I am ready to run!

We always get THEWHEEL to go out in the woods, because I love it above all toys and it gives me good exercise.

Usually,Daddy let's me carry THEWHEEL and when we get back on the porch he says, "DROP IT!" and I do. But I never DROP IT! in the woods, no matter how many times Daddy says this, I just can't let it go.

But this morning, Daddy could not find THEWHEEL. He told Mommy I must have left it in the woods, and that I would know where it was.

This is true. Except I did not leave it. Daddy has leaved it somewhere.

I am sad.

Because when Daddy leaves something somewhere, it stays for a long, long time. Until Mommy finds it, usually.

Anyway, Daddy let me off the LEASH so I could run and maybe find THEWHEEL out in our SPOT in the woods that is flat and grassy where I love to run.

But something wonderful had happened! The ground was all tore up, and wonderful, strong smelling brown stuff was everywhere! What joy! I ran as fast as I could and flopped down and rolled and rolled.

Daddy yelled to STOP, but I could not STOP any more than I can DROP IT! out in the woods.

Daddy had to wade in and get me and put my LEASH on and drag me home.

He rang the bell at our house. Don't you think it's funny he rang the bell at our house?

Mommy came to the door and took one look at me and said to me and Daddy both "STAY!"

When we were allowed in, I was taken straight up stairs. This is where the crazy part came in.

I wanted to go to CRATE but Daddy made me keep walking. They closed the bathroom doors and Daddy took me to the thing they call BATHTUB. OH NO!

I was wet, then wetter, and they put soap on me and scrubbed me down.

I have tried to be a good dog. But they washed all the good smell off me! And made me wet! I am not a water dog, I am a bull dog!

At least they had the decency to towel dry me and then leave me alone after telling me how sweet and good I smelled.

Mommy and Daddy have lost their minds. They washed all the good smell down the drain.

Now, I don't even smell like me.

I smell like a girl human.

How much worse can things get?

If you see THEWHEEL please call us. I don't know how to work the phone, but I guess you humans know. Mommy and Daddy and Girl are OBEDIENT when the phone makes a noise and they talk.

So call where I live and they will talk. I need THEWHEEL bad, so hurry.

Is There Something Wrong With Me?

I went to the gastroenterologist last week. Today I went to the "lady" doctor. Tomorrow I go to the urologist.

None of these, as I have been trying to tell you, involve hypochondria.

I have gotten shed enough of THE bronchitis that I was able to see one of my great-nieces for the first time and hold her this past weekend.

You know her mama wouldn't let a hypochondriac hold a newborn.

Finally, after wishful thinking, I am getting a new kitchen floor covering. We did an overhaul of the kitchen that many years back, but just didn't  have enough for a new flooring. 

You know a hypochondriac wouldn't wait five years for new flooring. I mean, they'd make up something to get their way - like develop a horrible allergy to the old floor.

Coughs violently then sneezes three times.

Looks like I'm gettin' that floor just in time.

No mail, man?

For the first time in years we received absolutely no mail yesterday. Not a scrap of sales paper, not a piece of junk mail. No bills, no letters, no nuthin.

It wasn't a holiday, either. Unless you count Earth Day. The federal government doesn't count Earth Day, do they?

I didn't mind an empty box. Usually our mailman is the middle man anyway: from our box, to our hands, to our trash can.

And I don't know anybody in their right mind who is eager to get a bill of any sort.

I did, however; get a letter a few weeks ago. First one of those I've received in a long, long time. It was actually a fan letter of sorts. I know you find this hard to believe, but I don't get many of those.

That would be  none, before this one.

This person spoke of how proud they were of my accomplishments in the writing field, and how eager they were to read my new book as soon as it arrived.

This person lives in a another state and was ordering my book on-line.

There's another big dollar for me.

Don't get me wrong, I'm glad  my books are available on-line for those who can't get them any other way. But it's pretty close to giving them away for me; if you compare what I make handing it to you from the back of my car.

I digress. I don't write to make a buck, although that's nice and enables me to write and publish again someday.

I write because I have to get all those voices and plots out of my head and onto paper. I need to write.

Bringing this all back around, write me a letter, send me a check, and I'll mail you a book.

That way you won't have the trauma we had yesterday when we opened our mailbox to find nothing but stale air.

It was heart breaking.

Seriously.

Are You Still Here?

I feel like it's been forever since I last blogged.

It seems as though I may be back to the land of the living...I can sometimes take a deep breath without wheezing and coughing and grasping my side as if I were dying like some dramatic, overpaid soap opera actress.

I've missed some of the spring blossoms and beauty, only aware of them peripherally as I've made myself do a few things that needed doing. 

But today, I actually have a little energy, and have marked off three things on my to do list. Yay, me.

I got excited when I saw gold finches outside the kitchen window, so black and yellow and close to the blue bird.

We got the backhoe in and cleaned up the kitchen (Daughter has been sick, too). She did laundry last night and Husband has vacuumed.

We may survive this whole thing, yet.

I've missed you and hope that I will begin a regular strange blog once again.

Dreamin...

Well, I'm sick again.

No, I am not a hypochondriac. I have way too much stuff wrong with me to fool with that, too.

Daughter has it, too. In fact she is worse than I. We've both been to the doctor and hopefully are on the mend.

I'm just telling you that to explain why I ain't blogged in several days.

But when Dog woke us up at 5:30 this morning, I was dreaming, and as you know,  my dreams are fascinating.  I just had to blog about it before I get ready to go to the doctor.  (I repeat, I am not a hypochondriac).

So, I am dreaming that I am on the President's White House staff. We are meeting in the room that was in the house I lived in until I was seven. It was a spare bedroom and my parents had turned it into a playroom.

President wants a press conference on the spur of the moment. He tells me to be sure that Henny Penny is there. Now, this confuses me. Who the heck is he talking about? Another person, also on staff, tells me that's the president's nickname for some guy named Ken Penney.

The president is dressed in those baggy gym shorts twelve year old boys wear. He needs to get ready for the press conference, so he tells me he needs clean underwear, and doesn't think he has any. But, if he does, it's in a plastic container  on the high shelf. The only problem is, his wife has placed a loaded gun in there, ready to go off at any moment.

For some reason, this gun can apparently go off if even touched. I get the step ladder and set it up to climb. I see the box. It is on a shelf in the half-bath/pantry/laundry room in the house we moved into after my grandparents retired.

Anyway, I climb up, carefully peering into the box. I see one clean white t-shirt. I don't see a gun, but I do see a duck. It is alive and turns it's black, beady eye toward me, but continues to sit as I attempt to snatch the t-shirt away.

Duck doesn't even move. Not much of a guard, if you ask me. I hope it wasn't lame.

Now, this is not a political blog. Maybe this isn't a political dream,  unless you want to go all psychoanalytical on me, which many of my dear friends have already done; possibly taking notes as they read.

I will just be glad when I' m well again.

Dreams like this are enough to make me wonder about my future in fictional writing. Will I have to stop and go into political talk show host mode?

Lord, I hope not.

No thank you. I really don't like fruit that much.

I went down to the lower porch this afternoon because it is piled high with junk and Husband and I were going to decide what to pitch. 

Husband wasn't there yet, and I was standing with my hands in my back pockets, surveying the mess and visualizing how it was going to look.

For some reason, I glanced down, and sliding by the front of my toes was a snake.

A long snake. Maybe not quite six feet, but certainly as long as I am tall. (5' 8").

So.

Believe this if you will, but I didn't get scared at all. I asked it what kind it was (I figured I better get scared if it talked and said it was poisonous, or if, like, you know, would I like a nice piece of juicy fruit).

I knew I was making it nervous, because it was slithering as fast as it could to the opposite wall, and began to cautiously climb the wall.

I called to Husband. I said, "Snake. Hurry."

He did.

He determined it was a King Snake, which is what I thought also.

After we walked off, as it was obvious the snake was getting more and  more agitated, we heard a loud thump.

Husband went back and the snake was hanging over the top of a window that was leaned up against the wall. The snake wasn't moving and we feared it had died.

Husband took a long (notice I said long) pole and touched Snake. He moved a bit. Husband said, "I'm going to move him to the yard. Stand back."

He got the pole up under the snake and lifted it, but it fell to the porch floor. It coiled up and raised its head, so we know it didn't die. We hope it wasn't injured.

We had a giant King Snake live at our house for years, and we  never had a copperhead. The year the King Snake did not appear, the copperheads did. And we have had them ever year since.

Long live the King.