Sorry to have missed last Friday’s post everyone. Trust me. HughesNet heard about their insufficient number of field technicians.
Things have been typical here. Grandchildren, a daughter moving yet again and all that entails, continued training of the Christmas puppy, losing sleep because night time–or extremely early in the morning–is the only time I can write uninterrupted. Hard to write love scenes with a large for his age thirteen year old boy bouncing in and out of the room. Nothing wrecks a mood like “Maw! When are you cooking breakfast? I’m hungry! And my tennis shoes stink. Here, smell.”
There is no way you can turn your head far or fast enough to avoid a size ten shoved beneath your nose. If it happens to you, here’s some advise: do not try to wrestle the kid’s forearm away from your face, because it’s a dead giveaway you don’t like what’s happening. It’s suddenly a new game and it’s impossible to fight your way free while leaned back in the office chair in a headlock, with a black Puma clapped over your face like an oxygen mask. Hubby recognized the danger. Told Tyler if he wanted to live, his feet better be in motion before he let me bob upright. He kinda planted himself in front of me to prevent my pursuit of said grandchild, too. I finally calmed when I could draw a full non-gagging breath and my eyes quit watering from the noxious vapors. G-son is still among the living. The tennis shoes have been de-funkified. All’s well. At least for the moment.
Puppy training hit a momentary rough spot. I can often be found on my knees playing the game of prying small objects or well slobbered pieces of paper from my puppy’s mouth. Also, Cochise likes it outside, and was reluctant to obey my command to “Come” with play or potty time over. Bull dogs are hard-headed, but nowhere near as stubborn as a red-head with better than half a century under her belt. We worked toward an accord. I’d call “Come!” He’d sit down where he stood. I have to give him credit for not moving any further away, but he wouldn’t come to me either. Training progressed to my scuffing the ground with a foot to mark my spot, repeating “Come!” in a firmer tone, and going to where he sat. I grabbed the loose skin at the sides of his neck and backed toward the scuffed spot. He, of course, planted his feet and leaned back on his rump.
He weighs over fifty pounds now. The war of dog leverage versus human determination was punctuated with “Cochise, come!” about every third backward step. He has a lot of loose puppy skin. My tugging bunched it all up around his head and face until he looked like a giant Sharpei. I had to avoid looking at him or go weak from laughing. It only took fifty or so times for him to realize I wasn’t giving up.
I call “Come!” now and he sighs and falls into a defeated slump. You can see him thinking, If I don’t come she’ll just march over here and drag me anyway. Might as well do what she wants and be done with it. But it’ll take a few more good rains before I don’t have to change the subject when visitors eye my back yard. I’m tired of explaining that, no, no one indulged in any random, sporadic efforts at plowing; all those strange sets of quadruple trenches crisscrossing the yard are from dug-in puppy feet.
My daughter moved from a house in the city to a house on a river. Beautiful older home with heart pine tongue-and-groove walls, and a three plus acre yard with mature forsythia, azaleas, camellias, day lilies, blueberries and other plantings. But it also means she downsized. One less bedroom, and virtually no closet space.
Hubby figured out how to add a couple of closets without sacrificing too much square footage. She figured out what to do with her exercise equipment while I wasn’t paying attention. I walked through the door to find my dining room now has a Bowflex, a treadmill and a Gazelle. Told hubby he better hurry and build her a home gym area. I want to eat at my table again!
Have to admit things have been pretty convoluted activity wise. So I’ve been jealously hoarding the early mornings when I go out at daylight by myself to feed the animals. I have a child-like affinity for nature, and no matter how many times I’ve experienced something it always seems new. Warm days with colder nights means there’s a mist of fog hovering over the pond, giving it and wading egrets a mystical appearance. Swirling ribbons and scarves of fog free themselves from the water, the faint morning light lending them an opalescent shimmer. More land bound fog blurs everything in the distance and I walk in a dreamscape toward the horse field with a bucket of feed balanced in each hand. My head tipped back, I’m fascinated as my exhalations form heavy vapor clouds that drift upward. Everything is magical and the world is a beautiful place.
Right up until the moment something glittering with dew in my peripheral vision is catalogued by my distracted thought processes.
Overnight, an industrious spider has spun silken threads, stretching them across my path between the plum tree and the apricot tree. I’m about to face-plant into a web of massive proportions. Instinct screams stop, but communications between my brain and motor reflexes fail to make that instantaneous jump while still tangled in all the mystical properties of the morning. My feet keep moving. And since my aversion to spiders borders on arachnophobia, deeper avoidance instinct kicks in and I’m suddenly doing a muscle torturing, spine cracking, involuntary limbo to slip beneath the web, buckets still in hand.
My real day has officially arrived. But as I stagger along in a low back bend thinking ‘Welcome, Morning’, I have to ask the universe: was this particular reality check really necessary? Sigh.