Dang, That Hurts!

I’m sporting a bruised right cheekbone and the teensiest bit of a black eye. Even my daughter flinched and winced when it happened. Studied it in the mirror this morning, wondering if I could go semi-Goth with the make-up a couple of days to camouflage things.  (No, it wasn’t Hubby, though the man’s surely been provoked over the years. lol Between me and the five kids, he’s a candidate for sainthood!)

Cochise, my pit bull rescue puppy, suffering separation anxiety, climbed into my lap in a fit of exuberance when I sat on the couch on reaching home after being gone all day yesterday. All sixty pounds of him.  Remember that bowling ball head of his I keep talking about? He swung it up to deliver a puppy kiss as I bent toward him, and crack, whirling birdies and glittery drifting stars.

Prompted a conversation while the icemaker crunched up cubes for an ice pack. Seems the animals in our extended family leave their mark. No pun intended. Cochise finally sat beside me on the couch, chin on my shoulder, staring at me with those big, sorrowful, golden puppy-eyes. And occasionally licking condensation off the Ziplock bag emergency ice pack. I didn’t fuss. It was uncomfortable when it dripped beneath my collar and ran in icy trails under my blouse. We people-types traded a couple of stories as we did damage control with the swelling.

I let my big dogs out first thing every morning, and sometimes they don’t listen. They head for the front yard, a major no-no around here. I thought they were barking at a squirrel. I yelled and ranted “Come here! Don’t you take another step! . . .You! . Come! . Here!  . . . Come here! Now!” so convincingly, the poor jogger –hiding in the edge of the woods because of the dogs barking at him– emerged from the pine thicket despite four dogs circling him, and reluctantly started up the driveway toward me. I was mortified. Nothing like doing an impersonation of a screeching fishwife to class you up in the eyes of the neighbors. I waved and smiled like I wasn’t embarrassed. What else could I do? Guess the dogs caught the negative waves radiating off me, because they started slinking back up the driveway with me as I beat a hasty barefoot, frizz-haired, pajama’d retreat. Glared a psychic “No Milk Bones for you!” at them the entire way. Think between themselves they now refer to me as the Milk Bone Nazi.

Rachel adjusted the ice pack for me and grouched about Mako and Deuce, my grand-puppies. Deuce will chase a ball until he drops from exhaustion. But he’s also what we term a flight risk. (Yes, there are a number of law enforcement members in our ranks.) As long as you control the ball, Deuce stays right by you. But let Deuce keep the ball too long? He takes his ball and leaves! At a dead run. We spend the next few hours chasing him on foot, via four-wheelers, and full-sized automobiles.

Mako doesn’t run. But in the seven years Rachel and Will have been married, they’ve purchased six couches. Mako expresses his anxiety by shredding things. Couches. Pillows. Speaking of pillows, Rachel needs to buy stock in bed pillows; she could recoup some of her losses. She says rushing into the bedroom at times is like rushing into a snow globe; feathers continue to spin and whirl in the updraft from the ceiling fan, settling like snow around the now statue-like dogs, frozen in poses of guilt, shredded pillow casings swinging from their mouths. Let’s see, what else does Mako eat? Carpet. Molding, and I mean baseboard and quarter round. Sheetrock. linoleum. If left alone in a thunderstorm, Mako’s been known to devour a mattress! Pulled it and the box spring completely off the bed frame.

Rachel believes in animals being socialized and well-trained, and indoors they follow every command she gives them. Her description of an outdoor session had me laughing and grinning. And grinning is not comfortable with a bruised cheek. “All three of us are in the open field by the river,” she griped. “I’m standing and shouting like some sort of idiot “Come! Come, Mako! Come, Deuce! Here, boys! Here!”, and making all the appropriate hand signals. After ten minutes of it, I’m sweaty, hoarse, and my arms are tired from flailing  them around. And the dogs?” She snorted. “They’re frolicking about, totally ignoring me. Right about then I do one of those furtive is-anybody-watching checks. I realize I’ve been standing making the same motions over and over so many times the neighbors probably think I suffer from Tourette’s Syndrome!”

I couldn’t stay upset with Cochise. He didn’t mean to hurt me. And he was so concerned he didn’t want to leave my side.

I pushed him out of the bathroom to take my bath, but he hung out in the hall whining. I’m pretty sure the light I glimpsed reflecting once or twice under the door was from an eyeball. Never thought he could push that bowling ball head so close to the floor.

Write it like you see it! And sometimes that’s a scary thought! lol

~Runere~

Visit Runere at www.RunereMcLain.com Friend her at http://facebook.com/RunereMcLain or follow her Tweets at http://twitter.com@RunereMcLain

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2 Responses

  1. I’m telling you, I can’t let you or Steve out of my sight for a moment. laughing, YOU were just hanging out with me.. YOU and Steve need to sit still.. and veg out. hahahaha.. ((I know that isn’t going to happen.)) Love ya glad it wasn’t anything too serious.

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