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Archive for the ‘Buddy’ Category

Elvis

Posted by Mummy Dearest on Dec-13-2005

I go to bed earlier than The Father does. The dogs are not used to it. Elvis is barking his face off right now.

One summer, when I was in America, The Father made our dogs outside dogs. It was easier for him, without me there to clean up after them.

We have a very old cat. She was an outdoor cat for a very long time.

She is inside now.

She is blind, she is deaf.

The Boy loves her.

We have outdoor dogs.

I don’t believe in outdoor dogs. Especially not for newfs.

Every time that Elvis barks, I feel guilty. It really rips my gut in two.

He is barking right now, in fact.

This is very high on my list of things that I wish I could fix.

We have black tiles on the floor in our kitchen, chosen just for the dogs.

We built our house to be a home for dogs.

I love dogs, but these are our last dogs.

If you have a dog, it should be in your home.

We say that when the old cat dies, the dogs will come in.

But I don’t believe it.

I was only gone for a little while.

Camille

Posted by Mummy Dearest on Oct-13-2005

My poor nursing skills aside, today I latched onto and become very fond of the idea of coddling the poor patient. Salsa, yes, that’s a good one and why not some salmon cakes for dinner ? What I would do was spend my day wallowing in a state of pamperedness, parked at the kitchen table, making all of the things I liked to eat and enjoying the process of , well, I suppose the process of cooking itself. No rush, no noise, why, I even watched a rerun of that old show Sisters as I put together my treats.

This was a bit tricky, as my hands are in a terrible state at the moment, but I decided that I would wear rubber gloves. Which I did, and I am very proud to say that I did not mince one scrap of rubber into the salsa.

By the time that The3 Father and his new toy pulled into the yard, dinner was 15 minutes away from being done and lovely smells filled the kitchen. Before I started stuffing myself, I took the first two of the antibiotic pills, as the how- to paper in the package recommended , and made sure to drink plenty of water, also recommended.

It was a wonderful dinner. I suppose that much of it’s charm is that it one of the few things that every one likes and I myself am mighty fond of steamed fresh spinach.

After dinner, The Baby went out on the porch ( I will insist upon calling it a porch, won’t I ? Town Fathers be damned !) to play with the dogs, The Boy went out to the yard to do some sort of Jedi Training, and The Father and I chewed the fat for a few minutes.

As I started to clear the table, the first ominous notes entered the room. As The Father left the kitchen, I said-with a sad, questioning voice-you know, I feel like I’m going to throw up. He said that the dinner was wonderful, perhaps it was just those pills.

Perhaps it was. So much for fresh salsa this evening.

I suppose that the bright side of the story is that- in the end- I don’t have to feel badly for having had that extra half of a salmon cake.

Hells bells, I could have had a whole second one, for all that it matters now…

Saampjes

Posted by Mummy Dearest on Jun-15-2005

I spent the day today together with The Girl. It has become very, very obvious to me that I no longer have any clue about what sort of shoes and clothing she prefers, and so -with much finagling- I was able to dump The Boy and The Baby at Oma’s and Opa’s today ( perhaps for the first time in a year , for The Boy) and The Girl and I were clear to shop until we dropped.

I bought a big ticket for the bus.

And then The Father chimed in that the dogs had to go to the vet. Would I walk them over ? While this was not a popular topic in my book, I eventually agreed to do so. Why he chose today is beyond me, I am sure that there was some logic in it, but when asked, I told him the best time for us- considering our jaunt into the Big City- would be about 2.30, 3.

1.30 was all he could get. People with cars forget how walking for a number of hours can tire one. They forget what it is like when one’s major mode of transport is…your feet. How long…walking takes.

Oh well.

But The Girl and I had a nice- but rushed- trip into the city. We found her a pair of new shoes, a little top, a replacement for the jacket that she lost in Portugal.

We even squeezed in the pit stop at Mickey D’s. All within less than two hours.

We both enjoyed being together. I wasn’t forced into my Uber- Nag role and I simply let her talk, listened to her stories.

In turn, she was very kind to me. As we fast-walked to the various stores, we passed the market, with it’s stalls of fabrics and other stalls filled with potted plants for the garden. She kept urging me to stop, to browse, to buy and I in turn kept telling her that I hate shopping at Olympic speeds, I could always come back some Saturday, and snuffle around at my leisure.

We made what I deemed the best bus for us and arrived home with twenty minutes stretched before us: we drank cold sodas and simply sat.

And then we leashed up the dogs and walked them to the vet. I was ashamed of their state. Between the rain and my hands, the are not glossy these days. Well, Elvis is, I brushed him for three straight hours on Tuesday. But Buddy wouldn’t let me near his fur.

It was a brisk forty minute walk each way and we just chatted, remarked upon the landscape.

Having been on the road for almost six hours- on the road quite briskly indeed- once home, I gave into my inherent, self-indulgent nature and crawled between my clean be-sheeted bed and slept for three hours.

People with cars most likely never have tired feet.

AndT he Girl and I both agree that this is something that we should do more often, get away from it all, go somewhere together.

Sh*t

Posted by Mummy Dearest on Jun-6-2005

For the third time in 24 hours, someone has been too lazy to hook the latch on the porch door properly and the dogs have gotten into the garden part of the yard.

An hour ago, I discovered them once more in the garden. Elvis had dug up one camellia and chewed another one down to a stump.

I know that it is just a shrub, but I found myself crying and feeling sick at heart.

If- through human laziness- the dogs get into the garden enough times, they will destroy it eventually.

This has momentarily killed the great joy I was getting from the garden and given me yet another thing that I must nag about : do the latch all the way in.

Here, There…

Posted by Mummy Dearest on May-17-2005

Today I am honing my multi-tasking skills. As well as perfecting my Mummy The Martyr avatar, I am attempting to fix my computer ( uninstall, reinstall, uninstall, reinstall Norton…) , go over a mess of papers that The Father brought home for me to study- which contain very fancy schmancy words ( in a familiar cadence, I wonder) describing an upgrade of the company’s website.

It goes without saying that I dumped the dishwasher, changed the sheets, the towels, started attacking a knee high pile of laundry ( I tell you, I was caught up last Thursday…) did the shopping. I walked the kids back and forth to school all day long and made them lunch. Oh yes, and after lunch -but before I walked them back to school- I pulled a tick off of Buddy’s head.

Usually, The Father does this and is very good at it. I have done it once before and left the head.

Going through the options, I nixed holding a hot object to the bum of the tick. Mummy The Martyr loathes parasites and the mere thought of doing something so revolting made the hairs on my arms stand on end. We don’t have any rubbing alcohol in the house, The Girl has no nail polish remover and so mouthwash became an option. Well, it does have alcohol in it. But I couldn’t see Buddy standing by and letting us dose him with Listerine.

I decided that we would oil it out. I carefully explained toThe Girl that a tick buries it’s head under the skin and then breathes through the surface of his abdomen. We would cover it with olive oil and- in theory- it should pop it’s head out, gasping for air.

After much screeching and hairs standing on end, we got it out. I couldn’t find The Father’s pliers and so ended up using tweezers- too close for my comfort-, Buddy kept moving his head every time the olive oil drip was poised above the tick and now looks very 50′s indeed. After the first successful drip-and-rub, The Girl and I peered carefully at Buddy’s head and- Oh! Yukkus!- ran about in circles, hands in the air : it moved it’s LEGS !!!. It was a girly- girly, Mother- Daughter- bonding moment.

I’m sure.

In the end, I don’t think that I got the head out. TheGirl and I peered at the corpse a few times, but it was SO UGLY and so in our faces that we tossed that sucker right away.

I tried. I fought the good fight and I lost. In the end, who gives a shit ?

About that website : any good links to layouts with boxes ? Sliding menu scripts ?

I’m in over my head here….

A Window

Posted by Mummy Dearest on May-14-2005

As I look through the window in the kitchen, waiting for dinner to finish- I see The Boy, The Baby, The Father and the dogs on the porch. The Baby is laughing and playing with Elvis,The Boy fuddling about with Buddy. They are all enjoying the moment.

I am as well.

While I foughtT he Father on the Pine Tree solution ( and am now fussing over the camellias every day, in search of woes and plagues), his new plan for the yard is indeed such a pleasure for us all.

People. Dogs.

I dig lopsided flower beds while The Baby chatters non- stop.

The Baby asks me what I want to be when I grow up and I say a Tuin Kabouter*, complete with a little red hat .

But she insists that I must be a princess when I grow up. Princesses have a long history of drudgery within the household, she tells me, but can indeed brush dogs as well as futz about in gardens.

Well, I seem easy to please, don’t I ?

* Garden Gnome

Mummy Dearest Who ?

Posted by Mummy Dearest on May-13-2005

Very bad connection, very nice weather, happy children playing with happy dogs- the world conspires to keep me out of my little room of my own.

But not for long : next week I must start redesigning a site, not my strongest side. That will lock me back up in my turret and send me leaving calling cards once again.

But for now, we are having Green Acres days, or perhaps Little House On The Prairie is more apt….. or is it The Waltons, yet again ?

Bare Bones

Posted by Mummy Dearest on Apr-18-2005

I work on the other couch in the morning, brush the dogs in the afternoon. Elvis actually falls asleep while I am brushing him and so I am able to snip off some snarls which he usually won’t even let me breath on let alone actually touch. He is such a ninny. He literally flinches in terror when he sees my tiny sewing scissors and I have never, ever even pricked him once.

Once the children are home, I take The Baby out into the yard and work on my trench for the camellias. They arrive tomorrow, but I won’t be putting them in right away : it might freeze tomorrow night. Plus, they have lived all of their lives in a pot, few more days won’t kill them. Well, at least I hope not.

The Father calls, he is sick, he wants to come home early. He has developed a raging ear infection and when he went to the medical post at the convention in where ever he is, China they sent him off to a hospital in an ambulance.

I try and convince him to let the antibiotics kick in before he tries a plane ride. I will know tomorrow if he follows my advice. He says that he misses us something fearsome and I tell him that I will remind him of this, about two weeks after he has returned to hearth and home.

Hope to catch up on everyone tomorrow, at Tara.

Did I mention that The Girl had three horsey girls spend the night here on Saturday ? They were up until four and clattered down the stairs like a herd of prime cattle at six the next morning. Think : Rawhide.

Oh, a slumber party, how girly- girly.

It’s small world after all.

Rain

Posted by Mummy Dearest on Apr-13-2005

My new roses came in the mail yesterday. Before I went to The Big City this morning, I set the unpotted ones in a sink full of water, unwrapped the potted one and set it on the counter.

It was raining this afternoon- well, it is still raining and it is still afternoon- but I kept telling myself that this was just the most perfect weather to plant a rose in. Perfect, lots of water, no harsh sunlight. Perfect.

Wearing The Father’s windbreaker and The Girl’s rubber boots, I headed out into the yard with my bag of dried, pelletised cow shit and began digging up the old roses and planting the new ones. Of course, the dogs trotted after me, all friendly and curious, just salivating at the thought of eating my dried cow poop. But I gave them a very dirty look indeed and sternly said Nay!, and they eventually left my bag alone.

After I had placed some chicken wire around each plant, I turned to the dogs. Shaking my index finger up and down, I told them if they ever chewed on my roses again, I would twist their muzzles right off of their faces. And- looking Elvis straight in the eye- if they ever pissed on my roses again…. well, you can imagine what dire fate awaits them.

How Low Can She Go ?

Posted by Mummy Dearest on Apr-6-2005

My projects for this month include recovering two small couches- for the playroom- that one of my sister- in- laws gave us and getting our dogs brushed up well. I am on Day 6 of these projects and I am right on track.

However, I do believe that I shall spend the month of April medicated up to the gills. Think : allergies. Of course I am allergic to house mite, everyone and their sister is and I am allergic to dogs as well, but not violently so. But spending two hours a day, trusty curved needle in hand, face buried in the upholstery of an it’s- greyish- mauve old couch and then two hours a day brushing out three months of rain sodden dog dander is taking it’s toll.

Oh, the magic pills keep the nose under control, but I am out of my magic unguents, the ones that keep the canyonesque like fissures from appearing on my hands.

And my hands hurt today. I checked all of my usual stashes, no unguents in sight. I checked The Girl’s room, for she has the same prescription as I- nope, she is out as well. I rooted through the spice cupboard, which also functions as our medicine cabinet. Nope, nope, nope.

But I did spy some lidocaine salve, from that time they tried to remove The Boy’s birthmark on his nose, and some oral-gel thing, for teething babies. Pulling myself together, retaining my pride, I closed the cupboard door and checked out other possible locations for my salves.

I couldn’t find one driblet left in one tube and my hands really hurt. And so I found myself rubbing blobs of lidocaine creme into my hands.

Oh, does that shit work.

Do I care that I am also allergic to the Vaseline base it is suspended in ? Nope, nope, nope. I felt like some strung- out junky, pushing that needle in and saying, ahhhhh.

I wonder if lidocaine creams are prescription only ?

I also wonder why the various specialists who saw me back then never gave me a prescription for this tube of bliss ?