Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

Can't do it. Or, won't do it. Whether it's literally or figuratively, I do not let sleeping dogs lie.

This is my dog, the Gabster, having tucked herself in bed for a little snooze. Well, I insist on petting her because she looks so darn cute. Then I pet her and talk to her. Then I take her picture and the flash annoys her.

When faced with an issue or life situation, I go to one of two extremes. I bury my head in the sand for a while or I ponder and discuss it to death. (Hmmm... Wonder where I got that little quirk?) Even when things are resolved, I want to bring it up again. Even when everyone involved has voiced his or her thoughts, I can't seem to let it lie. I've been accused of beating a dead horse. Is that the same as not letting sleeping dogs lie? All these animal metaphors get confusing to me.

I'm not even sure this is something I want to change about myself. Going over and over things helps me to understand and clarify. But I will try to leave Gabby alone when she's quietly enjoying her nap time.

60 Excess Pounds

Remember when Oprah lost a ton of weight on that liquid diet? Then she carted a wheelbarrel of fat on the stage to show the significance. Like several million other lemmings, I was watching and I was enthralled.

I've never needed to lose gobs of weight. Occasionally a few pounds here and there. Nothing extreme because my vices are different. Not right; just different.
But, I do know what it's like to carry 60 extra pounds. See mine above. (Yes, this is the dog pillow I drag from room to room.)

My office chair is on wheels and I've been scurried around. I've put a leash on her and been dragged through the neighborhood.

The Belle loved her. They used to play ball and of course, I was constantly terrified that she might knock her down. Hangdog has no use for her. (Maybe that's why he isn't living here.) My dad likes her. My mom is in constant fear that she'll bang into her bad knee. And trust me, she will. I like to freak my mom out and say, "I'm coming over and I'm bringing the dog."

My girlfriends are very loving with her. Most of them have big dogs and they have lived through the puppy stage. I think Houseboy might want to adopt her. His wife and sons have taken incredible care of her.

The husband pretends to hate her but he's not fooling me.

Fighting over the Dog Pillow

Houseboy and his family took great care of my dog while we attended to family matters. He and his wife brought Gabby back today and the first thing she did was head for my office and her pillow. I suspect their dog gave her a little run for her money.

I am still weepy and emotional. I am also one of those weird people who likes dog smells. Puppy breath? Bring it on. I wanted to curl on the dog pillow and wallow in my sorrow.

So, I decided I would just put my head down for a second and reflect on the last few days. Like me, the dog is an only child (in this household) and she doesn't do the sharing thing well.

She pawed me and I kept saying, "Move over Fungus!" Then we fell asleep for 10 minutes or so.

I am used to sprawling with Big Daddy and griping about pillows and covers. I have reached a new arena. Gabby and I are wrestling for the dog pillow.

Peanut Butter Kisses

Baking is not my thing. I leave that to my mother. Thankfully, she shares her goodies with us and the oldies. But, I used to occasionally make those peanut butter cookies with the Hershey's Kiss in the middle. I don't know if they have an official name but I always call them, "Peanut Butter Kisses."

Gabby, the dog in our house, has a Kong. If you're not familiar with this toy, you probably don't own a big dog. You can stuff it with anything but the manufacturer would prefer you buy their specific treats for it. I do that sometimes. Other times, I cram generic puppy biscuits in it just to keep her occupied.

Her favorite is when I put some peanut butter in it. After the Kong is empty, 65 pounds of sloppy fur plops on my lap and attempts to thank me for the treat.

It's peanut butter kisses on an entirely different level. This is the kind of stuff that makes the husband crazy.

Ho Ho Ho

I laughed out loud when I read a recent story from The Hartford Courant about an Australian company training Santa Clauses. The Santas are to avoid the phrase "ho, ho, ho" because it has a negative American slang connotation: whore.

Sometimes the girlfriends and I will attempt to be hip and use this language. It's usually commentary on a young person in the entertainment news. "She's a 'ho." My mother-in-law and I were having a conversation last night and she made the comment, "She's a 'ho." I'm having way too much influence on her vocabulary.

When I was in my mid 20s, I had a girlfriend who had an impressive job, lots of money and extensive life experiences. She was a 'ho and sort of proud of it. I had no desire to live her lifestyle but I was like a kindergartner in the reading circle: "Tell me the story."

My dog, Gabby, is a 'ho. Her vacation and play date friends -- all retrievers -- are male. She rolls on her back and invites attention.

Westaff, the Australian Santa training company, provides trained Santas to retail centers around the world. Their suggestion is "Ha Ha Ha." I think this is political correctness gone awry.

But, I will laugh every time a mall Santa or a Salvation Army volunteer barks out, "Ho, Ho, Ho." Just so they know I'm not a 'ho, I'll shout back, "Ha, Ha, Ha!"

The Gabby Greeting

I am often reprimanded for my inability to control my dog. I'm learning to keep my mouth shut and let the husband have his say. He doesn't realize it but we're actually a good mix when it comes to training her. He would prefer a robotic, brain-washed dog. If he weren't around, I'm afraid I would become even more lax. I find humor and fun in her maniacal personality. Plus, as we know, I will never be her Alpha Leader. I am a litter mate.

Gabby's preferred greeting with me (I can be gone 30 seconds or 8 days) is to plant both front paws on me and shove hard. As I'm reeling, she jumps all over me. Usually, this sends the husband over the edge. While I'm quietly saying, "No Baby, paws on the ground," he's using the firm voice and giving me the evil eye.

Yesterday, I said to him, "You need to chill a little bit. She's just happy to see me."

So last night he came home, planted both hands on my shoulders and shoved me. (Not hard but I did reel back a bit.) I said, "What in the **** are you doing?'

He said, "I'm just happy to see you."

They're Off!

The oldies have actually left on their trip. I sort of kicked them out the door with my constant comments, "What can I do to help you pack?" "Do you need me to load the car?" I had a little meltdown on Saturday when she showed up with grocery bags. Yes, I did say, "I thought you were leaving on your trip. Why do we need all these groceries?"

**WARNING** They are in Nashville, TN at the moment and headed for Mississippi in the next couple of days. When she told me they were leaving on Sunday and would not make Mississippi until Wednesday (at the earliest,) I figured they're going via Canada. But, I kept my mouth shut.

The first two hours of their trip involved returning home twice. Once, she thought she had forgotten her cell phone but it was in her purse the entire time. The second time, she had forgotten her cash. Maybe they stash it under the mattress. If she has her handbag, how can she not have the cash?

Big Daddy did the happy dance. Then we made a bet. I know she has many people to see and plans to visit and gallivant for at least two weeks, maybe three. He thinks the Unabomber will berate her repeatedly to come home and be comfortable in his own bed. He's probably right but I'm hoping not.

The only thing that will keep him away is the fact that he hates the dog. If she even walks by him, he says, "Go away dog!" (I once tried to teach him her name but it took him a couple of years to remember my name so I've given up on that.)

When I was loading their car yesterday, I said, "By the way, I'm sending Gabby with you for protection." The mother-in-law thought this was very funny. He didn't get it.

They've been gone less than 24 hours and I'm hearing phantom sounds. I sit in my office and think I hear them coming down the hallway. I woke up last night and thought I heard them in the kitchen. About the time I get used to Big Daddy and I having the house to ourselves, they will return.

Even though I gripe all the time, I'll probably welcome them with open arms. And, I'll probably owe Big Daddy $5.

They Can't Win

This is a sad confession about myself. Some days, the oldies cannot win with me. It's completely my fault and I carry a lot of guilt about it.

If they stay in bed all day, I fret. Are they sick? Are they over medicating? If they're up and around, I get irritated because they're frying or just underfoot.

If they don't leave the house for days at a time, I get anxious. When they venture out, I worry about her driving. I remain on high alert until they are home safely.

Their obsession with the mail bugs me. Yet, if I manage to gather our mail before they do and she ignores it, alarms go off in my brain. Why is she not reading the junk mail to him?

When she throws the ball for Gabby, I am thrilled that she's outside and enjoying the dog. Then, I panic that Gabby will knock her down. (It's never happened but she has knocked me down.)

The Unabomber has a watch that he can push a button and "DING! It's 6:07 P.M." On more than one occasion, I have quipped, "Do you have a date?" Pure ugliness!

They went out for breakfast. I've made a promise to myself. When they return, I will be pleasant and avoid fretting. If they spend the day in bed, I will act like that is the most normal thing in the world. If they're up and about, I will greet them with a smile and kind comments.

I'll let you know how it goes.