Saturday, December 8, 2007

Tattoo and Piercing


My daughter and I have a Lab—not the functional kind in which you can conduct experiments or discover cures for diseases. It’s not even the kind that retrieves the paper or his dish.

No, ours is a big, yellow one that eats, poops, expels flatus, and sheds. Sure, he’ll fetch a ball, but unlike the neighbor’s newspaper that I’d really like him to fetch, I don’t want the ball, ’cause it gets real slimy.

This Lab has grown accustomed to deer, so he won’t chase them out of our yard. In fact, one day a doe ran after him as he chased his ball on the street. He doesn’t bark or growl at dangerous people, like the Comcast guys or those I date. Only an occasional squirrel earns his attention if he hasn’t gotten enough exercise.

In mid-September 2006, we were in the house while Shiloh sniffed in the backyard. My daughter said, “Mom, I hear a kitten crying.”

“Fox food,” I replied. “Don’t worry about it. We need to get going.” I was on a mission and had work to do.

But right afterward we heard Shiloh utter an unfamiliar sound. “Ahhhroofff!” So we looked out my daughter's bedroom window down at the southeast corner of our yard and saw Shiloh digging toward the other side of the fence.

We immediately dashed down the stairs and out the back door and discovered a sweet, little gray ball of fur meowing. The little feline appeared unshaken by this 75-pound Labrador trying to become a fast friend.

To stop the dog from further under-the-fence destruction and eventually needing a pedicure, I scooped up the kitten, dashed back into the house, and tossed him in the garage.

“You did what?!” you may ask.

Yep! As Pink Floyd would say, a momentary lapse of reason. I needed a kitten like I needed a tattoo—though I’ve seen some pretty nice tattoos, if you consider tattoos nice and don’t mind needles and permanently coloring your skin—but this was an itty-bitty, helpless, four-week-old kitten…and I had always wanted a gray kitten, but I didn’t need one. So I named him Tattoo.

Fast-forward 10 months and picture the dog digging toward the other side of the fence in the same location. But this time imagine a freaked-out animal with longer fur and nails not wishing to become acquainted. He hissed and growled like a rabid ex-boyfriend.

And then I heard myself use multiple F-words.

“Fox food. Those feral felines all need to be fixed.”

In the neighbor’s woodpile cowered a little hairball bearing a strong resemblance to Tattoo, but there was no way this one wanted to be scooped up. Wild and ravenous, he was probably viewing me in sections for future meals. Placing my hand near him could’ve been the end of my career.

For a few days, my daughter and I leaned over the fence to set food and water down for him. Our thanks came from under the logs as hisses and growls.

Then one day he was gone. Relief whooshed over me, knowing I’d have one less thing to think about. And with a satisfied smile, I thought to myself, fox food.

We live in a pretty tight neighborhood, always looking after each other and our homes, so the call shouldn’t have surprised me too much.

“Hello, Miss Eartha!” my sweet galfriend across the street sang over the phone. “I found a skin-and-bones little kitty in my garage…,” and I didn’t hear much after that.

Fiddlesticks! I thought. Where are those foxes when you need them? “Sure, I’ll take him,” I heard someone who sounded like me say. My daughter was elated. I needed another mouth to feed like I needed a piercing.

Itty-bitty kitty hissed and growled, but rubbed lovingly against Tattoo, who licked Piercing as though they were long-lost siblings, and they really were, one year apart.

So Tattoo, the Royal Fuzzhead of the House, is majestic and gorgeous. He ensures through his presence that anyone or anything must step over him, for he will not move when he is comfortable. And Piercing is still scared of me, the person who feeds him.

And Shiloh? Well, he eats, poops, expels flatus, and sheds, just like my ex-boyfriend.

Anyone need a Tattoo or Piercing? They’re fixed.

copyright © 2007 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

If you like it, link it!
http://auntieeartha.blogspot.com/2007/12/tattoo-and-piercing.html

Tuesday, December 4, 2007

Thank you!


(Puzzle piece number 4 of 38.)
I really appreciate your comments. It makes me feel as if I'm not alone ; )

Monday, December 3, 2007

Secrets


People trust me. I have always held their secrets deep within me to the point that I CRS, I can’t remember something. But I didn’t start out that way. Why do so many of us have to learn from our own mistakes?

As time goes on, though, I’m learning from OPM—other people’s mistakes—as my MO—mental objective.

I was four and home alone while my parents were at work. Looking back, I can only imagine that they hoped a prisoner would escape from the nearby jail and borrow me.

It was the Friday before Mother’s Day, and Dad came home from lunch carrying a sewing machine encased in a simply designed cabinet whose top flipped open to use as a sewing surface. As he carried the machine downstairs to hide it, he said numerous times not to tell Mom about this surprise. He said most things numerous times, as if he liked hearing himself…or perhaps he couldn’t remember that he’d just said something.

Anyway, Mom came home from work before Dad, and in my snitchy excitement, I squealed, “You have to come downstairs! Come quick!” And she made her discovery. Though a sewing machine could be seen in the same vein as a blender or a mixer or a package of sanitary napkins to some women, Mom actually seemed pleased with the gift.

When Dad got home to surprise her (too late, Daddio!), Mom acted as if seeing the sewing machine was as exciting as finding a new boyfriend. And they were happy for a moment.

Dad brought the machine upstairs, and eventually, Mom began to sew, which was like a nine-year-old using a backhoe—the world would have been a safer place had she left the machine in the basement.

One of her first attempts at seamstress wizardry was producing PJs for Dad. At the time, Dad was in great shape and not yet given to overindulgence, he led us to believe. So when Mom presented his new pajamas to him, he asked whom they were for, since they were three times his size. Eventually, all that PJ fabric was regurgitated into more fodder for hysteria.

It’s too bad Dad didn’t keep those jammies. They’d fit him perfectly today.

The “morsels” of the story: Keep secrets so they really are secret. Have integrity. And exercise, even if it’s a walk around the block or lifting something heavy for a few reps, like jugs.

copyright © 2007 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

If you like it, link it!
http://auntieeartha.blogspot.com/2007/12/secrets.html