Loyalty Not Always A Good Thing -- The Week of Peek Part 3

We had awful storms again last night in Oklahoma with more predicted for today and that got me thinking about how my crazy dog used to freak out during storms.   This entry was written a few months after I got Peek and during the first storm that we had that spring. I had never owned my own dog--nor had a child--so I wasn’t ready for the middle of the night wake up calls.

 

 

 

This dog is killing me.

 

Picture this: there I was last night, sleeping soundly with my loyal dog sacked out by my feet.  Dreaming, content…until I was rudely ripped awake by a deafening howl inches from my ear.

            To put it mildly, I was shocked.

            And, since it was just after 2:00 AM, I was more than a little disoriented.  I stumbled from bed, trying to figure out what in the heck was going on, flipped on the light, and saw my little Peek-A-Boo, sitting on a pillow, howling his fool head off.

            My first reaction, of course was to spend a few valuable seconds trying to decide where I was doing to hide when the neighbors broke down the door to kill us. (The dog would be on his own.) Then it hit me.  The dog was not doing a solo; he was howling a duet with a horrible siren outside—a tornado siren.

            My next step was to run to the living room and snap on the television.  According to the weather channel, there was no need for alarm.  The tornado was well to the north; my apartment was safe. 

            The dog, however, was unconvinced.  He was sure that we were in unbelievable jeopardy and he was determined to protect me at all costs.  So the rest of our night went like this:

            2:27 Return to bed.

            2:35 Thunderstorm starts.

            2:36 Peek decides he must protect hearth and home from thunderstorm so claws his way from beneath the blankets and over my body, flings tiny self from bed, races to window at top speed, barking and growling like a mad dog.

            2:38 Thunder is relatively unimpressed with dog’s theatrics, responds with earth-shaking crack and boom.

            2:39 Peek flees under the bed for safety.

            2:40 Peek realizes I haven’t made the journey with him and leaps back into bed, barking and running around in circles.

            2:41 Peek jumps back out of bed, stares up at me, barks again and dives back under the bed, clearly thinking I have just misunderstood his rather detailed warnings.

            2:42 I close my eyes and bury my head beneath the pillows.

            2:44 Peek decides I am the stupidest person in America, steels himself against terrifying storm, and creeps out from under bed to repeat entire warning process.  Flings self in and out of bed several times as example of proper storm precaution.

            2:46 Peek is shocked to discover that I still haven’t made the trek to safety and lodges verbal protest.

            2:48 Dog successfully dodges the socks flung at him, continues to bark.

            2:52 Dog adds howling to verbal protest.

            2:55 Battle of wills begins.  Peek continues to leap in and out of bed, howling; I continue to pretend I can’t hear him.

            3:11 Decision is made that sleeping on the floor is infinitely preferable to not sleeping at all.  I concede victory, throw blankets down in a rage and flop next to bed.

            3:12 Satisfied that I have finally come to my senses, Peek stops howling, licks my hand, and promptly falls into the content and self-righteous sleep of a guard dog.

This much loyalty I can do without.

Obedience Training -- The Week of Peek Part 2

This post is from my early and somewhat futile attempts to train Peek-A-Boo.

 

 

 

Peek at about 4 months old, ostensibly learning to "come when called." 

 

 

 

So I've been trying to train the ridiculous animal to come when called. This is not an easy task considering the ridiculous animal thinks he is in charge of the world, much less the strange woman screaming instructions at him.
 

Unfortunately, he proved his point early this morning.

As most of you know, my training methods are pretty simple: Bribe the dog with food.

We have it all worked out. I order him onto his little chair in the kitchen, hide a treat behind my back, yell COME HERE! Show him the food and he launches himself at me like a treat-seeking missile.

 

Early this morning, however, he decided to put a different spin on things. Apparently, I didn’t close the bedroom door all the way when we went to bed last night; so around 4:00 AM he woke up, bored, and decided to meander about the house. He wandered into the kitchen, saw the chair, and decided this would be the perfect time to reinforce the whole “come when called” business. He hopped up onto the chair and began barking his fool head off. Loosely translated, I think he was saying “Come here and give me a treat! A treat! A treat! Come here and give me a treat!”

 

I, understandably, was a bit discombobulated at the sudden outcry and pretty much stumbled into the kitchen, sure there was a burglar or some other reason for the barking explosion.

 

And, still on his chair, he stood up on his hind legs and did the treat dance.

My reply was so obscene that I won’t be including it here.

So, I returned to bed and the dog, clearly feeling misunderstood, began to sing a little treat song…"I'm a dog who needs to eat!  Come on, food lady, give me a treat!"

 

When that didn't work, he decided to mix things up a little by alternating the barking song with a little howling.  "TTTTRRRREEEEAAATTT!"  he howled.  "I need a tttttrrrreeeeaaattttt before I ddddiiiieeee!"  Then there was the whining/howl/barking como...and on and on and on.

 

Thus began the contest of wills….who could hold out longer? Who would give in first?

All I can say is, the dog’s stamina is amazing and I can now pinpoint the exact moment I lost total control of my own life.

The Week Of Peek -- A Tribute

As some of you know, Peek-A-Boo was my chihuahua.  And I hate that I have to say "was" but last night we finally had to put him to sleep.  I don't want to talk about how incredibly awful that was--I can't even write the words without crying.  But I freaking loved that dog with the fire of a thousand suns and since I'm sitting up, unable to go to sleep, I thought I'd use this time to create a tribute to him. 

Not a mushy, tear-jerker tribute--that wouldn't have been his style AT ALL--but just a collection of some of my favorite memories of him, saved from all the emails, notes, etc. that I've written about him through the years...so here begins A Week of Peek.

(This is the tuxedo I got him for my wedding)

 

 

 

And I’ll start with the first story I ever shared about him:

 

So, I brought my new puppy home on Monday…Peek-A-Boo the cutest long haired Chihuahua that you have ever seen!

 

How many of you guessed that this dog was going to make me even crazier than I already am?

 

I am a lunatic…I have had the dog a week and I have already rushed him to the vet twice.

 

The first time I called, I reported to the vet that he was acting “weird” and dashed over. When I got there the vet’s 7 year old daughter was in the waiting room, chattering, trying to pet my dog, and generally being completely annoying. The little girl asked me ten times if she could hold Peek; I said maybe when he calmed down…he (no doubt sensing my own feelings about the little monster) was gallantly trying to climb into my coat and hide. So the girl sat down next to me, and continued to try to pet my poor squirming pooch, all the while explaining the disgusting things she had been seeing all day.

 

Oh, how I wished for a pit bull.

 

In any case, eventually we went in to see the vet (the little girl came too, chattering away until Dr. Dad sensed my discomfort and gave her the boot) and I began explaining Peek-A-Boo’s weird symptoms.

 

“He’s acting weird,” I reported.

 

And the vet asked if he was lethargic, had diarrhea, or had been throwing up?

 

“No.”

 

“Panting excessively? Shaking? Refusing to eat?”

 

I shook my head.

 

“Foaming at the mouth? Howling at the moon?”

 

Ok, he didn’t really ask me those last two. But only because he was too busy staring at me like I was some sort of mental patient.

 

“What is he doing” He finally asked.

 

“I don’t know…just acting weird,” I said.

So he took Peek’s temperature, listened to his heart, took a stool sample…Guess what was wrong?

 

Nothing, that’s what.

 

A big fat nothing.

 

I’m sure my vet now thinks I am a paranoid, child-hating-yippy-dog-owning-pain-in-the-ass…

 

The second time (only one day after the first fiasco) I looked at Peek and thought his eye looked a little weird. I took a closer look, yep, definite weirdness.

 

I considered taking him to the vet, remembered the humiliation from the previous day and hesitated. I had my friend Martha come over for dinner, we considered the dog carefully. We compared pictures from the first day to the eye and decided there was a definite nasty growth, like a sty.

 

“Gross,” she said.“Take him to the vet!”

 

But I was still hesitant to call the vet because I was embarrassed by the previous day’s non-emergency (which cost me $185.00, although part of that was for his shots). So I waited until morning then called my parents, hoping for some advice.

 

Unfortunately, my parents find these little dramas in my life amusing.I hadn’t even gotten two sentences out when I heard my dad start laughing hysterically in the background, especially when I explained that I don’t want to alienate the vet by being a hypochondriac. That’s when my dad grabbed the phone and assured me that at $185.00 a session, the vet would be thrilled if I came in every day…twice
a day if I’m in the mood.

 

So, I went to the vet again. And the daughter was there again (seriously, can’t a vet afford some freaking daycare?); she tried to yank Peek right out of my arms and I almost bit her myself…

 

Luckily Dr. Dad walked in and called her off before I got past the growling stage…anyway, I showed him the eye…

 

And, this time, there WAS something wrong. He has an inflammation of the 3rd eyelid (whatever the hell that is!).

 

IT MAY REQUIRE SURGERY!!!!!

 

I have a sudden visual image of this dog as a money funnel; it’s not pretty.

But at least the vet can’t accuse me of being paranoid again…though, in retrospect, I probably should have kept that to myself because when I said “Well, at least this time you won’t think I’m insane,”he gave me an odd look…

 

I’m now trying to determine if the look meant “That’s not why I think you’re crazy” or if he now thinks I am paranoid,child-hating-yippy-dog-owning-pain-in-the-ass with Munchausen by Doggie Proxy Syndrome.

 

But the worst of it is, we have the option of medication before we try the surgery route…I have this nasty cream I am supposed to put in Peek-A-Boo’s eye 4 times a day…

 

And one thing I learned when I had Pink Eye last year is that I am not so good at putting stuff in eyes.

 

It has been hysterical. There’s been squirming…there’s been whimpering and sobbing…and Peek doesn’t like it either!

 

So my Dad called last night and told me he heard the vet is now able to finance a new home in the Bahamas, all because of this mysterious new patient…

 

I have a sneaking suspicion this puppy isn’t going to be the calming companion that all the dog books promise.

Not Exactly June Cleaver

This is from last year but seriously, my mom still rocks.

My mom has never been June Cleaver.
Don’t get me wrong; I think that’s a good thing! June was sweet and all but she was flustered with dirt on the countertop or the thought of dinner being late. If she had to raise three kids, work full time at her own career and help her husband keep the family business running, poor June’s perfectly coiffed head would have popped right off.

But my mom is stronger than June Cleaver could ever hope to be.

And the memory that really drives it home for me isn’t even from my childhood but from about 8 years ago when I got skin cancer.

Newsflash: This was not news I took well.

I had basal cell carcinoma not melanoma and my life was never in danger but I made one of the classic blunders: I researched basal cell carcinoma on the internet. Why I continue to do this is anyone’s guess; it doesn’t make me feel better. In fact, it usually makes me feel about a thousand times worse because the internet usually shows the worst case scenario—which, in the case of basal cell carcinoma, includes the phrase “mutilating disfigurement.” Add in the fact the tumor was right smack in the middle of my face and I think it’s easy to see why--after several glasses wine—I just started calling people and screaming “Mutilated! Going to be mutilated over here!”

But my mom never lost her cool. I was single then so she went with me to every doctor’s appointment, every consultation, and the surgery itself. “It’s going to be fine,” she said every time.

“They’re going to cut off HALF MY NOSE!” I shrieked.

June Cleaver probably would have cried and hugged me…and then I would have degenerated into even worse hysterics, possibly for days at a time.  My mom was stoic, “Not half your nose,” she disagreed. “Maybe a fourth. And not any of it that you actually USE. You’re going to be fine.”

Even after the surgery—on the horrible day I call the “unveiling” she was unflappable. We unwrapped the mummy-like mess that was my face and took a good long look.

“Looks good,” Mom said, as if she didn’t notice how the swelling had pulled my face—especially my nose—in all directions. Like my nostrils weren’t standing at attention like a pig’s.

“Good?” I shrieked. “Is this how you think it should look? Like I have a PIG NOSE? Do you think I started this whole procedure with a pig nose? Have I unknowingly had a pig nose my whole life or do you think the doctor just mixed me up with the pig nose patient down the hall?”

“It’s just the swelling,” Mom assured me, and threw Vicodin in my mouth with reckless abandon. “I’m sure it’ll go back to normal.”

I collapsed on the couch, muttering “pig nose!” and oinking at random intervals until finally succumbing to the narcotic’s sweet embrace. Then Mom smiled and said “If you’re ok, I think it’s time to take Peek-a-Boo for a walk.”

‘Odd,’ I thought. ‘Peek is litter box trained; he doesn’t really need to go out.’ But the great thing about Vicodin is how it keeps those kind of thoughts at an unexplored distance.

Then Mom wandered out the door.

I found out months later—after the swelling had gone down and my face became significantly less porcine—that she went outside to have hysterics of her own. She called my dad and let him have it. “It’s awful!” she reportedly said. “Call your lawyer because if it doesn’t get better we’re suing that doctor for everything he has…my baby is NEVER WORKING AGAIN, DO YOU HEAR ME?”

Then she got herself calmed back down, came in, smiled at me and said “I think it’s looking better already.”

My mother has never been June Cleaver…she’s an Amazon.

And she’s the strongest person I know.

Best. Compliment. Ever.

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I wasn't planning to write a blog post tonight.  I was sitting at the computer, playing around a little before class starts and doing that thing where you search for your name on the Internet just to see what pops up.

Which is a little depressing with my married name because the first site that came up was NOT my blog but some drugged out felon's youtube page called "My Life After Lockup."

Then I decided to search Twitter for my maiden name and found it linked to this site that rates teachers...and I almost didn't look because it is much more common to go online and complain about things than go online and say positive things.  And let's be honest, it's been a rough semester this spring...

But I did look.  And this is the post:

Ms. Haugh had a great influence on me without even knowing it. I had her as my English III teacher both semesters of my Junior year. Straight away I discovered that there was not going to be a corner to cut with her, which is why I received a well deserved C-grade my first semester. The first day of my second semester, I told her I was going to be a different student. The crazy part was, she believed what I said, and believed in me. This is when I realized the difference between "getting an A" and "earning an A."                                

Best. Compliment. Ever.

I'm not sure who wrote this; I doubt the author will ever see my response since I've married and moved hundreds of miles away...but if he or she does see it, know this: you made me cry tonight-in a good way.

Thank you.

And for the rest of you who ARE reading this post--if you had a teacher who helped you, who changed you, who gave you the tiniest bit of a different, better perspective in this crazy world, please tell them.  Even if you were in high school twenty or thirty years ago, reach out.  Let them know.  It's a hard job and one thing that makes it all worthwhile is knowing you made a difference.

Bad Decisions and Big Hair

It's Finish The Sentence Friday again everyone, the brain child of Janine Huldie,   Another Bottle of Whine, Dawn's Disaster, Mommy For Real  This week's sentence is "I thought I was so cool when I..."

 

So, here goes...I thought I was so cool when I decided to get a perm and really go after that "big hair" look.

And if you have never seen my hair, you are probably thinking that this is no big deal, because back in the 80’s and early 90’s everyone permed their hair.

But let me give you a visual , to give you a little perspective.  This is my hair now, without a perm, without trying to make it big, with just the curls that God gave me:

 

 

 

And to really drive it home, take a look at me back then, BEFORE THE PERM, after blowing my hair dry upside down, teasing it, spraying it etc.

 

 

 

The last thing I needed in that mop top was MORE body. 

 

It is interesting to note that I couldn't find any post-perm pictures...probably because my post-perm hair was too big to fit into a picture....in fact, my post perm hair was too big to fit into most doors.

 

Believe it or not, it got worse.

 

Because in addition to deciding that my hair wasn't curly enough, I also decided that it wasn't dark enough.  Take another look at that picture.  That's my hair pre-color--the shade I thought WASN'T DARK ENOUGH.

 

So I went to the salon, got a perm and then a few days later went backand had it dyed it a shade that was supposed to be "chocolate" but is best described as "midnight-in-the-middle-of-a-black-hole."

 

It was NOT attractive. 

 



And even though I was super cool, and all "I know I look good" I still could hear a tiny little voice in my head suggesting that perhaps it was a touch, shall we say, dramatic against my fair Irish skin.  A voice that got louder when I saw the horrified look on my mom's face.

"I think it's a little dark," I said.  "The beautician told me not to wash it for a couple of days, so the color will set.  I think I'll go ahead and wash it tomorrow."

"Honey," my mom said gently, "wash it NOW."

Pretty sure I thought I was cool...but my mom was actually the cool one.

To read about all the other cool kids this week, please click on the link below:

Underwear Should Not Be Optional

It's Theme Thursday everybody--and the first Theme Thursday I've been able to participate in for awhile because of the whole "three jobs" issue. In any case, Theme Thursday is sponsored by Jenn at Something Clever 2.0   and features a group of my favorite bloggers who all write on the same theme. This week's theme is advice. And since I've already used my best dating advice here, I thought I'd do another blast from the past.

As most of you know, I used to teach high school in St. Louis. And when I was there, I somehow ended up in charge of the "at-risk" kids from the inner city. In all honesty, it was the toughest job of my life--and the most rewarding. But, I jumped into it without knowing all the details. Like the fact that being in charge of this group also somehow put me in charge of the annual talent show.

Yes, I agree, the connection between troubled students and talent shows seems tenuous and odd. Which is why my advice is: If you are asked to sponsor the annual high school talent show--whether you're working with at-risk kids or not at-risk kids, basically if there are kids involved--RUN in the opposite direction, shrieking NO!!!!! at the top of your lungs.

Because it’s Hell.

Seriously.

In fact, I’m somewhat convinced it’s worse than Hell. So, if ever you find yourself standing before the judgment throne of the Lord God Almighty and He gives you a choice between the fiery pits of Hell and sponsoring the Talent Show, CHOOSE HELL!!!!!!

Trust me, it will be a lot less painful.

Here’s a look at the show the year before I moved to Okahoma:

The day started with a little activity I like to call “censorship.” This is when I review all the music that we’re using in the show and make sure it’s school appropriate. You see, when you are in charge of an event that is largely run by at risk teens, the administration seems to worry that there will be song lyrics that are a touch vulgar and/or sexual in nature.

It is interesting to note that this same concern was obviously not expressed that same year at the Winter Sports Pep Rally when the basketball team boogied out to center court to “She Does It Like A Nympho.” Oddly, my inquiries to the principals about this discrepancy were never answered.

But I digress!

Anyway, first thing in the morning, I headed to the theater to review the lyrics...which means some of you are wondering why I would wait to the last minute to begin such an activity.

You, clearly, have never sponsored a talent show.

The thing is teenagers can be crafty.  Sometimes the songs that kids try out to and the songs they bring to dress rehearsal are not always the songs that make it to the theater on the day of the show. So, I reviewed them several times throughout the whole talent show process.

So, I listened to the music while a couple of girls from my group put up last minute decorations. Unfortunately, I was interrupted by the sight of 3 students from my first hour class who were meandering through the theater to see what was going on.

“You guys are supposed to be in class!” I told them.

“Don’t worry,” they assured me. “We have a sub.”

Which is when I screamed “You’re supposed to be in MY CLASS!”

“We have a SUB,” they said, like I didn’t hear them the first time.

Which, oddly, I already knew since I ordered the sub so I could ORGANIZE THE TALENT SHOW.

And I was just about done screaming horrible threats at them when another group of kids from the group wandered in. These little pumpkins weren’t actually supposed to be in MY class, but they were supposed to be IN CLASS so I cheerfully added them to the rant, waving my hands in the air, making ridiculous threats, and barring them from my sight for the rest of the day.

Then I grabbed one of my girls, this enormous and incredibly tough chick I’ll call Kiki and put her in charge of the door. “Do not let another kid in here,” I told her. “And if anyone shows up, tell them to GO BACK TO CLASS!”

Kiki took to this responsibility with the dedication of one of those guards at Buckingham Palace, marching back and forth in front of the door, and shooting angry glares at anyone in a six feet radius. As I was off to the side, listening to the song lyrics, I could hear Kiki in the background, yelling threats that were much more inappropriate than mine and telling various people to “Gitcher ass bacta class.”

I probably should have stopped her but you know what?

It made me happy.

Right until the horrible moment when this incredibly young looking student teacher tried to get into the theater to ask me a question.

Apparently her education classes had not prepared her for an encounter with Kiki.

Nor had they prepared her for my giggling reaction to the whole mess…I think she wanted me to expel Kiki on the spot or at the very least send her to In School Suspension but I couldn’t stop laughing.

I mean, I made Kiki apologize and I apologized and I even took responsibility for the entire misunderstanding.

But I was laughing so hard I could hardly get the words out.

Stress. It’s a weird thing.

In any case, in spite of the fact that I was pretty sure I’d be getting an angry call from this girl’s mentoring teacher and maybe even her mom, I couldn’t reflect on her angst for long because it was 30 minutes to show time and I had to confront 2 of my little darlings about their last minute song switches.

“Destiny,” I said, cornering one of the performers. “This isn’t the song you brought to dress rehearsal.”

“I changed it,” she agreed.

“Change it back,” I said. “Because there is no chance you’re getting on stage and dancing to a song called I GET IT IN.”

“Come on,” she said in that you’re such an idiot tone that only high school girls can do really well, “It’s not dirty, it’s about dancing in a club.”

“I listened to it,” I responded in that don’t screw with me tone that teachers need to do really well. “And it’s about what some nasty people think about doing after they leave the club.”

But I am not an unreasonable woman. I told her that if she could actually explain to me what the word “it” referred to in a way that didn’t make me want to shower, she could dance her little heart out.

She decided to change the song back.

And you know what?

That wasn’t the most disturbing song conversation of the whole day. The most disturbing conversation involved a song called “Stanky Leg.” I think the fact that the song is performed by a group called the G SPOT BOYS should have been enough to convince the kids that it wasn’t, perhaps, school appropriate but teenagers are not always deep thinkers. Instead we had to go into a long horrifying discussion about what a “stanky leg” actually is.

For those of you who don’t know (and I hope that’s MOST of you) let me just say it involves women who have a lot of sex.

And if you think that’s revolting, imagine discussing that fact with a 17 year old boy.

Yep, I loved that job.

Anyway, once we got the show underway, things were a little smoother…right until the formerly Stanky Leg dancers got on stage and I realized I made one of the classic blunders: I didn’t check their costume from all angles.

I also checked all costumes before the show… a lesson I learned during dress rehearsal when one group of guys ran onto the stage in short lycra running tights, no shirts, and open leather jackets. But I didn’t check the outfits from all angles...or with all moves being performed.

Which means that about three steps into the routine, the audience and I all got a nice long view of butt crack.

Note to self: If I ever sponsor a Talent Show again, underwear will NOT be optional.

However, before I end, I do want to share a really uplifting moment from the show.

We had this one little singer who tried out and was quite good…but he was nervous about performing. A situation heightened by the fact that he’s special and tends to have a little trouble reacting to things in an appropriate fashion.

So he got on stage, started to sing, and totally forgot the words to his song. It was awful…he got all teary-eyed and flustered, until about 5 of my girls started singing the song, to get him back on track…and they sang it with him the rest of his performance.

I’m not going to lie, it choked me up a little.

When he came off stage, he was still upset and was worried that people were laughing at him and Kiki hugged him and said “Who cares? You made the show, the rest of these people were too scared or lame to even try out!”

It was so spontaneously sweet and kind that I wasn’t even that upset when she followed that with “So tell those a**holes to shut the f*** up!”

Although I do wish she hadn’t been so close to the microphone.

 

For other advice, check out the other Theme Thursday posts by clicking the link below:

 

 

For other advice, check out the other Theme Thursday posts by clicking the link: