R Is For Rampallion

Rampallion: Noun, a scoundrel, a villain.

I have to be honest, when I lived in St. Louis, I worried a lot more abut rampallions than I do now. I was single, I lived alone and my chihuahua, the late great Peek-A-Boo, wasn't what you would call vigilant about protecting hearth and home (you can find kind of a funny story about that here).

When Opie and I married and moved here to a small town in Oklahoma, I worried even less. Because it's smaller, there's less crime, and Opie had a big dog.

This is our half-Rottweiler, half beagle, Bubba:

The only problem with Bubba is that he has decided that I am HIS human and that he should protect me at all costs. I appreciate this when the neighborhood crazy tries to get into the yard (long story, you can read about it here). The thing is, he's pretty sure any stranger in the neighborhood is a rampallion.

A lesson both the lawn guy and I learned the first month I lived here. See, the lawn care people are supposed to knock on the door and let me know they’re here before starting on the lawn. But sometimes they forget…and they don’t come on a regular schedule so I don’t know when they’re going to be out there. So, right after I moved here, the stars aligned and the lawn guy was trying to let himself in the backyard at the same moment that I'm letting the dogs out of the house.

Bubba did NOT not take this well.

Peek also did not take this well…but Peek was old, a little fat, and more than willing to wait and see if the guy had a treat before ripping his throat out. Bubba, on the other hand, charged the fence like the guy was made out of ham.

I, of course, went running out and over to the fence as fast as I could…and was relieved to see that the guy hadn’t actually come in the gate yet…but then I had to get Bubba calmed down in the face of this clear and present danger.

A task made more difficult by the fact that the lawn guy was standing right on the other side of the fence, chattering away nervously, apologizing and assuring me he won’t come in until I get Bubba back in the house. The problem was, Bubba couldn’t believe that this EVIL RAMPALLION was actually DARING to talk to me while he was on guard duty. So the more the guy talked, the more Bubba ran around me in wide circles, barking and growling at the guy like a maniac, and occasionally charging the fence.

If this happens with your Chihuahua, you pick him up, carry him inside, and praise his bravery. If this happens with your half-Rottweiler mix, you interrupt the lawn guy’s sixteenth apology and ask him to go stand by his car.

“Or better yet,” you say with a smile “actually get in it.”

“Are you serious?” The lawn guy then asks.

“This dog knows you’re here to kill me,” you explain. “And he’s not going to let you.”

On the one hand, I’m pretty sure THAT GUY will never forget to let me know he’s here before spraying the lawn…on the other hand, I’m also pretty sure he doesn’t think I’m funny AT ALL.

J Is For Jabberwock

I'm cheating just a little bit because I'm behind in the challenge...not a big cheat, just recycling an older post that happens to match today's word.

Jabberwock - noun, nonsense, gibberish.

I wrote about the poem Jabberwocky just a few weeks ago as part of The Great Cupcake Search. Here it is:

I think it's time to face a bitter truth:

The Great Cupcake Search might be making me a little bit completely insane.

I came to this realization a week or so ago when I took the search on the road. I was in the Ozarks for the weekend and decided to check out a little local place called The Mad Hatter's Cupcakes.

I pulled up in front of the store, got out of the car, saw the closed sign in the window and asked a woman passing by if they were closed for the day or forever,

"Permanently," she said.

And I started to cry.

That's right, actual tears.

Don't judge me! Just keep in mind that emotional triggers are weird. See, the whole reason I wanted to go to The Mad Hatter's was the Alice in Wonderland connection.  I love Lewis Carroll's nonsense poem from the book, Jabberwocky. Especially the opening lines:

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son
   The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
   The frumious Bandersnatch!"

It always makes me think of my late, great Chihuahua, Peek-A-Boo because I used to call him the Frumious Peeker-Snatch.

Seriously, doesn't he LOOK frumious?

So I thought of him, got all weepy remembering what a great little dog he was for our 13 years together and started to cry.

And if you, dear reader, still think that was a little odd, you should have seen the poor woman I was talking to. I get the distinct feeling that not too many people walk around the Ozarks weeping over closed cupcakeries. A situation made infinitely more uncomfortable when I told her "Gone forever! Just like the  poor Peekersnatch!"

The thing is, as soon as those words flew out of my mouth, I knew they sounded weird (and in retrospect, probably a little dirty) so I wanted to explain--and reassure her that I wasn't a dangerous psycho--but I was still upset and not thinking clearly so instead of saying "I'm sorry, I named my dog after Alice in Wonderland." or something normal like that, I chose to sigh and tell her "He was so frumious!"

I think it's safe to say that woman thinks I'm crazy.

The Great Cupcake Search -- The Mad Hatter's

I think it's time to face a bitter truth:

The Great Cupcake Search might be making me a little bit completely insane.

I came to this realization a week or so ago when I took the search on the road. I was in the Ozarks for the weekend and decided to check out a little local place called The Mad Hatter's Cupcakes.

I pulled up in front of the store, got out of the car, saw the closed sign in the window and asked a woman passing by if they were closed for the day or forever,

"Permanently," she said.

And I started to cry.

That's right, actual tears.

Don't judge me! Just keep in mind that emotional triggers are weird. See, the whole reason I wanted to go to The Mad Hatter's was the Alice in Wonderland connection.  I love Lewis Carroll's nonsense poem from the book, Jabberwocky. Especially the opening lines:

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son
   The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
   The frumious Bandersnatch!"

It always makes me think of my late, great Chihuahua, Peek-A-Boo because I used to call him the Frumious Peeker-Snatch.

Seriously, doesn't he LOOK frumious?

So I thought of him, got all weepy remembering what a great little dog he was for our 13 years together and started to cry.

And if you, dear reader, still think that was a little odd, you should have seen the poor woman I was talking to. I get the distinct feeling that not too many people walk around the Ozarks weeping over closed cupcakeries. A situation made infinitely more uncomfortable when I told her "Gone forever! Just like the  poor Peekersnatch!"

The thing is, as soon as those words flew out of my mouth, I knew they sounded weird (and in retrospect, probably a little dirty) so I wanted to explain--and reassure her that I wasn't a dangerous psycho--but I was still upset and not thinking clearly so instead of saying "I'm sorry, I named my dog after Alice in Wonderland." or something normal like that, I chose to sigh and tell her "He was so frumious!"

I think it's safe to say that woman thinks I'm crazy.

Final Verdict:

Cake & Icing: Non existent

Sanity: Questionable

All in all an experience that makes me laugh now but also makes me wonder what in the world that other woman is writing on HER blog.

Stay tuned for future installments--especially those that might include actual cupcakes--or let me know if there's a cupcakery you recommend by clicking here. Or read the post that started it all: The Great Cupcake Search.

Foo Dogs -- The Perfect Memorial

You know what’s hard?

Trying to find a Chinese Foo Dog in the middle of Oklahoma.

You know what’s harder?

Driving around rural Oklahoma AND the Osage Nation Native American Reservation trying to find the one and only store in the middle of Oklahoma that sells a Chinese Foo Dog.

Not to mention keeping my temper when I discover that the one and only store in the middle of Oklahoma that sells a Chinese Foo Dog only takes cash.

All in all, it’s been a rather weird day.

But I get ahead of myself…it all started about a month and a half ago when I had to say goodbye to my 13 year old Chihuahua, Peek-A-Boo.  I still can’t bear to talk about it, you can read about his life here.  Anyway, my mom wanted to get me some sort of memorial of him and since he was always outside in the garden with me, she thought I should get some sort of garden statuary.  But she wanted me to pick it out, because she wanted it to be just right.

To be honest, it was challenging to find the exact right thing…largely because the main reason Peek liked the garden was that he would wriggle his fat little body through the rows and eat any vegetable he could get his paws on.  Seriously, he ate tomatoes off the vine, spinach and arugula off the plant, he even dug up the broccoli plants and gobbled them down stalks and all.

He was not what you might call a normal dog.

And there aren’t a lot of Chihuahua Eating Broccoli statues available.

Anyway, I finally decided on a Chinese Foo Dog because they are half dog, half lion and are the traditional guardians of Buddhist temples…and I decided that they were the perfect representation of Peek’s lion-like heart.

However, as I mentioned, they are a little challenging to find in the middle of Oklahoma.

It has taken me almost a month to find a place that even knew what I was talking about…and that place is in the middle of a little town called Skiatook.

Which is only about 45 minutes away…if, of course, you don’t get lost.  And if the route that your GPS sends you on isn’t filled with construction and crazy detours through the worst parts of town…I mean, meandering around North Tulsa wasn’t quite as scary as the time I got lost in East St Louis, but it was close.  There’s just something about a pawnshop on every corner rusted out cars on every lawn that gives me the heebie-jeebies.

So, an hour and fifteen minutes later, after making my way through scary North Tulsa, three practically abandoned small towns, and finding my way to the Osage Nation Native American Reservation, I found the statuary store.

And saw this sign:

Have you ever seen a more customer unfriendly sign in your life?  I mean, we’ll TRY to help you…unless we’re on our lunch break, then you’re on your own.

But my main concern was that they don’t take credit cards…and I never have cash.  I looked in my purse, hoping for a miracle, and managed to gather twenty-seven cents.

Probably not enough for a concrete Foo Dog.

So, after trying to remember every curse word I know—and singing a few in time to the song on the radio—I started driving up and down the streets of Skiatook, looking for a bank or a gas station or a grocery store where I could buy something like a pack of gum and use my debit card to get cash back.

Which is when I found the WalMart.

I think every town in America has a WalMart…and every WalMart has 1,716 lanes but 1,714 are usually closed—in spite of the fact that there are always 453,892 people in the store.

But you can get cash back on your purchases so I grabbed a bag of M&Ms and waited 10 minutes to get through the line and get enough cash to go get my dog.

And if you think this added stress to my day, consider the poor man who had to finally deal with me at the statuary store…I went back, called the number,  and got lucky enough to get someone to find me.

“I’m looking for a Foo Dog,” I said…and surprised myself by kind of tearing up.

He gave me a strange look and let me to the Asian art display.

And I took one look at the Foo Dog and burst into tears  “That’s perfect!”  I said.   “It’s just like my dog!”

I had the feeling that he either wanted to explain to me that Foo Dogs aren’t real or ask me what kind of mutant dog I had, but he had clearly already decided that I was a dangerous lunatic (perhaps he saw the cursing display on my first trip) .  Or maybe he just isn’t used to women sobbing in the statuary store.

So he just said, “Ok then.” and practically ran over to the cash register.

Then, after he got the dog all loaded,  he stood to the side of the car, eyeing me suspiciously while I wept over the Foo Dog and shot M&Ms like they were cheap tequila.

Can you imagine the blog HE’S writing tonight?  “I thought we were going to have to call the police because the woman JUST WOULDN’T LEAVE…I think she might be an escaped mental patient.”

But I’ve got my Foo Dog in memoriam of my Peek-A-Boo dog…and here it is: 

Peek Freaks -- The Week of Peek Part 4

         In case any of you thought that I was the only one who Peek-A-Boo tormented with his willful ways, here's a little story about the week my parents watched him.

 

Peek hiding in the closet, not out of fear but mainly to torment my parents.

 

 

 

 After a week of wandering around the Canadian wilderness with pre-teen children who consider farting the be-all, end-all in humor, I’m writing to appeal to you all for sympathy.

Not for myself, mind, but for the two people who really deserve sympathy concerning this whole experience.

          My parents.

          Now, I can hear some of you saying to yourselves, “Selves,” you are saying.  “I didn’t know Kimberly’s parents went to Canada with her.”

          They didn’t.

          They had the dubious honor of caring for my dog while I was gone, the infamous Peek-A-Boo.

          Pity my parents

          Pity Peek-A-Boo.

          Pity the poor neighbors who I suspect were constantly offered a slightly used long haired Chihuahua.

          You see, there is this little thing called separation anxiety that affects dogs when they feel they have been abandoned by their owners.  And this trip, yep, that just about did it for the Peekster.

          To be perfectly precise about it, Peek freaked.

          He started with his usual expression of doggy displeasure.  He chewed the used/dirty paper in his litter box and scattered the contents around the kitchen. This is what he does when he’s mad at me and I guess he thought my parents would quickly get the message.

          I don’t think he planned on my father stepping on a huge piece of Peek-A-Boo poo as he walked in the door.

          I’m glad I wasn’t there to witness this; I’m sure it wasn’t pretty.

          But did this deter my dog?

          Not even a little bit.

          In fact, after this ploy failed to get him the appropriate (in his mind) attention, he decided to up the ante.  He decided that pottying in the litter box wasn’t emotionally satisfying anymore.  He had some serious abandonment issues that needed to be addressed, he wanted to make sure the whole family was aware that he was unhappy.  So he began sneaking over to the sink in the middle of the night and peeing right in front of it.

          Picture my father shuffling (barefoot) over to the coffee pot first thing in the morning, sliding through a puddle of Peek-A-Boo pee.

          My dog is lucky to be alive.

          And let’s not even talk about the chewing…let’s not mention the silk plant, the two wicker baskets and the numerous shoes etc that Peek decided to sample in his quest for the best chew toy. Let’s just say when I got there to pick him up, the kitchen was this barren, desolate wasteland with nothing but the table and Peek’s crate.  Everything else had been removed after Peek decided to gnaw off a hunk or two.

          And then there were the fun hiding episodes in which he wriggled his fat little body around the accordion door and snuck to the back of the closet and stayed there snuggled in a bunch of shoes, chewing away, until my parents had searched the whole house in a desperate attempt to find him.

          Then, the day before I got home, Peek got out.  He escaped, he ran away and began tearing around the neighborhood, looking for me.  My mom was frantic; I had talked to her the day before and she had mentioned how terrible the dog was behaving.  I think she thought that I would be convinced one of them had finally snapped and killed him.  So everyone take a moment and picture my poor mother running through the neighborhood, dashing up and down the golf course screaming “Peek-A-Boo!  Peek-A-Boo!” at the top of her lungs.

          What the neighbors thought of this display is frightening to contemplate.

          NOTE:  Mom would like to interject that she now believes Peek-A-Boo is the stupidest name she has ever heard.  I told her it could have been worse, I could have named him Help.

          It’s amazing how a week with one slightly neurotic dog can really take the edge of your sense of humor.

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.

The Hidden Danger of Decorating

Putting away Christmas decorations was slightly more life-threatening than usual this year.

I mean, there’s always a bit of risk involved—climbing stepladders, carrying heavy boxes up and down the stairs while your insane cat tries to see how many times he can run between your legs, that sort of thing. 

But those are hazards I’m relatively used to and can prepare for…unlike the unexpected peril that reared its ugly head earlier today when I dropped an ornament on the floor in the living room.  One miniature Christmas ball roughly the size and shade of a red pretzel M&M.

Which probably doesn’t seem that dangerous…until you realize how fond—and how possessive—my dog Peek-A-Boo is of anything that could possibly be food.  He snatched it up and began sneaking out of the room in his famous “Pay no attention to the dog behind the curtain” trot.  Luckily, he was more focused on escaping with his prize than immediately eating it so I was able to grab him before he could bite down and hurt himself.

And that wasn’t the really dangerous part because, as I’ve mentioned in earlier posts, Peek is old and sick and not much of a fighter anymore.   I got the ornament out of his mouth, put it on the writing desk, and went back to packing boxes—completely oblivious to the threat I had just unleashed.

Until about forty-five minutes later when I took a break…and got myself a delicious handful of leftover red and green pretzel M&Ms.

Which I also put down on the writing desk.

Everyone see where I’m going with this?  I put a handful of red and green pretzel M&Ms down next to a GLASS ball the size and color of a red pretzel M&M.

Then, moments later, I threw a glass ornament that had been IN MY DOG’S MOUTH into MY OWN MOUTH.

And I didn’t even realize it until I—unlike Peek—chomped down, crushed the stupid thing, and filled my mouth with about a thousand tiny pieces.

I did NOT handle this well.

Of course, if you think I was upset, you should have seen poor Opie. There he was, whiling away a lazy Sunday afternoon reading the hockey news, when his wife started shrieking about eating ground glass.

Have I mentioned that I’m not always calm in a crisis situation?

In any case, he came running and I began spitting out glass and chocolate and red candy coating that looked suspiciously like blood (which freaked me out even more) then I rinsed my mouth out as much as I could.

Then, I made the biggest mistake of all.

I researched “eating glass” on the Internet…which, as anyone who has ever researched any health-related issue on the Internet knows, is a terrible idea.  The Internet is NOT filled of charming anecdotes of how someone ate a piece of ground glass and magically produced a pearl…instead, it uses words like “rupture” and “internal bleeding” and my personal favorite “peritonitis.”  Which, in turn, makes me use words like “doom” and “imminent death!”

At which point Opie begins throwing around words like “overreacting” and “hypochondriac.”  But only in his head because he is not a stupid man.

To be fair, the odds that I actually swallowed a piece of glass large enough to do damage are pretty small.  And the odds that I will be contracting peritonitis are even smaller…but I have never been one to let facts stand in the way of a really good panic attack so I’m sure that I will be developing the symptoms shortly—whether I have peritonitis or not.

So, just in case, let me leave you with this final thought: If you haven’t put away your Christmas decorations yet, be careful…it can be deadly.

For a few other laughs this morning, check out:

 

Important Information

If you who read my last blog, you already know my stance on dead animals as gifts (definitively AGAINST for those of you who haven’t been following along).

However, the other day Bub may have earned the right to bring me any old dead thing he wants…here’s what happened:

I walked out into the backyard and noticed an odd looking old man sitting on his bike right outside our fence, talking.  For a second I thought he was talking to me.

He wasn’t.

He was responding to the voices in his head…but I didn’t realize that at first. Because I didn’t realize he was crazy at first…Until he came right up the fence and mumbled something about helping me sweep the yard.

And that was crazy since I wasn’t even sweeping the yard—largely because I don’t know what that means—and because he didn’t have a broom or any other sweeping implements.

So,  I was a little weirded out…and when I get weirded out Bubba gets worked up. And when Bubba gets worked up, the Rottweiler half of his heritage kicks into high gear.  Basically, he crossed the yard in 1.2 seconds and charged the guy like he was wearing Milk Bone underwear (Pronoun clarification: the second “he” in that sentence refers to the crazy guy, not Bubba.  Bubba almost never wears underwear).

Peek-A-Boo also sensed danger and ran across the garden to add his voice to the mayhem…then decided that, as a Chihuahua, he could better serve me by wriggling through the tomato plants and eating any of the green tomatoes in his reach.

His theory clearly being that anyone who saw such a bizarre activity—I mean, what kind of dog eats vegetables right off the vine?!!—would immediately realize that they were dealing with a creature heretofore unseen in this world.

But I digress…

“Sir,” I shouted over all the barking, “you should probably step away from the fence.”

Which I thought was a fairly clear instruction…but I don’t speak crazy very well because, apparently, in crazy language my statement translates into “Pay no attention to the hysterically, snarling dog.  He is only joking with you and has no interest in tearing your throat out and would, in fact, love it if you came inside.”

Because he took a step closer to the gate and actually put his hand on the latch.

(Side note: Let me take a second to answer the question that I’m fairly sure my mother and close friends are screaming as they get to this point in the story.  Yes, in retrospect, I do realize that this would have been the ideal time to  go inside my house, lock my door, and call the police if the man actually came into the yard.  But I couldn’t because of the dogs…there was no way I was getting Bubba inside while there was a stranger in the vicinity and getting Peek out of the garden when he is on a tomato eating mission is a HERCULEAN task.  I couldn’t leave them behind…and yes, in answer to the obvious second question, I understand that most people think dogs can fend for themselves…but remember Peek is twelve-year-old Chihuahua with a bad heart.  He couldn’t fend his way out of a wet paper bag.)

So I stayed outside and tried to take charge of the situation.  “Seriously, sir,” I shouted.  “This is NOT a friendly dog.

He paused with his hand on the gate and briefly consulted with his invisible friends.

“This dog will KILL you!”  I warned them all.  And smiled in order to communicate that I was equally as crazy as he was…just crazy enough to CHEERFULLY let Bubba rip his throat out.

He seemed to get that.

Because he shuffled back over to his bike, spent another minute or two in conversation with NO ONE AT ALL, and pedaled away.

It’s interesting to note that when my husband, Opie, got home that night I told him about Bubba’s heroics and he brushed the whole thing off…apparently he recognized my description as a generally harmless neighborhood crazy man who’s lived in the area for years.

Which wasn’t comforting for two reasons:

1.      Because “generally harmless” and “harmless” aren’t the same thing.

2.      The presence of such a person seems like information that should have been shared FIFTEEN MONTHS AGO WHEN I MOVED IN…and now I can’t help but wonder how many other potentially volatile people Opie is aware of and has forgotten to mention.

However, in spite of all that, I’m sleeping securely in the knowledge that generally harmless or even generally harmful crazies are intimidated by an enraged Rottweiler (though, sadly, not by a Chihuahua who really just wants to eat some tomatoes) so, if Bub decides he’d like to bring me a dead mole or two this week, I’m not going to freak out like I did last week.

Or at least, not as much.