Undecorating and Unhinged

The first thing you need to know is that Opie's animals don’t listen. I have tried to train them, tried to mitigate the damage from his lackadaisical approach to discipline, have, in short, attempted to rule them with an iron fist.

But I have, thus far, been unsuccessful.

And I might be running out of time because the second thing you need to know is it’s entirely possible that all of us will not be alive when Opie gets home from work tonight.

It’s not because I don’t love these insane creatures as much as he does. It’s not because I wish them any harm. It is simply because I think we might be in one of those them or me type situations.

It all started when I began taking down the Christmas decorations. I went upstairs to get the boxes out of the closet, completely unaware that Bubba and Sassy had  determined that this was some sort of secret code for “I’m hiding treats in the closet.”

I turned around they were both sitting right outside the closet, blocking my exit and jumping around in the world famous "We Want A Treat Right Now!" dance.

I tried to explain that there were no treats in the closet but Bubba flopped down at the top of the stairs and refused to move, sure this was a ploy to see just how steadfast he was in his desire for a treat.

Sassy, on the other hand, decided her best course of action would be to EARN herself a treat by showing me how fast she could run up and down the steps—preferably after giving me a head start so, after I stepped over Bub and struggled down with my arms full of boxes, she could demonstrate both her speed and her ninja like agility, dashing between my legs without a care in the world.

I thought I yelled “Are you trying to kill me, you ridiculous dog?“ but she obviously heard "I love falling down the stairs! Do you think you could help make that happen, you adorable pooch?" Because as soon as I went back in the closet, she put both her and Bubba’s new toys in a place I couldn’t miss them : the middle of the steps.

Then, after my next trip down the stairs during which I stumbled and nearly broke my neck, stood at the top wagging her tail and suggesting a couple treats would go a long way to easing the tension in the room.

Not to be outdone, Prince wandered over a few minutes later and asked if I was at all interested in seeing how good he is at climbing storage shelves.

“No,” I told him. “What I want is for you to get out of the closet and out of my way!”

“I understand,” Prince agreed. “What you’re saying is, climb to the top and start knocking things off the shelves while you scream at me in an encouraging fashion.”

“That is the EXACT OPPOSITE of what I’m saying, you looney cat!” I shouted.

But it was too late. He was already leaping from box to box like Spider-cat, swatting ornament boxes with reckless abandon.

As you can imagine, the subsequent shouting convinced Bubba that this was pretty much the most terrifying thing that had ever happened to any dog ever. "That's it!" He barked, flinging himself in front of my feet every time I tried to take a step. "No one should move an inch until the man gets home! The only thing that would make this worse would be--"

"THE MAILMAN!" Both dogs howled together.

Because, of course, that was the exact second that the unspeakably evil mailman snuck on the porch in his unspeakably evil way and, with malice oozing from every pore, THREW MAIL IN THE HOUSE.

Then both dogs charged over me (this time as I was trying to carry boxes up the stairs) and raced headlong to face the peril.

That's when I lost whatever tiny grip I still had on sanity and began shouting a series of threats at them that were so offensive that even the unspeakably evil mailman might or might not but definitely could report me to the humane society.

Ever aware of my fragile emotional state, I decided to take a break from undecorating and have a soothing cup of tea.

You know what tea doesn't soothe?  The sound of a man’s voice upstairs, yelling something in Spanish.

Let me say that again for maximum effect: I heard a MAN in the upstairs of OUR HOUSE yelling in Spanish.

I’m not going to lie, I about lost control of my bodily functions.  A situation not helped by the fact that the dogs ran back upstairs to investigate, barking hysterically.

“There can’t actually be someone up there,” I said to myself. “It defies reason to think someone scaled the side of the house, broke in and is now cavorting around our bedroom talking to himself.” 

Because of my fabulous ability to immediately imagine the worst possible outcome, it did occur to me that a homeless Hispanic hobo had been hibernating in the eaves of our home, been awakened by the hysterical hullabaloo, and was hopping out to say hello. But, even as beautifully alliterative as that is, I thought it was a long shot.

Besides I was trapped: the dogs were up there, after all, and I couldn’t just leave them to deal with any homeless hobos on their own.

Though, in retrospect, they may have just been going upstairs to see if the homeless hobo had any treats on his person.

In any case, I started up the stairs, phone in one hand with 9 and 1 already punched in, pepper spray in the other hand  yelling “Tengo una pistola!” (because I don’t know how to say pepper spray in Spanish) and “Fuera!” (Which, now that I think of it means go out, not get out but I bet a hobo would have taken my point) and “Estoy llamando la policia!” (Which I’m not at all sure is grammatically correct but again probably got my point across)

And found Opie's miserable ridiculous cat sitting on top of the clock radio, smacking at the buttons.

No, this isn't him on the clock radio -- I couldn't get a picture of that
 because I was busy hyperventilating and screaming every curse word I know

Anyway, I'm not sure why our radio is set to Spanish talk radio (but I’m sure it’s Opie's fault) And I don’t know why or even how Prince decided to turn it on.

But I am sure these animals are trying to kill me.

And it's entirely possible I'll kill them first.

Be afraid.

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: