Goin' Camping

The Partner, The Boss, the dog, and I rode over to Rhode Island last night to take a gander at a 1989 27' Gulf Stream Conquest motor home we discovered on Craig's List. After The Boss jumped all over the queen sized bed in the back, after I inspected each and every crack and crevice of closet or cabinet space, and after The Partner took the behemoth for a spin, hands were shaken. Words like "title," "insurance," and "license plates" floated easily through the crisp dusk air. We pledged to return the next day to bring the big baby home.

New England is now our oyster. We already have plans for one or two weekend trips in October and all kinds of dreams for a lakeside site next summer. When I really want to get grandiose, I imagine a cross country trip that a young family will never forget.

Our Gulf Stream's got a pinky-mauve velour interior. There are two seats in the cockpit and a captain's chair behind. At loft level, foam pallets come together to form a queen sized sleeping area. A table and bench convert to a bed next to the refrigerator and across from the sink and stove. There's a shower on one side and a toilet on the other. Behind it all is a traditional queen bed surrounded by narrow but serviceable closets. I can lay back in the 80s grandeur of it all and imagine that Bon Jovi just might have traveled this way. . .

Read more here. . .

Welcome To Our Open House

What is wrong with this picture? (Besides the fact that I have no photography skills whatsoever?)


Did you get it? Did you?
If not, here's a bit more of the scene:

No, it was not a freak of nature that caused this. No blustery wind, no driving rain. It was The Boss, the dog and I on the way to the park. Well, actually, it had nothing to do with The Boss, except that she was there and could quite possibly have been killed if the porch ceiling wasn't so capable of remaining suspended practically by its lonesome.

I was walking out the front door, helping The Boss down the steps with one hand and holding Roxie's leash in the other. That's when our pit bull saw the cat in the neighbor's yard and bolted toward it. I lurched forward, struggling to hold on as Roxie put all of her 50 pounds, plus the strength of momentum, into the chase. That's when I did the stupid thing for which The Parnter is currently not speaking to me. I grabbed ahold of one of the porch's rickety supports to steady myself.

It broke loose at top and bottom and I went flying forward as expletives and hysterical screams similarly richocheted out of my mouth. I screamed so loud and for so long that my neighbor came out to see what was wrong. I'm sure she expected to see blood and carnage everywhere. That's what one always expects to see when the magnitude of my hysteria is unleashed. It's a good thing I was completely unconscious when The Boss was born, or there would likely have been a scene.

I know now that it was stupid to grab onto something so unstable. But combine my own mental instability with faulty architecture, and that's what we get. The Partner married into this knowing full well what he was getting. I hide behind that mantra often, wearing it like a shield when my inability to act under pressure wreaks havoc. He should never be surprised and he certainly should not get mad. He should be happy that The Boss, the dog and the cat are still alive.

Okay, maybe not the neighbor's cat. I'm sure that would be a casualty he woudn't mind hearing reported.

A Pit Bull Allergy

Next time I even think of bringing both the dog and The Boss on the trip to the veterinarian's office, I hope someone shoots me with a tranquilizer gun.

This afternoon I brought Roxie in for a skin condition that has rendered her itchy and reeking. We were not even through the door when she went all a-twitter, her paws tapping the linoleum at the sight and smell of the two other dogs in attendance. She was gagging against the pull of her leash as I tried to rein her in. Putting down The Boss, I fell into a chair and ordered my other baby to sit. She ignored me. I waited a few beats and said "sit" again. She continued to tap dance and retch. I pushed down her wiggle butt till a connection was made.

Then one of the other dogs must have moved, or yawned, or twitched a whisker. This set Roxie off again, and she darted to the side, almost decapitating The Boss with the taut line of her leash. Hysterics ensued. The Boss threw herself down on the floor and wailed. The dog opened her jaws in a high pitched, stretched out and sad sounding moan that no self respecting pit bull would dare let loose in public. We were ushered with haste, as we always are, to one of the unused examination rooms to sit out the 25 minute wait. Lobby pariahs, every time.

When the vet finally came in, she proceeded to stick long objects into my dog's ears, causing shrieks of pain that sent The Boss right back to Tantrum Town. I guess hearing her companion in pain is yet another thing that puts The Boss over the edge these days. She leaked tears onto my shoulder as I tried to help control Roxie with my free hand.

There were more tears during the rest of the visit, and loud wailing over which the vet had to scream in order to be heard. It was The Boss wailing, in case you thought I'd succumbed to the urge myself. Oh, how I wanted to. But I didn't.

I left (an hour and a half after I arrived) with steroids, anti-histamines, ear drops, and 18 pounds of $40 dog food. One employee walked the dog out and another carried the kibble. I trudged along with The Boss, who was over the last tantrum and was contentedly drooling on my shirt. My veins were tight with the pressure of my blood. My heart was pissed off. I thanked the vet assistants and sunk into the driver's seat, rummaging through my purse for no other reason than to just sit there for a minute.

Next time I'm getting a babysitter.

When Eating a Pound of Candy is Really Not Safe

I'm sitting here waiting for my dog to yak up slightly less than a pound of M&Ms after I administered 2 tbsps of hydrogen peroxide and 2 tablespoons of milk to bring on the barf.

It seems that Roxie is no longer content with eating the garbage and has taken to climbing onto table- and countertops to find the most illicit of booty. I had been gone for three hours when I came home to find the M&M sack laying empty on the floor. I ran into the living room, fully expecting to find the family pet in the throes of a seizure on her dog bed. She looked up at me with one eye as I stepped through the threshold. There was nothing out of the sheepish ordinary in her gaze. I breathed a temporary sigh of of relief before I got on the phone with the vet.

One sticky note filled with directions later, I was on my way to the store to buy hydrogen peroxide to induce vomiting. After Roxie lapped up her first dosage of the nasty stuff mixed with milk, she proceeded to run around the yard in happy acknowledgement of the fact that I was out there playing with her. There were no signs of poisoning and no signs of puke. I went inside for another dosage and she lapped that up, too. I'm still waiting.

I blame myself for all aspects of this problem, number one being that the chocolate should've been in a cabinet. I stupidly thought that just because she'd never climbed onto the center of the table before, that she never would. The second aspect is that she needs more exercise. She's getting into all kinds of trouble now that she never did before and the only reason I can come up with is that she's not getting enough exercise. I need to get off my desk chair and into a pair of running shoes. The fact that it's difficult to control a dog and a jogging stroller with my single pair of hands is no excuse. It can be done, and it needs to be done.

If she would just hurry up and chuck, already.

Ask Patty--Go Ahead, Ask Her

Roxie the family pet is making the rounds. Just today she was featured on a Web site catering to the automotive needs of women. If you're wondering what my dog has to do with female drivers, I'll tell you that the connection will become clearer once you stop over to say hi. And after you do that, you should cruise around the rest of the site for a look at the automotive world from a woman's perspective. The site has been featured in papers like the New York Times, the Boston Globe, and was recently a presence at BlogHer '06.

As someone who has been reduced to a snot-faced, blathering mess at more than one car repair facility by technicians who were out to take me for a ride, I am all about a Web site devoted to helping women assume the driver's position when it comes to navigating the slaloms of car buying and car maintenance. If only Patty could also teach me how to merge correctly and not to hit curbs.

Anyway, check it out. And tell them Roxie sent ya.

To The Family Pet on Thanksgiving

Dear Roxie,

Upon my homecoming from the Supermarket today, as I walked through the door with a 20 pound turkey hanging from one hand and a 20 pound girl tucked under the opposite arm, I saw laid out before me the evidence of gratitude. I saw that pit bulls, too, can give thanks. It is in the wag of their hind quarters that shimmies out through their tails; it is in the incessant licking; and it is in the fabric of three sofas ripped open with love.

This year, I know who it is that has taken over receipt of your doting energies. I see the bond form a tighter strangle-hold every day. You and The Boss. The Boss and you. She feeds you. You sniff her butt. She drops heavy objects on your back. You eat her socks. The two of you cannot get enough of each other.

I'm sorry I did not take you along for the ride to Price Chopper today, as I know how you feel about the separation. I just thought it was a little too cold out to leave you in the car, and supermarkets do not generally smile upon dogs in the turkey section. Perhaps I should enlist the practiced hand of a mental health professional to write the kind of doctor's note that would allow me to bring you with me, everywhere, in your capacity as my state-sanctioned "emotional service pet"--kind of like a seeing-eye dog, only for crazies. Because that is where I'm headed, buddy. Your love is slowly driving me insane.

Here's what I saw on the floor of the kitchen when I walked in the door just an hour or so ago: an empty ice cream container, a plastic dessert tray, the crystallized remnants of a doubly soiled diaper, and a host of brown baby wipes.

I remember that diaper when it was still intact. It was particularly foul. I threw it in the un-lidded garbage receptacle next to the front door with the intent of bagging it up and dumping it into the can outside on my way to the grocery store. Well, like everything else, I forgot. It's my own fault. It usually is.

I know you love The Boss and can't get enough of her toddling goodness. I know she feeds you every day from her own plate--a ravioli flung here, a waffle square tossed there. Just the other day we had to let your collar out a rung to accomodate your ever expanding neckline. But I have to tell you, Rox-o, it doesn't taste nearly as good second hand. Mealtime with The Boss is NOT a gift that keeps on giving. Just because we let you get away with sneaking morsels of your own solidified waste in the backyard does not mean eating our daughter's poop is okay. Because it is not okay. It is not okay.

You're thorough, though, I'll give you that. All that was left for me to clean up was a few shreds of papery plastic, some crystals and the wipes. I'm sure the bacteria that remain, so gloriously invisible to the naked eye, are nothing a can of Lysol (or two) won't eradicate. All's well that ends well, right?

Right, Roxie. Right. But I'm sure you'll understand why we won't be letting you into our bed tonight. Or maybe you won't quite make the connection, and will patter off huffily, in the dead of night, in search of something else to be thankful for. And if my negligence in appropriately dog-proofing the house is any indication, you'll probably find it.

I have nobody but myself to blame. You, I can't help but love every bit as much as before. Maybe more, because that's the kind of sucker I am.

May your Thanksgiving be filled with scraps never before digested,
ECR