The year of Sarge

Sarge turned out to be a great dog after the poo incident. He is quirky and docile and affectionate.  His positive sides are many, but he is, in a good dog way, a bad dog.  He used to be a champion runner. An open front door was an invitation to explore the sights and smells of the world .  I once chased him down at a neighbor's barbeque.  Another time, Eli and the Peapod grocery delivery guy chased him around the block. They returned, throwing up their hand in defeat, thinking he was lost, while I watched Sarge chasing behind them!  We got him an ID chip after that.

Sarge settled into the household.  He slept at the foot of Eli's bed and spent the rest of the time on the couch or in the crate.  Dogs can, apparently, sleep 20 hours a day, which Sarge did.  But in those four houses of wakefulness, he was a joyful, sausage shaped log-of-fur and activity.  He chewed up every toys we gave him, dug for grubs in the yard, and begged for table scraps. Eli did get to be kid of the week and Sarge was kind of well behaved at the school for a few minutes.

Then the darnedest thing started happening.  After the first rhyme about poo, I started to hear rhymes about everything Sarge related.  I wrote down two more little rhymes, the three and four, and pretty soon I had about sixteen little verses with no signs of slowing.  I figured Sarge was a dog rhyme channeling genius, so I got him his own Facebook page and started posting.  Since I already had so many rhymes and there seemed to be no end, I started posting one of Sarges poems every day.

At first it was fun and pretty easy to write in Sarges voice.  Eli asked me how long I planned to post Sarge's poems.  "I dunno..for a year?"  I replied.  He said "You won't be able to do that!  Just do one a week." Challenge!   "I'll show you!"  I thought.  Oh my...

After the first two months, thing started to be a tad harder.  There are only so many interesting thing to write about a dog.  Here is a sampling of a few of the originals:

I'm Sarge the dog.
 I frequently whine.
 I whine at your feet while you are trying to dine.
 I look at your food and think "isn't that mine?" 
I wrinkle my forehead and look like I'm cryin'. 
(I know I look cute, there is no denyin'. )
 Sometimes you feed me. Sometimes you decline. 
But that's intermittent reinforcement so you blame ME for tryin'!

I’m Sarge, the dog.

I like to sleep.

I sleep in blankets in a heap. 

When I’m asleep in my blanket heap,

Sometimes a fart from me will creep.

And when it does, it will make you weep! 

I’m Sarge the dog.

I like my boys.

They feed me things and buy me toys.

My mom’s a bore.

She makes no noise, and licking her brings her no joys.

So if you had to make a choice,

Don’t you think you choose the boys?

So think of that ties 365 (It was leap year!)

I got stuck many times.  There are rhymes specific to day.  fourth of July , Eli's birthday, Christmas. There were a few guest spot.  Sarge wrote poems about other people's pets a few times.  He wrote two about the Cardinal's winning the world series.  He experimented with different formats-haiku, limericks.  I ended up buying two rhyming dictionaries. (I think there is a poem about that).  

Despite the writer's blocks and some technical difficulties, I made it through the whole year!  I am sure that there are not very many pets that can boast that they have an entire year of poetry devoted to them.  As great as Sarge is, and as much as I enjoyed the challenge,  I will never ever do that again!

For awhile, I switched to Sarge's tip of the week with a picture and life lesson, but Sarge and his channel (me) are both sort of old and tired. You can still enjoy Sarges's page and even "Like" it.  Just don't expect too much ore activity there!

I am starting in a whole new direction next post, but I hope you keep reading.  I am sure there will be more memories and pets along the way!

Here is a link to Sarge's Facebook page if you want to read the whole series (Sorry about the typos along the way!)

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Sarge-the-dog/249325348417598

Cat person or dog person?

All along I have always thought I was a cat person. I felt more pulled to them and I was sure that my destiny was to be a crazy cat lady someday.  But then, my kid begged for a dog.

When Eli was in third grade, his teacher had a "kid of the Week"  This was really just a couple of minutes in the morning to talk about your favorite things and share you favorite snack.  One of the thing that other kids had done, was have their parents bring in his or her pet for the class to meet.  Eli really wanted to be "Kid of the Week" and have a pet to show off.  I suggested that he could put the spider that hung out in the bathtub in a box and take that, but that was a no go, so we started to look for dogs.

There were some specifiers.  No puppies.  Cute as they are, no way was anyone in my household was  housebreaking a dog.  Secondly, it had to be fixed already.  Adopting a pre-housebroken pre-neutered dog was cheaper and easier than a do-it-yourself variety.  I really wanted a pug dog or other dog that looked as if they were running too fast too keep from smashing into into a wall face first.  Eli, however wanted a dog with an actual nose.  Also, no long hairs, no yippee barks and nothing big enough to ride on.  I highly recommend Petfinders.com.  We were able to find a dog that seemed ideal. I contacted the shelter and they invited a to a "meet and greet" event

 I honestly thought we were just going to check out some dogs and come back later to decide.  Instead, we left with Sarge.  He met the criteria.  Real nose (check), not a puppy (check), not too big (check), not too much hair (check), housebroken and neutered (check).  The only thing we didn't get,was a chance to check the sound of his bark.  Eli met Sarge and  was not going to part with this dog, whether or not he had a yippee bark. I just figured we'd have to get a dog voice box replacement or something if his bark  was too high.  Lucky for us, on the drive home, he saw another dog out of the window and we were delighted to hear him explode into a low, boofy sounding bark.  After we recovered from the ringing in our ears, we slapped a high five and finished the trip.  We were now official dog-people.

There are two things you can do to a dog to see how calm and docile it is.  You can poke your finger between the pads on it's feet, and you can grab it's lips and move it around.  Not only will Sarge (who came with that name) let you do those things, he will look bored about it, wag his tail, and roll over so you can scratch his tummy while you do them. He barks ferociously at dogs, squirrels, birds and people who walk within a foot of the house, but if an actually close encounter occurs, Sarge will wag his tail and beg for food.  He is not a good watchdog.

The doggie adoption agency told us that Sarge was crate trained and would prefer to stay locked in while we were gone for the day.  But as I was leaving him alone for the first time, I felt guilty and worried.  What if he got hungry or thirsty?  What if the crate was uncomfortable or he just wanted to stretch his short little legs? So I left him sleeping on the couch and closed the door and went to work.

I was the last out and the first home, so I was able to look around to see how he had fared out of the crate all day.  Sarge greeted me at the door ran to the master bedroom, where he sat and wagged his tail  Was he showing me something?  Was that (hideous, blue shag) carpet more comfortable for him?  Was he confused about how to get to the yard to do his business?  I looked around, but things seemed to be in order, so I breathed a sigh and waited for my husband to get home.

When he got there, I excitedly told him how well the dog did. We were happy that things were going so well. Dana went into the bedroom to change and several minutes later, he yelled out, "Hey!  If the dog did so well out of his crate, how come there's dog poop in my shoes?!!"  So that's what Sarge wanted to show me!   Later we would also discover a chewed up pencil and some other randomly shredded papers and unidentifiable destroyed piles of dog fodder.  It does not need to be said that Sarge spent his days locked i his crate after that.


This incident inspired me to compose a short verse:

Sarge the dog.  He eats and chews
and then he poos on Daddy's shoes.
If Sarge the dog would choose your shoes,
which would you choose?
Chews or poos?

Unfortunately for you, dear blog, I not only composed that silly couplet, I continued to find short rhyming verses about Sarge.  I think he may have channeled them to me somehow.  This led to something I'll tell you about in the next post.

You have heard all about my childhood pets.  But I have had pets as an adult, too.

My first pet was really the dorm cat.  My room mate was a fish outta water on our floor of the dorm. Most of the girls in the surrounding rooms were music majors so poor Doris was exposed to all our musical angst.  We had a great deal of worry about sol feggio exercises.  We all called it sol feg (and probably didn't know this was short for sol feggio, anyway).  Sol feggio  was singing a piece of music using the names of the notes rather than the words.  So do re me is a version of sol feg.  I think we also had to use the hand gestures associated with the note, so practicing sol feggio is a lot like sign language only with singing.  My roommate, due to being normal and all, ask us what was this Soul Fish thing we were all so worried about.  Thus, the cat's name (at least on or floor), became Soul Fish, which I actually think is a pretty good name for a cat.

Did you know that cat's can't digest milk?  Well, neither did most of the kids in the dorm so Soul Fish developed the nasty habit of having diarrhea on the students beds.  Soul Fish disappeared and although the thought is a little disconcerting, the med students had to dissect cats as part of their training. Do you suppose... Nah...

My next pet was a big, blonde, long-haired cat named Marilyn after...well, you can figure it out. I was a year ourt of college and living in a dive apartment with my roommate, Terri.  The apartment was crap, but it was two blocks off of the Country Club Plaza in Kansas City which gave it a certain (small) level of class. I had a job as a "psychiatric technician" (which is a glorified babysitter for patients on the psych unit) at a suburban hospital making minimum wage and supplemented it working retail at a store in nearby Westport.

I bought Marilyn  a pink rhinestone collar and had visions of her lounging on a silk pillow and sipping (something other than milk) out of a swanky silver cat dish.  I thought she made me seem chic...except for two things.   1).  I guess it was the year of the fleas because she was covered in them.  When fleas are too numerous on an animal, they leap off, looking for some other source of food.  My feet and ankles became flea fodder and I looked like I had some rare skin disorder confined to my feet. Several batches of flea dip and multiple cans of flea powder finally got rid of them  but then #2 came up.  As a just-out-of-college trying-to-be-cool young adult, I tended to spend my limited disposable income on things like red leather gloves and tickets to see the Eurythmics rather than on adequate pet care. So Marilyn never got fixed.  A cat in heat is not pleasant.  After suffering through nightly yowling and ruined sprayed furniture (that's okay since most of it was dumpster diving stuff any way), I finally convinced a co-worker to adopt her. I don't like to think about what may have happened to her after that!

When I went to grad school in Michigan, I did not subject any pets to my infrequent presence. Although,  I tried to have some fish in a bowl for awhile.  Somehow, I got the idea that  needed to use distilled water, and Fred and Ginger (so I like old movies, what can I say) went belly up from asphyxiation.

My next pet was after I graduated and had my first real job in Danville.  I adopted a runt-of-the-litter cat.  Cats really are ideal for busy/lazy people.  They are litter trained from the start.  They don't require walks.  They eat cat food without begging for your food.  Since I was an adult (sort of) now, I did the grown-up cat parent thing and got her fixed. Hooray!

I was dating a guy from India at the time, and named her the Tamil word for cat, which is punai  (pooh-nie).  But I never really called her that , and after I broke up with the Indian guy, I regressed to calling her the very original name of Kitty.  Her named was finally The Kitty.  The was actually part of her name.

The Kitty lasted a long time.  She moved to Chicago with me after I got married. She made it through two moves to our current house.  She made it until my son was 6 year old.  Then, she chose a day when we had company for lunch to have a heart attack and die.  If that wasn't awkward enough, My son, who had taken to calling her Creepers" because she was always creeping around, chose to hunt for her to show her, to our company,  after the death event.  I gently took him aside and said, "Eli, The Kitty was very old.  She was so old that her body couldn't live any more and she died".

I was waiting for wailing and tears.  His little face contorted for an instant before changing to questioning wonder.  He looked at me and asked,  "Can we get a fish?"

Our next pet was not a fish.  I will tell you more next time.

Grandparent memories 


When we weren't at the creek or avoiding the outhouse, we spent a lot of time at my grandparent's house.  My paternal grandfather was semi-retired to Owensville where he was a minister at St. Peter's church.  (That's right- my dad is a minister, his dad was a minister, my mom's dad was a minister, my dad's grandfather was a minister, and of my dad's nine uncles, there were eight ministers and one psychiatrist who said it was his job to take care of all those crazy ministers).

My grandparent's lived in, what else, a parsonage.  My great-grandmother (my dad's mom's mom) also lived there. She was a little scary because she was so old!   There were lot's of Victorian antiques, and some of my dad's toys, too. I wish we still had those! The room that my sister and I slept in , had an antique picture of some very stern-looking ancestors.   I thought they would come out to haunt us if we didn't behave, so for us anyway, we didn't act up at bedtime.  My brother slept in a tiny room at the top of the stairs, so the tiny bedroom curse obviously followed him there. 

This is me at my grandparent's parsonage. Loved that dog!!

The other thing that terrified me about that house, was the railroad tracks that ran behind it.  I screamed and cried every time a train came by,  and I remember wondering why everyone else did not understand that the train was going to ram into the house at any minute.  Didn't they know that we were all likely to die? 

The train of doom did not keep me from playing in the park next door to the house.  It was an old fashioned playground with a now obsolete merry-go-round and one of the metal slides that would burn your butt off in the summer.  I also remember the seesaw. My sister was standing up in the center to balance it, when lost HER balance and landed, crotch first, on the metal bar.  I think she lost her virginity that day!  Remember the stress reaction of fight/flight/freeze?  That is the one and only time I have ever had a freeze reaction.  Beth kept yelling at me to run for help, and I remember thinking that I should go, but just couldn't move.  She must have thought I lost my mind!

I loved to go to grandma and grandpas house at Christmas because we used to get a brown paper bag filled with candy. (CANDY!!) It had those chocolate cream domes and an orange, and that yummy ribbon candy.  I think it must have been some sort of law that  little country churches to give the kids that specific mix of candy in a brown paper bag at Christmas!  The only bad memory I have is when my sister puked on my doll on the trip to Owensville.

My sister got carsick almost every time we took a rode trip.  That year I really, really, really wanted a Dancerina doll for my birthday.  She was a blond doll in a pink tutu with a plastic crown on her had.  If you held her crown, she would spin around in a pirouette!  I'm sure she was not cheap, but my parents got it for my birthday.  Mind you, my birthday is December 15, so she was pretty new on Christmas.  I took her on the trip to Owensville, and Beth got sick in the car, of course.  My recollection is that she specifically leaned over on my side so she wouldn't get puke on her side.  By doing so, she puked all over my brand new Dancerina doll!  My mom and my Grandma spent most of that day cleaning her up and fixing her hair.  She still worked, but her hair was never the same.  Good thing I could console myself with chocolate cream domes and ribbon candy!

Just as an aside, I recently was in an antique store and found a Dancerina doll in the original box!  Everything in that particular part of the store was 50% off so she cost a whopping $15!  So now I have a un-puked on Dancerina doll sitting in my closet.  I promise not to take her on any road trips with my sister!

The cabin

No discussion of my previous homes is complete without some discussion of The Cabin. 

My Dad and Mom purchased some property out on a lonely stretch of Highway P near Owensville.  You know it's rural when the highways are called rural route or highways with letter names!  Even though it was right off the two lane "highway", the property seemed to be deep in the woods.  Initially, there were no structures on the property, and we went there to experience the true definition of camping.  No electricity, no running water, sleeping in tents, cooking over an open fire,  using the outhouse.. The outhouse was down a trail far enough away from the camp site to prevent the aroma from impeding our ability to breathe.  It was initially painted pink so it was dubbed "The pink pagoda".  When the weather removed that color, it was painted yellow and renamed ""the golden throne".  No matter what we called it, it was not a pleasant place to be.  Apart from the fact that it offered some measure of privacy and a way to keep from getting poison ivy in uncomfortable places, it was everything you hate about gas station restrooms only twenty times worse.  No matter how much lime you sprinkled on the contents, you could not eradicate that special sewage smell.  When I was very small, there was a little chamber pot that I could use if I had to go at night, but when I outgrew it, I had to trek down the trail with a flashlight and my sister, if I could convince her she had to go, too! Otherwise, I would risk wetting the bed before I would face the potential critter encounter.

The pink pagoda was only one aspect of having no plumbing. The lack of bathing facilities was also an issue.  Washtubs served as general clean up facilities and for more significant bathing we would journey to the creek.  Their are a zillion little creeks and brooks running through central Missouri.  Creeks are tributaries of the rivers running through Missouri, and I am pretty sure the creeks we frequented were fed by the Gasconade River and the Missouri.  Creeks generally have rocky bottoms, so we always had creek shoes. Flip flops don't really work, because creeks have currents and, depending on how rainy It has been, flip flops could be pulled right off your feet.  So creek shoes were usually last years Keds or knock-off white ladies from K-Mart. 

Besides being our giant bathtub, the creek was a kid's paradise! Favorite past times included catching tadpoles and crawdads.  It was really fun to find a mostly morphed frog with a tale or a tadpole with tiny rudimentary legs. What wasn't so fun was getting the occasional disgusting leech! You learned very quickly to avoid the brushy areas near the shore where they, and the native water snakes hung out.
It was also fun (and is still fun) to look for flat rocks to skip across the water and the American Indian arrow heads made from the flint and quartz rocks along the creek bottom. 

We did not spend too many summers sleeping in tents.  My Dad found four trees in a rough square and used them as the corners for the original cabin. As you can imagine, this was not up to any kind of architectural code, but it beat sleeping out in the open.  We had just enough room for bunk beds for Beth and me and a double bed for my parents.  Although I am flabbergasted by the thought, I'm pretty sure, my brother was part of the camping experience as an infant.  And I am pretty sure this entailed diapers.  Cloth diapers.  With no running water.  My mom needs to be a candidate for sainthood.  Initially, my brother slept in a trough or something, and eventually he slept in the "rafters". The cabin was truly a hooterville, and from the one small bedroom, it eventually got a screened in "kitchen" tacked on to one side, and a small living room with a stone fire place built in some how, on the back .  It actually was kind of cool in a rustic very hick way.  We had an antique icebox and we would get a huge block of ice for it.  It actually kept things refrigerated for a day or so.

Next time, I will tell you more about our days at the old cabin.

    

Cows and Fourth of July

All of the mandatory visits, crazy or boring were made up for with visits to Billy and Jere's house

Everyone called their parents  the same names  Billy and Jere used for them, which was Mama and Daddy

Mama and Daddy were hosts for many a cookout for, not just our family, but for the youth group from church or school organizations. There was a lot going on because Billy and Jere were into a  lot of stuff at school.  It seems as if, between the two of them, they knew everybody in Jefferson City and beyond.  I once watched Billy chase a poor girl down the street in Fulton, Mo because he thought she looked familiar!

Mama and Daddy  grew Christmas trees and raised cows, among other things, on their farmland  Jere played the oboe in the band, and I think Billy played the trumpet, so the cows always got named after instruments.  It was  a sight to see Mama, (who stands about 5 feet 'nothin,)  chasing a cow and  yelling, "Bassoon!  You get outta them pine trees!". 

Fourth of July was a memorable occasion with Billy and Jere.  Billy would say, "Mama go put on your asbestos jumpsuit, everyone else stand way back so Mama can use the blow torch and we can all really enjoy that sparkler!"  Regardless of safety jokes, the fireworks were always great and the food was better.  Fresh corn and hamburgers on the grill.  Beth was especially enthusiastic about how fresh and juicy they tasted.  Until she looked around with wide eyes and asked, "Where's Bassoon?"

We also got invited to the farm at Christmas to pick up our Christmas tree.  Daddy always had the biggest and prettiest one picked out for us.  We would ride out on the hay wagon and bring it back to the house for cider and donuts.  Now I am spoiled for Christmas trees because nothing compared to those fresh cut pines!

Visiting the farm was far from the only fun times with Billy and Jere.  Billy wa a budding Cecil B. DeMille with his Super 8.  He and Jere would write, produce and direct their own feature films.  We used the church basement as our set,  of course!  Jere wrote a screenplay called "Are These Lips my Own?" In which I was to play an aging actress whose lips were malformed, looking to find a sweet young thing to use a a lip transplant victim.  I can't imagine why we never made that one! 

I loved Billy.  Beth said he was her "go to" friend.  If she ever needed anything, Billy would be there for her.  Jere was MY "go to" friend.  Probably one of the best friends I ever had.  My sophomore year, when he was a senior,  don't think a day went by when I didn't see him!  He worked at as a delivery man for one of the local pizza joints, and he used to call me to place an order and ask for him  to deliver it.  I would order a sandwich or something, he would come over and "deliver" it to me, but , really, just pay for it and eat it himself! 

When I got news that Billy died, I was married and living in Chicago.  I hadn't seen Billy for years, but the world got a little darker for me that day.  Just knowing that someone like Billy was alive just made the world seem more colorful. 

Jere is still my friend, and even though he is on the other side of the country, I love knowing he is still a part of my life. 

Just another word about Billy.  Even though he was capable of terrorizing small town girls for fun, he was actually a good kind-hearted person.  I remember when one of the youth group members was dying of brain cancer, and Billy brought his movies to her so she could be part of the screening.  That type of kindness and acceptance is what I will remember most about Billy.

Parrots, chickens and cows. Oh My


The minister of a church is frequently asked to have a meal with parishioners.  Often times, the whole family is invited along. For me, this usually entailed sitting quietly in uncomfortable dress clothes while sitting on  doily coved sofas and listening to polite adult conversation.  If I was lucky, there would be  Jordan almonds in  cut glass bowls that I could nibble while trying not to break something.  But,occasionally the yawn inducing visitations would have an unusual twist.

An elderly pair of maiden lady sisters invited us to their antique laden house, kept dark in order to fend off the heat, for lunch. They were the picture of genteel, soft spoken Midwestern ladies, wearing their Sunday best to host the young minister and his family.  Their table was set with their lovely old china and best silverware.  But what was with the extra place setting?

It was for Billy.  Not my friend Billy.  That would have been odd enough.  No, Billy was a parrot.  Bill, the ladies' pet parrot was allowed to roam freely through the house.  He had his own place at the table and ate from the some lovely china as everyone else.

Billy did not really like company.  His first words to use were "Goodbye".  When we didn't leave, he stepped up his tactics and began squawking, "Help! Police!".  The  lovely old sister ladies gently scolded "Billy!  That's not polite"  but he continued chirping "goodbye" and "help me".  throughout our stay.  I don't remember much of the meal-probably finger sandwiches or something- but Billy had what we were having.  I think Billy resorted to some passive aggression by occasionally lifting his tail and leaving a little pile of what he thought of us on the newspaper the ladies kept under his chair. 

This may sound unappetizing and potentially unsanitary, but parrot poop is child's play...

One of the homes where we were invited was out in the countryside on a pig farm.  If you are from farm and ranch country, you can discern between the pungent smell of cattle manure, and the even more pungent smell of a hog farm.  Nothin' like the smell of a good thriving bunch of pigs to whet your appetite.  This family were what you call "salt of the earth" kind of people.  The men folks wore overalls for everything and if they needed to fancy up a bit, they would wear  their better (overalls without stains or holes).  The farmers's wives were just as hard working and strong.  In this case (at least in my memory) the hostess wore a green floral dress with an apron.

I know I have discussed how fickle memories can be, so I am sure that mine are corrupted and only partially correct, but these are my recollections of that visit!

What stikes me as my most visceral memory, is drinking grape Koolaide  out of a plastic cup.  I'm sure our hostess was a great cook.  Most farm ladies are.  But I can't remember what we ate because everything else was so bizarre.  First, I think teeth were optional in the family we were visiting.  Cleanliness was also not much of a concern.  Food was served directly from what ever pot in which it had been cooked.  Dubiously clean utensils were made even more dubious when our hostess used the front of her dress as a towel to wipe them "clean".  I think my focus on drinking grape Koolaide had two purposes.  A). to keep me from having to notice the scary level of filthiness, and B). to keep me from laughing uproariously.

The piece de resistance, however, was not the kitchen, but the bathroom.  Old farmhouses, as I recall this one to be, usually were not built with multiple bathrooms.  Therefore,  I am pretty sure this may have been their only one.  It would not only have been the only toilet, but it was likely the only bathtub and shower.  It was striking that, not only was this not the cleanest bathroom, but the bathtub was being used to raise newly hatched chicks.  That is definitely the only time that I have ever shared toilet facilities with poultry! 

I think we have been invited to eat in that home on at least one other occasion, but if I wentagain, I have blocked the memory.  To this day, I cannot drink grape Koolaide!

Not all visits were uncomfortable, however, so next time I will tell you about Fourth of July at Billy and Jere's house!