Moxie, the good dog
This past Tuesday was like something out of a Ben Stiller movie--MEET THE PETS or maybe HOME SICK WITH THE FOCKERS. And like Stephen King says, "It stops being funny when it starts being you."
I woke up that morning feeling like mild death on a cracker with a text from my boss asking if I could come in and teach ZUMBA in two hours. I wasn't even sure if I could make it out of bed in two hours. I'd been dealing with a cold/allergy/mild flu for several days, but this was the day when it was knocking me on my butt.
So I declined and called in sick myself and spent the morning finding subs for my night classes. So far, nothing comedic or even interesting. But that was all about to change.
At Noon I thought I'd better let my three dogs out into the backyard since they'd only been out once so far. I was still in my PJs, still feeling pretty darn yucky, and ready to get back in bed.
As I climb back under the covers, I knock a can of Coke onto the hardwood floor. I clean up the spill and notice my cell phone is missing. I'm on my hands and knees looking under the bed and there it is, halfway under a king-sized bed in the land of mutant dust bunnies and cat yak.
As I hunt down a broom to fish out the phone, it rings. By the time I get the phone in hand and disinfect it, the call has gone to voice mail. I don't recognize the number, but it's local so I listen to the message.
It's an irate neighbor telling me that there's a big hole in the back of my privacy fence (we have a half-acre lot with some wooded areas so I can't see the entire fence or yard from any given vantage point) and my dogs are running willy-nilly around the neighborhood.
I'm like WHAT?????
I run outside and my dog Moxie (pictured above) is on the back deck, but the other two are missing and there's a hole way in the back corner of the fence that's big enough to ride a tricycle through!
I throw a robe on over my flannel PJs and jump in the car to go hunt down my wayward dogs. Amazingly, I find them one street down off an alley in the backyard of a vacant house and manage to coax them in the mini-van even though they're hyped up on adrenalin. The next day my butt muscles are sore from where I summoned superhuman strength to grab and hoist my dogs into the van. One of 'em weighs more than sixty pounds!
So we get back home with our 8-month old puppy Luna and our six-thousand dollar dog Goober (the one who's had TWO very expensive obstruction surgeries in the past year).
I fall back into bed totally wiped for a couple of hours and then wrangle up a hammer and the only nails I could find--some small, thin ones without much of a head--and tromp out into the cold in my PJs and robe through an overgrown part of the yard still feeling like death on a cracker to hammer up the damn hole in the fence and to shore up any other loose boards.
So yes, this is my life, like something out of a Ben Stiller comedy and always good fodder for my Cleo Tidwell Paranormal Mysteries. Fortunately it all turned out well since the dogs are all back home and I didn't catch my death of cold. It's always something here at Casa Sullivan!
I woke up that morning feeling like mild death on a cracker with a text from my boss asking if I could come in and teach ZUMBA in two hours. I wasn't even sure if I could make it out of bed in two hours. I'd been dealing with a cold/allergy/mild flu for several days, but this was the day when it was knocking me on my butt.
So I declined and called in sick myself and spent the morning finding subs for my night classes. So far, nothing comedic or even interesting. But that was all about to change.
At Noon I thought I'd better let my three dogs out into the backyard since they'd only been out once so far. I was still in my PJs, still feeling pretty darn yucky, and ready to get back in bed.
As I climb back under the covers, I knock a can of Coke onto the hardwood floor. I clean up the spill and notice my cell phone is missing. I'm on my hands and knees looking under the bed and there it is, halfway under a king-sized bed in the land of mutant dust bunnies and cat yak.
As I hunt down a broom to fish out the phone, it rings. By the time I get the phone in hand and disinfect it, the call has gone to voice mail. I don't recognize the number, but it's local so I listen to the message.
It's an irate neighbor telling me that there's a big hole in the back of my privacy fence (we have a half-acre lot with some wooded areas so I can't see the entire fence or yard from any given vantage point) and my dogs are running willy-nilly around the neighborhood.
I'm like WHAT?????
I run outside and my dog Moxie (pictured above) is on the back deck, but the other two are missing and there's a hole way in the back corner of the fence that's big enough to ride a tricycle through!
I throw a robe on over my flannel PJs and jump in the car to go hunt down my wayward dogs. Amazingly, I find them one street down off an alley in the backyard of a vacant house and manage to coax them in the mini-van even though they're hyped up on adrenalin. The next day my butt muscles are sore from where I summoned superhuman strength to grab and hoist my dogs into the van. One of 'em weighs more than sixty pounds!
So we get back home with our 8-month old puppy Luna and our six-thousand dollar dog Goober (the one who's had TWO very expensive obstruction surgeries in the past year).
I fall back into bed totally wiped for a couple of hours and then wrangle up a hammer and the only nails I could find--some small, thin ones without much of a head--and tromp out into the cold in my PJs and robe through an overgrown part of the yard still feeling like death on a cracker to hammer up the damn hole in the fence and to shore up any other loose boards.
So yes, this is my life, like something out of a Ben Stiller comedy and always good fodder for my Cleo Tidwell Paranormal Mysteries. Fortunately it all turned out well since the dogs are all back home and I didn't catch my death of cold. It's always something here at Casa Sullivan!
RSS Feed
