FeeFiFoto Blog

I Had Him CORNERED And Then SHE Had To Interfere And Wreck My Big Game Hunt

A chipmunk got into the downspout next to the house! I could hear it squeaking and scrabbling around.

Come here, you chipmunk!

Brazen thing!  It just dared me to find it.

You ebil, ebil thing, you!

I was prepared to take down all the siding and trim to get at it.

I know you're in there.

I did my best, but then...

I don't care if I have to dismantle the entire house to get you.

Caught in the act!

Rats! Stupid rodent.

A Letter To The Dog Re: Gender Confusion

Dear Miss Puppy:

You're not fooling anybody.  Even though you lift your leg at every tree, shrub, lamppost, mailbox, trash can and daffodil, nobody believes you're a boy dog, not even for a moment.  Know how I know?

Pink collar.  It's a dead giveaway.

Just keep telling yourself: "I'm a girl.  I'm a girl.  I'm a girl."

This Day Is...

Champion Crab Races Day.

Robey wanted a pet hermit crab.  I knew that "his" pet would really be "my" pet, and I had very little interest in nurturing an animal that looked like a rock.

So I gently suggested he take a look at the instructions for maintaining your crab and its "crabitat" (I didn't make that word up.  Wish I had.  Just the word crabitat was nearly enough to persuade me I had to allow the little critter in our house, but it still didn't make up for the fact that I would be destined to be the chief crab wrangler).

Look at all these rules!  Rules about humidity, bedding, baths or no baths, toys, friends, chlorine, molting,  even cannibalism!  All for some crustacean as big as your hand that might go belly up days before you notice it hasn't stirred in days.

One glance at the rules was enough to convince him that a dog is much better than a hermit crab, especially since your mother loves the dog and willingly cares for her.

I Still Don't Trust Michael Vick

Yeah, yeah -- Vick's paid his blah blah to blah blah, but he still hasn't built a track record to prove he's amassed any trustworthiness points.

His dogs? As blameless as they ever were, and some of the worst are prospering. Look:

 

How long will it take for me to have faith in Vick's bona fides? I'll let you know if it ever happens.

Favorites Of 2010

Recapping some of my favorite posts of 2010, because I'm not Allie Brosh* and no one else will do it for me

A List Of My Favorite Posts From 2010
Which Should Carry Exactly As Much Weight As
When The Waitress Confides Her Favorite Menu Items
But It's My Blog So If You Don't Like It Get Your Own Blog

In January, there was the time I bargained for that dress.  Remember when I bargained for the dress?  It's a cute dress.  In fact, I'm wearing it right now.  I'm a bit concerned that if I don't praise the dress while wearing it, it might rise up and throttle me as I doze with my face pressed into the keyboard and unintentionally type hgyhygggggggggggggg: In This Economy, Retailers Are Smart To Bargain.

In February, the car broke down due to an electrical malfunction which had absolutely nothing to do with my leaving the lights on, which I did because the warning dinger didn't ding because there was an electrical malfunction (see above): Is There Ever A Convenient Time For The Car To Break Down? (Hint: there isn't).

In March, the entire airport broke down, which again was not my fault and furthermore had nothing to do with electrical malfunctions or electricity of any kind.  Except maybe lightning: Weather Disruptions Worked In Lindsay Vonn's Favor...

In April, we touched on the colors of travel (hint: there's lots of blue): Blue Is The Color Of Heaven

In May, I had some advice for the varmint population in our yard on how to appear less blockheaded: Letters of Advice.

In June, Robespierre became a Bar Mitzvah.  I wrote a lot about the subject (you try throwing a Bar Mitzvah without raving even while sleeping); here is one of my favorite posts on the subject: Superhero Or Super Villain -- Choose Wisely.

In July, I Shot An Elephant In My Pajamas, which degenerated into an existential discussion of grammar. With this post I received one of my favorite comments of all time from Ivan Toblog: Written, your statement would have to say something like, "Don't use that spoon. I killed a fly with it."

In August, I did some reading: More Of What I've Been Reading Lately.

In September, some of us got stuck in the mud.  Fortunately, we got out and lived to tell the tale: Sorry We Weren't In Touch Last Weekend. We Were Swamped.

In October, I discussed why cell phones rock: Why I LOOOOVE My Cell Phone.

In November, I unveiled my FeeFiFoto Fundraising program: Need To Raise Money For Your Organization? Here's My Proposal.

In December, I remembered that I forgot to have the sprinklers turned off before the first freeze: My Mistake.

*Of Hyperbole and a Half.  Last year I compared myself to Dooce but I don't like Dooce and never have, so I'm happy to be able to compare myself (heh) to someone I admire instead.

Do you have a favorite 2010 post?  Of mine?

Meet My New (Best?) Friend

Meet Suddie, (one of) the cutest and bestest Tibetan Terriers on the planet.  She lives in Central Illinois, where she presumably makes good use of the typical TT snowshoe paws and heavy, hairy coat.  We met across a crowded room internet when she landed in my parallel universe blog, which I haven't updated or even visited in umpteen and a half years, except for when I sneak in the back door to plagiarize my own work and post it here, thus making it appear as if I've been writing when actually I've been doing crossword puzzles or taking naps.

Suddie found me, which proves that not all Tibetan Terriers have pretend noses, as I've always suspected since concluding that Miss Puppy couldn't find a piece of cheese on the floor unless it hit her in the face on the way down; either that or she disdains picking up food from the floor, since she scatters her chow all around her bowl and then cries when it's empty instead of picking up the kibble from the floor.

Here's a link to Suddie's blog, and here are the ground rules for visiting:

1. Check in and take a look at the stack of puppies on the right side of the home page
2. Squeee as desired
3. Agree that Tibetan Terriers are the yummiest, sweetest, funniest, cuddliest and yes, bestest dogs on the planet
4. Repeat as necessary

Wordless Wednesday: I Wouldn't Want To Meet This Kitteh In A Dark Alley

Look At This Face

How could one not love it? 

Some facts about Tibetan Terriers:

• Apparently they're not really terriers; they were called terriers by the first westerners to meet them because their size was similar to most real terriers.  Miss Puppy, however, is as stubborn as any legitimate terrier.
• Having been developed in the snowy mountains of Tibet, they boast disproportionately large feet that serve as snowshoes.  Miss Puppy uses hers to swipe contraband from the kitchen counter.
• They're highly clever and resourceful.  Miss Puppy figured out how to pull open the fence and how to twist the handle on the water valve in the yard to get herself a drink.
• They are extremely good natured and tolerant.  Miss Puppy lets us fiddle with her ears, her tail, her food, her feet, all without complaint or protest.

Every day I make a point of kissing that sweet snout at least once.  She's my Little Person.

Pluses And Minuses: Things We Like And Dislike About Our Neighbors

Advantages and disadvantages to living behind a high school:

• We have a gigantic field at our fingertips (foottips?) for walking the dog, flying a kite or kicking a soccer ball -- a distinct plus when your genuine yard comprises moss, moles and mud.
• The school staff objects when we use their grass -- something about the dog making a mess, I don't know, but really -- if they didn't want us to use their grass then they shouldn't have grass, right?  If we owned a cow we'd definitely be setting it out to graze there.
• Miss Puppy thinks that every time students are yelling in the playing field, they're summoning her to come out, race up and down the fence perimeter and woof at them.

• Sooner or later Miss Puppy overexerts herself chasing her imaginary friends, plunks down and sleeps it off.  This makes me look like a good and attentive parent who actually walks her dog.
• Students, teachers, lawn maintenance individuals frequently throw their trash over the fence into our yard since, apparently, even though the yard contains a house that from time to time has lights on, as well as a clamorous dog, no one actually lives here so no one will mind if you throw your Capri Sun pouch over the fence.
• We can throw our own trash onto their side of the fence and leave it for them to collect.

RELAX -- we don't.  We're composters -- we don't litter.  Geesh.

Anyone have anything else to add?  What are the advantages to your neighborhood?

Suspended For Inactivity

You know how department stores will call you if someone tries to use your credit card after it's been idle for a certain amount of time to make sure the Terminix man wasn't snooping through your desk drawers while ostensibly treating your house for weasels or carpenter ants?

You know how some gift cards expire if you don't use them before a certain date because the stores are counting on your forgetting the cards so they get to keep your money without having to surrender services or merchandise in exchange?

That reminds me -- I'd better schedule that pedicure soon...

Well, guess what?  BlogHer just sent me a plaintive note wondering where I've been and politely withdrawing my advertising until I post again.  But really, I have an excuse.  It might not be a good one but it's an excuse:

The bus was late.

No, that was yesterday.  Hold on...

The dog ate my blog.

No... no -- not that she wouldn't try, but she's actually been on good behavior lately, if you ignore the recently shredded purple Ugg*.

Bar Mitzvah. 

Yeah, that's the ticket.  This Bar Mitzvah has had me busier than a one-armed man trying to paddle a canoe in a straight line. I've been busier than a termite in a sawmill.  I've been busier than a one-armed man trying to pitch a tent in a wind storm.

Hellooo?  Anyone out there?  I know you're there -- I can hear you breathing.

And, as if the Bar Mitzvah weren't enough, I was in charge of Teacher and Staff Appreciation gifts for the month of May at Cupcake's school and I chose to give 77 people each two 750 ml bottles of Pellegrino  sparkling water, which adds up to 156 bottles in thirteen 30-pound cases of twelve; each bottle had a ribbon and a mushy note tied around its neck, which took a month to accomplish, and then I had to deliver the bottles around a school comprising six three-story buildings equipped with precisely zero elevators, which is why the next time I tackle Teacher Appreciation the gift will entail an unsharpened pencil or a handful of feathers for each teacher although why they'd want feathers I don't know but it's enough already with shlepping 390 pounds of water.

So anyway BlogHer: I'm reallyreally sorry I've been ignoring you but it's nothing personal and thanks for your kind note of suspension which I totally deserved and I promise that I'll be more reliable as soon as this Bar Mitzvah has been accomplished and the kids sent off to camp exactly a week later, and while I have your attention can you do something about getting William Shatner to host Saturday Night Live?  Thanks.

*Spell Check suggested egg or fuggy and I don't know what fuggy means but I think it might be my new favorite word.

Letters of Advice

Dear Squirrel Population:

Thanks ever so much for selflessly furnishing an abundance of oak tree volunteers which will, in the next decade or so and at no cost, replace the many mature trees in my yard that will inevitably fall, although I hope not on the garage while the kids or I are in the car.  Might I offer a suggestion, however, to facilitate your future acorn-burying and retrieval protocol?

Next fall, when acorns are plop-plop-plopping to the ground and you're amassing and hiding them as if you were Jesse James stashing loot, why not make a mental note of where you're putting them?  This way, you (or your relatives if you happen to be eaten by a hawk, but we won't discuss that) will be able to find them next spring and they won't be blooming into hundreds of tiny oaklets right next to my sidewalk or house foundations.

I know you must have a lot on your little squirrley minds right now, what with the kids clamoring that they're bored and there's nothing to eat in the nest, so I've come up with a tool that might help you keep track of your groceries.

Why not try a few of these:

Or, if you prefer a more graphic reminder, how about this:

I can provide Sharpies in any color you choose.

_____________________________________________________________

Dear Moles:

I know your life is hard, what with digging underground all the time without knowing where you're going and having to eat ants and worms every day, but may I intrude on the execution of your labors with a friendly observation:

You see, Moles, Miss Puppy takes her profession very seriously, which I might have thought you'd have deduced after having spent an entire day bending over a hot stove preparing Worms Bolognese for guests who never arrived, since they'd been shaken senseless out in the yard and would never eat worms again. 

My advice?  Stay out of the yard.

If you need assistance finding your way to the other side of the fence, let me know and I'll bury a couple GPS devices in the garden.  I can even mark them with Post-Its.

_____________________________________________________________

Dear Ants:

We all know you gravitate to dark, sheltered places to raise your families, so as to avoid spiders and lizards and armadillos.  And I understand you initially believed that setting up housekeeping inside the lid of my composter was a smashing idea.  But after two weeks of daily scrambling to gather up kids, pets, Grandpa and XBox every time I open the lid to dump garbage, why haven't you realized that you made a mistake in selecting the composter as your summer home?  Sometimes it's best to just cut your losses, relocate, and let the bank take over the property.

Just keep an eye out for the moles.  They have GPS.

Funeral For Four Friends

My daughter is picking violets and daffodils to bring to a funeral for four dearly departed brine shrimp named Fred, Fred, Fred and Fred, respectively, until recently the darling pets of her schoolmate. She's also prepared a carefully monogrammed cardboard gravestone bearing the following epitaph:

"R.I.P. Fred, Fred, Fred & Fred. Though their lives were short, their love was powerful.

b. 2010

d. 2010

Fred 1,2,3, & 4, we will miss you."

 

Burial will take place tomorrow at the big tree on the playground, at recess.  All the mourners are planning on wearing black, and will listen to funeral music from the chief mourner's iPod.

My Heart Was Breaking But It's Feeling Better: Finding A New Home For Our Puppy

We had to find a new home for Little Miss.

She's gorgeous.  She's small and portable.  She came whenever I called her.  She followed me around the house, planting herself contentedly beneath my feet whenever I paused.  She slept peacefully in my lap.  She gamboled cheerfully with Miss Puppy.

But -- whenever Robespierre entered the picture, she became possessed by the devil.

I get it.  Boys are noisy.  They slam doors, scramble up and down stairs, lurch into and out of chairs, fidget and twitch and bounce. 

Little Miss didn't get it.

She never managed to adjust to the fireworks that are Robey, and every day she became more unhinged whenever he was within earshot.  If anyone closed a door anywhere in the house she'd immediately panic, fearing he was about to crash around the corner.  She hid from him beneath furniture or in her cage.  When he came near her, even if just to retrieve his sneaker from under the kitchen table (where it didn't belong anyway and she was probably chewing on it, but that's a different issue), she'd bolt at him, growling and yowling.

My loaf of bread with an apostrophe tail was becoming a wolverine.

Oh, we tried.  We signed up for puppy classes.  We consulted a therapist.  We put Little Miss at Robey's mercy, hoping she'd come to accept him if he were her meal ticket.

But Robey made it clear that overhauling his agenda of at-home-boisterousness was not a viable option; short of employing tranquilizer darts, there was simply nothing I could do to force him to tiptoe from room to room as if he were trying to burgle us in the middle of the night.

I guess that's a good thing, isn't it?  My son has no future as a burglar. Now a demolitions expert... maybe.

Finally it was enough already.

Fighting the lump in my throat, I called Tibetan Terrier Rescue and explained our predicament.  I worried that my poor Little Miss was going to be bumped from place to place, never finding the forever home she deserved.  I fretted that she might end up cowering in the corner of a cage in a clamorous animal shelter, with no one to cuddle her and whisper secrets in her floppy ears.  I chafed at having to convince the Cupcake that ours was not the ideal home for Little Miss; that she'd be happier and safer in a home where she wasn't afraid of anyone; that our situation wasn't quite the same as when Harley came to live with Daisy since Harley evidently gets along with the entire family.

Camille at TTR took pity on me.  The gods of pet rescue took pity on me.  Phones were worked.  Cherubs sang.  Angels wept.  Within a week Camille found a home for Little Miss, with a childless professional couple looking for a companion for their six-year-old TT, and evidently prepared to take on a skittish rescue dog.

The kids said goodbye.  Robey sighed.  Cupcake sobbed.  I choked back tears and stole a few last cuddles and whispers.  The rescue people loaded Little Miss into a crate and transported her to her new home, where, we heard later, she played with her new friends and cuddled like a pro.

So that's it.  I learned a couple lessons.  First, the pet has to fit the family, not the other way around (so, sorry Cupcake: no bunny).  Second, no matter how hard I try to convince myself that I can force a situation into the mold I'd visualized, sometimes I simply cannot.  Third, never stand on the top step of a ladder.

Oops.  Wrong lesson.

Third, doing the right thing sometimes hurts A LOT, but in the end I have the comfort of knowing I did the right thing.

Bye, Poppy.  Best of luck.  I'll miss you.

More About Michael Vick

I can't say it any better than John Woestendiek, so just click over to ohmidog! for the entire story.  Here's the bait:

 

Do you think Michael Vick has proven remorse?

If Helen Keller Were Here, She'd Say "Water" -- Teaching With Tough Love

According to Answers.com, kennelitis is:

"Social maladjustment toward humans, seen in young dogs raised in a kennel rather than with humans."

Little Miss is eight months old, growing well, eating enthusiastically, housebreaking (fairly) well (she knows the door has something to do with it, but isn’t as clear as I’d like on which side of the door is the better choice). She gets along brilliantly with Miss Puppy. I’m not sure how they manage to run laps around the dining room attached to each other’s ears, but they seem to have worked out a system.

On the down side, she expends an inordinate amount of energy growling at, charging, and even biting (yes, biting) Robespierre.

As you would expect, Robey is a little put out about this; he wants to be friends with everyone, and he’s also not fond of that part about biting.

When we first picked up Little Miss she was shy, understandably. Destined for a puppy mill, she'd spent her childhood confined to a cage. The cage was all she'd ever known.  She curled up in the back seat of our car in the tiniest ball she could contrive, huddling in the lap of one child or the other for the entire five hour ride home.  She gravitated to her new cage at home instantly; she'd hide there and we'd have to drag her out to eat or go potty. We had to teach her to play, the purpose of a toy, to accept a treat. After a few weeks she became relentlessly devoted to me, moving to plunk down near me whenever I moved from room to room.  The contrast between her clinginess and Miss Puppy's runawayism was refreshing.

After we’d had her about a month, she began to become agitated whenever Robey entered the room. She’d bark furiously and scramble to cower under the nearest chair or table, preferably close to me. Eventually she’d growl and yowl if she even heard him moving around in his room, opening a door, climbing the stairs. About a month ago she bit him for the first time.

Robey was shocked and insulted. Here was this cute little puff, charging at him and trying to take a chunk out of his arm. After the third biting incident, he demanded I get rid of her.

I couldn't really blame him.

I called Gary Don’t-You-Dare-Call-Me-Dog-Whisperer. He pinpointed the problem instantly. Puppies  raised in kennels without human contact can be very skittish around strangers, especially boys and men.  Even if the puppies get no human contact other than a daily visit from the person who brings their food, that person is usually a woman, and the puppies grow up nervous and fearful around male humans.  Once the optimal first few weeks of life have transpired with no meaningful human interaction, these puppies are likely to become spooked by new people or environments.

It didn’t help that Robespierre conducts himself with something less than the grace of a ballerina.  He crashes. He wrestles.  He slams.  His decibility and sudden movements unnerved Little Miss more every day. It also didn’t help that Robey hoisted Little Miss onto his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, as he does with Miss Puppy. Miss Puppy doesn’t mind, or if she does mind she doesn’t let on. She lets Robey tote her and swing her around with the joy of a toddler being thrown into the air, or at least the resignation of a someone being paid a lot of money to get shot out of a cannon. 

Little  Miss?  Freakout City.  Hence, the growling, charging and biting.

Gary was clear and adamant.  We had to take the Helen Keller approach.

Everyone knows the story of Helen Keller: unkempt, undisciplined preteen, whose parents could not control her.

Well, that's a universal story, isn't it?

Anyway -- Helen was blind and deaf, and extremely spoiled by a family that simply didn't know what to do with her.  They hired a teacher, Annie Sullivan, to try to civilize Helen; Miss Sullivan's solution was to take Helen away to a cottage near her home and tame her by rendering Helen completely dependent on her.  If Helen didn't behave appropriately, she wouldn't be fed.

And that's what Gary insisted we had to do with Robespierre and Little Miss.  From now on, if Little Miss wants to eat, she has to take her food directly from Robey's hand.  If she refuses to approach him, she goes hungry until the next meal time.  To sweeten the deal, we mix her dry food with a little bit of canned food, which no dog has ever been able to resist.

Is it working?  Well, let's consider...

• Although still skittish, Little Miss has not protested the new rule, and hasn't missed a meal yet.
• She has, however, had to wait for a couple breakfasts until Robespierre could drag himself out of bed.
• Robey's totally grossed out at having to handle dog food.  
• Now that Robey's away at camp, the entire experiment has been put on hold until he returns.

Oh, and he's not allowed to grab her and throw her around any more.

My Ankle's A Little Bit Sprainy: Klutzing

But this time it's not my fault.  I was in the yard, talking on the phone and pulling weeds, while the dogs played playfully and picturesquely at my feet.  The chase commenced, and they leaped for each other but instead of catching each other, they crashed into me simultaneously and, moreover, at the same time.  Now, I know they're small dogs, but their combined weight is more than 50 pounds; meanwhile their velocity was like this:

Do I have to tell you what happened?  Do I have to explain the laws of physics?  Do I have to illustrate the result of the chance encounter of immovable objects and irresistible forces?  please don't make me please don't make me please don't make me

 

The LOOK harmless, don't they?

Don't Know What I've Done To Deserve This

I've been highlighted by FishHawk.  Must be  slow news day ;).  Seriously, thanks FH.

Oh, and by the way -- as long as I'm here, Happy 3d Birthday Miss Puppy.  We're glad you're part of our family.

A Loaf Of Bread With An Apostrophe Tail: Getting To Know The New Puppy

Before Robespierre was born I visualized him: what he'd look like, what kind of baby he'd be, whether I could ever forgive him for causing me so much relentless pain and nausea.  After he came along I worried about whether I understood him, whether I'd bonded with him appropriately, whether I'd recognize him if he were stirred into a huge bowl 'o' babies.

As I worried and fretted about bonding, we bonded.  I assimilated every pudgy finger and toe; the feel of his shiny, golden curls; the bells I heard ringing whenever he smiled that gummy grin.  I learned his idiosyncrasies, his uniquenesses, his rhythms and habits.  I knew what made him smile, laugh, settle down.

Before the Cupcake came along, I visualized her -- as another Robey.  In my imagination she looked and acted exactly like her brother, and my worries about her usually had something to do with what effect she'd have on him.  After two years of days, and closets, dominated by manly blue clothing (all right, the velour sleeper with the duck feet bordered on the ridiculous, but at least it was blue) I was shocked every time I saw the closet filled with pink and lavender.

I learned her too.  I discovered her sleeping and eating patterns; her dimpled elbows; her smoochable cheeks; her ways of dealing with triumph and frustration; her brown hair and hazel eyes that in no way resembled her brother's.

How silly I was.  How silly to think that my kids would be as alike as Oreos, when really they were as different as banana bread and apple pie (sorry -- did I take that metaphor too far?).  There's no denying they're related; there's no doubt they adore each other (even when they fight); still, how foolish I was to believe that they'd turn out exactly the same.

By the same token, how silly of me to believe that our new puppy would channel her adoptive sister.

When Miss Puppy first arrived she'd hippity hop at the end of her leash, lunging to nip at our ankles and shins; when we walked her we looked like a clumsy version of Riverdance.  I finally had to resort to spraying her in the face with citronella, which our dog trainer SWORE would not hurt her (it didn't) but would very effectively gain her attention (it did).

Little Miss?  Walks placidly at the end of her leash, no pulling, always to my right.  Good thing PetsMart was out of the citronella stuff when we bought puppy supplies, because I'd just have had to return it.  Ditto the Gentle Leader: Miss Puppy never leaves the house without it (unless she's running away), while Little Miss has never needed it (so far, anyway).

Miss Puppy runs away from me.  Little Miss runs toward me whenever I call.

Miss Puppy likes to wrestle and grab my wrists in her teeth.  Little Miss can barely make herself lick my hand.

Miss Puppy greets strangers with the enthusiasm of a real estate agent.  Little Miss runs toward me.

Little Miss was born in a puppy mill, the offspring of purebred champions who were mistakenly sold to people who wanted only breeding stock.  She spent the first five months of her life in a cage.  By the time she made it to our house, she'd had almost no socialization, and it's going to take her a while to adjust to our home and family.  After two weeks with us she's devoted to me but still suspicious of the kids and strangers.  Miss Puppy, on the other hand, began life as the center of attention and remained so after she came to us.  She has self esteem to spare, and it shows.  Once again I've been duped, and I can blame only myself.  I was all prepared for Miss Puppy, Part II; instead I have Little Miss: The Beginning.

You'd think I'd have learned my lesson with the kids.

SOO Proud Of My Puppy: Dog Training And The End Of The School Year

After less than two weeks with us Little Miss has learned to sit down in front of me or the door to let me know she wants to go outside.  When I ask if she wants to go potty she wags her little piglet tail and then dances for the door.

She's still a little shy, which can certainly be forgiven for a tiny creature who spent the first six months of her life in a cage, but she's getting better.

In other news, the end of the school year is nigh, which means:

• Field Day this past Monday: the kids and I spent much of Mother's Day slicing 20 watermelons and piling them in huge buckets with ice
• Band Concert Tuesday night: Cupcake and I rushed to a craft store in between dropping Robey off and the start of the concert to pick up dolphin stickers for the...
• Animal Research Expo: Cupcake researched and wrote about the albino bottlenose dolphin
• Band Banquet and Sleepover: my choices are to pick up Robey between midnight and 1 am on Friday night, or by 6 am on Saturday.  Which would you choose?
• Author Rick Riordan's book tour visit to our public library to read from his latest book.  This event occurs contemporaneously with the previous event, at opposite ends of town.
• Girls On The Run: Cupcake is running with my sister because hello?  I don't run.
• Three baseball games in a row: Saturday morning, right after the band sleepover; Sunday after Girls on the Run; Monday evening after school
• Robespierre's 12th birthday.  My baby!  My baby's turning 12!
• Third Grade Market Day: Cupcake and her partner are manufacturing and selling cardboard keychains in exchange for 3rd grade scrip
• Third Grade End-of-Year Party: we're holding a car wash; the kids (dressed modestly, I pray) will be washing parent and faculty cars out in the parking lot and then sloshing popsickles.

And you were wondering why I've been out of touch?

Then What Happened? Klutziness And Mudpies Don't Mix

Clues, Round I

• It's been raining here for two days.
• Our new puppy weighs about 18 pounds, on her way to a maximum of about 30.
• Little Miss is more attached to me so far than to either of the kids.
• The bars of our fence are set approximately six inches apart.
• Our yard is trying to revert to its natural state; clover, moss, ferns, hostas and liriope are gradually filling in some of the mud patches.
• The house is well lit, but the yard is not.
• Miss Puppy's hobby is digging for moles.
• Robespierre sometimes frequently usually lets his impulses get the better of him.
• Robey never wants to go to bed.
• I write a blog.

Have you figured out what happened yet?  Anyone?  No?

Clues, Round II

• Because of the rain and the attempted return to a more natural state, our yard is very muddy.
• The puppy can fit through the fence bars, so she has to be walked on a leash at all times.
• Little Miss will go potty only if accompanied by me; the kids just distract her.
• There are holes all over our yard, thanks to Miss Puppy's campaign to catch her own pet mole.
• Robey spent an hour today expanding one of Miss Puppy's most impressive mole excavation projects, against his my anyone's better judgment.
• The yard is very dark at night so it's hard to see where you're walking, but really -- why would you be wandering around a dark back yard late at night?
• Robey is usually still up until I drag myself to bed.
• I write a blog.

Anybody?

I know you're out there -- I can hear you breathing.

No?

Setup

• Late at night. I want to get ready for bed.  Robespierre is still awake.  Little Miss needs to go potty.  We can't just let her out into the yard because she might squeeze through the fence bars and get lost.  Robey takes her out on the leash but she keeps trying to come back in.  After three attempts he wants to give up so I go outside with them and take the leash.  She and I and Robey make figure eights around the muddy yard.  I have to concentrate on her to make sure she actually goes.
• I write a blog.

Have you figured it out yet?

Here's one more clue:

 

Come on -- you know...

Solution

I stepped in a hole.  A deep hole filled with mud and water.  I didn't see it because it was dark, and I was concentrating on Little Miss.  Completely grossed out, I handed the leash to Robespierre and squished inside. 

And, because I write a blog, the first thing I did when I came inside was -- what? 

Thaaat's right -- I snapped a photo so I could write about it.

...................................................................................................................

But wait -- I'm not finished.  I bet you've already figured out what happened next.

 

And because I write a blog, you now know the whole story.

You're welcome.