Window Treatments

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When you just want to get a few Zs, sometimes it helps to close your window treatments. Make the room as dark as possible, #amirite?

Or maybe you just want to shield your eyes from the horrific political commercials? Why are these people so darn angry? I just don’t need that kind of immature and uncaring behavior in my life. A sumptuous crunchable and quality window treatments … that’s all you really need … well, that and avoiding rusted metals at all costs.

Sometimes Camping Stings

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That’s what contempt looks like. Contempt for “Vespula Vulgaris” … the “common wasp”.

Here’s the story. Mom and Dad decide to go camping. Oh, finally, FINALLY we’re going to have some fun, after a record warm summer with more than fifty (50) days with high temperatures above 110 degrees. We drive north to Flagstaff. Set up. A cold front blows through and now we’re bundled up around a fire with temperatures in the 30s. Still cozy inside the RV. All in all, I’m happy to be out in nature, even if we’re experiencing a 70 degree temperature swing, #amirite?

The mercury rises all the way up to around 60 degrees the next day. By late morning, I’m sitting in my lawn chair, enjoying life, when I hear something buzzing around me.

It’s “Vespula Vulgaris”.

I’m just annoyed enough to take a bite out of this buzzer. I chomp, he evades, then I chomp again and he evades. On his third lap around my head, I chomp and this time I’VE GOT HIM!!

In my mouth.

I should warn you, this is the point in the story where the plot blows wide open.

This little buzzer, oh I don’t know, maybe he was worried I’d swallow him or something, he tries to make a run for it back out of my mouth. Just as I’m trying to squeeze him between my molars, he gets to my lip, and as I close down again HE STINGS ME.

HE STINGS ME.

Uncomfortably, I might add.

Mom takes me into the RV, evaluates my mouth, and pulls a stinger out of my lip.

For the next few hours, I throbbed in pain, with a non-symmetric lip.

From there, I kinda lost interest in camping. I mean, our setup was sweet, but the attack by the murder hornet put a real stain on what could have been a fulfilling and relaxing mid-week vacation.

So we headed home. The haze of California wild fires accelerated our unload.

In a different world, a warmer world, maybe wildfire embers and ambers will singe the hindquarters of “Vespula Vulgaris”, allowing my vacation to proceed unfettered. Sometimes camping stings. This was one of those times.

Cuddles

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There are five key periods in any summer day. Today is no exception … with a high temperature of 115 degrees, indoor events and routine are a must.

Here we go.

Period #1 = Morning Muncher. Mom gets home from Pickleball, she showers, and then it is her duty to sit with me and cuddle for an hour or two until we get to lunch.

Period #2 = Post-Lunch Cuddle. This cuddle is all about a change of scenery. I hang out with Dad on the couch, sleeping next to him. My legs adhere to his thigh, allowing me to sense his every possible movement (of which none are permissible).

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Period #3 = COOKIE TRUCK! This happens late in the afternoon, typically daily, when Andy delivers a case of wine to the home.

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Period #4 = Pre-Dinner Cuddle:  This one is with Mom in her office. We execute the cuddle in anticipation of a full evening of … wait for it … wait for it … cuddling!!

Period #5 = Evening Cuddle!  Following dinner, Mom and Dad will watch quarantine-approved programming, while I cuddle and await the end of the day.

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Until summer relents … and that’s a good 10-11 weeks away … this the life I’ve prescribed for Mom/Dad. It’s not like I can be out walking around when the pavement temperature reading is north of a hundred and forty degrees, so a routine filled with cuddles is, in my opinion, both necessary and pleasant, #amirite?

Butterflies

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It’s Summer, which means it is corn-on-the-cob season. A buttery, salty delight designed specifically to destroy your colon, you can enjoy it cobbed, creamed, popped … even blended into air-fryer infused fritters.

Dad will go to the grocery store and buy a four-pack of cobs … boil ’em up and then just sit there and gorge himself on ’em. Not a flattering view of the old man, but I’m not here to sugar coat his image, #amirite?

Speaking of the grocery store … this guy got some broccoli at his local Tesco and next thing you know he’s harvesting a veritable plethora of caterpillars. Click here to enjoy his journey, as the caterpillars eventually become gorgeous butterflies.

Getting Along

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I’m just tired of one third of the population hating another third of the population. How is that acceptable? Love your neighbor as yourself? Maybe in the Bible, but not in the United States of America.

I’d share more, but I’m just a dog and my thoughts are somewhat limited.

We can find a way to coexist with our perceived enemies, #amirite?

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700 Sleeps

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Now, there’s rumor of a vaccine being available as early as Spring 2021, so maybe we only have 270 sleeps to go.

My life has been reduced to limited gatherings and long-distant gazes. Who am I gazing at here?

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Vigilance confirms empty streets are still the norm, #amirite?

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So I wait … and wait … and wait … for the opportunity to “do something”.

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Spring Cleaning

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In a perilous world filled with pontification and infection we need compassion. And we need more of ME … #amirite?

The mobile groomer floofed me for the trying times we currently inhabit. It was a Spring Cleaning for the ages. If there were any hideous coronavirus cells on me it was soaped off and rinsed.

The only thing infectious about me is my charming personality.

Social Distancing

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All. By. Myself. Don’t wanna be. All. By. Myself.

I don’t get it. This used to be a vibrant community. But lately there’s nobody to be seen.

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Mom and Dad are home all the time. I like that, but what I also like is people who want to spend time with me. People love me, #amirite?

So here I sit.

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In these times, we have to be neighborly to each other. We can’t discriminate against our neighbors.

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Dad says we need to employ “Social Distancing”. We need to not see people, maybe for months. I think the world loses out when the world doesn’t get to see me growl at the big poodle that waltzes by every day.

Stay safe … you’ll be able to pet me again around July 4.

Next Time, I’m Gonna ……..

Hello, it’s me!!

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That’s me (and Mom’s scar from her broken wrist from September) … and a nommed-on crunchable … waiting to get a crack at today’s renewal of the Barn Hunt tradition. For just $25 you get two minutes (that’s 120 full seconds) in the ring to test your mettle.

I’m now down 2.5 pounds from my peak weight (that would be comparable to a 180 pound person losing 18 pounds), slender enough to navigate the twists and turns offered by a pen of straw, ramps, tunnels, and … wait for it … wait for it … a RAT IN A TUBE HIDDEN BY STRAW!!!

All I had to do was climb the ramp, fully navigate the tunnel, and identify where the rat was hiding.

Of course, they let the experienced pups in the “Open” division go first. Frank and I waited, and waited, and waited for our turn.

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I like to chat with fellow competitors. You know, obtain tips, compare pee mail, that kind of thing.  You talk to the corgis and assorted breeds because of the TENSION. This competition is so important, so filled with pressure, that you have to do something to take your mind off of the task at hand.

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And then … and then … they make an announcement.

  • “YOUR ATTENTION PLEASE … WOULD NOVICE COMPETITORS IN FLIGHT ONE PLEASE REPORT TO THE STAGING AREA … THANK YOU.”

The crowd literally rises to their feet (seriously), in large part because our “handlers” have to walk us over to this area where we cannot see the pen where we will compete. We can have no advanced knowledge of where the RAT is hidden, none.

There are (of course) a series of restrictive rules designed to enhance the competition.

  • No smart phone for Dad.
  • No watch for Dad
  • Aside – it was at this point that Dad nearly passed out from not being plugged into the Matrix for a few minutes.
  • Dad could not touch me.
  • Dad could not touch the bales of hay.
  • Dad could not get on his hands/knees and encourage me.
  • Dad could not nudge me into the tunnel.
  • Dad could not block exit from the tunnel.
  • Dad could not order a delivery pizza while I was in the tunnel.

I was scheduled to go out fourth in the first flight. One by one, they called us out. At about 3:00pm in the afternoon, it was my turn to delight the crowd.

Now, if you are reading this via email, I beg you to watch the video on the website … just visit https://dashthedachshund.com/ and check out my full two-minute experience.

RIVETING … #amirite??

It took nearly five hours from leaving the house to getting into the ring … and it was all over in two minutes.

Ok, let’s clear up the controversy, because you likely saw that I spent a considerable amount of time gazing at the official in the ring. This didn’t happen because I was stupid, it happened because she must have had something in her pockets that I wanted to eat. I don’t think I’d just flush 40 seconds down the tubes for no good reason.

I nailed the tunnel.

I nailed the ramp.

This is where there was a difference in opinion.

Dad said I (again) did not show sufficient knowledge of the location of the RAT. I most certainly did show sufficient knowledge of the location of the RAT. I’m a dog, after all, and I’m under no obligation to point at the RAT or paw at the RAT or anything else. I simply walked past it, silently acknowledged presence of the RAT, and moved on.

Because Dad didn’t call out RAT (“again” … mind you, he did this to me back in December), I was notified that I FLUNKED the test.

From what I understand, the judges (the Russian judge in particular) demand that I pass the test THREE TIMES before I move on to Open Competition.

I’m 0 for 2.

But I don’t feel bad about that. In the staging area, a woman told my Dad that her dog was 0 for 20 (yes, 0 for 20).

So I’m ok. I don’t get a participation trophy, but I do get the satisfaction of being two-thirds of the way through the Novice level, a full third of the distance more than I achieved back in December.

Before leaving, I received something better than a participation trophy … I received “CONGRATULATIONS”.

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We packed up the car, and we headed for home.

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In the late 1970s, the Houston Oilers (or so I’m told) advanced to the AFC Championship Game two times, both times losing to the Pittsburgh Steelers. The head coach at the time had this to say about his team:

  • “One year ago, we knocked on the door. This year, we beat on the door. Next year, we’re going to kick the son of a b*$#? in.”

In December, I knocked on the door.

In February, I beat on the door.

Next time, I’m going to …………

 

P.S.: The head coach of the Houston Oilers never kicked the you-know-what in. He was fired a year later.