LifePundit

We Are Safe from Possums

Parker, the dog that the Animal Protection League didn't think we should have (or any other dog), works very hard at keeping us safe. He's an extremely submissive and cowardly dog, but he loves us enough to defend us from squirrels and possums.

He also barks at friends who come to visit. But he would never, ever get near one without our permission. And coaxing.

Last night while I was blissfully sleeping I was unaware that our lives were being threatened by a possum. I'm not sure what dastardly plan this possum had in mind -- I think he was after the dog food, which Parker won't eat because, well, Parker was a stray and only likes people and cat food. Dog food is his last resort. Anyway, for whatever reason, there was a possum in the bushes. Lurking. Waiting to kill us all while we slept.

At least that's what Parker told me when I came out at 1:30 to see if I could get him to Shut Up Before I Have To Speak Harshly to You and threaten never to give you leftovers again. Parker was so excited to see me, to demonstrate in person his total effectiveness in defending our household from a possum.

Of course, I didn't know if it was a possum, snake, terrorist, raccoon or rabid fox. I didn't know if it was anything at all. Maybe Parker imagined a burglar. He kept barking. The horses came up to the fence. They started snorting, which gave me confirmation that Parker was not Making This Up. The horses knew there was an intruder. The question was, what kind?

So I went back to bed. He kept barking, so I came back out again. This time I could hear a rustle in the bushes so I knew where to look. By this time Buddy and Lucy decided that 2:00 a.m. was a fine time to start whinnying for breakfast, so they are making a ruckus snorting at the bushes and whinnying at me, and Parker can't stop barking. Tiger the cat shows up. Tiger always shows up. He isn't alarmed or even interested. He just wonders if maybe there is food involved, since the horses seem to think so.

With my flashlight I spot the Evildoer. The possum. As ugly a creature as you have seen, eyes glazed over, sprawled out in the bushes. I couldn't decide whether I should take him to the vet, shoot him or bring him a sweet potato to eat.

I guessed he was playing possum since he was still but breathing. Good job of it, too. I tried to chase him off, so Parker would finally Shut Up but he wasn't budging though I could see his teeth, which made me keep my distance. Me and my hollow little possum-shooing stick that didn't shoo the possum at all. It is very unlikely that Parker ever sunk a tooth into him, as that would have meant Parker would have had to get near him. Parker isn't a risk taker.

Parker has different barks for different visitors, neighbors and the farrier. He can hear the farrier arrive at the neighbor's barn, and gives his special farrier bark. When the farrier is leaving the neighbor's to come to our house, Parker barks that special farrier bark again and I know to quit work and go downstairs to catch the horses.

I should have known it was his possum bark. But it was Halloween. Maybe there was a goblin come looking for my MIL.

We did get robbed once when we weren't home. We're convinced Parker's constant barking (he wouldn't dare bite scary people) made the thieves leave quickly.

We weren't so lucky with the possum. If I'd had my wits about me, I would have brought the dog inside and let the possum do whatever the possum came to do. I didn't have my wits. It was 2:00 a.m.

In spite of everyone clamoring to be fed (horses and cat), I came inside, stuck in some ear plugs and went back to sleep. I hope he didn't bother the neighbors -- we have a reasonable distance between houses.

The possum was nowhere to be seen this morning. Parker was so proud.

Good dog?

Ellen DeGeneres isn't the Only One Not Fit to Have a Dog

Ellen DeGeneres isn't the only one with dog adoption problems. I would be sick of this story if I hadn't had a similar experience myself.

You see, I'm the sort of person the Animal Protection League doesn't want to have a dog. I'm not fit to own a dog, according to them.

Here's how it went: Lily and I went to their shelter looking for a dog. We were seated in plastic chairs and interviewed. I told them that we would take a puppy or a mature dog, as long as it was good with children. I described where we lived (four acres in the country) and how the dog would live in a fenced-in yard. The woman said, "I have just the dog for you" and went to get said dog.

She stopped by a desk to speak with a younger woman with a pierced navel. Then she came back with no dog.

"I'm sorry," she said. "You cannot have a dog."

"Excuse me?"

"We will not let you have one of our dogs. You will keep it outside," she said. I was flabbergasted. And offended. These people think I am not good enough to have a stray dog! I will refrain from describing these folks' physical appearances, but let's just say they were not an impressive or highly bathed lot.

As I was getting in my car, the younger woman with the pierced belly button approached me. "I hope you're not offended," she said. "It's not personal."

"Come again?" I said.

"I know that YOU PEOPLE DOWN HERE think that it's all right to keep a dog in the yard," she said, "but many of the dogs we rescue come from yard situations."

We were standing next to a wire pen crowded with dogs leaping at the fence for attention. There was no grass in the pen. It had all been worn away. Just dirt and leaping dogs.

"You mean to tell me that you think these dogs stuck here in this pen are better off than a dog would be on my grassy four acres?" I said. "A dog who'd get all the attention and love of one family, proper vet care and lots of room for playing?"

"Yes," she answered. "These dogs are better off here." I got in my car and left. I was almost shaking with rage.

There's a part two of this story. One day as  I was driving out of my driveway, a giant German Shepherd came out of nowhere and chased my cat into the bushes. I started honking the horn, trying to scare the dog and get the attention of the owner, who was jogging but did not have the dog on a leash. I yelled out of the window, "Get your dog away from my cat!"

The woman jogged up to where I was. I recognized the face and the pierced belly button. It was the idiot who told me I couldn't have a dog. It was an idiot jogging with a giant dog and no leash. She knows a lot about dogs, I guess.

"Get your dog off of my cat!" I screamed. The dog was closing in on the terrified cat. He was in my front yard, chasing my cat.

"That's okay," she said. "I'm a volunteer at the Animal Protection League and he goes there all the time. He loves cats."

"My cat doesn't know that, so please put your dog on a leash," I demanded. She called the dog and went on by. I don't think it ever occurred to her that she had traumatized my cat. She had her own view of the world. She's the only one who knows anything about animal welfare. Must be a pretty comfortable place up there in her empty head.

I was outraged and almost wrote an op-ed about the Animal Protection League for the paper. A bunch of arrogant, self-righteous kooks. Though I will say that time has passed and perhaps they are different. Still, I will never go out there to find out, and they can be sure that they'll be getting no donations from me.

Yes, Ellen DeGeneres signed a contract. It was a stupid contract written by arrogant, self-righteous kooks. Who should not be murdered for being arrogant, self-righteous kooks, by the way.

If they really loved animals, they would give a dog to a mother and a daughter with good references and four grassy acres. If they really loved animals, they would let Ellen's former dog stay with the hairdresser's family. But what they love the most is their power and their belief in their own omnipotent understanding of what is best for a stray dog. Or a hotly pursued, terrified cat.

By the way, we did get a dog. Immediately after getting rejected by the Animal Protection League. I called my vet and his receptionist had a dog her sister had found on the Interstate. He is a wonderful dog and loves his grassy four acres, where he can race after squirrels, play with his stuffed squeaky lamb and get pushed around by Tiger, the bossy cat. His name is Parker and Paul is teaching him to say "Aruba" so we can go on David Letterman and win a trip. Here's a photo of him from a couple of years ago.

How to Undo What's Been Done

I'd like to make the statement that there are very few mistakes you can make in life that can't be undone, but that's not true. You can drive drunk and kill somebody. You can say words that can't be unsaid. You can abuse your body and fry your liver. Etc. While these things can't be undone, they can be forgiven. You can find redemption and freedom in prison, in cancer, in all kinds of duress and loss.

But there are those things that can't be undone and for which there is no forgiveness. I'm talking about Microsoft products.

A few years ago I did the most fabulous job of tracking and managing my finances (such a fancy word for small change) using MS Money. Then, one day, I accidentally downloaded the data from one bank account into the wrong Money account. This action could not be undone. It could not be reversed. It could not be forgotten, forgiven, redeemed or corrected. Maybe you could have done it, but I doubt it. My beautiful bookkeeping was suddenly a boogered up mess. I quit, defeated and scarred for life.

Now, after using MS Word almost since it came out, I have accidentally hit some key sequence that no longer allows me to highlight words and then overtype them. I can put my settings on overtype, but then everything overtypes. So I switch back to insert.  I guess I will learn to hit the delete key after highlighting, but I'm almost tempted to go get a Mac and see if that's as great as people claim.

Almost tempted. But then I'd have to figure out all my passwords and things that are stored on this computer.

Yes, I know it will die one day and I will be in Big Trouble. Been there, done that. My reward will be a new word-processing program that just might stay consistent. Of course by then I'll be trained to delete before typing....

Big Sexy Hair

This is a rant, not an ad. Here is a link to the product but I don't think I'll get credit because I'm just set up for books and don't know how to make this a book. But since Lori needs some, I thought maybe the rest of you would like to know where to get the Big Sexy stuff.

I cannot operate my hair. I am not gifted in hair, though I am good at growing hair. I hear that my hair grows fast.

I wish I could somehow take advantage of this. Get a job growing hair. Actually, my great aunt had The Longest Hair in the World and was in Ripley's Believe It or Not sideshow during the Depression. This is the inspiration for my novel that does not yet exist.

But that's not the point of this post. I'm going to rant about hair products here.

My "do" is supposed to be sort of fluffy on top. My hairdresser achieves this with a product called "Big Sexy Hair." (I thought Big Hair was out.) Since I cannot operate hair, I bought said Big Sexy Hair for my very own use. Some days my hair looks good. Some days my hair looks like I've had a riding hat on it. Even when I haven't. At no point does it look like Big Sexy Hair. I'm not sure I want it to look like Big Sexy Hair. Isn't that very 1980s?

We have a friend who kept her Big Hair well into the '90s. One day she went to the hairdresser and came back with Small Hair. She looked smashing. We all told her so, hoping she would take the hint. She said, "Nope. My hair is too dinky."

Too dinky. First time I've heard that.

Anyway, back to Big Sexy. It's a good product, but why name it that, put it in a big red can and make the letters large enough to see on a billboard? Silly me. Because sex sells. And most of us want to be Big Sexy.

It's not that I don't want to be Big Sexy. I've already got Big Sexy Butt. Why not have Big Sexy Hair?

Well, because when Lily sees the can on the counter, I have to go into explanations. "Mom, why do you want Big Sexy Hair?"

And I never give the right answer. You see, I'm trying to teach her that in spite of everything she sees on TV, at Wal-Mart and even in church, there are other flattering looks besides Big Sexy Boobs Hanging Out Everywhere. And Butts, Too. Have you seen the magazines for teenagers?

There's a time and place for cleavage. Seventh grade is not one of those times or places. Somehow, that big red can of Big Sexy Hair muddies the water. So I quit using the stupid product and stashed the can in the back of the cabinet.

Then my hairdresser gave me a new "do." And I really can't operate it. I tried all the products that I bought in an attempt to replace Big Sexy. Each one is worse than the last.

So last night I fished out my giant red can of Big Sexy Hair. And today, my hair is behaving in a Medium-ish Sorta Attractive Way. That's as close as I need to get to Big Sexy right now. I'm not sure the whole neighborhood could stand it if I was suddenly transformed into Big Sexy.

I don't think I'll put a brown paper wrapper on the product. If I'm smart, I'll use it for a teachable moment about how sex sells, and what does the way we dress and act say about what we're selling?

I know I'm overthinking about all of this.  Can't help it. I'm a mom.

How hard would it be to tell you how long to boil the pasta?

We eat a lot of pasta, so I spend a lot of my time turning the pasta box over and over in my hand trying to figure out how long to cook it. Truthfully, I'll subtract a couple of minutes and taste it anyway, but I'm looking for a ballpark time.

The box designers seem to be in a contest to see who can hide the instructions the best. In a sea of mice type, it is given the least prominence.

And what really boils my noodle is when they have recipes on the box that say, "prepare pasta according to package directions." Well! I'm holding the package! You mean to tell me you, the recipe on the package, don't know how long to boil the stuff either?

How hard would it be to pay some intern at the packaging place to coordinate this information? Why must I spend what has probably turned into weeks of my life playing "Where's Waldo?" with the pasta package directions? How about writing it in giant letter in a bright color: Boil six minutes.

This is about to drive me to Atkins.

End of rant.

Are we supposed to look like 12-year-olds, or are they supposed to be adults?

The good news is that this story is getting bad press. A 12-year-old model has been chosen as "the face" of Australia's Gold Coast Fashion event.

Read more here.

The bad news is that the sort of people doing this are the same sort who think all publicity is good publicity. Unfortunately, they are probably right about this, and I hope that is why they chose a 12-year-old, cynical move though that may be.

So, tell me. Am I supposed to look like a 12-year-old, or are 12-year-olds considered adults now?

No matter what they look like, they are not grown up. No matter what they tell you, they are not grown up. No matter what they seem to want or how they are handling it, they are not grown up.

And how will they ever grow up, if they aren't given the time and space?

Things I don't want to know anymore about

Please don't tell me anymore about O.J., Britney, Paris, Princess Diana, Angelina and Brad, etc.

I will pay extra for newspapers and TV shows that leave out these people and their inevitable replacements.

You'd better be under 18 if you call me m'am

I'm all for manners. I love "pleases" and "thank yous" and my eternal favorite, "Won't you have some more of that?"

And all humans under age 18 had better say "sir" and "m'am." But I think I'm going to have to go deal with that grey-headed man down the street who just called me "m'am" when I was taking my walk.

Maybe it's because I called his new riding mower-tractor-front-end-loader thingie "cute." Maybe I was supposed to say, "That's a really macho looking piece of miniature farm equipment you got there." He was out tinkering with it in the front yard. I think he was proud of it. It looked like the Swiss-army knife of yard maintenance equipment. Just what is he going to do with that bucket on the front? It mows, too, and looks like it might do road maintenance and maybe build a dam. A very small dam, like for a duck pond for small ducks.

I guess the question I'm left with is was my calling his mini-macho-yard-thingie "cute" (which was a sincere comment, by the way. The first word out of my mouth.) as insulting to him as calling me m'am was to me?  Did I insult him? Maybe that's why he called me "m'am." He didn't really think I was old.

I still think his tractor thing is small. But at least he can't hurt himself.

Fire Ants and an Unsafe World

Back in the good old days, you could stand in your yard without fear. You could stretch out on the ground and watch the clouds. Sure, there were ants. Native ants that were busy with antly things, like carrying off food if you had a picnic. Now, you have to worry about fire ants. I hate them. I want to watch them die.

I know a man who set up a ladder over a fire ant mound. He put each leg of the ladder inside a water-filled can, a moat to keep the fire ants from coming up the ladder where he was. Then he rigged up some kind of contraption where he could stick a probe down deep into the mound and torch them. Yes, torch them. He said it was enormously satisfying. Then, he moved the ladder, poured gasoline on the mound, and set it on fire. This probably felt better than actually accomplishing anything, but I know the feeling. I'd torch the suckers myself if it wouldn't burn the house down.

I've had to switch the dog to canned dog food so that he eats it quickly before the fire ants can get on it. The rabbit hutch has Vaseline around each leg, and has been sprayed with pesticides, too, to keep the ants from coming up and attacking the rabbit. We have to check it constantly. The barn cat food has to be put in a bowl that sits within a larger bowl of water, yet another moat that will keep the ants out until a piece of straw or something creates a bridge. They'll even get in your car if your child has dropped a French fry or something edible.

These are insects from hell. And it seems like there are more and more every year.

They've started coming in the house. I have to keep the dry cat food in the freezer. My husband got stung this morning while getting his coffee. I keep all the doorways and window frames sprayed. There are 12, yes 12, ant bait stations in one part of the laundry. They are supposed to kill the mound in 24 hours. They've got about three hours left before I fumigate the house and go down with it.

When Lily was a baby, I found them entering her nursery. Oh, dear God! Don't let the ants get my baby! And they didn't.

The horses stand all the time (except in the stalls) because the ants would swarm them, too. The ants swarm the blue bird houses and kill the babies. They kill anything weaker than them.

I tell Lily it didn't used to be like this. The world was a much safer place. Even your own back yard.

And then I don't tell her about all the ways that her world is unsafe compared to when I grew up, when we only had to worry about being nuked. We don't talk much about terrorists, child predators, packs of pit bulls, school shootings or crime. We do talk about Internet safety, personal morality, how to make good decisions and what we expect, and what we believe God expects. I pray that God keeps her safe, because I cannot.  Still, we  do all we can.

Fire ants are awful but easy by comparison. Mind you, what we do doesn't really work all that well, either. Our whole neighborhood tried a fire ant eradication day a couple of years ago. The theory was this: If I treat my yard for fire ants, they'll just move next door. So, if next door is also treating for fire ants, we'll have a fighting chance. We did make a dent in the fire ant population that summer.

It seems like we're always dumping poisons and the most it does is lower the infestations and reduce the attacks. I don't like to think about what it's doing to the well water or the rest of the environment, or even to the toxic levels inside the house. But I do know that I'm not living in a place where we get bitten just for walking in the kitchen.

"They" say it's only a matter of time before we have suicide bombings in the mall or another 9/11-type attack.

Americans will put up with a lot. But when it comes to human fire ants, there will be a reckoning.