Kick the Dog

           “Peg! Let sleeping dogs lie,” I can hear my dad in my head.

          I’ve never been very good at that and I’m compelled to kick the dog, nonetheless.

          I wrote the story of my handsome cousin Joe’s funeral — from my perspective, which is the only way I know to write.

          I published the story on Sunday as is my usual habit, and I posted a link to Facebook, as is also my usual habit.

          One of Joe’s friends saw the story and asked if she may share it.

          “Absolutely!” I said.

          The view count on the story skyrocketed to over 250 views in the first twenty-four hours.

          One of the first comments I’d gotten on the story was from one of my beautiful cousins. She referenced me saying I’d never get a slanted headstone because there wouldn’t be anyone here to clean it.

“If you get buried here, I'd clean your headstone for a long as I'm able. Plus, I have all the kids to help after that. Fear not we honor family.”

That touched my heart. I laughed and I cried.

Another family member said this. “Thank you. Great Job. Sooooooooooo appreciated. Love Ya.”

          “Beautiful read and such a great man,” a reader commented.

          “A nice read,” someone else said.

          “It’s hard to lose family. I loved the story,” said another.

          Others expressed their sympathies.

          Monday, I get a note from Beautiful Cousin. “Did you post your blog to Facebook?”

          It was written but it felt very accusatory. I don’t know what I’d written that was wrong but my heart broke in two and dropped like a lead ball into the pit of my stomach. I felt like I was in trouble. “I always post a link on Facebook. It’s how most of my friends and some of my family read it.”

          “Joe’s grandson is very upset that it’s on Facebook.”

          “Why?”

          “He doesn’t think his granddad would want the details of his death all over Facebook.”

“I’ll pull it down.”

“I knew you would. He was so upset he was wondering if he could sue.”

          Shit! The S word.

          Now Mike’s money radar is going off like crazy. “If he sues, you’ll have to get a lawyer.”

“When people sue, they want a remedy. What’s he gonna sue us for? Not money. We’re on a fixed income and don’t have many valuables. If he’s suing to have it removed, I’ve already done that.”

“He’s not really gonna sue,” Beautiful Cousin said. “He was just upset.”

And the whole thing upsets me to no end. I only want to write stories to make you laugh, maybe get a little teary-eyed from time to time when I write about the sad things that happen to me. I like to pass on family news. It keeps us all connected. Makes us feel like we’re a part of something. And I’m okay if I teach you a thing or two about bugs or flowers or critters. But I’d rather cut my arm off then to hurt someone I love.

I mentioned, in my story of Joe’s funeral, that Mike was waiting for a phone call. I meant to circle back around and pick up that thread, then a page end came in sight and I ran for it, totally forgetting about the phone call.

Our daughter Kat died.

Four people received organs from her.

One of those was her lung recipient, Joan.

Joan had a personalized license plate made for her car that read KAT 15 in honor of Kat’s death.

“What a great idea,” I told Mike. “Can we get one, too?

Mike’s daughter Tammy died the year before Kat. “How about if we get a plate to honor both girls?”

And I’m ashamed that I hadn’t thought of it first.

Our plates ran out at the end of November. We started the process to get a vanity plate in September. Sometime later we got a letter from DMV saying we shorted them three dollars. I don’t know how that happened. We sent in the money it said to send which was eighty-two buckaroos. But we sent them three more.

Mid-December Mike realizes we hadn’t yet gotten our new plates. It was then and only then that he realized we’d been driving on expired plates for a couple of weeks.

Mike called the DMV. After a bunch of back and forth the gal told us they didn’t send us the plate because we only sent them three dollars.

“We sent eighty-two in September. What happened to that?” Mike asked.

“I don’t know. I don’t have any record of it here. I’ll send this on to investigations and you will hear from them in three days’ time.”

To resolve the issue of driving on an expired plate, Mike had to renew our plate for another thirty-nine dollars.

The third day fell on the day of Joe’s funeral.

We got a copy of the canceled check and carried it with us everywhere.

DMV never called.

Mike was back on the phone this week and once again was told, this time by a different person, that he would put in for an investigation and we would get a call in three days, “Not counting today,” he said.

It looks like Mike will be calling again next week.

          I wrote a second letter blog last week. Once again, being intent on finishing, I missed some things. This time it was only pictures. Would you like to see them?

          Another dramatic sunrise, two road pictures, and a winter flower. 

          I’m afraid the rest of this week’s news will be rather mundane.

          Blackie had a vet appointment. He was due for a shot.

         “He’s a healthy kitten and looks to be about seven months old.” Dr. Lori gave him a clean bill of health. He goes back in three weeks for a booster.

I took pictures on the way home.

Beaver lodge?

Then we got behind this cement truck.

A flag was flapping in the wind on the back of his truck.

“Is that an American flag?” Mike wanted to know.

“I don’t know. I’ll take a picture and see if I can tell.

I snapped several pictures as we went down the road.

The wind flapped it in such a way that I could see a blue field and red and white stripes on it.

“I think it is,” I confirmed.

“That is so disrespectful. It’s tattered and dirty.” Mike was incensed.

Climbing a hill, we had a passing zone and Mike passed him up.

“It’s a second amendment Trump flag,” I told Mike.

And just like that, his anger dissipated.

The rest of the week we spent at home. Days filled with recliner time and movie watching for that handsome mountain man of mine. Glorious afternoons filled with crafting for this gal.

I’m working on book boxes. I already had one together but I’m waiting on steampunk molds to come in the mail before I finish it. I really want to do a steampunk design.

I decided to make another box while I waited. This would give me one to play with. I got out some new-to-me tools my handsome brother-in-law gave me when we saw him in September.

Do you have any idea of how long I’ve been looking for one of those thingies to make circles with?

“I’ve looked in all the stores. No one carries them!” I told Miss Rosie.

“I guess not. It’s one of those things no one uses anymore.”

“What’s it called?” I asked Mike.

“A compass,” he replied like he knew what he was talking about.

“A compass? No, it’s not. A compass is one of those things you tell direction with.”

“A protractor then,” he said.

“Isn’t that one of those things that’s flat on the bottom and round on the top?”

Mike did what I should’ve done. He Googled it. Turns out, he was right. The thing to make circles with is a compass. And you make half circles with a protractor.

Feelings of complete happiness come over me at weird times. Washing dishes in a sink full of warm sudsy water, gazing out my window at the birds hitting the feeder, I realize I’m happy.

Sitting in the recliner next to Mike, snuggled under a blanket brought back from Arizona, eating a bowl of popcorn, watching Adam-12, I realize I’m happy.

Dipping my brush in a jar of glue, I’m again overwhelmed with a sense of happiness. Gluing paper to a box makes you happy? Me asks myself.

Gluing paper to a box makes me happy, Meself agrees.

Walking across land I own, to dump a pail of used litter into weeds from cats who depend on me, makes me happy. I often have to pause along this trek and praise God for the vastness and beauty of the sky, the crispness in the air that stings my face and makes my nose red, the crunch of snow underfoot, for blessing me.

“Snow? Peg, did you say snow?”

I did. We woke to an inch or two of snow this week!

Bondi is not impressed.

“Peg, aren’t those your Glads?” you ask.

They are!

“If you don’t take them in in the winter, they’ll die,” you say.

I know, right! Here’s the thing. Ginger and Itsy never had anything to do with the flowers. They left them alone. Not Bondi. She’ll chew them and they’re poisonous. I don’t have any place else to put them so I might just as well not have them.

I wanted to go out and see if I could find anything interesting to photograph, but first, I had a load of laundry to transfer to the dryer. Opening the dryer door, I found a forgotten load of towels. I gathered them in my arms and dumped ‘em on the kitchen table for future folding. Then I went out.

Bondi came with me and helped shovel the walkway, but she didn’t want to go on a walkabout with me.

Smart dog. It was cold.

Up on the hill, I see tracks coming from a den under the upper barn. Mr. Whistlepig left and didn’t come back. Groundhogs often have more than one den in their territory. I followed his tracks thinking to find the site of his other den, for what good purpose, I don’t know.

I stopped to admire the bright color of the Bittersweet.

The trail wound its way down the hill and he took a shortcut across the frozen surface of the pond. I couldn’t take any such shortcut and walked around.

On the other side the tracks intermingled with those of the deer that were in the yard and I lost his trail.

I went around the house to the kitchen door where I could take my boots off without traipsing through the house. On my way past the Boxelder Tree, I snap a picture of the winged flyers stubbornly hanging on and a few ice crystalsin the shadows hanging on to them. They’re no match for the emerging sun.

I stomp the snow off my boots on the patio, open the door to the warmth of the house, shed my coat and ear warmers, and think, I’d better tackle those towels.

I go around to the other side of the table and what do I see‽

          Blackie butt!

          “What are you doing!” A question but not really a question.

The pile starts to move and an eye comes peeking out at me.

I snapped a couple of pictures, did a Blackie-ectomy, folded and put the towels away. Some went to the kitchen towel drawer; some went to the rag drawer to be used in future polishing-of-stained-glass
or dusting jobs. 

An afternoon waited for me to fill.

The glue was dry on the boxes. Since I’m not following anyone else’s design, I had to swallow hard, get my brave on, and move to the next step.

I decided on brickwork for the back of one.

Strap hinges on the front of the other.

“Peg, they’re not the prettiest hinges I’ve ever seen?” you say.

I know, right! Failures are a part of learning.

This is the hinge I was going for but the ends fell off. I thought that once everything dried, I could glue them back on.

Sometimes, when things aren’t going exactly the way I want them to, I stop and give it rest. I have another piece to add to the other side of the lid to complete the hinge. I’m hoping that once they’re sanded and painted, they won’t look too bad. Even so, if it comes out crappy, I can add it to my shelf with the first one I made and we’ll call it Experience II.  

Blackie and Bondi!

Oh, those two!

They’re in cahoots I tell ya!

Blackie knocks things down, Bondi chews ‘em up. If I’m not quick enough, the notebook from my desk will end up in shreds and my pens already have teeth marks in them.

“What did you do‽” I exclaim to Bondi when I walk through the dining room and see little black things all over the place.

I don’t pick up nothing unless I first know what it is that I’m picking up. I get down on my knees to see what this stuff is, turning the light on would’ve been another good option, and I see they’re little pieces of rubber. I’m puzzling this over, wondering where it came from and here comes Bondi, holding one of my arch supports.

“I killed it for you!” she said. “You can have it now.”

“You might just as well keep it,” I told her, got the little broom and dustpan out, cleaned up the mess.

Our bed and the headboard are an endless source of entertainment for those two. Blackie often knocks my stuffed bears down and Bondi drags them around — but doesn’t chew them up.

Just when I think I have everything put away, she’ll find something else.

In the case of my arch support, I’d taken it off before going to bed. It really helps with foot pain. Aware that Bondi will chew it up if she gets it, she already chewed the other one up, I put it on the nightstand, out of Bondi’s reach. Blackie must’ve knocked it down. That’s the only way she could’ve gotten it.

Every day Bondi gets up on the bed and noses around. She’ll pull my jammies and my little flashlight out of the headboard cubby. She’s already chewed the string loop handle from the flashlight. I don’t think she can do anything else to it. Besides my jammies and the flashlight, the only other things there are the controller for the electric blanket, a couple of books, and my Nook.

I lost the end for my Nook charger this week.

Sigh.

Now I have to bring it out and charge it on the computer. It wouldn’t be a great loss if I lost that Nook. It’s so old it won’t get on the internet anymore. I have a few games on it that I like to play and tons of books downloaded to it. And lucky girl that I am, I’ve got a brand-new Kindle Fire thanks to one of my beautiful friends who gifted it to me.

“You have to dog-proof this place,” Mike says.

By this time, it almost is!

Not only will Bondi claim things Blackie’s knocked down, she’ll steal things. The little thief.

I was working on the book boxes, my box of supplies sitting on the floor next to me. I caught Bondi nosing around in there. Sometimes I let her steal my sandpaper. When that failed to get a rise out of me, she came back and took a glue stick.

“That’s mine,” I yelled as I ran her to ground. Actually, I ran her to bed. That’s where she takes things. Up on the bed.

A couple of days later she snuck in when I wasn’t paying attention.

Mike came out to refill his water and passed Bondi. “Peg, she’s got something.”

“Probably just her chewie,” I said but got up to check anyway. What did she have? A glue stick, that’s what!

Do you think I can still use it?

My boxes and hinge pieces were drying on the table. I was off on some other tangent. I come back through the dining room and spy something on the floor. I knew what it was. The familiar white color of my plaster hinge ends.

Sigh.

I stooped down to pick it up and Spitfire, wondering what I was up to, stopped to sniff. He wasn’t interested and went about his way.

Now I’ve got a couple of options here and I’m letting them rattle around in my head for a couple of days while I visit with you.

“What options?” you wonder.

I can remake the hinge piece. I can pry off the strap hinges and start again, or, and this is the way I’m leaning, I can sand and reshape what’s left of the hinges.

 

I’ve only got two more small items of note.

I finished the book I was reading, A Man Called Ove. I returned it six days early. It was really good and Miss Rosie is right. It would be worth a second read. This time I can slow down and really enjoy the words without rushing on to find out how it’s gonna end.

“What’s the other thing, Peg?” you wanna know.

Mike has decided to switch to one percent milk, thinking it’s healthier for him.

“What about for you?” you ask.

I don’t drink much milk. In fact, I won’t say never, but I hardly ever drink milk. No particular reason. I just prefer to drink my coffee. Since my high cholesterol diagnosis, I’ve switched from a breakfast of hard-boiled eggs to oatmeal, but I don’t put milk on it.

This week is the first time I’ve made homemade yogurt with one percent milk, thinking it’d be healthier for both of us.

One percent milk does NOT make good yogurt. It’s thicker, and that part is okay, but the texture is kinda of lumpy and grainy. Plus, I don’t think it ‘soured’ as much as two percent or whole milk does. I won’t be making it that way again.

Can you stand it?

“Stand what?”

Can you stand a second sunrise picture in the same letter blog?

Let’s call this one done!