Putting Out the Fires In My Brain

 I could feel it slipping away on a daily basis. A little bit here, a little bit more there. No matter what I did, no matter what I said, no matter how often I said it, part of me was shutting off. It was the part of me that wanted to write fiction, my first love in writing. In fact, it was my whole desire to create.

Fighting that recession of creativity was dragging me into an abyss of no escape, and it was binding me with heightened anxiety, fear, anger, and a whole host of other unpleasantries. Tammie described me as being "a bit explosive and easily agitated." She's not wrong, but nothing I did could change it. Oh, I tried. I did my very best to squelch those feelings of fear-fueled rage, but it was exhausting and all it took was a few minutes of low blood sugar and I became a seething, weeping, very loud bitch. Being in public meant shutting down to a level low enough that I could manage to at least get to the car before melting down. 

After getting to the point where I could no longer ignore what was happening, I reached out to my doctor. I answered a bunch of questions on their check-in website and set off a bunch of alerts and red flags. She said it was a good thing I was already scheduled for an appointment, or they'd be calling me in posthaste.

We discussed a lot of things from feelings to frustrations and we both agree that the current political climate is a bit on the toxic side and would definitely contribute to anxiety and fear. It was when I told her about my writing and lack of focus and desire to create, she stopped typing and looked at me.

"It sounds like there's more going on here. Have you ever been diagnosed with ADHD."

"Not officially," I told her and she laughed. 

"Of course, not. You're over 60 and you're female."

After more discussion, we decided on a treatment plan, and she prescribed ADHD medication. We both agree that if I can get some of this ridiculous scattered-brain bullshit to settle down, it might have the same effect on my anxiety. So, I'm not on anti-anxiety medication, I'm on ADHD medication, but guess what...It's working for both. I've been on it for less than a week, and Tammie has noticed a huge improvement. So have I, but I've been afraid to say anything in case it was just a case of a visit from the delusion fairy. I had that with some OTC holistic herbal woo-woo pills. Three days of "Hey, I think I've got this," then BAM! The bitch is back and she's super annoyed.

Now, I find myself having feelings again. Oh, I've been having feelings for a long time, but usually I'm feeling ALL THE THINGS, ALL THE TIME without respite. Lemme tell you, that's a lot of work and I was sure it would eventually try to kill me with worry, fear, rage, depression... all the fun stuff. But lately, I've been experiencing good feelings like...joy. Real joy, not that "oh, whee, we're gonna crash and die. At least I won't have to pay taxes anymore" kind of "joy" but rather a pleasant sensation while looking at the sunlight touching the leaves of the Rhodie out front, or the smell of fresh-brewed coffee, or the sound of the red-winged blackbirds calling out to "vote for Peeeeeter." 

Plain old joy, with no tinge of fear, worry, frustration, or general overwhelming angst of all the things. Just a soothing calmness. Gods, I like that.

I don't remember the last time I've felt that way, if ever. I realize now that most of my life has been riddled with this bullshit anxiety/ADHD and nothing was ever done. All through school my report cards would read things like, "Karen is easily distracted and has a hard time paying attention" or "Karen needs to spend less time daydreaming and more time on her work in class." Nothing was done, of course, because Karen is a girl and only boys need medication for "hyperactivity," girls just gotta knuckle down and PAY ATTENTION!

When I was an adult, I went the typical anti-depressant medication route, but my brain rejected them in the most interesting ways andafter a few years of trying to find a solution, we (my former healthcare provider and I) gave up. If it didn't try to kill me, it just intensified my craziness, and all of them removed my emotions and killed my creativity. I was living the zombie life, and I wasn't ok with that.

I mentioned all of this to my current doctor, and she said we'd start with this adhd medication and go from there. But you know what? I think we're there. I'm comfortable in my head. I can deal with the little frustrations that would at one point turned me into a raging honey badger with a toothache. It's not perfect, but I'm able to stop myself from saying things that aren't kind or helpful, whereas before the pills, I would just be rude and obnoxious and unable to stop myself. Knowing I can do that and not explode with frustration is kind of nice. 

I can slow down the spiral into the dark abyss of dismal thoughts and redirect my emotions to a more positive path.

I know I can have boundaries and use gentle words to let people know when they're crossing them, instead of waiting until later and losing my shit all over the place, or simply over-reacting in a very inappropriate manner.

Planning things has never been a problem, yet the problem came when implementing said plans: I knew I had to get from point A to point D, but I couldn't visualize all the steps needed to get there, at least not without a struggle that could last for weeks. Now, I can see what needs to happen and take appropriate steps. This includes such tasks as taking out the garbage. Sometimes the simplest tasks would stymie me to the point of tears, and it was getting worse with age. 

I feel better. I feel like I'm becoming the person I was supposed to be all along. I'm not there yet, but there's a plan, I'm on it and so far, so good.

Now What, November?

 October has traditionally been the month I start planning and semi-plotting my project for November's annual write-a-novel-in-a-month activity. I've been doing it for several years (going on ten, I believe), and it's one of those things that both energizes and stresses me out to the absolute maximum.

Especially those little badges they give out for reaching certain mileposts of word counts, making your daily goal, never miss a day of writing or posting, whatever. November is a difficult month to do that because there are holidays and birthdays and family stuff and, well, I always felt a little guilty slipping away to get some words written and posted to the site before jumping back into whatever fray was happening at the time.

Then things got...dark. I've not followed it too closely, mostly for my own mental health, but the gist of it is that the powers that be believe using AI to help write the damn novel is ok.

Now, to be perfectly clear and honest, I use AI when writing. Those red squiggles under my misspelled words, that's AI. The grammar suggestions that I may or may not ignore, again, AI. And my favorite? The "read aloud" thing on my word processor. Let me tell you, I can read my stuff over and over and it's fine. I can even read it out loud and it sounds fine. Why? Because I know where to put the inflections, I know what words are supposed to be there. But, when I have the computer read it to me, that bitch catches all my boo-boos. All I have to do is fix the part that doesn't sound good, and ta-dah! It's the way I want it.

But I do the work. I do not allow AI to do anything more than make a suggestion on whether or not that comma belongs in that spot, or if one of those words is extraneous. I still make the final decision. In that regard, I'm fine with AI. 

Allowing it to do most of the work, however, is where I draw the line. I don't want to just hand over my idea and let the machine put all the words together. That's not writing. There's no blood. There's no weeping. There's no yelling. There's no smell of fear or rage, or that sweet, sensuous feeling of the perfect sentence flowing from your brain to your fingertips. 

In regards to using AI for art, I'm kind of in the same camp. I cannot draw, and I'd love to see "pictures" of my characters, or the places they've been. If I could figure out how to use an art AI program, I'd probably have it show me those things according to my descriptions to see if what I say is what others might see. But would I sell that piece of art? No. Would I use it for the cover of my book? Again, no. 

That's where I'm fortunate to know several artists who will, for a fee, work with me on creating covers for my books. I appreciate those skills they've gathered over years of practice and study. I've taken art classes, but I still can't put the pictures in my head on paper and have it make sense. That's what artists do, and I'm thankful for them.

AI has a place in the world of art and writing. Even music, if you think of the synthesizers as AI. I'm not sure I do, but I'm sort of clumping a lot of computer stuff into the category of AI, so that might be where I'm derailing my brain train.

All this to say, I'm not sure what to do with myself next month. There will be no piles of sunflower seed shells near the keyboard; no packages of lemon drops stuffed in the spot next to the tower; no cups of cold tea or coffee on the desk; no drifts of scribbled notes piling up against the printer. 

Oh, who am I kidding, my writing area always looks like that, but in past Novembers, it just felt different, like it all had meaning. It always felt so magical, knowing thousands of writers were out there, doing the same thing at pretty much the same time. No spontaneous conversations in chat rooms about rabbit trails, plot holes, or being written into a corner of which there's no escape. I'll miss that ethereal comradery. 

Catch Up, or Cats Up.

 It's been a bit, hasn't it. To say lots has happened would be an understatement. The lead of this update will be on the heels of the previous post about cats, my not-so-favorite critters.

The feline population count has changed for us. We'd been down to two, and now we're up to six. The feral cats we'd been attempting to catch for a TNR treatment outwitted us and bestowed upon our lives six kittens, five of which now live in our house.

Miss Bitte is...annoyed. Thor crossed the great rainbow bridge, thus escaping the ongoing chaos the rest of the household is attempting to survive.

Kittens, even those just over a year old, LOVE to race through the house, and they're not picky about when or where it happens, or who might or might not be in the way. Also, they sleep with us. All of them. I suppose, if you think about it, we sleep with them because we're super outnumbered.

For the most part, they're a pretty laid-back group. Unless you accidently wiggle your toes, then be prepared for mayhem. Toe mayhem, to be specific. Hank, the gentle giant, and his equally large, but more muscular brother, Beans, will join forces with tiny sister, Samantha and attempt to remove said toes from your feet. 

Also, they all have this strange tendency to "flop," preferably while they are walking in front of you, "leading" you to your destination. This can alter one's destination from, say, the dining room where your coffee awaits you, to the floor because you've tripped over a flopped cat. At least they give you a little early warning before the flop. There's a glance back, to make sure the human target is still following, then an odd butt sway/stagger, then flop! Alert humans recognize the signs and make alternate plans to detour the feline floppage.

One favorite human trick is to cut through the bathroom, leaving the flopper bewildered and un-tripped over. There is much cat chagrin to be had at that point. They then seek out the former target and will home in on the shins of that person and ram themselves headfirst into the tender, bony body part. Then the flop will happen and tummy appreciation will commence. Or else.

The design of our home has a fun roundie-run-around section, where you can start in the living room, run full speed through the dining room, then onto the kitchen where the linoleum begins, into the futility room (where you can crash into either the washer, dryer, or the furnace door), through the pass-through bathroom to the hallway, where you can either turn left and return to the living room, or go to the right and explore the craft room, back bathroom, or the bedroom at high speeds. It's exceptionally hilarious when they leave the carpet and have to adjust to linoleum, then back to carpet. Sometimes the adjustment comes too late, and the bookcase in the hallway right outside the bathroom door becomes savagely disarranged by a flailing feline who managed to gain traction going from smooth floor to carpet too quickly and failed the necessary turn. Critical fail, dude.

They're also into arts and crafts...supplies. Especially the sponge daubers we use for blending inks on paper. They are a favorite of the diminutive Miss Sam, who believes anything that soft and squishy must be absconded with and stashed under the dresser in our bedroom. Tammie discovered this one day when she walked into the bedroom and found three cats staring at the space under the dresser. Sam is the only one small enough to get under there and not get stuck halfway in or out. With the aid of a flashlight, Tammie discovered the mother lode of squishy craft supplies and cat toys, or if you ask Sam, they're ALL cat toys and you can just put them right back under the dresser where they belong, thank you very much.

The kitchen is another favorite place to flop, especially on hot days, or while we're trying to prepare a meal. The opening of cans with pop-tops is the clarion call to the gang to gather in the kitchen and begin tapping on the legs of the human with the can. There is much meowing, patting, and flopping. There is also swearing, but that's not from the cats. 

Caaaaatssssss

 I like cat. Just one. Her name is Miss Bitte and she's my darling.

I prefer dogs. Actually, I rather like birds. And horses. Goats. Chickens, pigs, frogs, lizards, hell, I even like snakes better than cats. Except Miss Bitte. 

We have cats. Two that are domesticated and live indoors with us. Miss Bitte is one of them. The other is... The other is a thorn in my side. A pooping beast with a mission to poop everywhere. He does NOT use a box, but we figured out he'll use the peepee pads. Unless he's pee'd on it, then we get to play Find the Pile of Poop when we get up in the morning. I do NOT like that cat.

We also have cats outside. Fancy and Shadow. They are feral, although when you see them with Tammie, a.k.a. Snow White, you'd question that statement. She has them visiting her, pestering her for food, allowing her to give them belly rubs... Feral cats are weird. 

Of course, one of them is female and recently went into heat. We went from two feral cats to LOTS of  cats, most of which were male. The ruckus on the back deck was annoying. Many times the yeowling would begin and I'd have to go out there and bark at all of them. 

No wonder Fancy and Shadow don't come up to me unless I'm wielding foodstuffs for them. They think I'm a dog.

So, the other night, we were sitting quietly in the living room dozing TV, when there was a fuss on the back deck that disturbed the terrier. His bark is shrill and startling, which does NOT put me in a good frame of mind when that is what yanks me from my slumber. 

I hustled quickly toward the back door, terrier at my heels. The noise outside was alarming, so of course said terrier felt the need to be an idiot. As I'm lunging for the door to make an impressive entrance to the furry fray, the damn dog tripped me and I fell into the door jamb, catching my arm between the solid wood and my falling body. Just to make it interesting, I took off some skin using the latch for the screen door, which I'd managed to open, but wrenched my wrist in the process. Typing this is unpleasant. I probably shouldn't, but anyway...

The swearing and crashing did a great job of breaking up the fight. I still stood on the back deck and barked like an angry dog. Because at that moment, it is the most apt description of my mood.

Fast forward to tonight, when yet another kerfuffle was brewing on the back deck. I headed outside, carefully this time, turned on the light and watched the cats scatter. It was awesome. I gave a couple good stomps and a hiss, and the two big males that are still looking for something to screw took off. But I could still hear them in the yard, so I stomped down the ramp. I stomped across the walkway and over to the driveway. There was wrassling happening on the well-house lid. I hissed. And it was answered with a low, hair-raising, cat growl. 

Oh. Oh no you di'in't.

I made myself BIG, hissing, growling, and stomping my feet. I was hissed and growled at again. 

Of course I was out there in the dark with no glasses and no flashlight and ooky noises coming from the OTHER, darker side of the well-house. I had a choice. Walk away and hope nothing comes after me, or go all out and give them a rousing FUCK OFF, ASSHOLES! Which I did, but in cat-speak. 

I waved my still achy arm, stomped as loudly as I could in the dirt driveway, and gave my best cat-fight yeowl. There was the distinct sound of cats scrambling and screaming down the small embankment and across the lane. I stomped back into the house, reassured the terrier that I'd handled it just fine, and settled back in for some reading.

It didn't last long. Tammie called from the bedroom that there was another cat fight. Like, what am I, Fearless Feline Fury Facilitator? It's fucking dark out there.

She's worried about her Fancy and Shadow cats. Fine. But this time, I went out armed with my glasses and that damn LED flashlight that doesn't turn off with one click. It's bright as fuck, but if you don't click it enough times, it will strobe at you and make you fall over.

Maybe it's just me that does that, I don't know. Anyway...

The cats had taken the fight to the old fart's place and they knew I wasn't about to set foot on his property. Hell, I considered telling them to hold their meeting under his bedroom window, except the old fart is deaf as a post so their efforts would be wasted. Instead they darted off into the underbrush next to his house and have probably beaten the shit out of each other, or they got distracted by something more interesting. Whatever, it's finally quiet out there and I can ice my arm in peace.

Kind of reminds me of that time my mother went after a bull raccoon...

Tales of the Road

 

Spawn has returned to the coast, leaving Oklahoma in the dust. For good, this time. But getting here was no easy task. After a brief, but uneventful flight out of Tulsa to Dallas, she waited around for her three hour layover to end, boarded her flight to Portland, then had to turn around due to an equipment malfunction on the aircraft.

When she called to fill me in on the change of arrival, I was already on my way to the airport, a mere 3 hours drive away. There was no way I was going to turn around, so I decided to chill at a rest area for a bit, people watch, text friends and family, and do other strange things to pass the time. But I’ve seen enough horror movies and crime dramas to know what goes on at rest areas after dark, so I headed toward the airport. I’d checked the map, and there were lots of places to kill some time. Places like… IKEA.

Confession time! Not long ago, darling Spawn shared a book with me called Horrorstor. The very brief-but-concise synopsis said, “What if IKEA was haunted.” Folks… lemme tell you, I did not open a single cabinet in that store, except that one really cool model with the strange carvings and handles that were icy cold… ok, not really, but I swear I heard some strange, distant shrieking. Anyway, I managed to get the hell out of there for under $60, which is quite a feat if you know me at all. There were book cases that kept calling my name… in a thin, ghostly, whispery wail.

I have got to change my reading lineup.

With five hours left to kill and no energy to walk around, I parked in a shopping mall lot, and watched the show. Friends, I saw people who have absolutely NO business being behind the wheel of a car, behind the wheel of a car in a parking lot attempting to place said car, in which they had no business being behind the wheel of, between two white lines, and doing so without removing any paint from adjacent vehicles. Watching that was was scarier than being in IKEA.

Finally, it was time and I headed toward the...oops, no, I went the wrong way. But lo! Yonder there be a fine constable in his worthy vehicle, so I quickly, but safely, pulled into the parking lot to ask directions, only to discover I shouldn’t have done that as it was not a public kind of place. I made my way back to a semi-familiar intersection, found yet another place to park and consult my magic map, aka my phone. It told me I was an idiot and I needed to turn right and continue going that way until I ran into the airport and follow the signs to arrivals. It was busy and finding each other was a challenge. No time to chat, they hustle your ass outta passenger pickup with much gusto and alacrity. And yelling. Not me, the traffic security folks were yelling. At me. And everyone else.

It was a very long day for both of us, and by the end of it, I was done driving. For about a week, because the following Monday, Tammie and I packed a bag and headed inland. We had stuff to find, gather, and rescue from her mother’s house, which was FINALLY vacated by the squatters.

Just let me say something about that. We TRIED to get them out of the place back in 2020, but due to the lock down, ousting them was nothing happening. Then there were the changes made (temporarily) that stated no one could be evicted even for non-payment of rent for another period of time. After that, it was ok to start proceedings, but… the attorneys handling evictions were not taking on any more clients as they were up to their eyeballs with work. Letters were written to the squatters, and ignored. The local law enforcement was called in, but they couldn’t do anything without the paperwork, which we didn’t have because we couldn’t find an attorney… Oh, it was not a fun time. In the middle of all this there were deaths in the family, other unpleasantness happening, and the squatters still squatted. Fortunately, the reprehensible bastards finally got tired of things like phone calls, letters, etc, found a new place to “live” and moved out. What they left behind was nothing short of a corner of hell. Dog shit all over the floor (and the walls), broken stuff, vandalized things, and just general mayhem that cost a great deal of money to clean up.

But there were things that the family wanted, genealogy info, keepsakes (the few that hadn’t been ruined by filthy squatters), and some furniture that had actually been spared most of the hideousness. We worked in fetid air that smelled of feces and chemicals (cleaners and air “fresheners” used by the company hired to clean the place). We collected as much memorabilia as we possibly could, finding unexpected treasures tucked away from the reach of horrible people.

I had rented a moving truck for the occasion and when I went to pick it up, the nightmare from the house sort of followed me. Their wi-fi kept blipping out, and when I told them I needed a furniture dolly or hand truck, I was shown a small box truck, which would not do for Madame Secretary. The lady went back and got an appliance dolly, with the strap and larger wheels and I said that’s exactly what I need.

Que the bastard. He came in, yelled at the woman who helped me, went back and got the smaller hand truck. I said, no, that’s not what I want, I need the larger one. He argued with me, after all, the peen knows all, right? Wrong, but I was done arguing with someone who couldn’t listen, so I left without said moving aid, climbed into the moving truck, and headed to the house.

Those moving trucks… this one… um… it was like being strapped to a bouncy house that was attached to the back of a kangaroo on meth. So. Much. Bouncing. And rattling. And what the hell was THAT noise?

Back at the house, we got it loaded. Madame Secretary is an unwieldy beast, but despite no dolly for safe moving, we got her out of the house and into the cargo area. The rest of it was pretty easy, although easy is relative by that point. We were exhausted. Wrangling Madame Secretary took a lot out of all of us.

Then it was the long, bouncy, drive home, unloading, then the next day, it was another long, bouncy, drive to drop it off, because, of course, we couldn’t just take it to the closest U-Haul place and drop it off. Oh, no. We had to take it 2.5 hours away. And at one point, I managed to lose a credit card, but I didn’t know until we got to the destination, so it had been hanging out at the gas station for quite a while before I noticed it’s absence. Queue panicked phone calls and the card was canceled with no bad charges put on it.

Being home feels good, and I’m happy to say my urge to travel has been somewhat quelled for a bit.

Madame Secretary, has been cleaned up and will soon be settled into her new spot, where she will display my “writer’s altar” of old books, new books, and school stuff of long ago. She will hold treasures of paper and pens, notebooks filled with ideas, or potential (empty but waiting notebooks), and all the bits and bobs of life that writers collect. Souvenirs of childhood; relics, and artifacts that touch a part of our souls when we see them and remember, now have a place to live where they will no longer fear being forgotten.

Spaghetti

 There was an incident. In the kitchen. Again. For those who are intimate with my culinary talents, this comes as no surprise. While I am a very good cook, things have a tendency to go sideways. Sideways, upwards, downwards, and pretty much wherever else.

Using the stand mixer? The side of the fridge has sampled many batters and loose doughs. I'm not the only one, mind you, Tammie had a cocoa explosion a while back and we're STILL finding evidence of it.

But the incidents do not hinder me from trying new things. Things like the Instant Pot. Mind you, I was opposed to drinking from that cuppa koolaid. Everyone I knew had one and loved it, but I was not about to shell out the dough for yet another damn appliance to clutter up the counter. Until we found a recipe for something wonderful and discovered that our old stovetop pressure cooker was no longer pressure cookering. Not even with a new gasket. It was something in the thing-a-ma-doo-dad. I couldn't even coax it into working with the promise of a new flux capacitor. Doing some research for a new cooker, we discovered the dreaded Instant Pots were now on a very good sale and our stove is having some issues being a stove, so perhaps we can make this work.

So, we said "cheers" and clinked the cups and quaffed the koolaid. Ok, we put it in the cart and shelled out the cash. We took it home, used it once, and fell in love. Then I made macaroni and cheese in it, and we both surrendered ourselves to the wonders that is the Instant Pot. I do most of my cooking that way (even spare ribs!) and it's not just because the stove doesn't like stoving any more.

It was spaghetti night and I figured, "what the hell. If I can cook elbow macaroni in this thing, I can surely cook spaghetti in it."

Elbow macaroni, when put in an Instant Pot, is a friendly pasta. It sits where you put it, and stirs nicely when you need to get things mixed up. It is quiet, and doesn't want to bother you when it's done.

Spaghetti noodles? Yeah, not so much. I put the water in the pot, and because I didn't want the noodles to soak in water while I finished prepping the veggies, I put everything in backwards. Water, veggies, noodles... Noodles. NOODLES!

No. The noodles did NOT wish to join the veggies in the bath. They would get one end into the water, then refuse to bow their heads for the lid. "The stupid veggies are in the way," the noodles whined. So I broke them in half and dropped them into the pot. They...fit. Sort of. The veggies were still in the water, and the noodles were not. I grabbed a spoon and began stirring. It was like sticking a spoon into a bowl of grasshoppers. Angry, ARMED grasshoppers. Noodle pieces were flying EVERYWHERE! I have noodle bits on the floor, on the kittie's stool, I'm pretty sure a couple pieces landed in my hair, and I know at least three of them tried to take out my eyesight, but my glasses saved the day.

Noodles were angry. Noodles no like spoon stir. Noodles kill!

I gave up. I tossed in a little more water, poured a bit of oil over the dry pasta, and all the hopes of my heart, because none of those noodles were in water. I had no idea what was going to come out of that pot once the timer went off. Five minutes cook time, then it was time for a quick release.

I fucking hate quick release. It's not so bad with some things, but pasta? Yikes, it starts out nice and clean, then WHAMMO! white, starchy, oily water is being sprayed around my kitchen like the noodles were having one last stab at ruining my day. I put the stirring spoon over the vent, but it was a slotted spoon, which simply divided the geyser into several parts, which bedecked more areas of my kitchen. Thinking quickly, I grabbed the nearest thing within reach, the silicone (and mostly useless) pot holders that came with the Instant Pot. 

No. No, no, no. Think garden hose when you put a finger over it. 360 degrees lateral spray of steamy spaghetti water. So I snagged the dish towel and dropped it over the damn thing. Success! It hissed and seethed, but it was no longer bedecking my domicile with the sticky, oily, nasty. 

While I was waiting for the hissing to stop, I though, "Oh, I can use this corner of the towel to clean off the top of the salt and pepper shakers.

Despite the towel being thin and permeable, when I raised the corner to wipe the lid of the salt shaker, steam rushed out and grabbed my hand. So of course, I did it again, after all, the pepper shaker was still funky and my first thought was, "Whyyyyyy?"

There was still the question of whether or not dinner was even going to be edible. I carefully opened the lid. Lo and behold, the pasta was perfectly cooked. There were clumps that needed a good, gentle stirring, but the fight had gone out of the food and I was able to get it all separated and looking grand. Sauced it, seasoned it and I was ready for food! That's when I realized I'd forgotten to take the rolls out of the freezer for the garlic bread. 

Yes, I did burn myself using the toaster oven.

Bonk! Bonk! Who's There?

 It was one of those mornings. Not for me, for Tammie. I was blissfully snoring the cobwebs off the ceiling, but the chihuahuas were restless and ready to get going. It was also the lovely hour of 04:30. Or maybe it was 05:00. Does it matter? I think not. I was asleep.

Tammie, on the other hand, had given up on all attempts at calming said doggos and hauled herself out of bed. She set Douglas-of-the-Wait-What-Are-You-Doing? on the floor, grabbed Teeny-of-the-small-bladder and headed for the front door. Douglas usually follows, because despite his reluctance to leave the warm bed, his bladder is also on the small side and as soon as he's awake, it's time to pee.

When she got to the front door, she wondered where Douglas was. There was no saucy-walking little prince hot on her heels. She looked around and asked, "Where's Douglas?" He licked her cheek from his position tucked tenderly in the crook of her arm.

"You're not Teeny," Tammie said, putting the little darling outside before going in search of the other tiny-bladdered beast. At the bedroom door, she could hear snuffling and snorting from underneath and gently swung the door open.

"Teeny?" she whispered into the dark room. Not that Teeny could hear her over the snoring from the bed, but that didn't daunt her from trying again. "Teeny?" As she stood in the darkened room, she could feel something bonking against the open door. Looking down at her feet, she saw nothing, so she peered behind the door. Lo and behold, there was Teeny, trapped between the door and wall, using her head like a curb-feeler as she tried finding her way out.

Bonk! Bonk! Bonk!

Mind you, this is NOT how the story was related to me later that morning. It took a very long time and was punctuated with many snorts, giggles, and long streaks of guffaws at the little dog's expense. It sounded something like this:

"I couldn't...hee hee hee...I couldn't...hee hee, hahahahaha, hoo boy! Anyway,...ok, ... hang on... hee hee hee *snort* I thought I had... ahhahahahahahaha! ohmygod Bonk! Bonk! BWAAAHAHAHAHA!..." and so on.

In other animal news, there are two kittens that were born under the neighbor's house. We made friends with the mother cat and a friend of ours managed to trap her and take her home. He got her to the vet where she was checked out and spayed, and now lives the life of a very pampered and well-loved house cat. The "babies," however, were still too skittish to join their mom (they were fully weaned and nearly as big as their momma when this went down), so Tammie has been doing her Snow White thing and drawing them into a sense of security. Foolish little things. But she's able to pet them both when she brings them gushy fuuds in the morning and evening. Seriously, those little feral goobers eat better than our own spoiled elder cats.

But this morning, I needed to take out the trash. I wasn't thinking when I opened the back door and was greeted with the alarming sound of something crashing and thumping around on the slick deck. Seconds later, one of the kittens managed to get down the ramp and give me the hairy eyeball of doom. Poor kitty had done a total Scooby-Doo, trying to run four ways at once when she realized it wasn't Tammie exiting the house.

Relating this story to Tammie, however, sounded nothing like what I've written here. It sounded a lot like, "wheeeze, holy shit! Did you hear that? wheeeze, giggle-snort, ohgawdI'mdying! Thump-thump-thumpity-thump, pahdump-pahdump-pahdump! hahahahahahaha! Scooby-Dooooo! hahahahaha..."

At least we're constantly working on our communication skills, although it's more like translating foley noises into speech.