Puppy Diseases

Our family is being forced to keep a shameful dirty secret. So, shhh, please do not share this with anybody. But, I have to get it out. I have never been good at keeping things in.

Okay, here goes. Our new puppy, Daisy,  has Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, ADHD.

I warned you it was bad.

On the way home from the Humane Society with the little scamp wrapped in my son's arms, she was so sweet. It's as if she knew not to reveal the truth of what she was made of, the devil inside. She pretended to be complacent, a bit shy, and strangely calm for a puppy. But, with her disease being the strength that it is, the signs slammed at us by the second day.

One minute she was chasing my son around the living room, and then the next she was running toward me trying to figure out what that laughing sound was coming out of my mouth. That was when I first suspected. Then came the chasing of our old cat, to noticing her tail and having to chase it, to attacking an innocent stick.

The first night with Daisy, she snuck into my room twice to play. Waking up to a dog trying to chew your arm to wake is not a pretty scene. Other family members gave the same report in the morning. This dog is relentless.

The other animals of the house knew about her before we did. But then, they are all old and wise. Our Australian Shepherd won't play her puppy games. The twelve year old cats will barely sniff at her. But who can blame them? We don't really know if ADHD is contagious.

On her way to the food bowl last night, she passed the open dishwasher. Before I could even pour in the detergent, she had hopped up on to the open dishwasher door, grabbed a spatula, and was out the dog door teething on it! I think that spatula is the only thing she has been able to concentrate on for more than 15 seconds. Sad, isn't it.

I believe that enjoyment of the spatula brought about her other ailment. Oh, can I go on with what disorders poor Daisy has? This one may be worse. I've heard people whispering about it in back alleys and biker bars. It's called teething.

Thank you, readers, for letting me spill my guts out to you. I have no one else to turn to. But, well, the pup has been chewing on old shoes, table legs, foam blocks, a door stopper, and occasionally her dog toys. My only comfort here is that we agreed for her to only chew on a pair of my old stained pink shoes. She has been quite reasonable about that. I'm thinking that they probably smell the worst out of all of them.

Right now she is asleep in a fold of blankets on my bed. Being cute is the only thing that has kept us from tossing her back at the Humane Society. It would serve them right, having to take her back. I mean, how were we supposed to know that puppies have so much energy, chew things, and want to play all the time?

Well, at least we know Daisy won't get much bigger than she is now at two months. Because a St. Bermastiff, half St. Bernard and half Bull Mastiff, doesn't get much bigger, right?

Heather Leigh,
acknowledged companion of ADHD puppy

Off-Beat Optimism

I feel extremely sorry for the Friday night Zumba teacher at the health club. That poor woman has rhythm, spunk, personality galore, and just gets that Latin beat. And she has to teach her salsa based class to a dozen women who have absolutely no idea what it means to step in time to the beat.

Don't get me wrong, I am NOT making fun of my fellow class mates. Because I am the worst of the worst in that class. Having been three times now, I have just begun to kind of, sort of, keep up with her moves. At least, I'm now only a beat or so behind.

Can you imagine teaching such a class? That woman is nothing if she is not optimistic. She is thrilled when we almost catch on to one of her dance moves.

It's like when we give our dog a half-eaten apple core. Might as well just feed her a whole salmon.

But I guess I have the same disease she has. When I log on to my account and see how many people have purchased my books, my heart does this wiggly dance. I admit to getting geekily happy. Maybe it has something to do with that whole 'follow your bliss' thing. Finding out that there are people out there who want to read what I made up--Wow. How do I even describe that one? Well, I guess I'm backed in tocorner and just have to give some ideas:

• a hummingbird flying in to a Kool Aid festival
• ticks, fleas, and cockroaches simultaneously decide to become extinct
• Alan Rickman, my movie star crush, sees me being interviewed by Oprah for my latest best selling kids book, and falls instantly in love
• an hour of play time with Britain's royal corgis
• discovering that Hogwarts is a real school, and being admitted
• school is now being held at Disneyland

At least one of those must convey to you the kind of joy I get from selling my books.

Oh, and a world in which everyone is living in abundance by following their bliss. Now that would be cool.

Heather Leigh,
Optimistic Author

Serious Dishwasher Issues

My sons' friend recently got a job as a dishwasher at a local seafood restaurant. A urine test was required. And thank the good lords of law for that!!! Can you imagine if she were a drug user???!!! I mean, think of all the things she could have screwed up that would directly affected us, the consumers of fish and chips? She could have:

• burned her finger while lighting up, causing her to feel pain when washing in hot water. That would justifiably have caused her to use cold water when rinsing dirty plates. In turn, the plates could have bacteria lurking, unkilled and unharmed, by the normally hot water that is used. The next time I went in for fresh salmon, I could have been killed by salmonella!
• been on heroin while using the automatic washer, put in too much soap, and then had bubbles falling onto the kitchen floor. The slippery, bubbly floor could have caused another employee to trip and crack open his head. This employee would have to be carted away via ambulance to the ER. This would cause two more issues: 1. The expense of this whole ordeal will cost the insurance company oodles of money, eventually raising every ones rates. 2. My meal would take longer to get to me with all of the hullabaloo that will be going on.
• taken crystal meth and be imagining that there are bugs crawling on her skin. She would want to get the tweezers from the first aid kit to rip out the imaginary bugs. When the owners of the restaurant see her plucking at her skin for something that does not exist, they would call the insane asylum. The meth'ed out dishwasher would be carted away in a straight jacket. The above two issues come into play here. The only benefit to this occurrence, could be if there is a writer at the restaurant. Because that scenario would make a great short story.

So now that we are on the same page as to at least three of the common problems with dishwashers who take drugs, we can get on to the even bigger risk going on here.

Book writers are self-employed. Yes, you know what I mean. We do NOT take drug tests!!! If the Dishwasher Druggie epidemic that is sweeping the U.S. is bad, think about the not-talked-about problems of Writer Users. They are infiltrating the fabric of the social network of our country. There are twenty-six letters in the English language. That gives every writer utilizing English twenty-six chances a day to screw up our citizens. Just imagine the possibilities of damage that could be done:

• pot writers could be so mellowed out, that they use incorrect grammar and bad spelling. A whole nation of people reading and believing that Mississippi only needs two S's!
• Cocaine addicts could be so hyper, they write tiny blurbs about hundreds of subjects. Think we have a problem with ADD kids now? Wait until they start reading the low attention span prattling of Coke Heads.
• hallucinating mushroom-eating writers could experience what they believe are out of body experiences...and then write about it. How will we know what is true to life anymore? Us innocent readers would believe what they write, when it is actually just a bunch of phooey that was brought on by a drug induced state. Our nation will be swarming with people not knowing who to trust or what to believe in any more.

The list of issues with Druggie Writers is simply a Pandora's box that is unlimited with world-destructive problems. I am just getting too depressed to dwell on it any longer.

All I can do, is my part to save the World: I stay away from drugs. It may make me a geek in the world of Druggie Writers, but I am determined to do my part in being a part of the solution, not the problem.

You are welcome.

Heather Leigh,
sober author

Smiling, Happy, Disgusting

Since moving, I have been afflicted with friendly neighbors, cute baby goats and piglets, and organic fresh eggs. This whole pacific northwest, small town thing has gone overboard. If I am not accosted with happy smiling people out walking their dog, then it is the kids outside playing basketball in the street in their ultra safe neighborhood. It is sickening, people. I can't even get to the co-op organic farm behind our house to pet the newest goats, without some lawn mowing neighbor waving hello. Or another dog walker greeting me and admiring our australian shepherd. How am I supposed to live like this?

 I am living in Mr. Roger's neighborhood.

The only salvation I have is my teenage sons. They keep me sane.

Last night they sent a prevention to my being overly happy. Turning back the bed covers, ready to read 'The Last Enchantments by Charles Finch' (loving it!) there was a loud, vibrant, third degree EEEEEHHHHHH!!!  scream coming from me.

My eldest had hidden a plastic cockroach in my bed. My worst fear, and best at bringing out my loudest exclamations.

Now you might be thinking this was cruel of him. Actually, the blame goes with both of those boys. His brother knew about it and did nothing to warn me. That makes him an accomplice in the eyes of the law, and his mother. Back to the story: the boy was pitching forth his best effort to keep my real world sense of humor alive. If that is not love, then I don't know what is.

The list of shameful enjoyments in this area extends to our backyard. We have two fir trees with swallows, red robins, ravens, sparrows, doves, and who knows what other kind of nasty cute creature is flying around out there. All they do is chirp, sing, and look arrestingly gorgeous. How am I supposed to work here? All I want to do is bird watch in my own backyard.

Again, the eldest has come to the rescue. He hung up a bird feeder right outside the dining room window. What the bigger birds don't want, they spill over the sides, onto the ground. The little birds are in a blissful state as they eat the ground seed.

It is in the perfect location, great for us to watch the eating frenzy, and right outside the garage door.  The garage door that our excellent hunter cat can also watch the tiny prey. She will soon be putting an end to those pesky flyers.

Oh, I'm just kidding. Don't get all weird on me. First time that cat kills a bird, she will be wearing a collar with a bell. I'm not that bad.

Anyway, I have to get going. The movable chicken pen from the farm has just been moved to directly behind our fence. I feel the need to watch some hens.

Heather Leigh
cluck, cluck, cluck!

Sheep, Alpacas and Dogs

There is a website called Only In Humboldt that is so true to life here it is scary. Now that we are back living behind the Redwood Curtain (named because we are surrounded by redwood forests), it has been great fun to remember why this place is eccentric, crazy, and unique.

Today, I was driving home after dropping off my son at his 'hippy school' when confronted with a man out walking his sheep. Not herding sheep, mind you, but an older, sane-looking man with a single sheep strolling down the middle of the lane. But don't worry, his pet was leashed.

One of our favorites from a couple of years ago were the hippies who owned two alpacas. The animals lived in their yard in the middle of town. They were also leashed, for their daily walks through the town plaza. Of course, the home of the humans was painted pink with rainbow colored signs of peace, love and happiness painted in huge letters all along the outside of the house.

I guess the owners were full of love for those alpacas. When the humans moved, they left the alpacas behind, free to fend for themselves. Who knew that alpacas were so independent? Anyway, the hippies were ultra-loving. When an animal rescue organization came and took the pets to their center, the previous owners were 'happy that the alpacas found a good home'. That is so sweet, just makes me want to cry.

We see loads of hitchhikers here. Most of them on the freeway, thumbs out, hitching off the highway shoulder. We are quite curious as to who stops on a freeway to pick them up, risking a car accident and ticket from the police. But we assume one must because they keep trying for rides.

We especially like when we see those hitchers have their dogs walking with them. Most have leashes, so safely is never a concern.

My favorite in this subject was the young man I saw recently who gave up hitching and was bicycle riding on the side of the highway. That's a lot easier on his feet. I'm sure the dog he was carrying in his arm was also enjoying the ride. I wonder if that dog was leashed?

Well, I am off to walk our dog. Unfortunately, we don't live close enough to the freeway for a little jaunt along the sides of the busy highway. Hmmm, maybe tomorrow I'll drive to the sixty-five mile an hour road to walk Sydney. Sounds much more exciting than a neighborhood walk.

Heather Leigh,
Boring, safe, dog walker

Fertilized Tree and Attic Birds

There is a maple tree on just about every front lawn in our new neighborhood. And guess which house has the energy swag to concoct the greatest amount of fresh leaves on their tree? Yah, you right. It's our house.

Our tree, our house, our front yard, has the tree with at least twice as many Spring leaves as all the other maples. Do you think the other trees are peanut butter and jelly jealous? Oh, you know they so are. And, of course, being the spiritually healthy, loving family that we are, we decided that it was because the place that we chose to make our home was naturally the highest spiritually active vibrational yard in the 'hood.

Cause we is bad ass.

And then we was not so bad ass.

Last week, the plumbing in the house was going awry. The plumber got out his drain cleaning snake thing they use, and pulled out a huge wad of tree roots. There were maple tree roots in the pipes.

Turns out, our sneaky, greedy, deceptive, gorgeous tree had infiltrated the underground pipes in the front yard. Our high-frequency, spiritual love tree was sucking up toilet water to self-fertilize. Turning poop into leaves.

So where does that leave us? Eating a good helping of spiritual humble pie.

The next shock to my system came from dear old Dad. There are four door knob sized holes on the front and back outside walls of the house, just below the eaves. Perfect size, location, and shape for our fellow birds to lay nests in. Which, those little birdies have done.

As they are perfectly formed and sized for swallows, I assumed that some previous owner was such a bird lover, that they carved these holes specifically for the baby birds and their mommas and poppas. Aww, isn't it grand and lovely when humans are so sweet, generous and kind like that? I was in love with a past owner whom I will never meet. Eternally grateful for the kind sentient being that so loved his/her fellow creature that bird nests were provided right into the structure of this place.

Beautiful.

But then Dad had to be the spoiler. Turns out, those holes are there to air out the attic. And it gets worse. Mean, old, nasty screens should be installed over those ventilation areas to KEEP BIRDS OUT!
Can you believe the atrocity of human kind? The distorted, appalling, wicked notions of home builders? Just breaks my heart thinking about it.

But, I figure, to heck with the way things should be. I spent the better part of the morning watching a momma and pappa bird bringing wiggling worms to the open mouths of their babes. From my vantage point of the open sliding glass door, I could easily see four baby birds, mouths wide open, awaiting delivery of their morning meal. It was like the cutest thing EVER!

So there, home builders! Your desire to ventilate brought more than simple clearing of dank, smelly air from the attic. It brought me an entire morning of connecting with nature.

So maybe I am not so spiritually incorrect after all.

Heather Leigh

Snorting Goats

Hello, my name is Heather Leigh, and I am an addict.

Okay, so I'm not making fun of the whole AA thing. Nothing cruel like that. But, what if the deep, ingrained desire to write was treated like an addiction? I mean, think about it. All the signs are there:
* Stories call out to me to be written
        --like the sirens from Homer's Odyssey--except that my sirens are elephants and leprechauns)
* I wake at night with plot ideas that won't let me sleep until they are written down
        --like all-nighters for barflies
* Smuggled in my purse is a writer's notebook, for quotes by friends and family
        --like a flask in a flasher's trench coat
* When in the writer's zone, I can't hear you
        --like an acid tripper dancing at a Rave Party

And what about my family and friends? If I'm in this deep, why have they not done an Intervention? It's because writing is socially acceptable. If they only knew that it really is just another form of madness, writers would be in straight jackets, unable to use pens or computers. Thank the God of Socially Accepted Addictions that normal people don't know the truth.

Okay, so this subject is completely different than the above stuff. But, how do goats walk in straight lines? Have you ever noticed their eye placement? They are seeing everything from how we see peripherally. It would be like trying to see your ears as you walk. Could you do it? I barely can. Does that mean goats are smarter than humans, or that they are more coordinated?

WARNING: Don't pretend to see like a goat while driving. Many good people have been killed by Goat Driving.

Okay, just one more completely different subject. What is it that makes parents want to bond with other parents by putting down their kids? If I had a quarter for every time a teacher strongly insinuated that my kid had some unique trait that was inexcusably horrid, I would have at least ten dollars by now. Maybe eleven. But the funny thing is, once I question the teacher as to what happened, turns out it was a bad day, a one-time thing, or a misunderstanding. And parents of teenagers? They are often worse than their kids--eye rolling and everything--about how 'teens are'. It's like us adults are all in on some anti-offspring cult. When I say I like my kids, and they aren't so bad, suddenly those adults agree with me. Weird, huh?

In order to wrap up this blog and bring the beginning into the ending, I'll go back to the first subject. Pretty smart, huh? I'm what's called a functioning writer.

There are many of us writers who carry around the Writer's Journal. BEWARE! It can be quite annoying to be stopped mid-conversation to have your witty, bittersweet, or clever saying written down. You are allowed to let the writer know before the chatting begins that you will not stand for interruptions. Kind of like telling a cocaine user to not snort at the kitchen table.

Heather Leigh,
writer addict with poor goat coordination