Why do people leave the bathroom door open just a crack after they've poohed? All other times, it's wide open and welcoming. Do they think the scent flushes away with the toilet? Because it does not. What does happen is that when I open the door to do my thing, I am smashed in the nose with someone else's left overs.
Proper bathroom etiquette: leave the door flung open and proud. Aeration is the key to downplaying what you have left behind.
I'll tell you one organization that knows proper etiquette...the IRS. If you were not one of the lucky millions who read my blog about the big tax showdown we had, I'll fill you in. There was a mistake made two years ago by the accounting firm of my previous employer. As a result, I was being told to pay the IRS one grand, plus interest. After a wee bit of stress, paperwork, the benevolent assistance of that employer, it was finally straightened out after several months.
And, OF COURSE, our fine, upstanding income tax governing officials sent the news that I had never lied in the first place, in a gift basket. Contents: chocolate covered sea salt caramels, spice drops, and a pastel colored Pashmina. They wanted to send a bottle of fine Italian Cabernet, but the Republican controlled Congress said no to free alcohol.
Those IRS folks so live up to their name: IRService. They just know how to serve the public. They do us proud.
Now that I've covered pooh and the IRS (funny how that fits so well in one sentence), I can get to what I really wanted to discuss. Facebook. Yesterday, my cousin with a sense of humor (I have more than one, so he'll have to figure out who he is on his own) posted a questionnaire that reveals whether or not you"re a nerd. If you get the jokes, you are one.
I got the jokes.
But, I've always known this about myself. Did I really need self-geek knowledge smacked into my face like trapped pooh scent?
Since we are one the subject of Facebook, here is my latest whine about that love/hate site that I can't get enough of: all of those stupid kids who are on there doing perfectly amazing things. Twelve year olds singing opera like the fat lady cliche, pre-teen sisters strumming guitars with half the talent of Eric Clapton, dancing children who could take on Micheal Jackson (if he was alive). I know I should be glowing with excitement each time I see this stuff, but the thrill is gone. What truly gets my nerdy, correct pooh etiquette mind going, is the people I encounter every day.
Here is the part where I reveal the cold hard core of my nerd nature: I think 'everyday' people are awesome and amazing. When you watch them unawares, there is beauty in their faces and movements. Listening to individual stories of childhood and current situations gives surprises and viewpoints that fill me with this settling of soulful bliss.
Where do I find these weirdos? A horde of them are co-workers. They know who they are.
Anyways, let's all take a moment to send the IRS a silent thank you for Heather's gift basket. Because, we all know they would never be unthoughtful.
Heather Leigh,
Nerd With Chocolate Caramels
Thursday, June 16, 2016
Wednesday, May 25, 2016
Disgruntled Health Nut
I have had it up to here (over my head) with my teenage sons. Just as I was about to top my popcorn addiction with melted butter, one of those beasts informed me that melted coconut oil is not only healthier but tasty as well. I nearly flung the stove top popcorn maker at him. I should have.
Because in the past year, they have both been getting into the health scene. One day we are doing our monthly fast food restaurant visit, and the next they are concerned about the mere quarter cup of processed sugar in one soda. "All of that stuff is junk. It's bad for you," they whine. So there goes my excuse to pig out on grease laden fries and questionable sandwiches.
And exercise? Used to be I could get away with walking our dog around the block. I mean, if it's at a crisp pace, isn't that enough? But noooo. Now I get tethered into gym workouts. I thought I was going in for pie and lattes last month. Turns out I am now signed up for Pilates!!! Imagine my pains, enduring twice a week inner core body moves that the human body was not designed for.
When I try to get out of working out with them, I get eye rolling and guilt trips. What the fudge is going on here, people? Does my suffering know no bounds?
The only thing that saves me is the six daily hours they are in school. They are not home to witness my weekly nibbling of spice drops, the only good candy left in the United States. I know those spicy gelatin wonders are coated in crunchy, thick white sugar. That they are stuffed with corn syrup and hazardous food dye. That baby carrots are yummy, too, but won't wear down my liver. But, dangnabitt! What is the reason for being a hard working writer if I can't savor the wild side of unhealthy living? I have rights too, you know.
But I'll tell you one thing for certain. If they try and take Cabernet from me, I am not making any more tofu stir frys or organic butternut squash roasts. And forget camping trips because nature and sun are supposedly 'good' for you. There is only so much a woman can take.
I am so ruffled by this change forced onto my life style, that I refuse to tell my son that the coconut oil drizzled over the popcorn actually is yummier than butter. And you have better not tell him either! If you do, I will drag you down with me on a pilates-driven ship while we snack on edemame and avoid gluten.
Well, good night then. I have to get a decent sleep because proper sleep time is needed for mental alertness and better health. Yeah, I know. I've succumbed to their way of thinking. Despicable, miserable mother, just trying to make the most out of what life has hit me with.
Heather Leigh,
Coconut oil popcorn martyr
Because in the past year, they have both been getting into the health scene. One day we are doing our monthly fast food restaurant visit, and the next they are concerned about the mere quarter cup of processed sugar in one soda. "All of that stuff is junk. It's bad for you," they whine. So there goes my excuse to pig out on grease laden fries and questionable sandwiches.
And exercise? Used to be I could get away with walking our dog around the block. I mean, if it's at a crisp pace, isn't that enough? But noooo. Now I get tethered into gym workouts. I thought I was going in for pie and lattes last month. Turns out I am now signed up for Pilates!!! Imagine my pains, enduring twice a week inner core body moves that the human body was not designed for.
When I try to get out of working out with them, I get eye rolling and guilt trips. What the fudge is going on here, people? Does my suffering know no bounds?
The only thing that saves me is the six daily hours they are in school. They are not home to witness my weekly nibbling of spice drops, the only good candy left in the United States. I know those spicy gelatin wonders are coated in crunchy, thick white sugar. That they are stuffed with corn syrup and hazardous food dye. That baby carrots are yummy, too, but won't wear down my liver. But, dangnabitt! What is the reason for being a hard working writer if I can't savor the wild side of unhealthy living? I have rights too, you know.
But I'll tell you one thing for certain. If they try and take Cabernet from me, I am not making any more tofu stir frys or organic butternut squash roasts. And forget camping trips because nature and sun are supposedly 'good' for you. There is only so much a woman can take.
I am so ruffled by this change forced onto my life style, that I refuse to tell my son that the coconut oil drizzled over the popcorn actually is yummier than butter. And you have better not tell him either! If you do, I will drag you down with me on a pilates-driven ship while we snack on edemame and avoid gluten.
Well, good night then. I have to get a decent sleep because proper sleep time is needed for mental alertness and better health. Yeah, I know. I've succumbed to their way of thinking. Despicable, miserable mother, just trying to make the most out of what life has hit me with.
Heather Leigh,
Coconut oil popcorn martyr
Monday, May 9, 2016
Improper Birds
Naughty stuff going down in our maple tree. Birdie porn on a branch. Seems there is one particular limb that is a favorite swingers spot for swallows. IN MY FRONT YARD!
How did this particular branch become the local House of Ill Repute? Is there an underground club where such things are chirped about? Is it a privately owned branch with a hired marketing firm? I mean, there must be a thousand limbs on that big tree--why pick on just one?
You are probably thinking that I am supporting the horrid behavior by watching and writing about it. But, sheesh, every time I finish a paragraph and glance out the window, I have a bird's eye view of the continuous party. What once was a healthy habit of not over-gazing at my computer screen has turned into sick, stalker, depraved writing.
It is said that writers need to have many life experiences to yank out topics to write about. I don't know how I am going to use these gross carrying-ons of the local bird gangs. But someday, somewhere, I will use this knowledge. I am certain that Mother Nature did not impose upon my vantage point with out future reason. I have trust in the Universe.
And what about those birds?
Those misguided youths are flagrantly displaying public acts of egg fertilization. I hope they understand the gravity of what they are pursuing for a moment of birdie bliss. Because I can foresee the arduous task of nest building taking over their time. Saturday nights spent chirping on telephone wires will now be taken over by the home building process.
Are these rebellious couples ready to be parents? Do they have what it takes to fish out worms from the soil at all hours of the day? Mush bugs in their mouth for their starving babies? Feed the ever-hungry infants that want nothing but food, food, food all day long.
What about teaching their children to fly? Do those instant-gratifying, feathered beings have the guts to kick their offspring out of the nest in a couple of months? This is not pansy, scaredy cat stuff we're talking about here, folks. Imagine teaching your children to walk by tossing them into oncoming New York traffic, hoping they make it across the street.
Of great concern is our virgin puppy, Daisy. What if she sees those punks mating out the window? What impression will it make upon her innocent, childish mind? We have gone out of our way to keep her unspoiled from the shadow side of wild life. All of our protection could be for nothing if she catches on to what is happening IN HER VERY FRONT YARD! A life of ruin and turmoil will surely follow after her mind is split open by bird coupling.
What is a tree owner to do in these times of trouble?
If you have any ideas as to how to handle my predicament, please, please, let me know.
Until then, I will continue on as the proper author that I am.
Heather Leigh,
Owner of a porn branch
How did this particular branch become the local House of Ill Repute? Is there an underground club where such things are chirped about? Is it a privately owned branch with a hired marketing firm? I mean, there must be a thousand limbs on that big tree--why pick on just one?
You are probably thinking that I am supporting the horrid behavior by watching and writing about it. But, sheesh, every time I finish a paragraph and glance out the window, I have a bird's eye view of the continuous party. What once was a healthy habit of not over-gazing at my computer screen has turned into sick, stalker, depraved writing.
It is said that writers need to have many life experiences to yank out topics to write about. I don't know how I am going to use these gross carrying-ons of the local bird gangs. But someday, somewhere, I will use this knowledge. I am certain that Mother Nature did not impose upon my vantage point with out future reason. I have trust in the Universe.
And what about those birds?
Those misguided youths are flagrantly displaying public acts of egg fertilization. I hope they understand the gravity of what they are pursuing for a moment of birdie bliss. Because I can foresee the arduous task of nest building taking over their time. Saturday nights spent chirping on telephone wires will now be taken over by the home building process.
Are these rebellious couples ready to be parents? Do they have what it takes to fish out worms from the soil at all hours of the day? Mush bugs in their mouth for their starving babies? Feed the ever-hungry infants that want nothing but food, food, food all day long.
What about teaching their children to fly? Do those instant-gratifying, feathered beings have the guts to kick their offspring out of the nest in a couple of months? This is not pansy, scaredy cat stuff we're talking about here, folks. Imagine teaching your children to walk by tossing them into oncoming New York traffic, hoping they make it across the street.
Of great concern is our virgin puppy, Daisy. What if she sees those punks mating out the window? What impression will it make upon her innocent, childish mind? We have gone out of our way to keep her unspoiled from the shadow side of wild life. All of our protection could be for nothing if she catches on to what is happening IN HER VERY FRONT YARD! A life of ruin and turmoil will surely follow after her mind is split open by bird coupling.
What is a tree owner to do in these times of trouble?
If you have any ideas as to how to handle my predicament, please, please, let me know.
Until then, I will continue on as the proper author that I am.
Heather Leigh,
Owner of a porn branch
Thursday, April 28, 2016
Smile Over Sadness: Aunt Judy
My Aunt Judy passed away a few weeks ago. She is the one who illustrated all of my children's book covers (except for Hey, Little Baby). We shared a blog of free stories for children; I wrote, she drew. We spoke or emailed weekly. So guess what? She was a big part of my life.
In writing about her now, I seek to avoid sadness. Yes, she was an incredible aunt and person. But she would laugh and tell me I was being a dramatic writer if I wrote something like that. So I'm going to tell you stuff that will make us both smile.
Okay, so I am the world's slowest eater. Why am I the slowest? Because I no longer have any competition. By the time I get through my salad, others are finishing dessert. Judy had me totally completely beat in our uncompetitive race. She was twice as unfast.
This is due to her addiction to listening. Yes, you heard me. She was one of those wackos who listened when you talked. She told me, "Why would I want to talk about myself? I all ready know about me."
Who says crazy stuff like that? I mean, what is the point of a conversation if you are not fighting for your chance to show off your fine choice of words, brilliant ideas, and exhilarating highlights of every thing that ever happened to you.
Don't let it be thought here that she never spoke. In one conversation, we could solve all of the world's problems. Trouble was, nobody ever asked us. If the Big Shots in power ever followed the Judy and Heather World Advice Discussions, we would have World Peace by this weekend. But I suppose the world was just not ready to listen like Judy did.
She was one of those wackos who 'followed her bliss' by becoming a professional illustrator. Imagine how bizarre this world would be if everyone were in a career that they loved. I shutter just thinking about it. And, of course, just like all those motivational books preach, she made money by waltzing along in life, doing as she pleased, drawing dogs, people as cartoons, animals. She even had the audacity to make pictures that were designed for kids through adults. Realistic to cartoon. Her talent was, sheesh, what is that big word I'm looking for? Oh, yeah...unlimited.
Except that, boy was she ever picky. Could not let anything with her name on it go out into the public that was not to the best of her ability. She even researched her stuff as well. Made sure the dog breeds were just right, surfers were on the waves correctly, elephants had their ears shaped true to form. Wow, you'd have thought she really, truly cared about what was put out into the world.
When my boys were small, I went to her constantly for advice. While every one else was telling me to be more strict, punishing, and to make demands at the drop of a dirty diaper, she talked of a different path. Wild tips like listening, compromise, guidance and love. Learning through example, natural consequences, being firm yet gentle.
And me, being the Judy fan that I have always been, I followed her parenting style. And what do I have to show for my loyalty? Nothing but two thoughtful, caring boys who learned to listen, be polite, discuss ideas, and be wonderful. Just like her son.
Once again, can you imagine a world in which we all listened to our children? Too much for me to handle in one sitting.
She also had to go and have a supportive, kind, respectful marriage to a great guy. Where does that leave the rest of us? Are we supposed to follow in her footsteps and turn marriage into a joyful partnership? Where is the fun in having no abuse, drama, or temper tantrum arguments? Those are some pretty high goals to set for two people.
Now that she is gone, there is a big, gaping hole in my life. Every day, for the rest of my life, I will be attempting to fill it with appreciation of the time I got to spend with her. If I go on any more about this kind of talk, however, I will be crying for another night.
Aunt Judy was splendiferous and will be missed for the rest of my life.
If there is a way for you to get this message in your body-less form: I love you, Aunt Judy. But then, you already knew that.
Oh, if anyone out there passes on before I do and can give her this message, please pass it on: I tried so, so hard, but I can't get into mystery novels. I know you loved them, but I will just never share your favorite book genre. Sorry.
Heather Leigh
Niece of Judy, Aunt Extraordinaire
In writing about her now, I seek to avoid sadness. Yes, she was an incredible aunt and person. But she would laugh and tell me I was being a dramatic writer if I wrote something like that. So I'm going to tell you stuff that will make us both smile.
Okay, so I am the world's slowest eater. Why am I the slowest? Because I no longer have any competition. By the time I get through my salad, others are finishing dessert. Judy had me totally completely beat in our uncompetitive race. She was twice as unfast.
This is due to her addiction to listening. Yes, you heard me. She was one of those wackos who listened when you talked. She told me, "Why would I want to talk about myself? I all ready know about me."
Who says crazy stuff like that? I mean, what is the point of a conversation if you are not fighting for your chance to show off your fine choice of words, brilliant ideas, and exhilarating highlights of every thing that ever happened to you.
Don't let it be thought here that she never spoke. In one conversation, we could solve all of the world's problems. Trouble was, nobody ever asked us. If the Big Shots in power ever followed the Judy and Heather World Advice Discussions, we would have World Peace by this weekend. But I suppose the world was just not ready to listen like Judy did.
She was one of those wackos who 'followed her bliss' by becoming a professional illustrator. Imagine how bizarre this world would be if everyone were in a career that they loved. I shutter just thinking about it. And, of course, just like all those motivational books preach, she made money by waltzing along in life, doing as she pleased, drawing dogs, people as cartoons, animals. She even had the audacity to make pictures that were designed for kids through adults. Realistic to cartoon. Her talent was, sheesh, what is that big word I'm looking for? Oh, yeah...unlimited.
Except that, boy was she ever picky. Could not let anything with her name on it go out into the public that was not to the best of her ability. She even researched her stuff as well. Made sure the dog breeds were just right, surfers were on the waves correctly, elephants had their ears shaped true to form. Wow, you'd have thought she really, truly cared about what was put out into the world.
When my boys were small, I went to her constantly for advice. While every one else was telling me to be more strict, punishing, and to make demands at the drop of a dirty diaper, she talked of a different path. Wild tips like listening, compromise, guidance and love. Learning through example, natural consequences, being firm yet gentle.
And me, being the Judy fan that I have always been, I followed her parenting style. And what do I have to show for my loyalty? Nothing but two thoughtful, caring boys who learned to listen, be polite, discuss ideas, and be wonderful. Just like her son.
Once again, can you imagine a world in which we all listened to our children? Too much for me to handle in one sitting.
She also had to go and have a supportive, kind, respectful marriage to a great guy. Where does that leave the rest of us? Are we supposed to follow in her footsteps and turn marriage into a joyful partnership? Where is the fun in having no abuse, drama, or temper tantrum arguments? Those are some pretty high goals to set for two people.
Now that she is gone, there is a big, gaping hole in my life. Every day, for the rest of my life, I will be attempting to fill it with appreciation of the time I got to spend with her. If I go on any more about this kind of talk, however, I will be crying for another night.
Aunt Judy was splendiferous and will be missed for the rest of my life.
If there is a way for you to get this message in your body-less form: I love you, Aunt Judy. But then, you already knew that.
Oh, if anyone out there passes on before I do and can give her this message, please pass it on: I tried so, so hard, but I can't get into mystery novels. I know you loved them, but I will just never share your favorite book genre. Sorry.
Heather Leigh
Niece of Judy, Aunt Extraordinaire
Monday, March 28, 2016
Dear Readers
This may come as a big shock, but the Internal Revenue Service, IRS, is doing two things that baffle me. Seems that two years ago, there was a screw up between what I reported and what they have on their records. I sent in proof that I am in the right on this issue, BUT IN THE MEANTIME, while it is being sorted out, I will be forced to pay interest charges on the discrepancy. Even if I I am double, triple-proofed as having done the right thing, I will still be punished. And, of course, never paid back those charges.
Do you think I could charge them interest for the hassle of fixing what may be their mistake? How about the postage and handling, stress, copying fees, and time spent away from writing that I am doling out on this fun event. I'm sure they will at least send me a fruit basket for my troubles.
They should, because we are on close terms. I know we are on comfy terms because when they write these letters to me, explaining why I have to pay for what is not my fault, they address the message as: 'Dear Heather Leigh'. Webster's Dictionary defines dear as: beloved, loved. See? They do care.
Nothing like being loved by the IRS.
Although, I am curious as to what they do to those they do not love. Perhaps the uncared for are forced to become an IRS auditor. That must be it. I have always wondered who would volunteer for such a position. Now we know the secret.
There is a locked windowless basement with thousands of forgotten U.S. citizens going through the records of small businesses, tax payers who make below living wages, and elderly on fixed income. So if you get audited some day, remember that the person doing the dirty deed is not your enemy. They are people like you and me who did not pay the interest charges for uncommitted crimes, or non-adored citizens. Pity those poor folk; keep them in your prayers.
And here is my promise to you, my dear Readers. If I find a discrepancy between what you tell me and what I understand, I will never charge you for the misunderstanding. No, not a thing. Because I am nice like that.
In the coming days until the end of the tax season, I wish you non-punishment for whatever you tell the IRS. Stay away from closed-in basements. Be careful who you say 'Dear' to. Put away money for interest in case you are charged for doing the right thing.
If you ever figure out the logic behind the IRS, please let me know. I believe that there may be thousands of other folks who are baffled by what they do. We would all appreciate more clarity with that bureaucracy that kindly takes in our money.
From your beloved author,
Heather Leigh
Do you think I could charge them interest for the hassle of fixing what may be their mistake? How about the postage and handling, stress, copying fees, and time spent away from writing that I am doling out on this fun event. I'm sure they will at least send me a fruit basket for my troubles.
They should, because we are on close terms. I know we are on comfy terms because when they write these letters to me, explaining why I have to pay for what is not my fault, they address the message as: 'Dear Heather Leigh'. Webster's Dictionary defines dear as: beloved, loved. See? They do care.
Nothing like being loved by the IRS.
Although, I am curious as to what they do to those they do not love. Perhaps the uncared for are forced to become an IRS auditor. That must be it. I have always wondered who would volunteer for such a position. Now we know the secret.
There is a locked windowless basement with thousands of forgotten U.S. citizens going through the records of small businesses, tax payers who make below living wages, and elderly on fixed income. So if you get audited some day, remember that the person doing the dirty deed is not your enemy. They are people like you and me who did not pay the interest charges for uncommitted crimes, or non-adored citizens. Pity those poor folk; keep them in your prayers.
And here is my promise to you, my dear Readers. If I find a discrepancy between what you tell me and what I understand, I will never charge you for the misunderstanding. No, not a thing. Because I am nice like that.
In the coming days until the end of the tax season, I wish you non-punishment for whatever you tell the IRS. Stay away from closed-in basements. Be careful who you say 'Dear' to. Put away money for interest in case you are charged for doing the right thing.
If you ever figure out the logic behind the IRS, please let me know. I believe that there may be thousands of other folks who are baffled by what they do. We would all appreciate more clarity with that bureaucracy that kindly takes in our money.
From your beloved author,
Heather Leigh
Monday, March 14, 2016
Sydney the Great
When the boys were four and seven years old, we finally moved into a house. It was then that I was doomed to follow through on a promise made--a family dog. We spent several weeks visiting the Animal Shelter. There were many wonderful canines ready for homes, but none of them matched what we were looking for. Either they were not interested in a home of chaotic, rambunctious boys, or we did not feel the pull of love to take him/her home.
Then there came Sydney. After claiming that we were looking for a small mutt, we ended up falling in love with a fifty-five pound pedigree Australian Shepherd. In the visiting room of the Shelter, she sat beside me, laid her head in my lap and told me she was ready to be our companion. Well then, that was settled.
In the days before we could bring her home, the boys and I wondered who would leave behind such a beautiful, intelligent breed. When we got her to her new dwelling, we learned very quickly why clever dogs can actually be too clever. A list of her accomplishments over the years:
Escaping from every fenced-in enclosure: six foot fences, locked gates, indestructible metal dog crate. Who ever advertised on that dog crate box that no dog could break out of it, never met Sydney. Silly fools.
Propping her paws on the counter, edging down glass jars, biting gently and lowering jar to ground, opening with her teeth. Eating contents without a crack in the glass--including a very expensive jar of Macadamia nuts that I still have not forgiven her for.
Wolfing down a box of chocolates and never getting sick.
Eating and peeling avocados and avoiding the pit.
Breaking through a glass front door without a scratch. Imagine our surprise when we got home to discover the front of our dog on the porch and the back of her in the house. I still can't figure out how she did not hurt herself. Perhaps she was a stunt dog in a previous life?
Jumping out of the car window while I was driving into the Dog Park. At least the window was rolled down a few inches so it was not broken.
What we learned from Sydney: Don't leave anything on the counter. Buy a solid wood door. Keep the windows up at the Dog Park.
What she never did learn was how to hide the evidence of her naughtiness. After eating a bag of pink candy, she tried to tell us the candy just disappeared while we were gone. There was no connection between her previously white chest fur suddenly turning pink. Aren't dogs color blind?
It was after a few of these Sydney accomplishments that I began to get an inkling as to why her previous owners thought that perhaps she was a bit difficult to keep as a pet. But what they may have failed to notice are her plus sides.
I was always protected. Just try to hug me in her presence--she would stand in front of me and block the way. You could have been a hug attacker!
Waiting outside the bathroom door, she would not let any child come close. She knew it was my moment of peace and was there to make sure I got it.
She almost drowned in the river attempting to herd us back to the shore. This from the dog who hates getting wet.
At walk time, she could jump and leap in a full circle in excitement. Taught us the value of simple pleasures.
Always waited at the door for our arrival. Nothing like coming home after traffic, smog and stress to a loving warm ball of fur. She knew her value.
Now that she is old, things have changed a bit. A daily walk around the block takes about half an hour. Sleep is more fun than the Dog Park. No glass doors or metal cages have been busted in several years. But she is still our adored, beautiful, wonderful Sydney. The people who left her behind were just plain stupid.
Heather Leigh,
Owner of that too clever dog
P.S. I was going to wait until she passed to write about how wonderful she is. But then I realized that once she is gone, I won't be able to talk about her for quite a while.
Then there came Sydney. After claiming that we were looking for a small mutt, we ended up falling in love with a fifty-five pound pedigree Australian Shepherd. In the visiting room of the Shelter, she sat beside me, laid her head in my lap and told me she was ready to be our companion. Well then, that was settled.
In the days before we could bring her home, the boys and I wondered who would leave behind such a beautiful, intelligent breed. When we got her to her new dwelling, we learned very quickly why clever dogs can actually be too clever. A list of her accomplishments over the years:
Escaping from every fenced-in enclosure: six foot fences, locked gates, indestructible metal dog crate. Who ever advertised on that dog crate box that no dog could break out of it, never met Sydney. Silly fools.
Propping her paws on the counter, edging down glass jars, biting gently and lowering jar to ground, opening with her teeth. Eating contents without a crack in the glass--including a very expensive jar of Macadamia nuts that I still have not forgiven her for.
Wolfing down a box of chocolates and never getting sick.
Eating and peeling avocados and avoiding the pit.
Breaking through a glass front door without a scratch. Imagine our surprise when we got home to discover the front of our dog on the porch and the back of her in the house. I still can't figure out how she did not hurt herself. Perhaps she was a stunt dog in a previous life?
Jumping out of the car window while I was driving into the Dog Park. At least the window was rolled down a few inches so it was not broken.
What we learned from Sydney: Don't leave anything on the counter. Buy a solid wood door. Keep the windows up at the Dog Park.
What she never did learn was how to hide the evidence of her naughtiness. After eating a bag of pink candy, she tried to tell us the candy just disappeared while we were gone. There was no connection between her previously white chest fur suddenly turning pink. Aren't dogs color blind?
It was after a few of these Sydney accomplishments that I began to get an inkling as to why her previous owners thought that perhaps she was a bit difficult to keep as a pet. But what they may have failed to notice are her plus sides.
I was always protected. Just try to hug me in her presence--she would stand in front of me and block the way. You could have been a hug attacker!
Waiting outside the bathroom door, she would not let any child come close. She knew it was my moment of peace and was there to make sure I got it.
She almost drowned in the river attempting to herd us back to the shore. This from the dog who hates getting wet.
At walk time, she could jump and leap in a full circle in excitement. Taught us the value of simple pleasures.
Always waited at the door for our arrival. Nothing like coming home after traffic, smog and stress to a loving warm ball of fur. She knew her value.
Now that she is old, things have changed a bit. A daily walk around the block takes about half an hour. Sleep is more fun than the Dog Park. No glass doors or metal cages have been busted in several years. But she is still our adored, beautiful, wonderful Sydney. The people who left her behind were just plain stupid.
Heather Leigh,
Owner of that too clever dog
P.S. I was going to wait until she passed to write about how wonderful she is. But then I realized that once she is gone, I won't be able to talk about her for quite a while.
Tuesday, February 23, 2016
Cutie Canines
I have a serious problem and I don't want anyone telling me this is no big deal. Our dogs love fruits and vegetables. I can hear what you are thinking: healthy animals are a good thing. Their diet choices keep them away from illness, the vet, diarrhea issues, whatever. Well, that is all good for those canines--but what about me?
The California Cuties, mandarin oranges, are in season (are they only available in California? Any out-of-staters out there, please let me know). Those bright orange lively spheres are sweeter and better than any candy on the market. Easy to peel, no seeds, zesty with flavor and juice, seems like they should be illegal or at least bad for you like a donut.
So here is where the issue zooms in. Sydney and Daisy are even more smitten with them than I am. Translation: I'm allowed to eat one segment, next goes to Syd and then Daisy. I'm allowed to eat one-third of those golf ball sized treats! The whole Cutie season only lasts a month.
And you should see them when we get a watermelon, Sydney's favorite fruit. It's a wonder they don't attack me while it is being cut. Sheesh.
I know what else you are thinking. That I am the owner, the master, the Akeela. That I should be able to say no to those furry companions. But Sydney is fifteen years old. She is in her last year of life expectancy (something that will bring me to wrenching tears if I dwell on it for more than ten seconds). You try and say 'no' when this may be her last Cutie season.
Of course, she has passed on her fruit and veggie, begging and obsession to puppy Daisy. Can't just treat one dog and not the other. Talk about sibling rivalry issues that would cause mayhem and madness in our peaceful home.
There is also no fairness with this whole sheboogle. Because, see, I do not share any enthusiasm for their treats. No, I just can't get into dog biscuits, doggies nibbles, or even pig ears. Nothing! Not one iota of my body wants to get down on the floor and chew away at a bone or chunk of raw hide. They get every bit of their snack to themselves. Not once has anyone in our family looked at them with big eyes and yearned for a piece of their stuff.
Okay, there was that one time when the boys were five and eight. Older one dared the younger to eat a dog biscuit. He did it, but only because it was smeared in peanut butter. That doesn't count as begging.
Guess I'll have to smuggle my fruit to work from now on. Well, I don't know. I do kind of love those dogs. Maybe I can share just one more Cutie.
Heather Leigh,
Companion to Veggie Lovers
P.S. I know the third thing you are all thinking: what are the vegetables they love? Carrots and corn on the cob at the top, onions at the bottom.
The California Cuties, mandarin oranges, are in season (are they only available in California? Any out-of-staters out there, please let me know). Those bright orange lively spheres are sweeter and better than any candy on the market. Easy to peel, no seeds, zesty with flavor and juice, seems like they should be illegal or at least bad for you like a donut.
So here is where the issue zooms in. Sydney and Daisy are even more smitten with them than I am. Translation: I'm allowed to eat one segment, next goes to Syd and then Daisy. I'm allowed to eat one-third of those golf ball sized treats! The whole Cutie season only lasts a month.
And you should see them when we get a watermelon, Sydney's favorite fruit. It's a wonder they don't attack me while it is being cut. Sheesh.
I know what else you are thinking. That I am the owner, the master, the Akeela. That I should be able to say no to those furry companions. But Sydney is fifteen years old. She is in her last year of life expectancy (something that will bring me to wrenching tears if I dwell on it for more than ten seconds). You try and say 'no' when this may be her last Cutie season.
Of course, she has passed on her fruit and veggie, begging and obsession to puppy Daisy. Can't just treat one dog and not the other. Talk about sibling rivalry issues that would cause mayhem and madness in our peaceful home.
There is also no fairness with this whole sheboogle. Because, see, I do not share any enthusiasm for their treats. No, I just can't get into dog biscuits, doggies nibbles, or even pig ears. Nothing! Not one iota of my body wants to get down on the floor and chew away at a bone or chunk of raw hide. They get every bit of their snack to themselves. Not once has anyone in our family looked at them with big eyes and yearned for a piece of their stuff.
Okay, there was that one time when the boys were five and eight. Older one dared the younger to eat a dog biscuit. He did it, but only because it was smeared in peanut butter. That doesn't count as begging.
Guess I'll have to smuggle my fruit to work from now on. Well, I don't know. I do kind of love those dogs. Maybe I can share just one more Cutie.
Heather Leigh,
Companion to Veggie Lovers
P.S. I know the third thing you are all thinking: what are the vegetables they love? Carrots and corn on the cob at the top, onions at the bottom.
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