Forbidden Fruit

We're all guilty. Who hasn't felt the sinful tug of desire - for a better car, house, job, expensive trinkets, what have you. We've all stared over that fence of desire at (apparently) greener pastures. And like many before us, most of us have hand our hands slapped reaching for that cookie jar.

Truffles is no exception. Her desire for the taste of feline fur is near legendary in these parts. If and when our cat feels brave enough to explore the floor, Ms. Truffles jumps right over that fence, and lands squarely in...browner pasture. She gets schooled.

Boo (cat): I have all my claws. And a can opener.
Author: ?
Boo: So I can serve up a can of whoop ass as required.

Author: Ah yes, we have witnessed this on more then one occasion. It's a simple process. Cat appears. Truffles attempts to make pancake of said cat. Cat cracks its knuckles and we cringe. What follows is a cacophony of dog cries, claws slicing at flesh, white and brown fur filling the air like so much pollen. It's a remarkable sight, and-

Truffles (Fudgepants): I don't find it remarkable at all. My nose was only meant to have two holes in it.

Author. You should know better. Follow Nigel's example. Once a tolerator; now a total hater- Nigel does not trust Boo, and eyes him with guarded suspicion. But he keeps a safe distance.

Nigel: I'm happy to preserve my good looks. Think I'll have another beauty nap zzzzz

Author: Good plan. Fudgepants is slowly but surely learning the value of restraint. Of late, she's taken to lustful observation.

Oh, baby.

Not that we expect a lasting peace - Fudgepants is far too young to have learned all her lessons for now. We still keep the panini maker locked up.

Boo: Thanks for that!

Author: Most welcome friend. And so we wait. And we watch. And as the fur flies, we are reminded there are some things, no matter how delicious/beautiful/shiny they may be - that we are not meant to obtain.

Fudgepants: I'M GETTING UNDER THE COUCH I JUST HEARD THE CAN OPENER NOOOOOOO
Sola: Snicker
Boo: Bring it.

We're BACK

Well, sort of. After months of 80+ hour weeks at work, things are becoming sane again - and there is much catching up to do! The last six months have been a blur - much like Sola with her Frisbee.



It's time to write again, and I'll be adding to these pages in the coming days and weeks. Big thanks to all of you who have checked in, and to those of you who have reminded me to share. We'll be back soon - back with a vengeance!

Until then, be well...

If You Love Something...

Even if you don't love it, set it free. My lesson for the week.


Thursday morning I was speaking with a client (wearing a headset) and got hit with one of those sneezes that comes out of nowhere, gets its start somewhere down around your toenails and launches itself from your being with the force of a typhoon, spray painting anything within shouting distance.

So I stifled it. Well.

Do these things go flying when you sneeze?

The result? A rather unique, exquisitely horriffic *pop* that emanated in my chest, followed by the sensation of a freight train traveling up my neck, riding my throat, stoked with coal and hauling ass. My client heard nothing. I ruptured a lung.

Remember how your parents told you not to stifle a sneeze? What do they know? They have kids so they can work like dogs the rest of their lives paying for us. They can't be that smart, right? Well, I've never seen any person blow themselves up holding in a sneeze, so at this point I must re-evaluate every IQ test I've taken.

What happened next? It was a real party. The air that escaped my lung had to go somewhere, so it made it's way toward the one place it would have room to stretch out - my head. And in a stroke of good/bad/odd luck, the train was derailed just shy of it's destination, bruising my vocal cords. That's right, I have a sneeze stuck in my neck. Ponder that one for a few seconds while I catch my breath.

Sola: "Pun!"

Author: Yeah, well either way there's no fun in this. It's one of those things that is absolutely not better than a stick in the eye.

I survived work. When the sun went down things got interesting. In a hacking fit at midnight I painted the kitchen sink red. I was spooked. The resident canines, however, were very impressed. They encircled me at the sink, staring me down. The smell of blood drew them to me. Here I stood; alone in the kitchen, late at night - eerily bathed in light from the Christmas tree, surrounded by two hundred pounds of salivating dogs. I considered my chances, and Mrs. Author's voice broke the silence like a beacon of hope: "Are you ok in there?"

I was not, and I knew it. I required rescue from the pool of drool that was hastily rising at my feet.

FudgePants: "We were hoping you'd hack up a steak next."
Nigel: "Gross! Oh wait, did you say steak?"

Author: Thanks for nothing. Did I mention that Truffles is an obsessive, food-driven Lab? We drove to ER for the customary round of X-rays and morphine. I was able to view the air trapped in my neck. I longed for that stick in the eye. When asked what my symptoms were, I told the attending, "It hurts when I canoe." The next day they stuck a camera up my nose, down my throat in to my lungs. It was very sexy.

This is not porn: Vocal cord closeup.

Now my mission is to caution those around me. Our new neighbors (four hippies, much writing material) heard the story and approached me yesterday. They asked about my condition. I told them I'd never be able to weld under water again, but that I'd be fine otherwise. One of them looked at me with a very serious expression and quipped, "Dude, we're letting everything rip over here now."

That's where I'll leave this story for now. I feel better. I dare not proclaim full recovery for fear that I'll cough and send objects and substances flying from every orifice.

So keep your distance. And in the new year, when you feel a tickle coming on, remember that poor fool in the hills of Vermont; hunched over a sink, lung looking like it just came back from a Dick Cheney hunting trip, dogs gnawing at his legs.

Remember me, and let everything rip.



Sola: "That does it. I'm never holding in a fart again. Don't want to get it stuck in my neck."

Nigel: "Terrific."

FudgePants: "Can we revisit the steak issue?"

Holiday Wishes

Another year has passed, and we are blessed.

Our home is full - seven beings sharing living space, life and love. The joy of this holiday season is not lost on us. We appreciate what we have. And our wishes for you this season are good health, happiness, peace and contentment.

From our family to yours, Merry Christmas (or Happy Holidays if Christmas does not apply).

Ms. Treatment (And Then There Were Three, Pt. 2)

Ladies and gentlemen; Ms. Truffles















We have so much catching up to do! There will be plenty of time to fill in the gaps, but here is the short version.

Sola: "They have been cheating!"

Author: "Wait a secon-"

Nigel: "CHEATERS cheaters, never beaters."

Author: "Enough!"

I must proclaim - I did not choose the name. Mrs. Author is responsible for that one.

I just paid for her.

She was a gift to Mrs. Author. A little unwanted runt from the same neck of the woods Sola came from. She was the cutest little peanut, cold and lonely; we were the suckers. Her parents were beautiful, and it shows. But in case you missed it, look at her picture again. Truffles came with a nifty surprise, a bum leg. Angular Limb Deformity, or ALD. Google ALD and you'll find that it can be pretty rough. It has been.

Months ago (less than two days after she came home with us) we noticed that her leg was swollen and appeared slightly misshapen. Many vet trips and X-Rays and specialist consultations later we were forced to decide between three options:

1. Return her to the breeder to be put down and "replaced."

2. Amputate.

3. Spend ridiculous amounts of money to have a surgeon from Ohio State University fly in to join our local specialist in a tag team surgery that would leave Truffles looking like this:

The Not So Patient

I swear to this day Mrs. Author slipped me something, but the picture doesn't lie - surgery it was. For many weeks Truffles has not gone in or out without my having to carry her. The rest of her time is spent in an exercise pen (better than a crate) with Mrs. Author fussing over her, or in an exercise pen at the office with me doing the fussing. The dog has it made.

Not to say that she has not suffered: she has. She had the metal removed from her leg a week ago, replaced with a soft cast that was supposed to last a week. Truffles ate her way to her toes two days after it was fitted, and off it came. Pain is evident in her every move, despite medication. But she remains happy, a wagging bundle of joy, still wondrous with youth.

In the struggle, life continues to amuse. I wasn't down with the name selection, so Truffles also answers to another name: FudgePants. Well why not? She looks like she's wearing a pair. For the first few weeks she was here, the dog had to crap her pants every other hour. The causal observer might think our yard was paid a visit by Willie Wonka. After a few days of baking sun I would be forced to labor for hours in the yard with a golf club, taking careful aim for the neighbor's lawn. Fortunately FudgePants slowed her system down by swallowing the foot of her soft cast, not bringing it back up to show us for a couple of days.

Our surgeon has been terrific. He and his staff have helped us through this in every way possible. One thing I did find odd - prior to surgery the doctor mentioned to me no fewer than than three times that I would be sent home with a special surgical wrench. It was to be used twice daily to turn screws on the leg brace first to align, then to stretch the leg. That made sense to me. What did not were the stern warnings to "Never, ever lose that wrench."




Such was his concern that the second time it was discussed I asked what it might cost if one were to lose such a wrench. The surgeon's demeanor darkened, his gaze resolute. "That" he uttered, "would be a very bad idea. You're probably looking at two hundred dollars!"

Two hundred dollars? Our total expenditure for Fudge Pants and the leg is likely to be twenty or thirty times that amount. I decided to drop the wrench issue. After surgery the good doctor asked me to be careful not to lose the wrench as he handed it to me. I loudly asked (loud enough for all in the building to hear) if the doctor might have some unusual emotional attachment to this special wrench. Perhaps his first girlfriend had given it to him?

"NO" he snapped. "She did not, and I don't have any emotional attachment to that stupid wrench. Just don't lose it." We did not. The bolts were turned each day, an experience I don't hope to ever repeat. Truffles grit her teeth and healed, growing before our eyes. Nigel and Sola watched her with concern, being careful not to get too close.

Days before the return of the wrench (and follow up surgery to take the rods out of Truffles leg) I snapped a picture of the wrench. The morning of our appointment I sent the following e-mail to the surgeon's office:

-----Original Message-----From: Neil B.
Sent: Friday, September 29, 2006 10:03 AM
To: vet@unnamedorsomething.com
Subject: Wrench Ransom

The picture should be self explanatory. A briefcase full of small unmarked bills and a helicopter to a small airfield will suffice.












N.B.


One might imagine my shock hours later when the following reply reached my inbox as I nervously awaited a FudgePants status call from Mrs. Author:


-----Original Message-----
From: PH
Sent: Friday, September 29, 2006 3:06 PM
To: 'Neil Brogan'
Subject: RE: Wrench Ransom


Do you care to negotiate? We have your Truffles "trussed up" so it is impossible for her to escape. We have blindfolded her as well so she cannot see who has taken her hostage. If she were to see us... well, you know what we would have to do. I must say her handwriting is pretty good and she made good use of the one piece of paper we gave her. DO NOT call the police!! We have your telephone line bugged. All those unmarked bills that were sent to you this morning - you can send them to us. As for the helicopter, we think we will keep that as well to aid in our escape. Time is short. Call while there is still time.



-----End Message-----

There was Pants, knocked out and tied up, her leg finally free. The phone rang. Mrs. Author told me to meet her at the vet's office to pick up our patient. I drove like a madman and rushed in to the waiting room to find her and the staff laughing wildly about our e-mail exchange. "You!" she exclaimed, "You have corrupted another office!"


That's fine with me. There is more than enough time to be serious in this life. It's the fun that counts.

It Came in the Night

Nigel, disturbed.


A perfect summer evening, ruined.

A knock at the door delivered to us the most heinous sight imaginable: Mr. Neighbor- slightly stoned, ready to party, dressed in full drag, a pale green dress straining to contain it's offensive occupant. Hairy arms and a full beard rounded out the pukeworthy package.

And so the story goes.

*Knock knock*Author: I'll get it! (Bad call)

Neighbor: "Yo"

Author: (Pauses to catch dinner trying to escape from whence it came, breath coming in fits and starts.)

Neighbor: "Come on, tell me what you think."

Author: "Um, no."

Neighbor: "No what?"

Author: "You picked the wrong house."

Neighbor: "I need help, I can't do my own makeup. Is Mrs. Author home?"

Author: "Unfortunately she is."

Mrs. Author went to work with a smile on her face. I knew the deal: Ladies like to put makeup on men. The cause for this has eluded me, but I was comforted knowing that Mr. Neighbor would likely relieve Mrs. Author's itch to paint a male face. Ultimately, this meant one thing: I was off the hook for the foreseeable future. Instead of letting my senses collapse under the weight of this most unfortunate sight, I set out to find the impetus for Mr. Neighbor's transformation.

Author: "Um, you might want to put some duct tape on that."

Neighbor: "My Boa will cover it."

Author: "Might you wear eight or ten boas? What brought this about?"

Neighbor: "Dude shut up. It's a costume party, and I am gonna score. Chicks love this stuff."

Author: "Yes, they love to wear this stuff. They don't love you wearing it."

Neighbor: "My makeup is hot. Do you like my dress? It was on sale for $70, marked down from $130."

Author: "Oh, that makes everything ok."

Nigel: "Might I interrupt?"

Author: "What now Nigel?"

Nigel: "I was wondering if you could have working thumbs surgically implanted on Sola."

Author: "Why?"

Nigel: "I need someone to grab the melonballer in the kitchen and scoop my eyes from my head, rendering me joyously sightless."

Author: "I'll be next in line."

Neighbor: "Dude I am so hot."

Author: "You'll never make it to the party. You're going to drive off the road feeling yourself up on the way there. But do me a favor - let me snap a picture. I'll e-mail it to you so you can stare at it."

Neighbor: "I guess, but you have to destroy it, or at least promise not to put it on your blog."

Author: ;)






Oprah will be so proud. Click to enlarge if you dare...



Nigel: Has anyone seen the melonballer?
Sola: I'M USING IT!!!