Crossword Puzzle Clue: Can you dig it? (Past tense)

Our window of opportunity was very brief...barely 48 hours. Sydney's fiance enjoys venturing from his home state of California almost as much as I like leaving Wyoming County. I was focused on making this the most enjoyable visit EVER but Canada, constant rain, and my own character conspired against me. 

"You know," Savannah informed me, (ever-so-helpfully) minutes before Sydney and her beau's arrival, "he doesn't particularly care for it when you call him Douglas." I stared at her in dismay. Oh no. What was I going to do? It was locked in now. I quickly activated some visualization exercises to adjust what was now concreted in my brain. I repeated his name rapidly in my head until it became nonsensical. Then my verbal-linguistic side wrestled for control and I now had a picture of Douglas holding a shovel, digging. I moved him back to my last visit to San Diego and watched him wrestle his blooming rose bushes and reluctant lawn into submission. I nodded confidently as Sydney and Douggg (I stomped on his name like a brake)...walked out of the airport towards us. "Sydney!" I exclaimed, erupting out of our idling van like a discharged cannonball. "Douglas!" Oh no.

San Diego always makes a great first impression with its stately palms and elegant bird of paradise
plants framing their airport exit against a brilliant blue sky backdrop...whose closest competitor, the mighty Pacific, would pause to wave a welcome at each approaching guest. Now...here was Douggg...taking a hesitant breath of our "airmageddon," trying not to look confused by our soot-colored sky. Wanting so much for him to feel comfortable and at home in his new surroundings, I immediately transformed into Tour Guide Barbie, pointing out all the interesting features of our area. I ran out of things to say much faster than I anticipated. My daughters weren't all that helpful...my dissertation on the world-wide economic impact of the Erie Canal fizzled when they pointed out that railroads and the development of highways and the Saint Lawrence Seaway quickly replaced the construction that really never saw a return on its investment (before they both immediately broke out into song..."15 miles on the Erie Canal...!"). Trying gamely to act interested (despite coming off a West Coast red-eye), Douggg squinted through the smokey haze out his window and then whispered to Sydney, "Is she talking about that ditch?" Before she could warn him, I'd pounced. "Funny you should say that," I smiled, re-energized, "During construction, nay-sayers called it Clinton's Big Ditch." I paused dramatically while Sydney and Savannah silently begged him not to do it. 

But he did. 

Do it. 

Because he's polite. 

"Why did they call it that?" Douggg asked, patting Sydney's hand gently as she whimpered.

After having received a remedial course in Erie Canal Construction 101, Douggg then got to visit another local hot spot. And I'm not kidding. The temperature in my mother's little apartment rivals that of tropical rain forests. He was gracious and gallant and kind. As we assembled for a group photo, my mother good-naturedly complained about being the shortest. Douggg responded by immediately taking a knee. 

There are three surefire ways to work yourself into my heart (if you haven't already plied me with junk food).

1.  Being kind to my mother (check)

2.  Looking at my now-elderly dachshund but still be able to see her bright spirit, gentle soul, and sparkling personality (AND bring her a fun, new toy) (check)

3. Make an effort to connect to my husband in a genuine way:  Presenting Brad with a certified piece of The Berlin Wall. Flashback: 1989. Brad, in Germany, on the phone with his new wife. They can barely hear each other over the celebratory noises and the sound of construction in the background. "Grab a piece," Amy shouted over the distance that separated the couple. "I'm not a tourist," her husband scoffed, uttering words that would mock him for decades later by his disgusted family members. (check)

My ace-in-the-hole was our local state park. Letchworth does NOT disappoint. It was tough to differentiate between Canada's cancer clouds and impending rain...Savannah carefully monitored the situation as we drove to our destination. "It says that it's going to skirt us," she reported as Douggg caught his first majestic glimpse of the gorge before the downpour swept us back into the van. Brad attempted to be Tour Guide Ken, shouting, "If you could actually SEE out your left window, we are passing the middle falls." I suggested that we take refuge in Mary Jemison's cabin. I paused dramatically while Savannah, Sydney, and Brad silently begged him not to do it.

But he did.

Do it.

Because he's polite.

So we rode out the hour's-long storm with a remedial course on The History of Mary Jemison, White Woman of the Genesee. 

Before you knew it, it was time for them to go. I was devastated...having failed miserably to entrance Douggg with our local history, lore, landmarks, and landscape. He admired our laundry chute but I don't think this one small architectural oddity will be enough for him to demand repeat visits. Canada and my new, weird way of pronouncing his name had crushed my chances of getting Douggg to love Wyoming County and establish it as his home-away-from-home. 

But I'd forgotten something.

Something important.

There are actually FOUR surefire ways to work yourself into my heart (if you haven't already plied me with junk food).

4. Love my girls for exactly who they are 

So, as our last Mosiman Big Ditch measure, we attempted to take Sydney and Douggg out for a nice breakfast before dropping them off at the airport. "You can just drop us off," Douggg practically begged, happy to forego the 35 minute/50 mile radius hunt for an open eating establishment on the 4th of July. Yes. The poor boy would have much rather have sat at the airport for 3 hours waiting for his plane than to be stuffed in our van as I wrestled with non-existent GPS navigating skills and Brad snapping at me, "You are NO Meriwether Lewis." So we ended up at a poor man's Perkins in a booth featuring a windowsill fly as our welcoming host. "You know what a fly's opening line in a bar is?" I asked. "Don't do it," Brad warned, shooing it away before shoving me into the booth. "Is this stool taken?" Brad frowned as he handed everyone their menus..."So, is everyone hungry?"

Thirty-seven years ago, a pair of newlyweds stopped for breakfast and the new bride "waffled" over the menu selections. Her beloved never wavered, encouraging her to order what she wanted and, when she was stuck between two choices, grandly invited her to get both. 

And now, years later, I watched as Douglas didn't even twitch when Sydney ordered grilled cheese and fries...in fact, he listened, enraptured and delighted to her questionable rational that, because grilled cheese contains all of the key ingredients, it should possess dual citizenship as both a lunch AND breakfast food. She then somehow managed to subtly slide an order of chocolate chip pancakes into the line-up as well. I had spent a good portion of Douggg's visit assuring him that Sydney Lynn had been raised to use napkins AND that we had, in fact, taught her how to use a knife to properly cut her food so that she didn't have to rip and gnaw her meat like a ravenous hyena. But Douglas doesn't care about those things. While Brad and I watched, horrified, as the child we reared together rolled her pancake, hacking at it unrecognizably with her knife...Douglas gazed at her with mild amusement, entertained by her harmless cuisine-related quirks. This was a man who would be by her side as her partner, behind her as her (2nd) biggest cheerleader, and scouting ahead to make sure they could skirt the rain whenever possible and that there was an open breakfast place nearby. 

Check.

It was a short visit but it meant the world to us.

"Thanks for coming, Douglas," I said, squeezing the stuffing out of him as he exited the van. "Come back home soon."

Teacher Recognition Dinner: "For one night only...your hosts...Erin and Amy!"

So there I was, last year, at the Teacher Recognition Dinner, minding my own business (after having delivered a killer parody rendition of Ricky Nelson's Garden Party with my friends as a tribute to our beloved colleague, Geri), when our traditional emcee announced that this would be his final year hosting the event. How sweetly oblivious I was in that moment...so carefree and innocent of the impending doom that was mere...Ding! Incoming text. Huh. From Erin. She's literally sitting one table away from me. What on EARTH could be so import-...Oh no...

So here I am...a year later, in the midst of my 3rd costume change of the evening (One of them sporting sparkly sequins), considering my life's choices and debating whether killing Erin immediately after the show would cast a suspicious light on me. Oh...who really cares?  No jury would convict me.

It was a year in the making. Once she wrestled me on board, the rest was pretty easy. Can we have confetti cannons? Let's incorporate a broad spectrum of staff! Do we know how to edit a moving object on video so it looks blurred? Are we allowed to sit on top of a vending machine? Do we want skits or interviews? How about both! Can Erin fit into a rolling trash can? Can Amy detonate a confetti cannon while careening across the floor on a scooter? Can Al speak with an Italian accent ("Which dialect?" he asked.)? Do you think Tyler saved the cracked windshield baseball decal that we pranked him with earlier this year? Will John agree to be our grand finale segment?

No.

OCTOBER:  

Amy:  "But John...picture this! Erin and I, hiding in your office. You walk in and BAM! Confetti EVERYWHERE!"

John:  (not even pausing as we walked...his pace was a little faster than mine...down the hall) No.

Erin (later):  How did it go?

Amy:  Great. He just needs a little more time to process the idea.

DECEMBER

Amy:  (jogging to keep up with John in the hallway) I've been thinking about our film idea...

John:  YOUR film idea.

Amy:  Po-tay-toe/Po-tot-o. Yeah...anyway...Maybe we shouldn't film it in your office...too messy...maybe we should change locations...

John:  I think you're on the right track. Change locations AND actors.

Erin (later): Is he warming up to the idea?

Amy:  Definitely!

FEBRUARY:

John (sees Amy waving excitedly at him...tries to go in opposite direction...she cuts him off at an intersection): Hello, Mrs. Mosiman.

Amy:  John! I think we've got it pretty well mapped out! We'll film in the faculty lounge by the Pepsi machine! It's the perfect location...practically the epicenter of our budding friendship! Pure poetry!

John (walks off, muttering):  I really need to start drinking more water.

Erin (later): Well?

Amy (clapping): He didn't say "No!"

March, April, and May were a whirlwind of conversations as I sought out our star (Not as easy as one might imagine) and visually walked him through his scenes. Thanks to me, John knew every nuance of his part well before his film date (That I reminded him about every day for the week leading into it).

To our utter shock, he showed up. Begrudgingly present and practically patient as I plunked my phone into his hands so he could film his own feet. "Sad, scared feet, John," I coached. "How do I walk sad and scared?" he growled, softly. "Like you're afraid that I'm going to pop out from around a corner to talk to you," I directed. He nodded. This he could do. 

Channeling his dislike of having to talk to me more than once a week (year), John mustered a nuanced masterpiece of method acting that the world had never seen before. His wary approach of the Pepsi machine...his innate sense of danger drawing his dreaded gaze upward to where Erin perched like a predatory puma...BOOM! John staggered back...caught in a cloud of confetti shrapnel...BANG! A door whipped open and Amy slid effortlessly across the floor, zeroing in on our hero...BOOM! He takes another hit!

Shaking the confetti from his flawlessly-pressed shirt, he asked, "Are we done now?" before immediately exiting the room. "But John...you didn't get your Pepsi!" I shouted. "I'll get it later," came his faint, far-off reply. "Do you think we'll ever see him again?" Erin asked wistfully. "I'm certain of it," I told her confidently, "Did you know he has a boat?"

So there we were, hosting the Teacher Recognition Dinner, with no earthly idea about how to actually host a Teacher Recognition Dinner. "Can't we just show the video?" I asked. "I think they expect us to talk, too," Erin whispered. "There's no podium," I pointed out, striding off to acquire one. I was going to need for my hands to grip something other than Erin's neck. 

Fortunately for me, I had be-friended the staff early in the evening when I insisted on helping serve the salads...using the UFO-sized serving tray to decapitate many familiar diners along the way ("Duck, Dee!"). "Yeah," said Katriel, observing my skills, "The wait-staff LOVES it when customers help." The staff was more than happy to roll a thousand-pound high-top table into place to accommodate my need for a podium to hide my hips. "Oh yeah," Katriel agreed, frowning, "I'm sure they loved interrupting buffet clean-up to re-arrange the dining room for you." I had one more request. I sidled up to the bar (I LOVE sidling up to the bar!). "Can I help you?" the friendly bartender asked. "I need a drink that looks like a drink but isn't really a drink," I explained, as I was attempting to channel my inner Dean Martin-esque hosting style.  "A drink that looks like a drink but isn't really a drink?" she asked, confused. How could she be confused? I was so clear. I teach English, for goodness sake! "I want to look like I'm drinking but it'll really be water." Oh! And...I asked if a waitress could keep delivering fresh drinks to the podium throughout the event. "But that's rude," I was told. "No, that's comedy," I answered. "Yeah," Katriel confirmed, "They LOVED you."

Suffice to say, our ship wrecked but didn't completely sink.

We gamely dog-paddled our way through the show and then declared at the end, to no one's surprise or disappointment, that we would never do this again.

As the evening drew to a close, everyone gathered comfortingly around us to thank and congratulate us on a job well
done. Well, almost everyone. There was one poor guy who had unfortunately sat in the front-middle and looked so utterly miserable (perfectly understandable given the evening's entertainment) that I could not stop commenting on it from the comfort of my hip-hiding podium. I couldn't tease a smile out of this guy to save my life and he quickly turned down my offer to buy him a consolatory drink afterwards. He may be the subject of my and Erin's next movie. Erin and I disregarded every affectionate and well-intended compliment. They're our friends. They have to like us. When we set out, we imagined ourselves like Tina Fey and Amy Poehler. Instead, we were more like the Swedish Chef and Beaker. Well, now we know.

"Whew, I'm glad that's over," I sighed, driving home. "I bet the restaurant staff is saying the same thing," Katriel said. 

Ding.

Huh.

From Erin.

She's literally one car behind me.

What could be so import-...

Oh no.

 

This blog is long...wish my hair still was

"Mrs. Mosiman, can you please put expensive batteries into this expensive toy that you graciously purchased as a classroom prize as incentive for students who are so lazy at this time of year that they would rather gnaw their pencils to a point rather than get up and actually sharpen them themselves?" a loving cherub requested politely. Ah...you say appreciatively...a work of fiction. Settle back, friend, and enjoy.

Turns out that the topic of this particular blog isn't about the marked lack of 4th grade gratitude in the face of the hundreds and hundreds of dollars that Brad Mosiman reluctantly spends all year stocking the classroom candy jar, stocking up on stickers, and purchasing prizes. "I should have bought stock in Five Below," he grumbles as I excitedly show off the three basketball-sized disco balls I just bought. 

No, this is about how, from September to June, I consciously avoid any and all changes to my appearance as elementary students, just beginning their journey of learning the art of subtle diplomacy, are brutal in their forthright commentary. But they're just being honest, some might argue. No, they are being rude, I shoot back, handing the head-in-the clouds clown my therapy bill. Outta the mouths of babes, others might say, following this idiotic idiom up by telling me that I'm being too sensitive. It's more like Into the mouths of brats (should go a bar of soap).

But I'm a teacher (or so says the diploma that I extracted from a box of Cracker Jacks) so, if the first line of defense fails (home), then my job is to bring out the big guns and play sweep. Apparently the adage "If you don't have anything nice to say..." is all talk and no action. Let's return to me attempting to remove a microscopic screw to install expensive batteries that could have bought me a burger, fries, and a hot fudge sundae from a certain fast food joint that, lately, has been really skimpy on the fudge.  First I squinted. I attempted better lighting. Better angles. I finally took off my glasses, squinted and, under the light of a 1,000 watt bulb, extracted the small screw at a 45 degree angle. "Mrs. Mosiman," my sweet student said, admiring the level of commitment I was devoting to this project of love, "You look creepy without your glasses." 

Thus began a 45-minute impromptu lesson on adjectives.

Another time, as my honeys and I were curled up on the read-aloud rug, a student with a sudden interest in fashion for women over fifty, interrupted our story with a probing question. "Why would you wear those shoes?" the student asked me incredulously, calling everyone's attention away from the battle waging in Narnia to the current battle of blisters forming on Mrs. Mosiman's bunioned feet. As this cherub has a history of unsolicited commentary regarding my teaching, fashion, and philosophic leanings, I unceremoniously kicked him out of the classroom. It was embarrassing to have to admit WHY I tossed him out to the office staff and his dad, but I stood (uncomfortably...you know, because of the blisters) behind my decision. 

But it got me thinking. You know, because I'm a teacher (as determined by my sticky, caramel-coated diploma). In addition to reading, writing, and math, perhaps I needed to intentionally add recognizing and reacting to polite social cues to my classroom curriculum. There is a LOT we expect children (and some pretty idiotic adults) to inherently know in regards to reading facial expressions, body language, and interpreting tone. 

I'd like to say that I got a haircut as part of a lesson plan. But, no. I am an emotional cutter (hair cutter). With the recent painful passing of our beloved dog, Juno, I immediately hacked away at my hair. Yes. I know better. Sydney Lynn, from 2,500 miles away, knew something was up. My phone rang. "What'ya doing?" Sydney asked, fearing the worst. Long pause. "Mom?" I took a deep swig of my Pepsi as I sat on the grassy meridian of a shopping plaza, a share-sized bag of M&Ms snuggled against my side. "I'm waiting for my appointment," I admitted. "To where?" Sydney demanded, quickly checking departure flights to see if she could get to me in time to schedule an intervention. "It's a hair place," I said around a mouthful of candy. "What's it's name?" my daughter, the queen of checking Yelp reviews continued. "The Hair Pit," I whispered, "I have to go...it's time." "NO-OO-OO..." I could hear her howl as I hung up, turning off my phone to face the music.

It was my own fault. "You paid $25 for a hair cut," Savannah told me, "so, yeah, it WAS your own fault." She had gotten her hair cut that same day...within minutes of me. My girls and I are so in sync that it sometimes scares me. "You may have paid more for your haircut," I argued, "but you said it didn't turn out the way you wanted it to." "That's because I'm in Texas," she admitted, "by Texas standards, it looks good. It's just BIG." 

Again. Totally my fault. My stylist was wonderful. She was playing on-line euchre when I walked in which I, of course, took as a sign from God ("Then why couldn't she have scheduled you earlier so you didn't have to sit in the parking lot meridian looking like a hobo?" Sydney countered. Away from me, Satan.). "How do we want it?" she asked, surreptitiously looking at (but not commenting on) my ravaged bangs. Mental note:  Ask her to be a guest speaker for my new curriculum on recognizing and reacting to polite social cues. "Past the shoulders, please," I responded. Fifteen minutes later, I lied (as I always do) about loving my new do, paid for the pain of now looking like fuzzy dandelion puffball and left. I wanted to hate my stylist but she's done EXACTLY as I'd asked. "Past my shoulders." I'd meant past my shoulders LONG. She'd interpreted it as past my shoulders SHORT. I hadn't communicated clearly enough. 

Now that the damage was done, Sydney immediately shifted from intervention to support. "It's adorable!" she coo-ed. Savannah tried to make me feel better by comparison. "It's not that bad. Remember when you got the hair cut where you ended up looking like the Little Dutch Boy from the paint cans?" Brad Mosiman employed the ostrich-head-in-the-sand approach. It's been over a week and he STILL hasn't mentioned my hair. 

I could avoid mirrors but I wasn't going to be able to avoid my class. 

Time to employ my first official lesson for my new curriculum. I made a poster for the door before my students arrived, sat down, folded my arms (body language), and waited. 

My early bird showed up first. I could see him reading the poster before he blew into the room. He stopped short and stared at me. Obviously, his mind went blank in shock at my alarming appearance. "Well?" I growled at him like Josey Wales ("Are you gonna pull those pistols or whistle Dixie?"). "I'll be right back," he stammered, stumbling back out of the room. He quickly made a selection from the menu of possible choices and returned confidently. "Nice haircut, Mrs. Mosiman!" "Why, thank you," I smiled back.

The rest of my honeys slowly ebbed in...most of them making acceptable choices...saving both my ego and their recess minutes. There were, naturally, a few outliers that I had to make adjustments for...adding to the the menu board. "It's not so bad," a Room 24 veteran observed, tilting his head. He watched, confused as I immediately stomped over to the poster and added his comment to the negative side. "But that was a compliment!" he protested. I explained, in detail, how his remark was NOT a compliment. Finally, Mr. Foot Fetish arrived. He stood a LONG time in front of the poster, agonizing over the choices. My colleague wandered over to join him. "What do you think?" she asked him. "I'm going to go with this one," he said, pointing. She nodded reassuringly. Like a deer entering a dawn-shrouded meadow, he inched into the room, sidling slowly over to me. I refrained from quick movements or making any loud sounds. I raised one quizzical eyebrow at him as he took a deep breath. "You look ten years younger, Mrs. Mosiman!" I smiled broadly at him as he sighed with relief. We're all still learning.

At first I didn't like how my hair looked but as least now its growing on me. 

EmBARKing on a PAW-some road trip with Chlo

It was time for the annual Mosiman family fishing trip to Black Lake (I'd initially capitalized the "f" in "family" but it lent an unintentionally macabre tone to the event...on our own, we Mosimans are a disaster-waiting-to-happen...we don't need to conjure even the subtlest references to the Mansons to make it worse). For Brad, one of the high points of the trip is fishing with our little dog, Chlo. For 50 weeks of the year, my dachshund is my soul mate...my spirit animal...attentive and conciliatory to my every emotional need. 

Except during fishing and hunting season (Or whenever Daddy barbecues ribs).

It is during these periods of time that Chlo harkens back to her ancestral roots. She sheds the domesticated frivolities of her existence with ease and without regret. She will fearlessly go toe to toe (fin) and tooth to tooth against an armored Northern Pike and sail into the carcass of a downed deer like an Olympic diver. Chlo goes ferociously feral and Brad loves it. 

But Chlo has grown older. Liver disease has left her bloated and unbalanced. Her eyes are a bit cloudy and her canines corroded. And my sweet girl is so tired.

But, as Brad began the familiar process of packing, Chlo eyed the pile of life jackets and rain coats with keen interest. She carefully inventoried the rods, reels, and tackle boxes as they emerged and Brad's heart began to break. "The whole week would be too much for her..." he said sadly as she incessantly accompanied each of his trips to the truck as he packed. 

Uh-oh.

No...no...no. I had successfully extricated myself from these trips YEARS ago...six or more people crammed into a musty two bedroom/one tiny bathroom (with an unreliable toilet) cabin with seasoned fishermen intent on going out on the lake and STAYING out on the lake in ANY kind of weather...this was NOT the ideal environment for Amy Mosiman.

"If she could just come up for a day or two..." Brad brainstomed quietly, careful not to make eye contact with me lest he immediately be turned into stone. 

So that is how I ended up on a four-hour long road trip with my dachshund.

Yes. I drove FOUR hours so my dog could fish.

I chronicled the highlights in real time for her eagerly awaiting fishing fans:

Whereupon Chlo departs for her adventure, enshrined in luxury...to be left alone for seven minutes while her mama fuels up her chariot to fight her way through , not one, but two protective layers of foil to get to the strawberry rhubarb pie tucked securely under the passenger side seat...ignoring me as I wrestled her away and pie-shamed her. Then, onto Grandma's where our heroine begged for bologna in a way NOT befitting royalty. Then she further embarrassed me by pooping dramatically in the lawn before her elderly audience of admirers who applauded her efforts. 

It should go without saying that it was both an honor and a privilege to act as Chlo's chauffeur and the big picture metaphor of my little dog and I taking this journey together was not lost on me.

"Where are you on 81?" my husband asked as Chlo and I stopped to stretch our legs at a little park pavilion. "Eighty-one what?" I inquired, shaking my sharing size bag of plain M&Ms. I did the math to see if the sharing size contains eighty-one pieces of M&Ms. Happily, it did. Sadly, the bag was now empty. "Are you not on Interstate 81?" Brad sighed. "I'm sure I will be soon," I reassured him, luring Chlo back to the car with a french fry.

And thus concludes the story of my and Chlo's five hour journey to Black Lake so she could fish. But, as you already know, the destination may have been reached but the adventure was far from over. A Turkish proverb states that "No road is long with good company." And as companions go, Chlo is pretty paw-some.

I won't lie, saying "Good-bye" to Juno was rough

 I had sent her a one-sentenced text on the 12th and she generously gave me sixteen days before she started to gently poke me with a stick. Joan and I can go weeks and, sometimes months, without talking but rarely does time or space interrupt the flow of dialog. Only crisis can cause that. 

Joan can usually judge my mental health by my blogs which suddenly went radio-silent. 

She had watched as I'd raged, wept, and went to war as my dad suffered a painful demise over the course of three brutal months. She monitored my mania as I temporarily moved with my mother into an assisted living facility in an attempt to ease her sudden and confusing transition. All of it was documented therapeutically in my blogs. Sometimes funny. Sometimes not. 

But now, all Joan had was a one-sentenced text. And she read the world into it. And let me be.

Until yesterday.

Juno was a doofus of a dog. Happy. Clingy. Verbal in the way only a rottweiler can be. Our family adopted the cry of the rottie as our "Bat Signal" when separated in stores and crowds..."Whah-woo!" 

Plagued by chronic ear infections since puppyhood, Juno has...had...been deaf a good portion of her life. We were always yelling at her and she was always responding by wagging that nub of a tail. Her hips were bad. She had constant bladder leakage problems after being spayed. Her joints shivered constantly which we finally attributed to Lyme Disease. She was a hot, happy mess. 

Having geriatric dogs has its own set of challenges. You are constantly aware that you are up against a clock. Every day is a gift. 

The formula is pretty solid. As long as they're eating, drinking, wagging, and pooping...you're still in the
game. But, in Juno's case, the formula wasn't full-proof. We knew we were in trouble. She'd stopped eating. But an entire blog was once dedicated to this animal's depressed hunger strike when Syd moved out. We were still drinking. She demanded to always be with us. Those big doofy eyes were still shining...full of love and trust. 

Anyone not in the game would have easily made the call. But the flood of urine and vomit was of little consequence when she was still stretching out her head so we could stroke her neck. We were using a towel to hoist her up and help her outside. Brad bought her a rotisserie chicken and, for once, we resented the dachshund who happily gobbled it down when Juno ignored our frantic offerings. 

The bedroom became too difficult to navigate so the entire family moved into the living room in a morbid Mosiman sleeping party. 

She made it hard because that girl did not want to leave us. There was no trying to hide or escape. No tucking into a corner or a closet. Where we were was where she wanted to be. The final day, of course, was the worst because we knew what we had to do. Brad had laid with her most of the day after having been up with her all night. I took my turn with her, spooning her on the floor and trying vainly to get her rapid breathing to slow to match mine. I begged my dog to die. I described all the friends who were eagerly waiting to meet her. I told her what a good dog she was. Thanked her for always being so sweet. Apologized for ignoring her...being impatient with her...and not loving her enough. That's the beauty of Juno, though...she had enough love for all of us.

It was time to go for a ride.

I'd envisioned carrying her out on her soft dog bed, Cleopatra-style, but she was too heavy for me to manage so Brad carefully dragged the bed out to the van while I cracked lame jokes about Christmas trees. 

Brad assured the uncertain receptionist that the vet would be okay with servicing us out in our vehicle. 

The accommodating vet kindly and patiently explained how he would administer a sedative first and return in five minutes.

Juno was still chugging like a freight train as we stroked her.

Within 30 seconds of the sedative, she drew in a long, strong breath and let out a slow, shaky sigh of relief. The light went out and our girl was gone. 

I could picture Jesus...on a small, grassy slope. Not in robes. It's 2023, for pete's sake. Jeans. I bet He would rock socks with sandals. "Jesus wears robes," Joan inserted. I glanced at the clock. I'd been talking for over an hour. No, in this scenario, Jesus is wearing jeans. He's calling Juno. "Junie! Junie-B! C'mon, Big Dog!" And she is racing up that slope on strong legs, eager to reach her Master's side. She is leaping with no one having to caution her not to do "jumpies." And she is talking away to Him. Telling Him all about us, I imagine. All the good things. Because Juno was only about the good things. Whah-woo.

Good dog, Junie-B.

Thanks, Joan.

My melon-collie adventures in puppy-sitting

My friend, Katriel, is an exceptional dog trainer. She is highly skilled...consistent, patient, communicating her expectations succinctly and clearly. Typing this, it has just dawned on me that she is also an exceptional human trainer because she uses those same skills with me...EVERY DAY.  But I digress...

So when little Kokoro, our baby Border Collie, entered our lives several weeks ago, I watched, with fascination, as Katriel immediately began working to train her puppy. Now...I don't want to brag but... ALL of my dogs have self-trained (brilliantly, might I add, ever-so-modestly). This method results in a hybrid human/canine relationship of, more or less, equal footing. In fact, I think my dachshund may be listed as a joint owner on my bank account. That is the only way to explain the unprecedented number of packages that arrive from Chewy each week. 

But, if Katriel's ego is SO-OO big that she insists on playing the alpha role in this relationship, who am I to cast aspersions (or, shall we say, interfere) with her carefully laid plans of puppy domination? 

Hello. You have met me, right? (Cue diabolical laughter here)

My dear, sweet friend, Katriel is a control freak. She plans and prepares for EVERY contingency. But there are a few things out there, of course, that are difficult, if not downright impossible, to control. And poor Katriel had to deal with two of them. One:  The heart of a puppy. And two:  Amy Mosiman. 

Katriel set herself up immediately as Koko's pack leader...the loving but firm mother figure...the rule setter and enforcer...the boss. So, yes. Katriel was the boss. But I was the Border Collie's best friend. The crazy, chaotic aunt who blows through bedtimes and considers a box of Cracker Jacks to be a square meal. 

Everyone in Katriel's immediate world fell mind-numbingly in line with her unreasonable training techniques. Poor Koko was expected to sit, stay, and, gasp, express her desire to go outside to relieve herself like some sort of...sniffle-sniffle...animal. Don't bother to call Animal Control. I already tried. I am currently filing a court order to transfer ownership of poor, sweet, little put-upon Koko to a more suitable family (mine). 

All of Katriel's brainwashed soldiers immediately say "Down" to sad little Koko if it even LOOKS like she's going to step one perfect paw out of line. Not me. Each time my bow-wow bestie and I see each other, she climbs up me like a spider monkey. We had a field-of-flowers encounter yesterday when Katriel finally released the leash...yeah...that's right...a LEASH (Oh, the humanity)...so that Koko and I could race across the field (in cinematic slow motion with theme music) to be happily reunited after going almost a FULL DAY without seeing one another. 

The opportunity of a lifetime arose a few week-ends back when Katriel was going to be busy for an entire Saturday and expressed a bit of worry about leaving little Koko for such an extended period of time. "How about she hang out with me in my classroom Saturday morning while I work?" I asked, super-cas. Katriel hesitated  for an insultingly long period of time before relenting. 

Koko and I counted down the days to our playdate. I arrived at Katriel's and released my sweet little girl from her pen (short for "penitentiary"). We explored my classroom and played with her ball a bit before I began setting up to work. Kind and inquisitive, Koko wanted to help, of course. First, she feng shui-ed the area. "Wouldn't the trash can look better tipped attractively over?" she grinned, waving that beautiful flag of a tail. Admittedly, it did have some artistic appeal but we agreed, after knocking it over twenty more times, that perhaps, up-out-of-reach, was the best location. Next on the list was the systematic removal of the pom-poms from my school slippers. I knew that, fashion-wise, pop-poms are considered SO last decade so I appreciated Koko's intervention. I wouldn't want my 4th graders making fun of my lack of style. She apparently didn't like the zippers on my boots either. Maybe Koko would like to go shoe shopping with me. I'd have to ask Katriel.

Each time I began typing on my keyboard, Koko would insist on climbing up on my lap to edit my work. She addressed the matter of my split-ends and split-infinitives at the same time as she chewed my hair reflectively while correcting my grammar. We took a break from all the work we were accomplishing to play outside for a bit and then we had fun running around the school and sliding on all the 3rd grade boot trays in the hallway. When we returned to the classroom, determined to buckle down, Koko made the delightful discovery that, if she reared up and balanced just right, she could stick her snout into the student desks. We uncovered contraband toys, hoarded candy, and a TON of fun play sticks (also known as "pencils"). 

LATER: "How many?" Katriel sighed. "Thirty," I told her. She frowned at me. (She does that a lot.) "EXACTLY thirty?" she asked, doubtfully. "No," I admitted, "Koko rounded them up."

Before we knew it, it was time to go. You know what they say, "Time sure flies when you're having fun." We finished up our time together by chasing a water bottle that fell out of my truck and tumble-weeded its way across the deserted parking lot. The exhausted puppy nestled in my lap on the drive back to Katriel's and the exhausted human collapsed on the couch the minute she returned from her puppy-sitting adventure. 

"Were you able to get your work done?" Katriel wondered when she called to check on me later that day. "We had a lot of fun," I told her, refusing to admit that I'd forgotten the ceaseless energy required to keep up with a puppy. "But were you able to work at all?" she persisted. "Katriel," I snapped, "Just like your little Border Collie there, I HERD you the first time!"

 

My solo venture in graphic design went awry

Please permit me to parrot the righteously indignant words of heroic space pilot, Han Solo: 

"It's not my fault."

I will admit, to perhaps, lacking a bit of foresight but there is NO WAY anyone could have seen this coming.

"I saw it coming," my husband muttered, bitterly.

("Me, too," laughed Katiel hysterically, hearing about it later.)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A week ago, Brad Mosiman wordlessly handed me a postie note. As far as I knew, we weren't appearing before a Congressional hearing but as that scenario was not too far-fetched, I surreptitiously scanned it before casting a casual glance around. "What are my parameters?" I murmured, pretending to peruse the newspaper that I had no intention of reading. "You have carte blanche," he answered, weary of the inevitable battle that is fought each time he tries to rein me in. Nodding, I stood and stretched, seamlessly tucking the postie note into the interior pocket of my Burberry brown trench coat before silently sliding the metal garden chair beneath the table, exiting the small French cafe and disappearing into the early morning mist that shrouded Paris. "You were wearing your lambie-jammies and watching The Office in our living room when I asked you to please type up the information about a change in location of next week's class," Brad corrected, oblivious to the importance of setting and build-up to a story.
 

Naturally, I put all of my other critically-important projects on hold. Designing a 4th grade field days shirt...side-lined. Lesson plans...stalled. Paying bills...postponed. Doing dishes, cooking dinner, dusting...delayed. "Can you let the dogs out?" Brad yelled from downstairs as he flipped the laundry. "I'd love to," I yelled back, "but I'm busy brainstorming the implementational design of your postie note prototype." 

Several days later, the seedling idea began to blossom. The dry bones of Brad's postie note began to flesh out. My friend, Katriel walked into my classroom and saw the almost-finished design projected on my Smartboard. Suppressing a smile, Katriel first complimented my composition and then carefully inquired about Brad's input. "Basically, he handed me a blank check," I said, happily. "This is really gonna cost him," Katriel predicted. "No! It's funny!" I protested. 

Brad graciously accepted the finished project and thanked me for the use of my valuable time and creative talent. Naturally, I pointed out the subtle nuances of the design so he could truly appreciate the many levels of wise-cracking wit woven into the more mundane meat of the informational invitation. 

For me...that was the end of the story.

For Brad...not so much.

"Did your friends like the invitation?" I asked when he got home. "Yeah," he nodded, "they thought it was cute."

I won't lie. That cut deep.

But I'm sure Michelangelo's contemporaries didn't understand his work either.

A few nights later, Brad stomped into the house. That got my attention. Typically, I'm the House Stomper. 

"Guess what conversation I had to have tonight?" he growled.

I was flummoxed...unprepared how to defend against this unseen enemy.

"One of my students' mothers bought him a tuxedo because your invitation said 'formal'..." Brad began. I interrupted quickly, "Your postie note specifically said 'formal'." "But...," he continued, glowering at me, "My postie note DID NOT have pictures of the Karate Kid wearing a floofy dress shirt or a martial arts couple cake topper."  I covered my face with my hands in horror. "Didn't she read the parenthetical notation?" Brad frowned, "You mean the microscopic parenthetical notation? No...apparently not."

Weary, my husband sank down onto the couch.

"How did you handle it?" I asked softly.

"I had to go out to the parking lot and explain my wife's weird humor to her," Brad said, matter-of-factly. "Fortunately, I am used to doing THAT."

Wow.

"That poor, sweet woman," I commiserated, "Will she be able to return the tuxedo?"

"What about 'My poor, sweet husband'?" Brad asked before saying, "And, if I were you, I'd worry less about the return of a tuxedo and more about the return of a customer."

We sat together in the darkness of our living room for some time; both lost in our own thoughts.

Finally...I spoke.

"What are the odds...?"

Brad quickly interrupted.

"Never tell me the odds."