Summer Weekend

Dog barf, economics lessons for kindergarteners, bushwacking, mysterious fevers, Native American ceremonial mounds.


Summer’s here!

Bryan’s gone this weekend, and I’ve been in charge of holding down the old fort.  Right now I’m sitting in the living room with the overhead fan going. On the floor, the fan breezes are rustling these tiny pieces of blue tissue paper around and around.  They’re from an art project Dessa made and Goose shredded.  Goose is our dog, and if I thought he would continue chewing at this rate into adulthood, I would start a chipping business: wood chipping, paper chipping, dog bed chipping, stuffed animal chipping.  We could handle all kinds of jobs.

Speaking of jobs. Today I went to Target and Odessa wanted this attaché case with Disney princesses on it, and I made her buy it with her own money.  Only she figured out that if she bought it, she would no longer have the $100 Gigi gave her in her bank account–she’d have $80. But because she’s not dumb, she wanted to have the attaché case AND still  have $100.  That’s just not the way it works, I said.  The more stuff you buy, the less money you have.  She was inconsolable. ARE WE POOOOOOR? she demanded of me in the middle of the frozen dinners aisle.

You have no idea, kid.  But I didn’t say that to her.  I said that we have a house and enough food and jobs that give us money every month.  Then she cried because she wished I didn’t have a job and we could spend the summer together–every day–just me and her.  And then she cried because people were seeing her cry at Target. It’s been that kind of weekend.

On account of the mysterious fever.  I picked her up from a birthday party yesterday afternoon, and she didn’t look right.  Her eyes were droopy and red rimmed and she sort of swayed in place as I approached her outside Pump It Up, which is a warehouse full of bouncy houses that children and drunk people rent out for birthday parties.  Odessa’s friend’s brother told me Wyatt puked in the line between Arena A and Arena B, and he had rescued Odessa from being puked on.  Actually he saved three girls, but it was no problem.

The parking lot was hot, but Odessa’s hand was feverish hot (kid fevers can only be reliably detected through their hands and feet–I don’t care what you say about cheeks and foreheads).  She fell asleep on the way to the pizza restaurant and she whimpered while we waited for the pizza to cook.  At home, she had a fever of 101.  I gave her Tylenol and tucked her into my bed before Audrey and I watched Empire Records and marveled over the 1990’s.  (The 1990’s you guys.  That movie, you guys. Call me if you want to talk about 1990’s slut shaming.)

This morning, she was fine.  She remains utterly fine-seeming.  If you understand human bodies, please give me a call.

Or if you understand dog bodies, for that matter.  Or dogs, for that matter.

Our dog–he’s a 7 month old puppy at this point–proved once again that he was not born yesterday, and he’s taken Bryan’s absence as an opportunity to do stuff he knows he’s not supposed to. He knows I’m not very observant when it comes to suspicious noises.  Like yesterday morning, when there was a rustling and munching sound coming from the back porch for a good 15 minutes before I got out of bed to see what was going on.  What was going on was Goose eating out of the bag of cat food I had left open when I fed the cat at 5:50 AM.  He was full as a tick–by all appearances, much fuller than was comfortable–but he kept eating, because although dogs weren’t born yesterday, they don’t have sense.

So instead of leaving him die alone of canine bloat (it’s a thing), I took him on the bushwhack me and Audrey and our friend Steve did yesterday.  There was a long Forest Service road, and and an old hippie campground with a fire ring you could tell too many hippies had fussed with.  Goose puked quietly on both.  Then we bushwacked around on a big, muddy floodplain for the better part of two hours looking for an ancient Native American ceremonial mound.  And we found it, and it was worth it, but I got into some stinging nettle and poison ivy, and the ticks found me like usual because theirs is a special brand of criminal mind.  Goose found a nest of four baby armadillos and puked up the rest of the cat food to celebrate.

And that’s what happened to ME this weekend.



One comment

  1. jess

    My dog did not puke this weekend. But in the preceding week she did chase one coyote into traffic and one fox through a stranger’s yard, and kill one chipmunk that probably meant no harm. THAT I AM AWARE OF. Never a dull moment.

    Where are the pics of the baby armadillos?!?!

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