There's something about Mary...

Mary is our dog.  She's a 5-year-old miniature schnauzer we've had since she was 10-weeks-old.  Growing up, we always had a dog or two so I assumed I would enjoy having one as an adult.  I really don't.  Mary's a good little dog and she's not mistreated -- she has a nice life. 

I've realized I'm not a dog person and I can say that without shame... now.  We were told Mary would take a maximum of 2 weeks to housebreak.  It actually took an extra 102 weeks.  Two weeks plus 102 weeks = TWO years. 

As I complained to Mom about Mary's constant accidents, Mom said, "Well, you're just not a dog person," with the same tone in her voice used to describe someone's unpleasant, personal challenge, like, "Well, you know she's had problems with alcohol...AND she smokes."

Because someone isn't a dog person doesn't mean they don't like animals.  I actually love animals and am a responsible pet owner.  I'm simply being honest when I say, I think I made a mistake.  When life has me operating near the edge [more days than not], Mary throws-up or pees on the carpet and pushes me right over that edge.

Mary doesn't shed and is a clean breed, but the thought of where her paws have been outside as she trots in our house, bothers me.  The fact that she's naked makes me twitch and quiver.  I'd love for her to wear underwear or pants. [I imagine dog people don't have these thoughts.]  I don't like knowing she goes to the bathroom, doesn't wipe [not even on the grass -- I've watched], then comes in the house and sits down like every thing's normal.

Having confessed [without shame] that I am not a dog person, and Mary is our little weak-moment-decision who we love and can't imagine life without, I'd like to ease any real dog person's mind who might be concerned about Mary's longevity in our home by sharing how we saved her life.

When Mary was a little over a year old [still not housebroken] she became ill.  Turned out she had a blockage that required removal via surgery.  She developed staph infection a few days later, ended up being transported to a fancier facility, had a few more surgeries and was hospitalized for almost two weeks.  While she was in the animal hospital, Oldest Boy, Middle Boy and I visited her three times every day.  NOT kidding.  I cried each time, begged her to live -- the boys cried.  It was sad.  The doctors said it would take a miracle to save her. 

We received our miracle.  Eight. Thousand. Dollars. Later.

Chris says when Mary passes, he's making a hat out of her.  He wants something to show for the time, tears, sweat and $$$ he's invested.  Mary's longevity in our home is guaranteed.

"Ooh - ooh - ooooh!" - Arnold Horshack

The father of one of Oldest Boy's classmates took several wonderful photographs of kids being 4th grade students during the 2007-2008 school year.  This fourth grade class had a "MAN-teacher" and they loved him.  He didn't have a Gabe Kotter mustache, but he did have a sense of humor that ultimately helped many kids learn (in my humble opinion). 

Our child is the boy with glasses, hand raised, in the middle of the classroom.  The voice in his head is saying, "Pick me, pick me, pleeeeeease pick me!"

Now he's thinking, "Maybe Mr. J. just hasn't noticed me yet..."

   

And now, "What was the question again?  I think my arm's fallen asleep..."

Oldest Boy is truly nothing like Arnold Horshack or any other Sweathog on Welcome Back, Kotter - although we'd love him the same if he was a Vinnie, Freddy, Epstein, or Arnold. 

He'll make a wonderful Grandfather someday...

Within about a 60-second time frame yesterday, the following exchange happened between the oldest boy and me while hurrying in the bathroom to get all three boys ready to go to a neighbor's house:

Oldest Boy:  That All Bran really tasted good.

Me:  Yea, it's good for you too.

Oldest Boy:  I like a firm stool.

Me:  That's nice.  Will you please put some toothpaste on Toddler-child's toothbrush?

Oldest Boy:  Sure.

Me:  You can put more than that - that's not enough.

Oldest Boy:  Mom.  It says right here, that if more than a pea-sized amount is swallowed we should contact poison control immediately.

Me:  He'll be fine.

Oldest Boy:  Would you like to hear me say an incomplete sentence?

Me:  Sure.  But hurry, comb your hair and clean your ears.

Oldest Boy:  I be.

Me:  What?

Oldest Boy:  I be.  That's my incomplete sentence.

This is a true story and a real live 10-year-old boy's words.  Clearly his Father's genes.