My mom asked me to write a blog about her today. Currently, she is in the hospital where she is receiving treatment for pneumonia, COPD, and lung cancer. They say laughter is the best medicine, and all I can say is that she is not only doing her best to live up to that saying, but she also has kept me and the hospital staff in stitches (no pun intended) for most of her hospital stay. They say "the apple doesn't fall far from the tree." I hope they are right. She is a most unique mother, and this is an unusual request -- not wanting to disappoint her, I have decided to oblige.
My mom is not your usual mother. She seldom baked, and certainly, never cookies. She could change out the toilet works, spray for bugs like a professional, clean gutters, and iron shirts on an old-fashioned mangle. And she could entertain like no other. Move over Martha Stewart, you've met your match! My parents had literally hundreds of friends and they all took turns having parties. I don't think there was a week-end in my life growing up that they weren't at someone's house or someone was over at our house. My mother could throw together a pile of crap, call it D'Knedrick (named after one of my father's patients), and have people rave over it.
More endearing than my mother's ability to entertain is what I refer to as her "-isms". There isn't a day that goes by when someone isn't full of "piss and vinegar", or she's so irritated she's saying, "oh bull's balls"! A few years ago, I learned that she is unable to eat a piece of cake unless it is lying correctly on the plate. Now what the hell is that? According to her, a piece of cake must be lying on its right side -- not left. I'm not sure why you can't just turn the plate around but according to her, it doesn't work. In fact, she called today and said, "you know, with all the shit I'm going through, I'm lying here thinking that my cake is lying on the wrong side on the plate." You gotta love that!
Her favorite show is The Wheel of Fortune and God help anyone who interrupts her watching it, including the President of the United States when he has a State of the Union address. She loves to read the National Enquirer, and no, the Star Magazine won't do. Something about their new format. I guess there's something about newsprint on her hands that makes it feel like a "real" newspaper. Oh, and let's not forget the Kleenex she has to have in her hand and the glass of water that she has on her nightstand when she goes to sleep at night -- a trait that has been handed down for generations, according to her. I can attest to that -- I do it and so do my kids.
The other day, she looked at her internist and declared, "You look like Richard Burton waiting for Elizabeth Taylor." I'm not sure what that meant but he was certainly flattered. An aide found a dime on her bedside table and pointed it out to my mom. Her response at 5 am? "Maybe I turned a trick in the night and forgot!" She has her oncologist blowing kisses at her as he leaves the room. She and the respiratory therapist share stories about Judge Judy (another of her favorite shows). Each and every person in that hospital will have a story about her to tell, I'm sure. She said to me yesterday, "Boy, I bet they think I'm a salty old bitch!" I doubt that...but I bet they will miss her when she goes home and chuckle a little as they pass by room 6713.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
The Letter
Yesterday, I received a letter in the mail from my son's high school. I have to tell you, he has a history of getting letters from the high school. It is never good news. Progress reports, notices of absences, you name it, I've gotten it. So, everytime I see a letter address To The Parents Of...my stomach does a little flip-flop. So what is it now? It's a big envelope. Perhaps it's from the guidance counselors, inquiring about his college plans. College plans...hmmm...is that even in the works? Let's see -- he has a "C" average at best. I don't understand this either. In grade school, he had A's & B's. As he got older, his hormones hit, a social life came into play, and school work went straight out the window. So, no, I don't think it's the counselors writing for his college plans.
I slowly lift the seal, take a deep breath, and pull out the contents. I read quickly, so as to get the pain over with as fast as possible. Hmmmm, no mention of progress reports. That's good. No absence reports. WHAT IS THIS?! I read on. "Your son has received an award" -- my eyes go back. "Award?" Now, THAT'S something new! I re-read -- "Your son has received an AWARD for having a high score on the MAP tests that were taken last spring." He is a "MAP SCHOLAR". Oh my God! A scholar, no less!! I have no clue what all this means other than he's not in trouble and perhaps he is taking school more seriously. Oh, and he gets an I.D. card that gets him free Homecoming Dance tickets and free admission to all sporting events. Yeah, let's make sure he NEVER gets a good grade again!
THEN, a voice whispers in my ear..."How come a kid who has such BAD grades has such HIGH test scores?" "Hmmmm, this voice has a point. What the heck is going on? So, I question the boy. And I find myself actually scolding him for getting a good test score. This doesn't bode well for me. I think I'm going at this from the wrong angle.
I have to admit, he had not one, but two tough acts to follow. His older sisters consistently got good grades. He has one sister who studied her butt off to get good grades, and the other never even picked up a book throughout school, other than for Pre-Calc, and managed to graduate with a 3.9 GPA. And it didn't help that in middle school, he had the EXACT same teachers as his sisters. Boy, were they ever surprised when they got him!
By his own confession, the boy gets lousy grades because he's lazy and doesn't like to do his work, much less turn it in. However, this test also confirms what I've known for years. The boy's a flippin' genius. He just doesn't like to apply himself.
If only I can get him to turn in his college application! As I told my husband the other day -- "Wouldn't it be funny if he was the one who actually got the college scholarships?"
I slowly lift the seal, take a deep breath, and pull out the contents. I read quickly, so as to get the pain over with as fast as possible. Hmmmm, no mention of progress reports. That's good. No absence reports. WHAT IS THIS?! I read on. "Your son has received an award" -- my eyes go back. "Award?" Now, THAT'S something new! I re-read -- "Your son has received an AWARD for having a high score on the MAP tests that were taken last spring." He is a "MAP SCHOLAR". Oh my God! A scholar, no less!! I have no clue what all this means other than he's not in trouble and perhaps he is taking school more seriously. Oh, and he gets an I.D. card that gets him free Homecoming Dance tickets and free admission to all sporting events. Yeah, let's make sure he NEVER gets a good grade again!
THEN, a voice whispers in my ear..."How come a kid who has such BAD grades has such HIGH test scores?" "Hmmmm, this voice has a point. What the heck is going on? So, I question the boy. And I find myself actually scolding him for getting a good test score. This doesn't bode well for me. I think I'm going at this from the wrong angle.
I have to admit, he had not one, but two tough acts to follow. His older sisters consistently got good grades. He has one sister who studied her butt off to get good grades, and the other never even picked up a book throughout school, other than for Pre-Calc, and managed to graduate with a 3.9 GPA. And it didn't help that in middle school, he had the EXACT same teachers as his sisters. Boy, were they ever surprised when they got him!
By his own confession, the boy gets lousy grades because he's lazy and doesn't like to do his work, much less turn it in. However, this test also confirms what I've known for years. The boy's a flippin' genius. He just doesn't like to apply himself.
If only I can get him to turn in his college application! As I told my husband the other day -- "Wouldn't it be funny if he was the one who actually got the college scholarships?"
Saturday, September 15, 2007
I'm Hooked!
O.K., I have to admit it. I'm hooked. This whole blogging thing is a godsend! My imagination just rolls off my fingers. My brain is "at attention". I am constantly looking for situations to poke fun at. (and yes, I know I'm ending a sentence in a preposition -- so sue me!)
At the beginning, I thought I could never even think of something to write. Now, I can't wait to sit down at the computer. My housework is backed up -- laundry, dishes, vacuuming, dusting! In short, my house is a sty. Well, that's not exactly true. I mean, the sty part IS true, but I hate housework to begin with, so my house would probably look like this anyhow. But, at least now, I have a bonafide excuse. I'm "working".
My mother says the more depressed you are, the funnier you become. There must be some truth to that, 'cause no one could have my life and survive it. Tragedy -- BRING IT ON! I'M READY!! I'm also becoming quite prolific these days, and I've never been in a better mood. There's something to be said for making others laugh. (which I hope I do)
So, here's to my newfound career. Never thought I'd say it, much less, know what it is. Here's to "blogging"! I think I'm now officially a member of the 21st century!!
"Hey, Michael -- how do you shut this damn computer off?"
At the beginning, I thought I could never even think of something to write. Now, I can't wait to sit down at the computer. My housework is backed up -- laundry, dishes, vacuuming, dusting! In short, my house is a sty. Well, that's not exactly true. I mean, the sty part IS true, but I hate housework to begin with, so my house would probably look like this anyhow. But, at least now, I have a bonafide excuse. I'm "working".
My mother says the more depressed you are, the funnier you become. There must be some truth to that, 'cause no one could have my life and survive it. Tragedy -- BRING IT ON! I'M READY!! I'm also becoming quite prolific these days, and I've never been in a better mood. There's something to be said for making others laugh. (which I hope I do)
So, here's to my newfound career. Never thought I'd say it, much less, know what it is. Here's to "blogging"! I think I'm now officially a member of the 21st century!!
"Hey, Michael -- how do you shut this damn computer off?"
School Days
How many of you dread the start of the school year? With the lazy days of summer coming to a close, there is nothing worse than the kids going back to school. However, my reason for not wanting them to go back probably differs from yours. I'm talking about....the dreaded FUNDRAISER!
Yes, the start of the school year also signals the kick-off for the most important part of being part of the school community -- raising money for the PTO. In my day, fundraisers were easy. We sold magazine subscriptions door to door with a graph posted in our homeroom that showed what we sold and what the goal was for the school. In that way, we could easily see how many magazines were sold in comparison to what was being sold by the entire school. What a concept! Children motivated purely by a sense of achievement.
Fast forward to 2007. A lavish pep rally is held, explaining all the prizes to be had by the children who sell at least 20 items within 3 days. We are not talking your everyday prizes, mind you. We're talking the Holy Grail of all prizes -- a limousine ride with your buddies! Not to mention about 30 other pieces of crap to be had by the "winners". This would include a monkey that you can fling across the room by a piece of elastic (a must-have at my house), bracelets that you can buy by the gross out of the Oriental Trade catalog, an IPod pillow (does this mean I now have to buy an IPod, too?) and let's not forget, a 5 pound bag of gummy bears, that is guaranteed to have your child constipated for at least a month!
Now, it's not enough that this fundraiser is promoted during the first week of school, it is also promoted by ALL the schools in the district. Translated -- there is no one else in your neighborhood that will be doing any purchasing of these "must have" items because their kids are also selling the same crap at the EXACT SAME TIME!
Well, needless to say, this means our poor relatives will be suckered into purchasing a small roll of Christmas gift wrap for $18.00, when you know darned well you can get a huge roll at the Dollar store for well... a buck! Or they can get a $10.00 box of Turtles -- available for $3.99 at ANY drugstore. Or there's the much needed cookware for $27.00, which I'm pretty sure can be had at any Wal-Mart for a third of the price. But who can resist those pleading eyes and the excitement in a child's voice as they explain what their prizes will be if they are able to meet their goal. So, as we fall completely short of the goal, I do my Christmas shopping a little early (and at exhorbitant prices) so as not to have to look at their sad little faces when little Suzy gets the limo ride and they don't.
And even in spite of all of this, I could actually LIVE with all this hullabaloo. However, then comes the high school band fundraiser the same week. So, I guess my complaint is two-fold.
One -- Could we not, as a school, and a district as a whole, spread out these fundraisers so as not to force me to choose between paying for electricity or seeing the disappointment in my child's face ?
Two -- Could we start these fundraisers in October? At least, give us breathing space since we are still coming out of the sting of buying school supplies.
Lastly -- Can we just teach our kids how to be motivated without attaching a prize to it? Teachers are constantly complaining that little Suzy or Mike won't do their work -- yet, they continue to offer extrinsic rewards, rather than allowing our kids the pleasure of accomplishing something simply because they can.
By the way, did I mention, little Mike loved the limo ride? It was in a Hummer.
Yes, the start of the school year also signals the kick-off for the most important part of being part of the school community -- raising money for the PTO. In my day, fundraisers were easy. We sold magazine subscriptions door to door with a graph posted in our homeroom that showed what we sold and what the goal was for the school. In that way, we could easily see how many magazines were sold in comparison to what was being sold by the entire school. What a concept! Children motivated purely by a sense of achievement.
Fast forward to 2007. A lavish pep rally is held, explaining all the prizes to be had by the children who sell at least 20 items within 3 days. We are not talking your everyday prizes, mind you. We're talking the Holy Grail of all prizes -- a limousine ride with your buddies! Not to mention about 30 other pieces of crap to be had by the "winners". This would include a monkey that you can fling across the room by a piece of elastic (a must-have at my house), bracelets that you can buy by the gross out of the Oriental Trade catalog, an IPod pillow (does this mean I now have to buy an IPod, too?) and let's not forget, a 5 pound bag of gummy bears, that is guaranteed to have your child constipated for at least a month!
Now, it's not enough that this fundraiser is promoted during the first week of school, it is also promoted by ALL the schools in the district. Translated -- there is no one else in your neighborhood that will be doing any purchasing of these "must have" items because their kids are also selling the same crap at the EXACT SAME TIME!
Well, needless to say, this means our poor relatives will be suckered into purchasing a small roll of Christmas gift wrap for $18.00, when you know darned well you can get a huge roll at the Dollar store for well... a buck! Or they can get a $10.00 box of Turtles -- available for $3.99 at ANY drugstore. Or there's the much needed cookware for $27.00, which I'm pretty sure can be had at any Wal-Mart for a third of the price. But who can resist those pleading eyes and the excitement in a child's voice as they explain what their prizes will be if they are able to meet their goal. So, as we fall completely short of the goal, I do my Christmas shopping a little early (and at exhorbitant prices) so as not to have to look at their sad little faces when little Suzy gets the limo ride and they don't.
And even in spite of all of this, I could actually LIVE with all this hullabaloo. However, then comes the high school band fundraiser the same week. So, I guess my complaint is two-fold.
One -- Could we not, as a school, and a district as a whole, spread out these fundraisers so as not to force me to choose between paying for electricity or seeing the disappointment in my child's face ?
Two -- Could we start these fundraisers in October? At least, give us breathing space since we are still coming out of the sting of buying school supplies.
Lastly -- Can we just teach our kids how to be motivated without attaching a prize to it? Teachers are constantly complaining that little Suzy or Mike won't do their work -- yet, they continue to offer extrinsic rewards, rather than allowing our kids the pleasure of accomplishing something simply because they can.
By the way, did I mention, little Mike loved the limo ride? It was in a Hummer.
Friday, September 14, 2007
Better than Sex
Have you ever heard the expression, "That's better than sex?" This is becoming a part of American culture and our vernacular at an alarming rate.
The other day, my mother, who'd been in the hospital two weeks, got a bath. With real water and in a tub, no less. She expressed to my daughter (a nurse) that the bath was better than sex. Then, she went on to say, "At least, what I can remember of it!" Gee grandma, TMI!!
I have to say, this too is one of my favorite expressions. A great expresso-- "better than sex!" Having a pedicure -- "better than sex!" A fabulous massage -- "better than sex!" The problem is, I really do think these things are better than sex.
How long does sex last -- an hour? C'mon, get real and let's be honest -- for the over 40 set, it is not an hour long experience unless you're Demi Moore and your husband's Ashton Kutcher or, the other extreme, hubby's been getting Viagra samples from the doctor who's been massaging his prostate.
So, let's think about this logically. A good expresso can be savored for a good hour, especially while chatting with friends. A pedicure is a good thirty minutes of pure unadulterated indulgence. Sitting lazily with your foot in a tub of warm water while reading the latest National Enquirer. What could be better? A massage can last up to an hour. An hour in a darkened, silent room. To a woman with four kids, this is the ultimate experience. Silence really IS golden.
So, while many people may think I'm crazy for writing this post, if you think about it, and truth be told, I'm not the only one who thinks this way. Don't deny it- you're out there!
Oh, and what does my husband think about all this. Well, the last time I closed my eyes while eating a piece of tiramisu and declared it better than sex, all he had to say was, "If everything is better than sex -- HOW BAD COULD IT BE?!!"
The other day, my mother, who'd been in the hospital two weeks, got a bath. With real water and in a tub, no less. She expressed to my daughter (a nurse) that the bath was better than sex. Then, she went on to say, "At least, what I can remember of it!" Gee grandma, TMI!!
I have to say, this too is one of my favorite expressions. A great expresso-- "better than sex!" Having a pedicure -- "better than sex!" A fabulous massage -- "better than sex!" The problem is, I really do think these things are better than sex.
How long does sex last -- an hour? C'mon, get real and let's be honest -- for the over 40 set, it is not an hour long experience unless you're Demi Moore and your husband's Ashton Kutcher or, the other extreme, hubby's been getting Viagra samples from the doctor who's been massaging his prostate.
So, let's think about this logically. A good expresso can be savored for a good hour, especially while chatting with friends. A pedicure is a good thirty minutes of pure unadulterated indulgence. Sitting lazily with your foot in a tub of warm water while reading the latest National Enquirer. What could be better? A massage can last up to an hour. An hour in a darkened, silent room. To a woman with four kids, this is the ultimate experience. Silence really IS golden.
So, while many people may think I'm crazy for writing this post, if you think about it, and truth be told, I'm not the only one who thinks this way. Don't deny it- you're out there!
Oh, and what does my husband think about all this. Well, the last time I closed my eyes while eating a piece of tiramisu and declared it better than sex, all he had to say was, "If everything is better than sex -- HOW BAD COULD IT BE?!!"
Saturday, September 8, 2007
The Babysitter
Have you ever left your kids with your husband? Trust me...DON'T! Anytime something terrible has happened to our children, it has been when they were in the care of their father. Now, he's not some horrible child abuser. He's just a typical dad. Preoccupied, watching the news, sports, or some other crap, and would rather be doing a hundred other things than taking care of junior.
Take for instance, the time hubby and I were vacationing in South Carolina. He had our 3 year old and I had our 15 month old. Dear old dad was showing junior how to fly a kite. Except junior never got a turn and was bored. So she asked daddy if she could go find mom. "Sure, honey -- go ahead", all the while never missing a beat as he stood mesmerized, flying the kite. So, little SuSu (as we called her) wandered off. Imagine -- 3 years old and wandering the beaches of South Carolina. Some time later, Dad meanders by. "Where's SuSu?"
"What do you mean, where's SuSu?"
"She came to find you."
Now you have to wonder, WHAT was this man thinking??? There are about 800 mommies lined up under beach umbrellas. To a 3 year old, I'm pretty certain we all look alike. Panic set in.
"How long ago did she leave you?" I inquired.
"About 5 minutes ago." We immediately took action. He called hotel security and I flagged down the beach patrol.
The beach patrol took basic information such as what she looked like and what she was wearing, all the while staring at me as if I were the worst mother in the world. You had to know they were thinking, "What moron would let a 3 year old wander the beach by themselves?" Funny, my thoughts exactly!! Within 30 minutes they had located her about 2 miles down the beach. Do you know, to this day, at the age of 23, she still remembers that ordeal?! She still describes it as, " I just kept looking for you but couldn't find you."
Hmmm, another example of my husband's babysitting skills (or shall I say, lack of)... shortly after the birth of our third child, he was watching our 4 year old, while I took a short nap. She comes into our bedroom to me and says, "Mommy, I swallowed a penny". I called her father in.
"This kid says she swallowed a penny."
"She says she did but there's no way it's there". He jokingly picked her up, flipped her upside down and pretended to get a penny out of her mouth. "See, it's gone." Yeah right, that's gonna work. Five minutes later she says, "I still feel the penny in my throat."
Well, she was at the age where things don't get caught in kids throats, and my husband was convinced that she just had the "sensation" of it still being there. I wasn't convinced. Somehow, mothers know these things. "I'm calling the dr.", I declare. He is annoyed, saying there's no way there's a penny there, that it would just pass on through. I ignore him and call the dr. He's already proved his unworthyness as a sitter by her having swallowed the penny in the first place. So, I call the doctor.
"Dr., is there anyplace that a penny could get stuck in a 4 year old's throat?" Amazingly enough his response is, "yes, in fact there is". I describe the dilemma and within the hour we are at Children's Hospital. X-rays confirmed what I already knew. Damn, I'm good!! The good news is, our daughter recovered nicely. The bad news is, my husband suffered...horribly, I'm afraid.
I finally let him off the hook until our son, who by then was 2, was watching TV with dad. Lo and behold, another accident. This time a torn earlobe from hitting the corner of the TV set. I insisted on a plastic surgeon at the ER -- no sense having a son that would look like Spock when he grew up. I'm pleased to say, he too, fully recovered. By the time the fourth child came along, I was not taking any chances. No more babysitting duty for dad. Fortunately, none of them were scarred permanently, However, I think I can safely say this. I don't think "Grandpa" is going to get any chances to babysit anytime soon!!
Take for instance, the time hubby and I were vacationing in South Carolina. He had our 3 year old and I had our 15 month old. Dear old dad was showing junior how to fly a kite. Except junior never got a turn and was bored. So she asked daddy if she could go find mom. "Sure, honey -- go ahead", all the while never missing a beat as he stood mesmerized, flying the kite. So, little SuSu (as we called her) wandered off. Imagine -- 3 years old and wandering the beaches of South Carolina. Some time later, Dad meanders by. "Where's SuSu?"
"What do you mean, where's SuSu?"
"She came to find you."
Now you have to wonder, WHAT was this man thinking??? There are about 800 mommies lined up under beach umbrellas. To a 3 year old, I'm pretty certain we all look alike. Panic set in.
"How long ago did she leave you?" I inquired.
"About 5 minutes ago." We immediately took action. He called hotel security and I flagged down the beach patrol.
The beach patrol took basic information such as what she looked like and what she was wearing, all the while staring at me as if I were the worst mother in the world. You had to know they were thinking, "What moron would let a 3 year old wander the beach by themselves?" Funny, my thoughts exactly!! Within 30 minutes they had located her about 2 miles down the beach. Do you know, to this day, at the age of 23, she still remembers that ordeal?! She still describes it as, " I just kept looking for you but couldn't find you."
Hmmm, another example of my husband's babysitting skills (or shall I say, lack of)... shortly after the birth of our third child, he was watching our 4 year old, while I took a short nap. She comes into our bedroom to me and says, "Mommy, I swallowed a penny". I called her father in.
"This kid says she swallowed a penny."
"She says she did but there's no way it's there". He jokingly picked her up, flipped her upside down and pretended to get a penny out of her mouth. "See, it's gone." Yeah right, that's gonna work. Five minutes later she says, "I still feel the penny in my throat."
Well, she was at the age where things don't get caught in kids throats, and my husband was convinced that she just had the "sensation" of it still being there. I wasn't convinced. Somehow, mothers know these things. "I'm calling the dr.", I declare. He is annoyed, saying there's no way there's a penny there, that it would just pass on through. I ignore him and call the dr. He's already proved his unworthyness as a sitter by her having swallowed the penny in the first place. So, I call the doctor.
"Dr., is there anyplace that a penny could get stuck in a 4 year old's throat?" Amazingly enough his response is, "yes, in fact there is". I describe the dilemma and within the hour we are at Children's Hospital. X-rays confirmed what I already knew. Damn, I'm good!! The good news is, our daughter recovered nicely. The bad news is, my husband suffered...horribly, I'm afraid.
I finally let him off the hook until our son, who by then was 2, was watching TV with dad. Lo and behold, another accident. This time a torn earlobe from hitting the corner of the TV set. I insisted on a plastic surgeon at the ER -- no sense having a son that would look like Spock when he grew up. I'm pleased to say, he too, fully recovered. By the time the fourth child came along, I was not taking any chances. No more babysitting duty for dad. Fortunately, none of them were scarred permanently, However, I think I can safely say this. I don't think "Grandpa" is going to get any chances to babysit anytime soon!!
Sunday, September 2, 2007
Reuben
So, I sit here tonight with my dog curled up next to me. He is a mutt we picked up from the pound. He is a mix and sort of looks like Alf. In fact, he is indeed a mess. He has allergies, is neurotic, a long nose and bad hair -- in short, he's one of us!!
One summer day, bored out of my mind, I decided to take the kids for a trip to the dog pound. I decided after four kids, I was ready for another-- one with four legs and a wet nose. I was hoping to find a cute little puppy. Instead, we happened upon a medium sized dog with wire hair. His head sort of looks terrier, his body like a dachshund. The pound staff tried to sell me on the fact that he was a cairn terrier. Yah, right! The best way I can describe him is he sort of looks like those Tupperware toys where you can mix and match the animal heads. His head just doesn't match his body.
My kids chose him to play with of ALL the dogs there. We took him into a room and it was love at first sight -- for the kids, that is. I was not convinced. Not only was he ugly, he was 2 years old and not housetrained. To add insult to injury, he was named after a sandwich!! Against their protests, we left the pound. I told them we needed (translation -- I NEEDED) to think about it. We went to lunch at a restaurant next door. All through the meal, the kids begged and pleaded. These are not little kids either. Among them, my 18 year old daughter. This was too much! I must admit, I've always been a sucker for my kids, and this was no exception. I went back to the pound (against my better judgement), filled out the paperwork, spent more money than I care to admit on doggy supplies and left.
Well, true to my words, Ruben was THE worst dog. He marked his territory all over my house -- nothing was sacred; drapes, chairs, booksbags -- anything laying on or near the floor was his! When he was finished marking the downstairs, he proceeded to mark the upstairs. I KNEW this was a bad idea. We walked him, praised him, and still he marked. Not only that, he was a nightmare to take on a walk. He would completely freak out whenever a car passed us on the road and tried to chase it. Barking and pulling until he would gag from the pull of the leash (and I wasn't doing the pulling). He also was extremely possessive of food or any item he found in the house. He had even bitten two of the kids. To boot, he and I never connected.
My choices were getting limited. Either put up with this beast of a dog or return him to the pound. The kids had a hissy fit at the mere mention of taking him to the pound, and those big, soulful, brown eyes were starting to grow on me. So, I opted for obedience school.
I found a kennel in the area who trained dogs, even the most incorrigible. They would board him during the week and train him, and I would take him home. I met with the trainer who seemed very competent. I warned him that Reuben would bite if pushed to the limit. He seemed confident he could break him of that. I left him, looking forward to a week of no Reuben.
At the end of the week, I went to pick the dog up. He was a shivering blob of jello in his cage. What the hell had gone on during the last week? He had bitten the trainer and apparently, his Nazi of a trainer had chosen some sort of aversion therapy. The dog was never so happy to see anyone as he was to see me! This from the dog who basically ignored me for the last two months. I could hear him in my head, "Take me home, mommy, take me home!" I did take him home, and had real reservations about taking him back to the kennel. However, this was a highly recommended place, and I thought that all the people who recommended them, including my vet, couldn't be wrong. And surely they would not commit acts of animal abuse for fear the ASPCA would get all over them.
I decided, against my better judgement, to return the following Monday. After dragging the dog into the place, I went over the week's plan with the trainer and felt slightly better. That week, when I went to pick up Reuben, he was not a blubbering mess. In fact, he seemed slightly more confident. I worked with him over the week-end and saw some signs of improvement. Perhaps there was hope for this mess of a dog.
At the end of the third week, he wasn't perfect but he was better. I paid the kennel a king's ransom for the training and took Reuben home. I worked with him for several weeks, but after a week or so, he began to revert to his obnoxious ways. I decided to take him back to doggy boot camp. He went through three more weeks of training. Each week, I could see a little improvement. He was finally ready to come home for good. I'd spent more money on him than if I'd have bought a show dog -- at least with that, I'd have had a return on my investment!!
Although he was still far from perfect, he was potty trained. He no longer marked my house, although personally, I thinks it's because there was nothing left to mark. And he liked the great outdoors.
Fast forward two years. Reuben now goes in his crate on command, stands at the door when he needs to go out, and is basically a very cuddly dog. He will even let us take away things that he may inadvertently grab without fear of death. Yes, we do have a couple of war wounds from when we woke him up. Unfortunately, that old saying, "let a sleeping dog lie" is true with him. I guess we can't all be perfect. He cries when my son, his favorite human, goes out with his friends. However, he will tolerate me as a close second. Perhaps it has something to do with the beef stew I throw over his food?
We are buddies now. He is part of our family. Some days, when the world around you sucks, your kids are fighting, and you just want to crawl in a hole, there's just nothing better than coming home to his wagging tail and his jumping on you with those little paws of his, as if to say, "I'm SO glad you're home!" I never thought I'd say it but, "I love you, Reuben!" Welcome home!!
One summer day, bored out of my mind, I decided to take the kids for a trip to the dog pound. I decided after four kids, I was ready for another-- one with four legs and a wet nose. I was hoping to find a cute little puppy. Instead, we happened upon a medium sized dog with wire hair. His head sort of looks terrier, his body like a dachshund. The pound staff tried to sell me on the fact that he was a cairn terrier. Yah, right! The best way I can describe him is he sort of looks like those Tupperware toys where you can mix and match the animal heads. His head just doesn't match his body.
My kids chose him to play with of ALL the dogs there. We took him into a room and it was love at first sight -- for the kids, that is. I was not convinced. Not only was he ugly, he was 2 years old and not housetrained. To add insult to injury, he was named after a sandwich!! Against their protests, we left the pound. I told them we needed (translation -- I NEEDED) to think about it. We went to lunch at a restaurant next door. All through the meal, the kids begged and pleaded. These are not little kids either. Among them, my 18 year old daughter. This was too much! I must admit, I've always been a sucker for my kids, and this was no exception. I went back to the pound (against my better judgement), filled out the paperwork, spent more money than I care to admit on doggy supplies and left.
Well, true to my words, Ruben was THE worst dog. He marked his territory all over my house -- nothing was sacred; drapes, chairs, booksbags -- anything laying on or near the floor was his! When he was finished marking the downstairs, he proceeded to mark the upstairs. I KNEW this was a bad idea. We walked him, praised him, and still he marked. Not only that, he was a nightmare to take on a walk. He would completely freak out whenever a car passed us on the road and tried to chase it. Barking and pulling until he would gag from the pull of the leash (and I wasn't doing the pulling). He also was extremely possessive of food or any item he found in the house. He had even bitten two of the kids. To boot, he and I never connected.
My choices were getting limited. Either put up with this beast of a dog or return him to the pound. The kids had a hissy fit at the mere mention of taking him to the pound, and those big, soulful, brown eyes were starting to grow on me. So, I opted for obedience school.
I found a kennel in the area who trained dogs, even the most incorrigible. They would board him during the week and train him, and I would take him home. I met with the trainer who seemed very competent. I warned him that Reuben would bite if pushed to the limit. He seemed confident he could break him of that. I left him, looking forward to a week of no Reuben.
At the end of the week, I went to pick the dog up. He was a shivering blob of jello in his cage. What the hell had gone on during the last week? He had bitten the trainer and apparently, his Nazi of a trainer had chosen some sort of aversion therapy. The dog was never so happy to see anyone as he was to see me! This from the dog who basically ignored me for the last two months. I could hear him in my head, "Take me home, mommy, take me home!" I did take him home, and had real reservations about taking him back to the kennel. However, this was a highly recommended place, and I thought that all the people who recommended them, including my vet, couldn't be wrong. And surely they would not commit acts of animal abuse for fear the ASPCA would get all over them.
I decided, against my better judgement, to return the following Monday. After dragging the dog into the place, I went over the week's plan with the trainer and felt slightly better. That week, when I went to pick up Reuben, he was not a blubbering mess. In fact, he seemed slightly more confident. I worked with him over the week-end and saw some signs of improvement. Perhaps there was hope for this mess of a dog.
At the end of the third week, he wasn't perfect but he was better. I paid the kennel a king's ransom for the training and took Reuben home. I worked with him for several weeks, but after a week or so, he began to revert to his obnoxious ways. I decided to take him back to doggy boot camp. He went through three more weeks of training. Each week, I could see a little improvement. He was finally ready to come home for good. I'd spent more money on him than if I'd have bought a show dog -- at least with that, I'd have had a return on my investment!!
Although he was still far from perfect, he was potty trained. He no longer marked my house, although personally, I thinks it's because there was nothing left to mark. And he liked the great outdoors.
Fast forward two years. Reuben now goes in his crate on command, stands at the door when he needs to go out, and is basically a very cuddly dog. He will even let us take away things that he may inadvertently grab without fear of death. Yes, we do have a couple of war wounds from when we woke him up. Unfortunately, that old saying, "let a sleeping dog lie" is true with him. I guess we can't all be perfect. He cries when my son, his favorite human, goes out with his friends. However, he will tolerate me as a close second. Perhaps it has something to do with the beef stew I throw over his food?
We are buddies now. He is part of our family. Some days, when the world around you sucks, your kids are fighting, and you just want to crawl in a hole, there's just nothing better than coming home to his wagging tail and his jumping on you with those little paws of his, as if to say, "I'm SO glad you're home!" I never thought I'd say it but, "I love you, Reuben!" Welcome home!!
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