Obedience school isn't for ninnies and never has been. It is where the strong survive and conquer. The alpha is king, or queen, at the end of the term.
The big question is what to wear on the first day of school?
Do you go fresh from the bath so the others don't wrinkle their noses at you?
What about a new wardrobe? Or are everyday togs sufficient and acceptable?
Will I make friends?
Will the other kids make fun of me?
What if the teacher is mean?
What if I need to go potty in the middle of class and I can't get anyone's attention?
1/09/2012
writing doodle - Rilo the Redbeard ... a legend is (almost) born
Rilo was a dog born to ordinary dogs, but he wanted to be more than the rest of his litter. He wanted a life of glamour, prestige, and extra kibble.
Pirates have adventures.
Pirates, in the movies anyway, get the girl.
Pirates have great names. Or so it would seem.
All pirates have to have a 'good name' to give them credibility. At least that's the way they tell it in the Princess Bride about the Dread Pirate Roberts. It is likely that no one would have ever taken the Dread Pirate Wesley seriously. Maybe there should be a Dread Pirate Rilo?
Rilo knew that he had been granted an amazing name, but he didn't know what it meant (or if it meant anything at all). He just knew that words that began with an R at the beginning sounded cool to his own ears.
Rilo the Rowdy. Nah. It sounded like he started food fights in the school cafeteria.
Rilo the Rambunctious. Meh. It sounded like he was just a bundle of energy and nerves with no real goal or destination in mind.
Rilo the Rambler. No way. It sounded like a rusted out car sitting in some poor sap's backyard.
None of those names could ever portray his image. His Brand.Plus, Rilo lived in a large family with lots of other dogs. He needed a way to stand out and be noticed.
What he needed was respect. (Rilo the Respectable would never get anyone to give up their goodies or shudder in fear.)
Thinking logically he knew that there was once a pirate who terrified hordes of people. Bluebeard. The question always remained, why a blue beard? Did he like blue? Did he eat copious amounts of blue berries? Was he color blind? Why not purple? Green?
Rilo's favorite color was also blue, but Rilo the Bluebeard sounded too off putting. Besides, Bluebeard had already been taken so he'd never get any points for originality. Yellow was good, too. But Yellowbeard sounded like yellowjacket and bee stings were never fun and most people killed bees.
Orange was good, too. But then he'd have to decide if it was about the color or the fruit. The color was fine, but the fruit gave him indigestion.
Rilo the Redbeard. Now that had a definite ring to it.
There was one minor problem. In order to really be the real and official redbeard, he had to turn his beard red.
Crayons? Taste great and less filling, but do nothing for the beard.
Teas? Too leafy.
Juice? The woman he lived with only drank coffee and water. No luck there.
One day when the house was quiet, Rilo was feeling a little peckish. The kibble bowl was empty with a capital EMPTY. Water was available but boring.
Rilo paced the length of the kitchen several times hoping something lucious and delicious would fall from the cabinets ready to eat.
After an hour, he sat in the corner of the kitchen with his back to the cabinet. Eventually, boredom overtook Rilo and he settled in for a nap on the kitchen floor.
When he got up to see if the woman or her kids had left behind any cookies in the sofa cushions, the cabinet moved all by itself.
Rilo inserted his nose into the top shelf and breathed deeply. This was where the keys to heaven, also known as bacon flavored treats, were kept. He pushed his nose against the shelf and it began to rotate very slowly.
When all hope was gone of ever getting to the bacon nibblies, a cardboard box fell from the shelf and spilled its liquid on the floor.
Ever diligent, Rilo went to investigate the treasure. It was lukewarm, thin, orange, and after a tentative lick, he realized it was savory.
He'd heard the woman tell her daughter, "Don't cry over spilled milk."
It sounded like good advice. Instead of hiding from the mess, Rilo decided to help clean up the kitchen mess.
One lick lead to two and soon there was no stopping Rilo. He licked until the entire puddle that turned out to be called tomato bisque was gone.
It was so good, he decided to open the box and make sure there was nothing left to drip on the floor. The job was much bigger than Rilo could have guessed and it exhausted him completely by the time he was done.
When the woman came home from running errands, she found Rilo next to the carton. She woke him up and said, "Rilo, what have you done? My stars, your beard is red!"A legend may have been born at that moment.
1/07/2012
writing doodle - Rilo the Rowdy
The rambunctious, rollicking, and boisterous Sealyham terrier knew that he was a dog. A full sized, well adjusted white dog named Rilo. Alright, a mostly white dog with curly fur. He'd seem himself in the mirror often enough to know what he looked like and how he was supposed to behave.
Except when he didn't.
Rilo the rowdy, as he liked to think of himself, had had an identity crisis for several months. Years if he were honest with himself.
When he thought of himself he knew that in fact he was the king of his domain and the commander of all he could see. His white coat was a determinant when he went undercover to find hidden caches of foodstuffs in his territory, so he rolled in things to make him appear less white. His gentle and subdued demeanor was really a front to fool his captors, the ones who didn't understand the importance of feeling the wind in his fur when he ran or the significance of obtaining the favor of a new lady every evening.
One night, in the fall of the year, he went to a party. A dog party. There were large dogs and small ones. Thin ones and thick. Young and old.
At this party, most of the dogs were all having an identity crisis. One dog went as a shark, tiny but lethal. Another as a bee, a very over grown bee who probably couldn't fly very well. Another was dressed as a cow. There was even a dog who was dressed like a dog, but a different kind of a dog.
Was it little wonder that Rilo the Rowdy had an identity crisis?
TBC ...
11/26/2011
11/24/2011
wc1317/Nano/Writing Doodle/ don't judge a book
In the weeks before my grandmother sold her home to move to a high rise condo in Boca Raton of all places. She knew three women who'd moved there after their husbands had passed and were going to open their own casserole brigade to entrap the new widowers.
Every evening after work I helped her cull the family treasures she wouldn't need and didn't think anyone else would want.
The house was full of doilies crocheted by her mother, afghans by her sister, and quilts by Amish women - it was the one craft her family had never done but had much appreciated.
"You know, we could take these to a flea market or open a booth at one of those antique shops," I said.
My eyes must have gleamed because her eyes grew incredibly cold. "Bernie, no one would ever want these things, but if you want them you can have them. What you do with them is up to you. I think charity would be a good choice."
I'm not a person who counts her chickens before they hatch, heck I don't even count the eggs because I usually just eat egg whites I get from a carton. But I kept seeing other twenty somethings or even thirty somethings looking for some kitch to decorate their apartments. After a quick mental review, I knew of at least five antique stores in the area that might take consignment pieces.
The clothes could go to charity. Some of the more vintage clothes might even do well for community or high school theatre if anyone was going to do a revival of Hair or Barefoot in the Park.
In her bedroom two of the walls were floor to ceiling bookcases. Mostly best sellers, a few bodice rippers, and the World Book Encyclopedia from 1968.
"Now Bernie, there's something we need to talk about." Grandma patted the spot next to her on her double bed.
I didn't roll my eyes because my grandmother hates that, but the last time we had a private conversation in her bedroom it was the facts of life talk when I was thirteen.
I nodded and sat.
"A woman should always have her own money," she said.
No surprise there. I've always maintained at least a little money in my own name, even when I was with Grady and he thought his name was on everything, it wasn't.
"Because you never know what the future will hold. Emergencies happen."
Again, I agree. We've had this discussion since I was eight.
"And once in a while you want to go crazy and buy something for yourself without feeling the need to justify it."
I thought about all of the times when she pressed a bill into my hand and put her fingers to her lips. that was the start of my financial independence and secrecy about my own small stash.
"Did you know I've been divorced longer than I was married?"
"Sure."
"But I kept some of my married habits," she said. "I squirrel money away here." She lifted her arm and swept the room with it, if she was smiling she might have been doing her Vana White impression.
I looked around for anything that might resemble the piggy banks we used to look at in antique stores. Just books. Books and old glass paperweights.
"We were burgled the first year I was married," she said. "We lived in a very poor part of Detroit. There was a lot of crime and violence. The sound of a police siren wasn't uncommon at any hour of the day or the night. That particular summer Saturday afternoon your grandfather was out bowling with his league. I was alone, pregnant, and scared out of my wits."
"I can't even imagine."
"How did he get in?"
"We didn't have central air conditioning, so I had all the windows open. I don't know which one he came through because I was in the kitchen making dinner."
"Was he alone or with a team?"
"He was alone and wanted money. The only cash to hand I had was the grocery money, and it wasn't enough."
"What did you do?"
I had hoped for a tale of heroism on the part of my long forgotten grandfather bursting into the room and saving the day. A neighbor who came by for a cup of coffee. A girl scout looking to sell cookies. Maybe Grandma had taken martial arts and was a secret seventh degree black belt and was able to drop him in less than five seconds. All of my scenarios were overly dramatic and wouldn't have happened. I watch way too much television The truly dramatic stories are great for television, movies, or books, but in real life, not so much.
What would I do if I were in the same situation? I hope to never find out.
"I gave him everything I had in my purse."
"And?" I was anxious to hear more about what happened.
Did he clock her upside the head with a firearm? Did he threaten her? Did he hurt her in some way?
"I told you I'd been making dinner, just spaghetti and meatballs. I threw a pot of pasta water on him. Then I ran like hell to the neighbor's house and called the police."
"Did they catch him?"
"No. But it wasn't enough to make the police interested. But the point is, I didn't have any more grocery money for the week and I still had to feed my family."
"That night I decided I would have my own cash to hand to make sure I could take care of my family if it ever happened again. And I would never have less than a month of food available."
Thus the stockpile was born. I had never known Grandma not to have at least six months worth of food on hand at any given time. Her freezer always had a spare turkey and frozen lasagna, just in case someone died and she needed emergency funeral food. As to the rest, a body could get tired of pasta and canned beans but they were there for a reason, a backup just in case the worst happened.
"And you always did," I said.
"Yes. And I began to squirrel away money. Just in case."
"In case the guy came back?"
"In case something dire happened."
Like what? I wanted to hear how she got the money and what the emergencies had been. If there had ever been emergencies.
"I'd rather not say," she said. "You don't need that kind of information. You aren't old enough."
Fine.
"Each week when I went to the grocery, I used coupons and I took the change and put it in books. Each type of book was its own denomination."
"What?"
"Each book category was assigned a denomination. Romance is usually cheap and taudry, so I stored singles there. Mysteries are higher in the scale and housed the fives. Non-fiction of all genres got tens. The encyclopedias got the twenties. And the dictionaries housed my hundreds."
"Didn't you ever worry when you'd tell me to go look something up?" I asked.
"You weren't much of a student and preferred to create your own answer rather than look something up in the dictionary. When you got older you had the internet."
Thanks for the truth Grandma. Fiction was always more fun and usually less cumbersome than finding facts.
"So what about the family Bible?"
"Some books are just to read," she said.
"Does every book have money in them?"
"No."
No as in not now or no as in they once did but don't now. something to think about.
"So, I want you to help me empty out my stash," she said. "And then we're going to give any books you don't want to the Visiting Nurses for their annual book drive."
~~
tbc maybe
word count 1317
Every evening after work I helped her cull the family treasures she wouldn't need and didn't think anyone else would want.
The house was full of doilies crocheted by her mother, afghans by her sister, and quilts by Amish women - it was the one craft her family had never done but had much appreciated.
"You know, we could take these to a flea market or open a booth at one of those antique shops," I said.
My eyes must have gleamed because her eyes grew incredibly cold. "Bernie, no one would ever want these things, but if you want them you can have them. What you do with them is up to you. I think charity would be a good choice."
I'm not a person who counts her chickens before they hatch, heck I don't even count the eggs because I usually just eat egg whites I get from a carton. But I kept seeing other twenty somethings or even thirty somethings looking for some kitch to decorate their apartments. After a quick mental review, I knew of at least five antique stores in the area that might take consignment pieces.The clothes could go to charity. Some of the more vintage clothes might even do well for community or high school theatre if anyone was going to do a revival of Hair or Barefoot in the Park.
In her bedroom two of the walls were floor to ceiling bookcases. Mostly best sellers, a few bodice rippers, and the World Book Encyclopedia from 1968.
"Now Bernie, there's something we need to talk about." Grandma patted the spot next to her on her double bed.
I didn't roll my eyes because my grandmother hates that, but the last time we had a private conversation in her bedroom it was the facts of life talk when I was thirteen.
I nodded and sat.
No surprise there. I've always maintained at least a little money in my own name, even when I was with Grady and he thought his name was on everything, it wasn't.
"Because you never know what the future will hold. Emergencies happen."
Again, I agree. We've had this discussion since I was eight.
"And once in a while you want to go crazy and buy something for yourself without feeling the need to justify it."I thought about all of the times when she pressed a bill into my hand and put her fingers to her lips. that was the start of my financial independence and secrecy about my own small stash.
"Did you know I've been divorced longer than I was married?"
"Sure."
I looked around for anything that might resemble the piggy banks we used to look at in antique stores. Just books. Books and old glass paperweights.
"We were burgled the first year I was married," she said. "We lived in a very poor part of Detroit. There was a lot of crime and violence. The sound of a police siren wasn't uncommon at any hour of the day or the night. That particular summer Saturday afternoon your grandfather was out bowling with his league. I was alone, pregnant, and scared out of my wits."
"I can't even imagine."
"How did he get in?"
"We didn't have central air conditioning, so I had all the windows open. I don't know which one he came through because I was in the kitchen making dinner."
"Was he alone or with a team?"
"He was alone and wanted money. The only cash to hand I had was the grocery money, and it wasn't enough."
"What did you do?"
I had hoped for a tale of heroism on the part of my long forgotten grandfather bursting into the room and saving the day. A neighbor who came by for a cup of coffee. A girl scout looking to sell cookies. Maybe Grandma had taken martial arts and was a secret seventh degree black belt and was able to drop him in less than five seconds. All of my scenarios were overly dramatic and wouldn't have happened. I watch way too much television The truly dramatic stories are great for television, movies, or books, but in real life, not so much.
What would I do if I were in the same situation? I hope to never find out.
"I gave him everything I had in my purse."
"And?" I was anxious to hear more about what happened.
Did he clock her upside the head with a firearm? Did he threaten her? Did he hurt her in some way?
"I told you I'd been making dinner, just spaghetti and meatballs. I threw a pot of pasta water on him. Then I ran like hell to the neighbor's house and called the police."
"Did they catch him?"
"No. But it wasn't enough to make the police interested. But the point is, I didn't have any more grocery money for the week and I still had to feed my family."
"That night I decided I would have my own cash to hand to make sure I could take care of my family if it ever happened again. And I would never have less than a month of food available."
Thus the stockpile was born. I had never known Grandma not to have at least six months worth of food on hand at any given time. Her freezer always had a spare turkey and frozen lasagna, just in case someone died and she needed emergency funeral food. As to the rest, a body could get tired of pasta and canned beans but they were there for a reason, a backup just in case the worst happened.
"And you always did," I said.
"Yes. And I began to squirrel away money. Just in case."
"In case the guy came back?"
"In case something dire happened."
Like what? I wanted to hear how she got the money and what the emergencies had been. If there had ever been emergencies.
"I'd rather not say," she said. "You don't need that kind of information. You aren't old enough."
Fine.
"Each week when I went to the grocery, I used coupons and I took the change and put it in books. Each type of book was its own denomination."
"What?"
"Each book category was assigned a denomination. Romance is usually cheap and taudry, so I stored singles there. Mysteries are higher in the scale and housed the fives. Non-fiction of all genres got tens. The encyclopedias got the twenties. And the dictionaries housed my hundreds."
"Didn't you ever worry when you'd tell me to go look something up?" I asked.
"You weren't much of a student and preferred to create your own answer rather than look something up in the dictionary. When you got older you had the internet."
Thanks for the truth Grandma. Fiction was always more fun and usually less cumbersome than finding facts.
"So what about the family Bible?"
"Some books are just to read," she said.
"Does every book have money in them?"
"No."
No as in not now or no as in they once did but don't now. something to think about.
"So, I want you to help me empty out my stash," she said. "And then we're going to give any books you don't want to the Visiting Nurses for their annual book drive."
~~
tbc maybe
word count 1317
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