Snowballs, says Euka. Are kinda weird to catch.
I mean, she continues, you think you’ve got the thing. Then afterwards, you’re all … was that it? Is that all there is?
Category Archives: Euka II
Wordless Wednesday: Euka vs The Snowball
Farmer’s Tan. It’s not just for summer anymore.
What do you get when you cross a Golden with a Labrador?
This, people. You get a photobomb that you didn’t notice in the tiny viewfinder of your Canon. A cursory glance at the image might even net you that warm feeling that accompanies the camera’s promise of a rather nice shot.
Then you download the memory card onto your laptop and you now find yourself gifted with the pale, almost not there, but yep, there she is, that’s not a ghost photo bomb.
My handsome golden retriever appears to have developed a white-ish rear end. Perhaps one of them stylin’ Lion Cuts. With the unfortunate result of exposing a farmer’s tan.
In winter. Go fig.
Take a sec here and place your thumb over the tip of plume tail creeping above Micron’s noggin.
There. Now do you see it too?
It’s not just me, right?
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Got the moves like Jager
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| I got the moves like Jager. The dog, people. Jager’s a dog. |
“This isn’t a football [image of a football]. This is a football [image of a soccer ball]” -bumper sticker on a minivan.
I noted this particular bumper sticker on a family member’s vehicle some time ago. Way back when our kids were, well, … kids. And my brother-in-law was a soccer coach for a small town team.
I wondered then about the ballsiness of it all. Is it ok, I thought, to start a semantics war against something so all-American as the sport of oblong balls? Sure, I can see that a soccer is a foot ball of sorts; I give him that one. But isn’t it also a head ball sometimes? And what else could one possibly call Football, other than Tuck the Pig in the Armpit and Run Like the Devil is on Your Tail Ball? You’d have to go all acronym and even that doesn’t make sense and there’s probably already a Hawaiian volcano or something called TTPITAARLTDIOYTB.
And speaking of kids, while rearing my favorite kid during all his tender years, I only permitted one television in our home. My philosophy at the time was that watching the Stupid Box was already a passive event where you didn’t have to think for yourself, but it was also a distraction from being a healthy family unit.
If we’re going to neutralize our gray matter, we’ll do it together as a family, gosh darn it. And in the same room, too. A family that zombifies together, stays together, right?
And I gotta say, it generally worked out reasonably well. We all picked up some mad skills over these years. Things like negotiation, problem-solving, bribery tactics and who can actually shout the loudest until the neighbors come by to check on us. A billion two channels available on cable. Three people.
And one television.
Good times.
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| Ok y’all, this is a touchdown. This spot. Because the ball touched it. |
Anyway, I’m told there’s some big game going on today. Yeah, I know it’s the Superbowl and all, but this doesn’t bode well for my Downton Abbey obsession. But no matter. I can watch this week’s episode from my Kindle Fire. I think. I hope. Hold just a sec, will you? I’m gonna check.
[on hold music] instrumental to Stairway to Heaven*
Ok, yeah, we’re good.
Besides, the dogs had a ballgame of their own to entertain the masses. By masses, I mean me. I watched the goings on for awhile and have to admit — I have no idea what the rules of play were. It’s like they were making the whole thing up. You know, like how you play Monopoly when you can’t be bothered to count out the money because it involves math.
The only thing I could figure was that Euka had to have the ball. Or else.
Or else not have the ball. That works too.
Our polar bear princess is not only faster than the freight train that is Micron, but she also has some mean agility. Mike will be right on her tail, rather literally, when Euka will throw in a right turn, leaving the big guy to eat snow.
This is Euka’s specialty of Spin Past the Fire Ring.
And here we have the Holy Crap Maneuver.
So this is obviously not a football game. But what? Oh, don’t be silly, calling it Pawball won’t work because the dogs carry the thing in their maws.
Snooterball, then? Hmmm.
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| I call this …. Snowball. |
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*For real, I heard this as elevator music somewhere. How did we allow this to happen? This is exactly how societies crumble, people.
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How to get out of hot water
Right. So, I’m up. But the at ’em part is going to have to simmer on the back burner for a little while longer. Holy cow, but this flu bug has kicked my butt this week. I’m getting too old for this stuff.
I recall somewhere in my youthful past showing up at work, but found I was having trouble concentrating and really not feeling all that great. Just to discover later that I was running a 102 fever the whole time.
Awesome, yeah? Tossing my cootie bugs around like field blossoms from a basket with all the naivety of a skipping maiden. I wasn’t just walking and talking while suffering from the flu, I drove to work. After I stopped to put gas in the car.
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But that’s all sailed away on the USS Glory of Youth. Yesterday morning I pad into the kitchen, snuffling and concentrating that last shred of energy into not hacking up the three quarters remaining of my bronchi. Thinking I might need most of those later when I can start breathing normal again.
I know I look pretty awful and I don’t care. No, that’s not really true. I can’t care. I need that feat of strength for more important things, like filling the tea kettle.
I took the dogs out, says The Husband, sitting at the breakfast table. Jager’s still outside though. I think he’s finishing off that bread you put out for the birds.
Ok, I manage to squeak out. Awesome. Thanks. I want to believe I sound all sultry and sexy like Jessica Rabbit* (I’m not bad. I’m just drawn that way), but know it’s coming out more like Frank, Robin William’s brother on Mrs. Doubtfire.
I have something else for you, says The Husband.
Aw, he’s going to blow me a kiss. That’s what he always says right before …
The hot water heater’s busted, he says.
I just look at him. [blink]
It’s leaking, he says. So I think it’s totally effed. Call Schmitt today to come out and see what they think. They’ll prolly have to replace it, so you need to get all that crap in front of it moved out of the way.
Ok, I squeak/bleat. I’m on it.
Ah, my old friend Adversity stops by for another home visit. What’s our coping mechanism for such things? Oh, it could always be worse, we all say. And it could, of course it could be much, much worse. We offer such thoughts to the Fates as positive waves and hope it’s not taken as a challenge to bump things up another notch.
This was Saturday. The man has to work, so I deal with the plumber who delivers the just-a-little-bit-worse news that he can’t replace the water heater until Monday. ‘Salright, no prob. This is just a temporary thing and is totally fixable.
This morning, as a distraction while I chip away the ice crystals clogging the Shower of Doom, I force myself to focus on positive thinking.
They say rinsing your hair with cool water makes it shinier.
At this temp, folk are gonna need shades around me today.
At this temp, folk are gonna need shades around me today.
Well, this is … refreshing.
Hey, I’m saving money on moisturizer since I’m leaving so much shower gel on.
This is exactly the temperature I like my beer.
Well, that’s enough of that.
The arctic shower experience, that is. But let’s keep up with the positive thinking for a little bit longer. After all, the dogs are going on about their day giving nary a thought to this lack of hot water. Well then, I can do it too.
So inspired by the dogs, I give you my top four reasons why not having hot water in the middle of an Ohio winter doesn’t have to suck.
I was planning on giving you five reasons, but I’m stretching here as it is.
1. Well, the dishwasher heats its own water, so there’s that.
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| This is actually the little lord Yaxley as his younger self. This is not a posed shot, the stinker. |
And even if it didn’t, I have three dogs in the house so hand washing is still not a problem for me.
Oh alright, alright. I can hear you, you know. You may not want to question this value system until you don’t have hot water for three days.
You know how your dad always said that a dog’s mouth is cleaner than a human’s? Not to dis your family’s knowledge base, but that’s just not true. Dogs just have a different kind of bacteria than we do.
I offer you that as a comfort.
You’re welcome.
2. We have our own natural sauna, of sorts, in the backyard.
The dog with the Irish tan points out this natural phenomena for you. No need for arctic-fresh showers when we can enjoy the benefits of that underground spring.
Likely just a fissure in the earth’s crust foreboding an oncoming earthquake, water bubbles up from the depths of Hades to keep one spot of the yard so nice and wet.
All year round.
It’s been a favorite spa experience for the mighty Micron.
3. Snow is insulating
I read that somewhere on a gardening site or something. Like every inch of snow insulates by two degrees. Or I just made that up, I can never remember where I get this stuff.
Scientifically speaking then, making snow angels would be less, um … refreshing than this morning’s shower, right?
But Micron here is our sample of proof. The dog is just covered in a goodly layer of snow from his romping about, but it’s not melting, is it?
Heh. Now that I think about it, maybe its dog hair that’s the insulator.
Well, one or the other.
What’s that you ask? What’s Micron eating? It’s not a squirrel or something is it?
Oh, no that would be the dead bird they found. Hahahaha, just kidding. The dead bird was last week. This is just tree bark.
A special delivery by Euka.
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| Her bark is worse than her … oh, I’m not even gonna finish that sentence. |
And yeah, I took it away from them. I’m mean like that. There’s better ways to get fiber in your diet, my furry friends.
At least the bird offered up some protein.
4. I’ve seen worse.
In spades.
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| Sure, it wasn’t this bad. And yet, twinges of nostalgia. |
Heck, growing up on the farm there were long winter weeks when we didn’t even have running water due to frozen pipes. It was cold in the farmhouse, cold doing our chores, cold walking the quarter mile to the bus, cold on the bus and cold in the school.
Time stretched out where I thought I might never be warm again.
Until I scored an electric blanket, that is. I wore the thing like a second skin. Course I couldn’t travel more than four feet from an outlet or change my clothes, but still. Warmth. Live in the moment kinda thing.
So when The Husband gallantly offers that we can overnight at the local Holiday Inn for the warm showers, I’m all pshaw, Dude, this ain’t nothin’.
Because I get my hillbilly back when I wax nostalgic.
And because it’s not that bad, you know. Three icy showers, reorganizing the basement, recovering from the flu, plus a huge plumbing bill … all combined this rates a full Six on the Suck Scale. Not gonna lie.
But it could be worse. It could always be much, much worse.
A look at blessings, y’all. Not a challenge. We’re good here. Really.
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*Who Framed Roger Rabbit? (1988)
Jessica Rabbit: You don’t know how hard it is being a woman looking the way I do.
Eddie Valiant: You don’t know how hard it is being a man looking at a woman looking the way you do.
Jessica Rabbit: I’m not bad. I’m just drawn that way.
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Wordless Wednesday: A Private Reading
How many dogs does it take to get through a story book?
You know, we pet therapy folk didn’t mind staying a few minutes past our allotted hour at the library. How could we leave when our young reader wanted to finish just one more book? You have to admire her passion. Well, I sure do.
So after the other readers left, our four Paws to Read canine volunteers teamed up for a special private reading. We should all be so blessed, right?
From Miami Valley Pet Therapy Association we have the dedicated canine volunteers (at top) Char and the mighty Micron. Also joining us from CCI are puppies-in-training Euka and Emma.
Go. Do. Be Dog. 