Pickles & Dimes

For newcomers, the entire series can be found here.

“AHHH…TIME FOR A NICE, RELAXING NIGHT OF SLEEP,” says Shauna.

“HELLO! DO YOU ENJOY MY NIGHTLY IMPERSONATION OF A GIANT LASER BEAM BORING A LIGHT TUNNEL THROUGH YOUR SHADES?” says the neighbor’s malfunctioning motion light.

“GUESS WHAT? I AM HERE TO REMIND YOU THAT YOU LIVE VERY, VERY CLOSE TO THE FIRE STATION!” says the fire truck.

“AND TWO BLOCKS FROM THE POLICE STATION,” says the police siren.

“I AM GOING TO REVERSE MY DAYTIME STANCE OF IGNORING YOU BECAUSE I’M SLEEPING IN FAVOR OF NOISILY LICKING MY BUTT ON YOUR PILLOW,” says Sunny.

(more…)

On Friday, Jason and I planned meticulously for the evening’s Twins game. It was misting out, so I wore a short-sleeved shirt over a long-sleeved shirt, with two pairs of socks and a heavy hooded sweatshirt. We each threw a pair of winter gloves into our tote, where our rain ponchos were already waiting.

When we got to the game, it was raining a little harder, but nothing serious. The tarp was on the field and the stadium lights were making it look like it was worse than it was. We wandered around for a bit, not wanting to sit in our wet seats until game time, audibly sighing with relief every time we passed under a heat lamp, and finally decided to grab something to eat and join the tired and miserable-looking families huddled around trying to encourage their grumpy, chilly children to eat their corndogs.

I bought some chicken strips and fries, while Jason grabbed a cheeseburger and a beer. We found a relatively dry spot near our seats (but under cover) to stand and eat. As I brought my first fry to my mouth, Jason asked, “Has the game been canceled or is there just a mass exodus of people leaving the stadium?” right as the usher standing behind us yelled, “Game’s canceled, folks!” (Jason hadn’t even taken a sip of his beer yet.) We looked at each other briefly, shrugged and finished our dinner.

While people angrily complained (it wasn’t even game time yet and it was still only barely misting), we commented on how glad we were that we live only 10 minutes from the stadium and have a 20-game package. Sure, we paid $5 to park and had just bought some overpriced dinner and beer, but who cares? We didn’t travel an hour and a half like some people and we’d probably be able to attend the make-up game. We slowly finished eating, snapped some photos, and began walking arm in arm back to our car. As we were leaving, I saw a Monarch butterfly flitting happily from heat lamp to heat lamp.

When we got to our car, we debated our options. We didn’t expect to be home until after 10:00, and it was only 7:15. “Let’s go to Donny Dirk’s!” Jason declared. So we did.

When we arrived, Planet Terror was playing on one of the TVs, in addition to Black Sheep. I don’t mean the hilarious Chris Farley Black Sheep, I mean the 2006 Black Sheep, the plot of which is this: An experiment in genetic engineering turns harmless sheep into blood-thirsty killers that terrorize a sprawling New Zealand farm. It was about as awesome/cheesy as you can imagine, complete with sheep chasing people through the woods, and a sheep driving a truck over a cliff. Good stuff. Like the scene where a sheep rammed his head Jack Nicholson-style through a door and bleated menacingly.

Another displaced Twins fan came into the bar, watched a few moments of the movie and said while shaking his head, “That’s why you can’t trust sheep.”

After carefully considering all of the drink choices, I finally bit the bullet and ordered one with absinthe while Jason asked the bartender’s recommendation. So that’s how Jason got a Voodoo Zombie (which looked like a tall glass of fresh blood topped off with a shot of old blood) and I got a Corpse Reviver, which was strong but yummy.

And how a canceled baseball game could lead to an unexpectedly fun evening involving horror movies about deranged sheep, and crazy drinks with unheard-of ingredients at a bar that features chainsaws on the walls next to deer heads dripping fake blood.

Stoic
-adjective
of or pertaining to the school of philosophy founded by Zeno, who taught that people should be free from passion, unmoved by joy or grief, and submit without complaint to unavoidable necessity.

I’m assuming this counts as “unavoidable necessity”:

This morning, I took Shorty outside for a walk. We were still in our driveway when I heard growling and whirled around to see our neighbor’s dog, Mita, barreling through a space in the jammed gate entrance between our yards (our shared fence is a leaning, tree root-entangled disaster). I had a brief moment of thinking, “They’ve met each other before; maybe it’ll be OK,” before Mita jumped on top of Shorty and started biting him. I tried to pull Shorty away, screaming Mita’s name, while I heard our neighbor screaming as she ran around their house to reach us. Shorty was squealing, Mita was snarling, I was shrieking. It was pandemonium. The neighbor reached us as Shorty’s collar slipped off in the melee, and I slapped it as hard as I could at Mita’s head, to no avail. Shorty made it to our deck steps, where Mita caught up to him, and they tussled and tumbled and rolled around some more, barking and growling the entire time. It was awful. Shorty is a dense little meatball who weighs 45 lbs., but Mita is easily 80-85 lbs. The neighbor finally pulled Mita off Shorty, frantically apologized, and dragged her back into their yard. Shorty was pawing madly at our patio door in an attempt to get inside. I went with him, my legs trembling, and Shorty immediately sat down and greeted me with a wagging tail.

“Let’s see if you’re OK buddy, all right?” I said, as I assessed his saliva-dampened coat and dirty paws. I briefly looked him over and didn’t see any obvious, serious wounds, although there were some pale streaks of blood along his back. But Shorty already wanted to go back outside. The dog who shivers uncontrollably every time we bring out the pots and pans to cook on the stove apparently had already forgotten about the incident. Since he hadn’t peed yet, I made sure our gate was shut and that Mita was gone before opening the patio door.

Shorty immediately ran to the spot where they had wrestled, peed heartily on it and jogged his way around the yard like normal. Meanwhile, I was trying to calm myself down. I heard someone calling out to me and realized that the neighbor was knocking on our front door. I called her over to our gate, while Shorty barked his head off. For once, I didn’t stop him. She apologized profusely, over and over, saying that they would pay for any vet visit. She also assured me (before I could even ask) that Mita was up to date on her shots. I told her Shorty was too, and I’d examine him more closely when I took him inside, but that he seemed all right. She told me Mita had some blood in her mouth, but that it seemed to be hers, and wanted me to make sure Shorty was all right. She apologized again and reiterated that we could send them any vet bill. She obviously felt terrible.

I don’t know much about how they keep Mita in their yard, because while it’s fenced in on three sides, one side is open (although that is not the side Mita came from). I thought they kept her tied to a stake unless they were outside with her, but the neighbor (who normally works early in the morning so Mita isn’t outside when I take Shorty out) said she was about to do some training with her (Ed. Note: she’ll need a TON more of that) when she escaped under the crappy gate (which can’t shut properly due to uneven terrain that needs to be shoveled out to be level).

I took Shorty back inside and cleaned him off gently with some dog wipes. His magic, self-cleaning fur had already made the saliva marks disappear, but it took two wipes just to get the dust and dirt off his legs. There were multiple long scratches and scrapes under his belly near his back legs, and a bloody mark on one of his legs, but using the wipe (which would’ve stung) got no reaction from him. Any blood there was had already dried. The blood on his back must’ve been from Mita, because after digging through his fur to check his skin, there was nothing. No puncture wounds, no bite marks. Just scrapes. I checked his mouth and teeth, his chest and even in his neck folds for any hidden injuries and didn’t see anything. I called Jason and told him what happened, and said I thought Shorty didn’t need to see the vet.

Jason will be home early this afternoon, but I might run home during lunch just to check on Shorty. I don’t know what to say to the neighbors the next time I see them. I know they’ve been working and working with Mita and trying to train her, and I know they keep her restrained most of the time. I’m hoping this was just an isolated incident. I don’t want to overreact or jump to conclusions, but I also want to know I’m safe walking my own leashed dog on my own property.

Because Mita?

Is a pitbull.