humor

The Great Cul De Sac Battle of 2020

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This time it’s personal.

Sting me once, shame on you.

Sting me twenty-five times, and I’m getting the biggest can of Raid I can find…

This time of year, I mow the lawn about once a week.  The hour or so I spend out there is both enervating and relaxing.  I work up an honest sweat, get some terrific exercise, and see immediate results of my labor.

Honestly, it’s treasured me-time.

About six weeks ago I was happily, innocently cutting the grass.  I was in our side yard, serenely pushing Hondo, our self-propelled, self-mulching mower.  Suddenly, I felt a burning sensation on my leg, similar to the feeling of being burned by a cigarette. 

I beg to differ, they left plenty of stingers.

Then before I knew it another, and another.  Then I saw wasps before being stung twice more.

I jumped around like a lunatic for a minute, swiping at already departed beasts and ran inside the house.  Petey helped me make sure they were all gone, I took a couple of pain relievers, and went back out and finished the yard.

I assumed they had built a nest on the house, under a bit of siding and vowed to be careful when mowing in the vicinity or turning on the hose, which was located there.

A week later I was again in the area cutting the grass and taking great care to give the house in that space a wide berth.  I mowed the strip abutting the flower bed with a wary eye toward the wall.

All of a sudden my world exploded.  The wasps were everywhere.  They bit exposed flesh and then dove under my clothing and began stinging.  Then they crawled under my ankle socks and into my sneakers to bite my feet.

My dancing from the week before looked like the movement of a merry-go-round horse compared to the rabid racehorse gyrations I was doing in my yard.  My language was so colorful there were colors unseen on the human spectrum (which was especially embarrassing because my neighbor,  a minister, was sitting on her front porch with visitors).

I ran inside again, and again Petey helped me both remove wasps and the many stingers their compatriots had left behind. 

In all, we counted twenty-five stings; my right elbow being the recipient of five separate and distinct attacks.  I took a couple of pain relievers along with a couple benadryl tablets to fight the vemon that was now coursing through my veins.

Then.

I.went.out.and.finished.mowing.  Looking back, it was the most badass moment of my life. 

And, I’d always thought I was a big baby.

RBG: The reigning queen of badass, now and forever.

I discovered later that the wasps were not in a nest on the house, but yellow jackets that live underground.  Hondo and I had both run over their front door.

Later that night I hurt everywhere and was red, hot, and puffy.  The next day the pain was gone and I was itchy.  The following day my lips began to tingle.  Then they began to swell.

Yup, that’s me…

Well, the top lip swelled.  I looked like a Simpson character sporting one of their extreme overbites.  The doctor gave me steroids to speed the poison out of my system and I spent the next week in a benadryl-induced fog.

I now have an Epi-pen in case of another attack and a resulting dangerous reaction.

If this was a comic book I’d end up with a tiny waist, a cute, sexy yellow and black costume, the power of flight and a lethal sting.    

But I get a fat lip and probable fatal allergy to future wasp stings.

Ah, 2020, thou art the harshest of harsh mistresses.

Thanks for your time.

Contact me at d@bullcity.mom.

The State of the Union

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When I started writing newspaper columns, I was the greenest of greenhorns.

I wrote for the newspaper and yearbook of every school I attended.  I was even the editor of my college yearbook for about five minutes.  But I’d never written this type of essay for a publication before.  I had no idea what was expected of me and needed to know the rules.

As it turns out, there’s only one rule.

Be honest.

That’s it.  When I write, I tell the truth. 

Well, Gentle Reader, prepare yourself for the toughest, most honest 600 words I’ve ever written.

In one more depressing example of what a profoundly sucky year this has been, I’d come to the conclusion that my marriage would end before this most annus horribilis of 2020 did.

It was all over but the legalities.

We were both stuck in our own separate quagmires of anguish.

Petey had shut down.  A man who’s made taciturnity and stoicism into an art form raised the bar to mute, celestial heights.

My misery took the form of overspending on ridiculously unnecessary trivialities.  I also binged on the darkest of music with optimistically titled songs like, “The Gallows”, “Cradle On Fire”, and “Blood For You” and feel good lyrics such as, “They will come and find you, bringing out the dead” and “Nothing lasts forever in a God-forsaken town.”

Awesome music, perfect for wallowing.

I didn’t have anything left in the tank to cushion myself from the assaults which this misbegotten year seems to deliver in a constant and unending fashion.  The daily litany of appalling new updates hit me like body blows from a disgruntled sumo wrestler.  I had a never-ending stomachache. 

In times of normal stress or deep concentration, I clench my jaw.  I was clenching so often and so fiercely I was giving myself earaches and migraines.  I’d begun wearing a mouthguard day and night.

I wanted to be alone.  I daydreamed of a hermit-like existence in a cabin deep in the woods where there was no plague, no sputtering economy, no disheartening political drama, and no spouses to hurt and disappoint.  My plan was to retreat and re-emerge, Rip Van Winkle-like, into a future where hate, fear, and the Kardashians had all disappeared.

But I wanted to be sure that we had given our marriage of almost four decades every possible chance before it was abandoned.  Petey agreed to accompany me to counseling. 

Which, for my reticent island of a husband, was a huge statement.

Our first visit was in early July. 

The first few weeks were hard but illuminating.  The therapist was surprisingly, sometimes uncomfortably, observant.  Early on it was clear he saw us and understood our dynamic as a couple.  Our homework that first week was for Petey to talk more, and me, shockingly, to talk less.

We needed someone to hold our feet to the fire and ask the hard questions; to force us to ask rather than assume.  He enabled us to reset and remember.

Turns out, we were both laboring under false impressions and wading through stagnant pools of hurt feelings and misunderstandings.

After more than thirty years of joy that came so easily, we had never learned how to navigate real, grinding hardship.  Our therapist gave us the tools we needed, and the confidence to anticipate happiness on the other side.

But I think the member of the Matthews Family Band who is the most relieved about our rapprochement is our dog, Crowley.  On our walks, he’d become the repository for my every grievance and affront.  I’m sure he’s euphoric to end his tenure as my furry, four-legged, father confessor.

Happy Crowley

Thanks for your time.

Contact debbie at d@bullcity.mom.

Harry and Bess

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Does everybody that has a dog have “dog friends”?

Human friends that you’ve met while out with your dog, not friends that are dogs, although I have those, as well.

Two of my dog friends, Stu and Miri had a tough week.

When the week started, they had a determined little cuss of a snowball pooch named Darby, a bunny called Daisy, and a new puppy.

By the time the week ended, they only had Darby.  Daisy had suddenly died, and the puppy had to be returned to the shelter.

Poor Miri was gutted and shed tears from both guilt and loss.  I felt terrible for her.

Because Petey and I, years ago, had had to do the same thing.

When we’d been married for a couple of years, we got an adorable, shy, Chow puppy.  We named him Harry.  And, although he remained skittish of strangers, he loved us fiercely and we loved him right back.

When I was pregnant with The Kid, we began talking about getting a canine companion for Harry since he would no longer be an only “child” and our sole focus. 

One day when The Kid was about four or five months out, we saw an ad in the paper.  A local family had a chow who’d had a surprise litter—half chow and half something else.  They needed good homes and we thought our pup would enjoy being a big brother and teaching a youngster the doggy ropes.

We visited and came home with a half chow, half maybe-German shepherd female pup.

We named her Bess (Get it? Harry and Bess?  As in Truman?)

There is an old wive’s tale that if you want to make a dog mean, you feed them gunpowder (Absolutely don’t do this, it’s cruel and could kill the dog).  I’d never heard it before we got Bess. 

But Petey mentioned it one day.  Because Bess was in constant, destructive, mischievous motion.

She knocked over houseplants and played in the dirt.  She chewed woodwork, furniture, and cabinets.  She put holes in any clothing she could reach.

But she saved her real evildoing for Harry and me.

She seemed to like Petey.  But she chased poor old Harry upstairs and down, from one room to the next.  The only peace he ever got was when Bess slept, but he kept eyes on her because she could be awake and attacking in a split second.  He was a little faster, but she bit at him whenever she could reach him.  After a while, his fluffy Chow Chow tail was a sad, hairless, pink stalk.

For me, she had two signature moves.  She’d come up close to me and look at me with her adorable puppy face.  I’d scratch her under her chin, and she’d lean in.  Then she’d jump up and bite me in the face.  Luckily I’d just end up scratched by her very sharp puppy teeth.  And, I never learned.  I’d fall for it every, single, time.

This isn’t me, and it’s makeup.

Her second move was much more dangerous.

When I walked up or downstairs, she would weave her body in and out between my feet. 

But, remember, I was pregnant.  We tried training her out of the behaviors, but she persisted.  We had no choice, for Harry’s sanity, my safety, and the health of our unborn child; we had to give her up.

As I told Miri, finding a dog is like falling in love.  When you’re ready, the right one will come along and become a member of your family.  But sometimes the wrong one will make a brief appearance and try to bite your face off.

Thanks for your time.

Contact me at d@bullcity.mom.

Things I’ve Learned in Quarantine

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It may feel frustrating, or worrisome, or even boring, but this is above all a profound time we’re living through.  And, when we (hopefully) come through this astonishing, bewildering idle, we will have no choice but to settle into a new life.  Because after 2020, things will never be the same again.

And even I am not dumb enough to predict what that new world will look like—my heart is set on better, but the smart money is on the lower, yet more precarious bar of transformed.

We may not be able to count on an improved world, but we can labor, during this time, to improve ourselves.  Below is a list of some of the things I’ve learned while in quarantine.

Turtle Leeches  An animal obsessed friend was playing with Crowley when he found a small turtle, the size of the palm of a hand.  When he was showing us, we noticed small back objects clinging to both shell and skin. 

At first, we all assumed it was poop.  But then the “poop” began to move.  Turns out, they were tiny leeches with cobra-shaped heads.  In all, my friend pulled off eight leeches.

Later, I went to the Google.

Turns out, in the wonder and majesty of nature, there are leeches can only suck the blood of turtles. 

It makes sense, because in my yard there’s a swarm of rabid mosquitos who will only suck the blood of me.

Self-Soothing There’s an online business called Steampunk Tendencies.  They post videos of the creation of the items that they then put up for sale.  There’s one clip of an artist painting gold filigree around the edge of a large conference table—freehand.

The first couple of times I watched, I marveled at the skill and ease of the painter.  Viewing it a few more times, I noticed how peaceful it made me feel.  After I’d been watching it on loop for a while, I was so chill, I was almost drooling.

Honest, it’s more calming than a valium washed down with a martini.  

Talenti Chocolate Sorbetto  I always kept a tub of Talenti chocolate sorbet in my chill chest.  It was creamy and delicious and only 150 calories per serving.  I only ate it by the spoonful, from the container, standing in front of the freezer.  But when I needed some chocolate before I opened my mouth and let spill the poison darts my brain was thinking it was my delicious go-to.

Sixteen months and nine days ago, they retired the flavor—and broke my heart.

But it’s back!  There’s a few more calories, but it’s still an amazing, frozen, chocolaty treat.  In my freezer right now?  A half-eaten pint and a brand new, full container for backup.

Phone Fun for Almost Everyone  If you own a phone, you probably haven’t noticed, but each day this madness goes on, it becomes tougher and tougher to give cell phones a hard pass.  Try ordering food for curbside pickup, or checking-in for an appointment, or buying a ticket for something without a smartphone.  

Training For Rapture I am convinced that when the lockdowns are over, and people go back to work on a daily basis, there will be two kinds of folks.

The kind that took this time to work out and train, transforming their bodies into tight, rippling sculpture.

And, the kind that exercised by hiking to the kitchen,  binged a ton of TV, and existed on the four basic food groups of fat, salt, sugar, and cheese. 

Hey, whatever it takes to make it through to the other side, right?

Thanks for your time.

Contact me at d@bullcity.mom.

Are You Gonna Read That?

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Although the vast majority of raising The Kid has been fun, rewarding, and taught me about the unending nature of a human’s ability to love, there is one area of deep disappointment.

The Kid doesn’t like Trixie Belden books.

My generation Trixie.

Trixie and her friends, the Bob-Whites, have adventures and solve mysteries in the Hudson Valley.  Growing up in a military family that moved every three years or so, these kids were constant friends.

I so looked forward to sharing them.  When The Kid was a toddler, I found the first sixteen at a used bookstore, bought them, and put them away until my child was ready.

Trixie, The Next Generation

I was so excited when it was time.

Yeah, huge bust.  The Kid didn’t like them. 

There are books we both love, but all those daydreams about passing Trixie books along and having breathless confabs discussing plot, characters, and settings went up in smoke.

The Kid’s very favorite book. Petey and I found an autographed one for a birthday one year that has become our child’s most prized possession.

But, recently, it’s happened.

It’s not those childhood faves, but a genre that’s captured us both.

They’re modern reinterpretations of the thriller.  They are the fast-paced combination of mystery, adventure, and psychological studies.  But the thing we love the most about them are the twists.

If the perpetrator is someone completely unexpected, or the entire story flips in the last chapter in an organic and believable way, we are all over that book like a pair of brand-new spandex yoga pants.

I discovered them and introduced them to my bookworm child.

Can we just change the subject?

They have been a godsend for The Kid, who is high risk and thus, self-quarantining.  You can only have so many deep conversations with the dog before the dog starts talking back.

During these preposterous, unprecedented times, it’s imperative to have new stuff rattling around your brainbox—preferably new stuff that excites you and which you can share and discuss with others.

The Passengers, by John Marrs, is the novel that started it all.

This ridiculous cover hides a terrific story.

It’s set in England, in the near future, when self-driving cars have become mandatory.  Your five-year-old child or your ninety-year-old blind grandmother can travel both in safety and solitude.

Until.

Until eight cars are hacked and held hostage, taken under the malevolent control of a mysterious mastermind, and every second of their terror is live-streamed to the world.  On almost every page is a revelation that will make your jaw drop.

The Kid finished it in one sitting, and we still talk about it.

So, I started making recommendations.

Another one we loved was, No Exit, by Taylor Adams.  It’s the story of a group of travelers snowed in overnight at a mountain rest stop.  But, one of them is a psychopath.  It’s a cat and mouse game where they have no idea who the cat is, what he’s done, or what he’s capable of.

The Night Before, by Wendy Walker, is a race against time as a fragile woman goes on an internet date, and doesn’t return.  Her sister works backward to find her, along the way discovering secrets about her husband and her own life.

Currently, it’s I’m very excited to be reading The Splendid and the Vile, not a thriller, but new nonfiction by the king of meticulously researched, eminently readable nonfiction; Erik Larson, author of Devil In The White City.

This one’s a year in the life of Winston Churchill and his inner circle beginning on the day he was named Prime Minister.  During this time, the Nazis conducted the blitz on London, raining down an astronomical 30,000 bombs, and killing 40,000 citizens.

Now, like then, we all need diversion.  So pick up a book and take a mental trip.

Might I recommend a girl named Trixie Belden?

Thanks for your time.

Contact debbie at d@bullcity.mom.

Auntie Bo

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Bo is one of my oldest friends and my closest girlfriend.

But when I met her, and for the first couple of years, she and all of her five-foot-nothing self scared the absolute bejesus out of me.

She was a tornado in a brown tank suit when we met at a swimming pool in Elizabeth City the summer before tenth grade.   

She cursed like a stevedore, smoked like a chimney, and hoo boy, her voice.  Instead of a fifteen-year-old Catholic schoolgirl from NC, she sounded like a jaded whiskey and nicotine-soaked chanteuse from the forties.  She should have been reclining on a piano in a bar in Harlem, belting out songs like “Stormy Weather” or “Good Morning Heartache”.

I tried to stay out of her way in school.  But after a while, I discovered there was a huge heart under all that profanity and prickliness.

The funny thing was, all the while I was thinking she’d happily lunch on my spleen after setting my house on fire, she thought I was a stuck-up stiff (I think the phrase “Miss Priss” may have been used).

Eventually, we became real friends.

We were in art class together.  Ma Romm was our teacher, and I don’t think that there was ever a better art class.  Each student went their own way, with plenty of room for collaboration, and lots of freedom to create the things we were compelled to bring forth.

She always treated us like, if not adults, at least like college students.  She trusted we were able to navigate the world and didn’t chain us to our easels.

One teacher-workday, we went out to school to work on a project we had going.  Ma Romm asked us if we could take a quick trip to Greenville to either pick up or drop off something to their art department (hey, it was 38 years ago, I can’t even tell you what color underwear I’m wearing right now without peeking).

Well of course, we said of course.  At the time, ECU had been ranked the #1 party school in the nation, and there was a bar/restaurant called The Crow’s Nest near the campus that I loved; it was the first place I ever ate clam strips, and the drinking age for beer at the time was 18.  So…yeah.

We were psyched. 

Remember, this was before GPS, during the era of paper maps that required an engineering degree just to re-fold.

It’s a lazy trip that should take no more than two hours along the rivers and sounds of Eastern NC. 

Our road trip got turned around a couple times, but we made it in about two and a half hours.  We did Ma Romm’s errand, feasted on seafood and Miller ponies at The Crow’s Nest, then headed home around 4:00 PM. 

We drove.

And drove.

And drove some more.

I don’t know if it was the ponies, the paper map, or the folly of youth, but we got very lost.  At one point we drove through Wake Forest, about 75 miles in the wrong direction.

We finally pulled into the school parking lot around 10:00 at night.  A completely empty, darkened parking lot. 

The long day had made us punchy.  So punchy that upon arrival, the only thing we could do was sit in that car and laugh. 

We went to Ma Romm’s house, pulled her out of her own dinner party to tell her we were home.  I don’t think she ever believed our tale of a Marco Polo-like journey through the state.

And that’s the story of our first road trip.

But not the last one…

Thanks for your time.

Contact debbie at debbie@bullcity.mom.

Lawns of Consciousness

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I just finished mowing.  Literally, I am still soaked with a combination of sweat and cold hose-water.

I just love it.  Five years ago, my very first column was an ode to the joys of cutting the grass.  It is enforced aloneness with myself.  And am I the only one that has an almost constant commentary running through their head?

Maybe it’s because I’m a writer, but I think in complete sentences.  When I cook, I have a cooking show up there.  Put me in front of a camera and I’d forget how to make a PBJ.  But in my kitchen, all by myself, I am as funny and knowledgeable as Alton Brown, as experienced and charming as Julia Child, and as bewitching and effortlessly chic as Nigella Lawson.

When I mow, I have odd little daydreams, think “great” thoughts, and write columns in my head.

In a meta twist that M. Night. Shyamalan didn’t see coming, the very column you are reading right now was conceived today while I was walking behind my trusty Honda lawnmower.

For years, I’ve been mowing the same path, listening to the same music on the same MP3 player.  I’d know by where I was in the process when a certain song came on, whether I was slower than normal or rushing.

As most folks, I’m stuck at home in this weird limbo where I don’t know what day of the week it is, and so bored that I spend way too much time deciding on my outfit to run to the drive-thru at CVS.

But I still have some power; to mix things up, take a hard left, make it dangerous.

Your intrepid author, in all my 1980’s glory.

Today I not only changed the route I mowed, I changed the music.  Instead of the same club mix of swing music, I listened to a big, eclectic collection of 80s music.  Tunes from bands like Tears for Fears, Prince, and Squeeze.

Most people understand a second language much better than they speak it.  I speak Spanish pretty well, I’d say I’m 35-40% fluent.

My comprehension, though, is really lacking.  I tell people to think of me as a dim-witted child; please use very simple words and speak slowly.

It’s probably related brain-wise that I’m also really bad at understanding the words in music.  I am the girl that sings, “Oh is it the tan you wear?” instead of what U2 actually sings, “Or is it the time of year?”.

But occasionally after hearing a song more than 10,000 or so times, I begin to understand the words.  Not long ago I realized Rick James was talking about a groupie and S-E-X!

I’d like to know, what is up with ants this year?  If you had an apartment downtown the square footage of these anthills, there’d be a waitlist and a boat-load of amenities.

I try to remember to spray beforehand.  But when it’s dusty when I mow, it’s like I’m inhaling an ant graveyard.

And I can’t help but think about a Night Gallery episode where this jerky writer washed a spider down the sink and it came back the size of a pony.  I’m kind of nervous that I’ll wake up one night and a six-foot-tall ant will be standing over me holding a cast iron frying pan in one hand and a jelly doughnut in the other.

Usually, when I come in after mowing, I drink an icy cold bottle of Fanta root beer.  It’s such a treat, so cold, spicy, and aromatic it almost takes my breath away.

But today’s water.  I’m making potato salad for dinner.  So those root beer calories are already spent.

Thanks for your time.

Contact me at d@bullcity.mom.

Summering With The Kid

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You know who I admire?

I admire people who say, “I don’t care what other people think of me.”

And mean it.

I’m afraid I’m not so strong.  I hate hate hate it when people are mad at me.  And I also hate it when people I live with are mad at each other.

The recent return of the hellish heat and humidity that is our summer here in the heart of Carolina has me both hiding in dark, air-conditioned rooms, and reminiscing about previous Matthews Family Band summers.

When The Kid was a toddler, Durham had those summer evening events with music, food, and activities for the kids.  It was free, sounded like fun, so one night we decided to go.

We were having a terrific time, The little Kid was dancing and making friends.

And then, it happened.

The Duke blue devil made an appearance.  We pointed him out to our toddler, who loved to see him on TV.

We hadn’t taken into account that on TV, the mascot was seven or eight inches.  In person, he was around six feet tall. 

Panic is an extreme understatement.  The poor child didn’t know whether to scream, cry, throw up, or run.  So all four were attempted at the same time. 

The Kid ran to us, screaming, “We got to go!  We got to go NOW!”

So we left.

But for the next few years, whenever we told The Kid we were going somewhere, the poor thing would get a worried look and ask, “The Blue Devil guy’s not gonna be there, is he?”

Another year, The Kid got to see Mommy in a frenzy of terror.

It was one of those days when I had one last nerve, and my only child was doing an interpretive dance right on it. 

I asked The Kid to go outside and weed the little flower bed around the mailbox.  I figured there wouldn’t be much actual weeding done, but I also figured the break meant I wouldn’t be drunk before dinner.

Within forty-five seconds The Kid was back. 

“I can’t weed.  It’s full of snakes!”

I tried to explain that it was probably a few worms, but my child would not be dissuaded.  I finally went out to the mailbox to prove I was right.

Except, I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Some horrible, mean, sneaky, dastardly snake had laid eggs in the bed, and seventeen million of them had recently hatched. 

I was almost catatonic with terror.  The Kid took my arm and gently led me back into the house.

That night, I was drunk before dinner.

At the beginning of this essay, I spoke about my discomfort with ire.

One summer, Petey and The Kid were barely speaking.  Petey insisted our child needed a bicycle for Christmas.  The gift was a bust.

So, in late June, our little would-be cyclist still didn’t know how to ride, and showed no interest.  Husband and child had butted heads about it for six months.  I decided to end the stalemate and teach The Kid.

So one day, when it was about 732° outside, I took child and bike down to an empty parking lot to get it done.  I figured twenty minutes, tops.

Three hours later I was praying for the sweet release of death.  I gave up and that night, I announced I was out.  I was formally withdrawing from the great bicycle debate.  Done.

The Kid never learned to ride, and I honestly have no memory of what happened to that cursed vehicle.

So, here’s hoping that your own summer is not terrifying, sweaty, or frustrating.

Thanks for your time.

Contact debbie at d@bullcity.mom.

The Four-legged Good Will Ambassador

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I let my dog pick my new friends.

Well, maybe “pick” is a little inaccurate. 

There’s nothing quite so petulant as a 120-pound adolescent dog.

If you think a toddler demanding your attention while you’re on the phone is annoying and distracting, try an Akita who thinks he’s keeping you from danger and is also bored and wants to look for Mr. Crane (an actual crane that lives near us) and chase Danger Squirell (a neighborhood squirrel that seems to think he’s immortal and loves to play chicken with my pooch, Crowley).

I’ve had dogs my whole life, but my relationship with this dog who could pass for a bear cub is as unique for me as a shy used car salesman. 

When puppies are about four weeks old, they form a bond with their mother and litter-mates.  This is where a dog figures out he’s a dog, learns dog behavior, and is taught not to date outside their species.

If you’ve ever seen a youtube video and they say the dog thinks he’s a goat, or a lizard, or a carrot, it’s a real possibility.  That puppy may have been separated from his mother too early, and instead of learning he’s a dog, bonds with an armadillo.

Then between seven and sixteen weeks, a puppy can imprint on a human.  This person becomes their bringer of adventure, fun, and food.  They’re the first one they look to when they’re scared or hurt. 

They can’t stand to be away from this person because they miss them, and when they’re not close, the pooch cannot protect them.  They must keep their human safe at all costs, for they are the wellspring from which all good things flow.

I think Crowley imprinted on me the night we brought him home.  I carried him to the car and he sat on my lap on the ride home.  As he snuggled into me he became familiar with my scent and sound.

The puppy Crowley.

What really sealed the deal though, was when we were about halfway home, he peed on me.

One of the most important things you can do for a puppy is to socialize them with both humans and dogs.  And with a pupper roughly the tonnage of a water buffalo, the only thing about him I want to be scary is size.

But of course, Mom proposes and dog disposes.

He is extremely protective of me.  If I were a teenager on a date and he was my dad, he’d be waiting for me on the porch with a shotgun.  He always positions himself between me and anything or anyone unfamiliar. 

Crowley is also a little skittish.  He may be my bodyguard, but if a school bus, dump truck, or a UPS truck approaches, I’m on my own.  He jumps behind me so that I am between him and the big scary thing.

Taken together, this makes him very choosy about his friends. 

His list may be short, but once you’re in, you’re in for life.  And the chosen are not just liked, they’re adored.  He knows where each buddy lives and walks right up to their front door and stands aside so I can ring their doorbell to see if they can come out and play.

Crowley.

With a couple, he usually becomes friends with the male first.  But it takes time and persistence until Crowley shares his heart.

Once the guy puts in the work to make friends, Crowley grandfathers the feminine half of the couple in.  Once you’re in the “Crowley loves me club”, you get a plus one.

It’s like my dog’s a country club, or destination wedding. 

Thanks for your time.

Contact debbie at d@bullcity.mom.