75 seconds of drama

Last night, on the eve of my 30th birthday, Byrd and I were driving home from a nice dinner with family. We were chatting about nothing in particular when a sudden white flare lit the dark road in front of us. Sparks and debris rained down from above, and cars on both sides of the road hit their brakes.

An electric transformer on a power pole had just exploded.

I think most people have seen this happen from time to time. I've seen it three or four times myself. You get a quick adrenaline rush as your brain tries to determine whether all this sudden light and noise constitutes a potential danger, and then it subsides as the sparks vanish and the ceramic pieces come to rest impotently on the ground.

So I said, "Hmm."

And Byrd said, "Hmm."

And we waited for the driver in front of us to proceed. Which he did almost immediately, having determined that the shower of ceramic pieces from the transformer had ceased, and no longer posed a threat to his vehicle's shiny finish.

Then it was just Byrd and me on the dark road, and as we reached the spot where the sparks had fallen, we both saw baby flames jump up from the dry grass on the side of the road.

In Texas in the summer, flames in grass are BAD. And these flames were in grass near an old wood fence surrounding someone's weedy, dry, overgrown backyard near their house at the edge of a neighborhood.

I said, "Crap." Byrd said, rather obviously, "Gotta put that out."

I had my seat belt off before Byrd even stopped the car. We both darted out to where the fire was rapidly building. Byrd took a smaller section of flames, while I tackled a larger section nearer the passenger side of the car.

I've never stamped out a fire before, but surprisingly, it came naturally to me. Who knew? I suppose it's instinctual.

Byrd finished stamping out his part and came over to me. "Stomp faster," he instructed as he brought his tennis shoe heedlessly down on the crackling fire.

"I'm wearing flip flops," I said pointedly. I could feel the heat on the top of my foot.

"Oh yeah," he said. He helped me finish off the rest of the flames with his size 13 shoes. From the birth of the flames, it took barely over a minute for us to put them out with our feet.

After a brief rest to make sure nothing was going to re-ignite, Byrd and I exchanged casual high-fives and headed home, our shoes smelling faintly of charred grass.

Fred the duck

I'm not sure I can do justice to Fred's story, but I'll give it a shot. Be warned, a few parts might be a tad risque for young uns.

Byrd and I used to work at a pet store that did not sell birds. That didn't stop people from dumping birds at the store, however. And one morning, Byrd found this little guy in a cardboard box at the front door when he opened the store:

Byrd called me up (I didn't work at the store anymore at that point), and I came and took the little duckling home, gave him the name Fred, and introduced him to his new extended family.

He took a liking to everyone right away, of course. Here he is meeting Felanie and one of the prairie dogs.

"Are you my mother?"

When he was little, we kept him inside. He hung out with the prairie dogs a lot. They groomed each other.

I let him splash around and practice swimming in an old, unused tub in the vacant bathroom. This was during the remodel, so yeah, it looks pretty gross and tacky. Perfect for duck baths.

Fred grew really big, really fast.

You can see his flight feathers growing in...

The prairie dogs were still pals with him, even though he was huge.

I looked up his breed at around this time and discovered he was a white Pekin duck. A totally ordinary type of duck that you can buy at any local feed store.

Finally, when his adult feathers had all grown in, Fred was ready to move outside. I got him a baby pool to swim in. (Again, this was during the remodel, so our yard was a wreck--sorry.)

Awww, so that was a cute little story about a duckling, right?

And then Fred grew up. And developed a bad habit of biting and humping every animal he could grab.

"I'm a love machine"

This included the feet and legs of all the humans in the household AND the feet, faces, stomachs, ears, and necks of our poor, bewildered pit bulls.

I'm sure this was actually a normal, typical behavior for a hand-reared adult male duck. But of course, up until this point, I'd only ever seen ducks at municipal duck ponds.

Fred quickly gained a reputation as a yard shark. He would stand casually near his intended victim, quacking quietly as he strategized, then suddenly swoop in for the kill.

Make no mistake, his bites hurt pretty badly, but he was so darn cute that it was hard to be mad. The dogs soon learned to run like hell when lovesick Fred made the scene.

I have literally an hour of compiled home video that looks a lot like this:

We were pretty clueless what to do about this. I thought Fred might be happier living with other ducks at the nearby duck pond. So I took him on a few visits to get him used to the ducks.

To this day, I think that some of the park visitors thought--when they saw me leave the pond with Fred--that I was stealing a duck.

But while Fred didn't really mind the visits to the pond, when we tried to leave him there for real, he flipped out.

"Breathe deep. They didn't abandon you, they're just... oh god, they did!!!"

"Where's the car... where's the car...?"

"Hell no, I won't go in the water. Take me home! NOW!"

We really did drive away and leave him there at the park, but when we turned around to check and confirm that he would be A-okay... he was marching determinedly through the parking lot, headed for the street. Looking for us.

I could just imagine him getting hit by a car while searching for us. We took him back home and decided to go with Plan B.

We got a female duck that he could shower his "affections" on.

This was back before the days of widespread high speed Internet and all the online search tools we take for granted nowadays. Even Petfinder was a pretty newfangled thing. So duck adoption didn't really occur to us; instead, we went to the local feed store and picked out an adult female Pekin duck from their cramped, dirty cages. I picked the most pathetic one.

Daphne was a shy, quiet duck. She could barely walk and didn't know how to swim, and she was filthy from being in close quarters with two dozen other ducks. A bunch of her tail and wing feathers were broken. When I set her down in the backyard for the first time, she didn't move. She didn't understand any of it.

None of this mattered to Fred. He fell in love with Daphne instantly. Our toes became old news, much to our relief.

And Fred turned out to be a sensitive fellow after all. He didn't shower attention on Daphne; he gave her the space and time she needed to adjust to this strange new world. After she had learned to waddle around, he put on amazing splashing displays for her in the baby pool while she watched from the ground.

Fred and I worked together to teach Daphne to swim. Each day, I held her afloat in the baby pool for a short while, letting her paddle her weak legs. Fred spent hours and hours floating and splashing, demonstrating the joys of the water, as if to encourage her. Finally, one day she walked up the wooden plank herself and eased into the water. Fred honked and splashed so loudly I ran outside prepared to chase off a predator, but after seeing Daphne in the water by herself, I cheered along with Fred.

One day we had a huge rainstorm that flooded our entire yard. This was a real treat for the ducks! They had their own private lake for two days.

Having gotten over his desire to bite and hump everyone all the time, Fred learned to play fetch with dogs. He couldn't bring the ball back, but he ran with the group and fought for--and usually won--the ball. Then he would push it all over the yard in a victory celebration.

I sincerely regret not getting that on camera.

Daphne never got over her shyness, but she didn't like to go far from Fred. So she hung around while Fred and the dogs played fetch.

Fred was pretty famous among the neighbors. Whenever they had visitors over, you can bet they would take the visitors out to peer through the chain link fence and see what Fred was up to.

Even though we loved the ducks, we still felt they would be happier living somewhere with a big pond to swim in. The baby pool just didn't seem sufficient. So we kept our ears open for a good home.

One day Byrd met a nice older couple who had just bought a big piece of land with a pond, and wanted some ducks to swim around in the pond. So Fred and Daphne went to live with these people.

This all happened about nine years ago, and I'm sure Fred is gone from this world by now. But that crazy duck won't ever be forgotten.

And your total comes to...

Way too much. That's how much money I've spent on pets in the last 30 days.

Between Star's classes, Peepers's pox, and Dozer's allergies and TPLO surgery (1/2 down, and 1/2 next week), I've probably spent $2K. This doesn't count the dogs' new collars (bought before I knew two pets would need major vet visits) and all the dog treats for class.

The remodeling job costs money, of course, even if Byrd is doing it himself. And since the walls aren't yet insulated and sheetrocked, a good chunk of the air pouring from our brand new (expensive) A/C is cooling the bugs and birds outside. So the electric bill is higher than normal, but at least we're animal friendly!

I'd give credit to the veggie garden for reducing our grocery bills, except that it's only producing squash right now. And Byrd hates squash. And our water bill has gone up. (Welcome to Texas summertime, where searing afternoon heat ensures vegetable garden demise without adequate water.) At least the ornamental plants in the front garden are drought-hardy and native.

Let's not bring up the 30th birthdays of myself and my best bud, less than a week away, for which we had hoped to go to Schlitterbahn (are you too old for Schlitterbahn at age 30? Byrd says yes, I say never) and/or have a nice dinner at a fancy food place. And Father's Day, also a nice dinner event.

To make matters worse, I am without a contract job this month, so Byrd is the only income source. This will change on July 15, when my next job starts.

And the money earned from that job will be eliminated by a two-week vacation to Oregon in August.

I suppose this steady money-suck could explain why Byrd looks a bit tense lately.

At least blogging is free.

Canine Good Citizen

Star got her Canine Good Citizen title yesterday.

It was a total shocker. I felt we were still unprepared.

Items I thought she would fail: neutral dog approach (convinced she would not resist the dog), major distraction (sure she would bark), loose leash walk (new places mean sniff-and-drag), neutral stranger approach (would not stay seated).

Then I heard about the upcoming test and I thought, hell, why not give it a shot? We can always take it again later if we need to. And I'll find out what test items are her weaknesses.

Still, day of the test, I took extra steps to make sure she performed her best.

We went to the dog park early that morning, and she ran rampant with a crowd of dogs for almost an hour. I sincerely hoped this would reduce her enthusiasm for a neutral dog approaching during the test.

We got to the test site an hour early. I wanted her to be familiar and bored with this new place by the time the test started, to prevent sniff-and-drag and to minimize her distraction.

During this hour, we practiced sit, down, walk, stay, and come relentlessly.

We also strolled casually by the little Dachshund being used for the neutral dog test--twice. Star was interested, but she kept walking. I was pleasantly surprised.

Unfortunately, we over-practiced, and as the sun climbed, Star got too hot. The really stupid move was when Byrd took her on a short jog. That was her limit. With only twenty minutes until the test, she stopped obeying commands and just stood there, panting. All the water and treats in the world couldn't get her back on track. Screwed.

We put Star back in the car and ran the A/C full blast. Finally, she cooled down enough and started responding to treats again. Whew!

The test went smoothly.

During the neutral dog approach, Star craned her neck to peer at the little Dachshund walking past--but she didn't cross in front or pull on the leash.

I had a near heart attack when it came time for "sit." Star was still too hot, and I had no treats (can't use treats during the test) to lure, and it looked like she simply was not going to sit down. After almost a dozen "sit" commands, I breathed a sigh of relief as I saw her butt hit the dirt. She collapsed straight into a "down" without any argument.

I was blown away when I returned from the last test--the supervised separation--to the evaluator's extended hand, and the words "Congratulations. Your dog is a Canine Good Citizen."

The Prairie Dogs

Now, before I say anything about the prairie dogs, I want to emphasize that prairie dogs are wild animals and really do belong in the wild, in a prairie dog town, doing happy prairie dog things.

This is a realization that I had after having my own "pet" prairie dogs. But when I got my first prairie dog, I was just starting college, working at an exotic pet store at the time, and had yet to really grasp the differences between domesticated animals and wild animals (and working at the pet store didn't help at all).


So, for many years, I had prairie dogs: Penny, Humphrey, and Prince. I even spent the money to get them all neutered (Humphrey showing off his shaved belly and his stitches, below).


We were remodeling the house at the time, so I turned one of the hallways into a prairie dog park of sorts.


Prairie dogs mostly eat, sleep, make a lot of noise, and CHEW. Penny really did destroy my homework one time. It was a Japanese class worksheet. My professor (who was Japanese) was very confused when I apologized for the half-eaten assignment by saying "The prairie dog ate it."
Even though the prairie dogs were basically oversized rodents, they loved attention from the dogs, and vice versa. My dog Fel (on the left) and our roommate's dog Taz (on the right) liked to clean them up as if they were little puppies.

All clean...

Little clawed foot in the eye -- ouchie.

Please don't chew on my tail!

I don't recommend prairie dogs as pets, even though I have fond memories of them. They are wild animals, and therefore about as messy, disobedient, and obnoxious as any wild rodent might be when stuck in a house. People who buy prairie dogs as pets usually end up getting rid of them fairly quickly when they find out how much work these little guys require (and how much mess they make!).

B.J. the baby blue jay

I saved B.J. the baby blue jay from a prowling cat in a neighbor's yard.

After chasing the cat off and collecting the baby bird, I scanned for the nest to see if I could put him back. But the trees in that area were way too tall, and there weren't any bushes nearby.

I decided to take him home because it looked like he only needed a couple more days of flight practice before he'd be able to fend for himself. He already had all his flight feathers; he was just really awkward.

He started out cute enough. But baby birds need to be fed pretty frequently... and baby blue jays SCREAM for food!

Scream scream scream!!

Scream some more!!!!

Your finger looks like a big worm! Scream!!!

When we dropped him in an aquarium full of crickets, his mouth became too full to scream. This was a twice-daily ritual while he was still ground-bound. (He also got mealworms.)

In three days, B.J. had learned to fly and was cruising all over our yard. I stopped feeding him; it was time for him to grow up.

But B.J. was accustomed to being waited on, so he still hung around our house SCREAMING for crickets and mealworms.

When you walked out the back door, there was B.J., sitting on the grill. He'd start screaming as soon as you appeared, and wouldn't let up until you went back inside.

He screamed in your ear while riding on your shoulder.

He screamed at you from the lawn mower handle WHILE you were mowing the lawn.

He even screamed at the dogs while clinging to their backs.

Finally, about a week later, I guess he got the hint: no more handouts! We saw him less and less, and one day he just disappeared altogether.

I hope he found a nice mate and had some lovely children.

My new project: photos

I have a month off between now and my next job, so I've decided to spend some time scanning in old photos. Then I'll share the stories and photos here. You're in for a treat.

No, no, don't run away! It won't be boring. Assuming the following topics intrigue you:

Rescued annoying blue jay
Rescued humping duck
Prairie dogs
Heartwarming tale of my dog rescuing a cat
Mentally impaired lizard
Me attacking Byrd with a rake
Monkeys in Japan

Sounds like good times, huh?

Everyone's sick/injured except me

Dozer has torn his ACL and will need surgery.

Peepers has come down with fowl pox.

My sis is mysteriously ill (probably not swine flu).

Byrd's back is killing him.

His bro has Bell's palsy.

And yet I'm the one with the reputation for falling ill at a moment's notice?

Forgiveness

Because I'm small and rather wimpy and I have no sense of space or rhythm, I'm also a klutz. My appendages surrender right-of-way to larger, heavier objects, usually netting me a bruise in the process. My husband bought me a baby-sized hammer and screwdrivers so I could help him remodel; the regular-sized tools are just too hard for me to handle. And I am a walking disaster when holding a leaf rake.

Speaking of leaf rakes, one time I smashed one into Star's face by accident. How was I supposed to know she was going to investigate what I was doing in the shed (trying to extricate the rake from a pile of tools)? The rake popped out suddenly and I was unable to direct its momentum.

But Star took the blow without complaint. No yelp, no bark--she just skipped aside, head tilted as if apologizing for being in the way.

One time I hit Dozer in the nose with a shovel. Again, an accident caused by his ball and my hole being in the same place at the same time.

Dozer took two steps back, shook his head, licked his nose. Then he picked up the ball and dropped it in my hole again, his eyes wide and expectant. Ah ha! You hit me; now you owe me a toss.

I jabbed Star in the eye with my finger.
I tripped over Dozer in the black of the night, waking him from a dead sleep and crushing him.
I rolled my desk chair over Star's ears.
I swatted Dozer on the butt while trying to kill a fly.
I trod over Star's dainty paws as she napped.
I dropped a rake on Dozer's shoulders.
I dropped a huge tree branch on Star's head.

Not to mention the countless nail trimmings that ended badly (hand-eye coordination? not me), the miserable baths, the annoying ear cleanings, the embarrassing vet visits...

I would imagine the dogs to be terrified of my every move by now. I think I would be.

Yet even now Dozer sleeps two inches behind my desk chair. A careless roll backwards--say, if I stood up without looking--would get his tail and possibly a good part of his foot caught up in the wheels. History repeats itself; does he remember the past? Does he care?

Star still runs up to investigate when I'm digging around in the shed. She's never gotten anything good (treats, toys, a new friend) from that shed--only rakes in the face and shovels falling chaotically on top of her. This doesn't seem to deter her in the least. There's eternal, innocent hope in her face as she dashes over to me.

The wild, uncontrollable lashing of the unwinding garden hose sends her into paroxysms of joyous zoomies.

No matter what awful things I do, the dogs never reject me.

Behold the power of forgiveness.

Too much food ahead

My first year of gardening has been a total blast, with an unexpected side effect.

The vegetable garden threatens to overproduce.

The few herbs I've had time to plant are already going bonkers. I have way too much rosemary, thyme, and dill. The basil, which I accidentally beheaded when moving a soaker hose, has rebounded and is making up for lost time with a fury.

And our squash plants, though not ready to harvest, give me a glimpse into a very squashy future. Which is all fine and good if you like squash--and I do--but Byrd despises it. There's no way I'm going to be able to eat all that squash myself.

Further, we've got a cantaloupe vine getting started, and I just planted corn. The following seeds are going into the ground in the next few days: green beans, watermelon, pumpkin, and carrots.

If any of this stuff does as well as the squash, I'm looking at an awful lot of food about two months from now.

And this is on top of the four eggs a day that the chickens provide.

I wonder, can man (or woman) live off of eggs and vegetables alone? It would make for a cheap grocery bill.

But more to the point, what should I do with the extra food?

Collars for the dogs

Star has been living in foster dog hand-me-downs since we got her.

Her classes require a flat buckle collar. The only flat buckle collar I own is so big that I had to use a razor blade to cut a slit in it three inches back from the smallest hole so that I could fasten it through the slit. The entire contraption clearly doesn't fit, and what's worse, it's blood red.

Anyway, I think every dog deserves his or her own collar once they are adopted into a family. So I went looking for a fancy collar for Star.

One thing I am very aware of is how a collar can totally change how people perceive a dog. When we were trying to rehome a big black-and-white pit bull foster named Elvis, people were more willing to pet him when he was wearing a tuxedo collar and bowtie. Felanie became a much cuter dog when I got her a pink leather collar with big silver heart studs. Dozer looks like a "good guy" in his black collar with silver sheriff stars.

And poor Star looks like a neglected stray dog in her oversized, mangled bright red collar.

A quality collar conveys all kinds of meanings, in particular, "This dog means enough to someone that they spent a good bit of a paycheck just to make the dog look nice." That doesn't mean that dogs wearing hand-me-downs aren't just as beloved (we love Star a lot), but I'm talking about first impressions. If I encountered a stray dog wearing a personalized leather collar with rhinestone-encrusted studs, I would assume someone was missing that dog pretty badly.

Some collars, like spiked collars, have varying effects based on what type of dog is wearing it. I discourage people from putting spiked collars on pit bulls and other stereotyped "scary" breeds because in this case the collar is only adding to the fearsomeness. Putting a spiked collar on a Chihuahua or some small dog is likely to garner amusement because of the perceived irony (again, based on stereotype; most people assume the Chihuahua isn't a very fearsome dog--thus, putting a fearsome collar on it is an ironic statement and therefore funny).

At any rate, I went online searching for a quality leather collar with a pretty design. I am drawn strongly to shiny things and badly wanted a rhinestone-coated collar for Star so she would look like a princess... but unfortunately, at the size I need (for a 17" neck) most such collars are thin fabric, designed for the fragile necks of sighthounds. That won't do. Something like that won't stand up to the rough business of dog play and training.

One alternative is a leather collar with embossed designs, or with metal conchos/studs. I chose the latter because metal is still shiny, and there are a wide variety of pretty conchos to choose from.

Having run a website for many years now, I have gotten quite a few suggestions from site visitors as to where to buy a pit bull-appropriate collar. My favorite by far is Paco Collars. There are several reasons for this.

1. The founder owned a pit bull and the company does some nonprofit work for pit bulls.
2. Everything is handmade.
3. The leather comes from a single source and is from beef cows, not leather cows, so unlike many leather products, cows aren't being killed just because my dog needs a collar. They're getting eaten too.
4. The designs are really pretty. Or handsome.
5. The lifetime warranty is a big plus. Dozer's cheap sheriff collar (bought at a mall store) is coming apart after only four years. And Dozer is not a rough-and-tumble dog.
6. When my dog dies, they will remake his/her Paco collar into a bracelet. (Quiet sob.)

Are the collars expensive? Yes. Are they worth it? TOTALLY.

I bought the Alabama because it has wings. Wings, I tell you!! Originally, I planned to give it to Star (because it has stars, too).

But once it came in and I tried it on her, I realized it wasn't going to work. It was too wide (1.5"). You know those "thug" dogs that wear super-wide collars and you wonder how they can even turn their head from side to side because the collar covers their entire neck? Well, this is how the Alabama was on Star. She looked way too thuggish. Not scary, because who's scared of stars with wings? But the width sort of said, "Look at my badass dog that requires a super-wide collar because its neck muscles could snap a regular collar in half." Not the message I wanted to send.

So I gave it to Dozer. He's 85 lbs and has a longer neck, so the collar fit much better proportionally. It doesn't look too wide at all. He looks quite classy, really.

Having figured out where I went wrong, I subsequently ordered the Milan Heart collar for Star. It is a smaller collar (1" wide) and should work better on her short neck and 50 lb body.

Yes, that extra 0.5" of width really does make a big difference!

Class overkill

Star just graduated from her second obedience class. Not formal obedience, mind you--just the basics.

I made sure she started the second one immediately after finishing the first.

And now that this second one is over, I've already gotten her signed up for a new class starting in less than two weeks, which is a prep class for Pet Therapy (you know, dogs in nursing homes and schools and so forth).

She's also enrolled in an Agility Intro class that starts in June (exact starting date TBD).

There'll probably be some overlap of the Pet Therapy and Agility Intro classes. So I'm looking at two classes per week.

Is that excessive?

If she does well in either class, we'll pursue further education along those lines.

In all honesty, if someone in the area offered tracking classes at a reasonable rate, I would sign her up for those, too. Star loves to smell things. Everything. Constantly. Whether that's important for tracking or not, I don't know, but I'd be curious to find out. Unfortunately, the only tracking classes offered in the area are waaaay above what I'm willing to pay ($325 for 6 private lessons?!? I think not). So, that's off the table for now.

A confession

I've said it before and I'll say it again: I never wanted a pit bull.

At least, not at first. Heck, I never wanted a dog. This all changed when Felanie was somewhat forced on me by circumstances. After she opened new avenues for me, broke down the walls in my mind and heart, and basically changed my entire life for the better, we got Dozer.

We got Dozer because he was a pit bull (even though, it turns out, he wasn't really) and I hoped to have the same experiences with him that I did with Fel. It is certainly the case that Dozer taught me even more about patience, understanding, and individuality, even if he didn't offer any new insights--he just reinforced the things Fel had already shown me.

But that wasn't the confession.

This is: For years, off and on, I've actually looked forward to the day when I would be pit bull-less again. I've repeatedly thought, "When my pit bulls die, I will replace them with something other than pit bulls." I have often wished secretly that my dogs were not pit bulls.

When I get tired of the struggles of pit bull ownership--the stigma, the stereotypes, the nasty comments from total strangers, the innocent-yet-hurtful comments from friends and family, the constant fight against legalized discrimination (BSL), the nonstop educational efforts (when you're a responsible pit bull owner, you know that every public excursion is an educational effort)--sometimes I just wish I had "easier" dogs. Dogs that people would look at and smile at and just accept, like a Lab or a Collie. Dogs that wouldn't make people think I'm a drug dealer, a thug, trailer trash, a mortgage-defaulting liar (no joke), or a gang member.

So when Fel got cancer a little over a year ago, I thought, "When I'm ready for a new dog, it won't be a pit bull. I'll get something else. A dog I don't have to fight for all the time. A dog that I don't have to justify owning. Something easy."

Then Fel died. Nine months later, I finally started looking for a new dog.

I wasn't looking for a pit bull. Not at first, anyway.

Yet, after I had carefully thought about and listed my criteria for my next dog and I knew what I was looking for in my next companion, I found myself drawn to the pit bulls at the shelter. While other people were cooing at the yappy Dachshund puppies or the jumping Jack Russell Terrier or the big goofy Lab, I was baby-talking to the butt-wiggling, grunting, grinning pit bulls.

My attempts to choose a dog other than a pit bull became increasingly feeble. This pit bull had a sweet smile, that pit bull was a good candidate for agility, and that one over there had obviously had a rough time and just wanted a quiet home of its own.

To be fair, I perused all the other types of dogs at the shelter. I did not want another pit bull! But that Dalmatian mix was deaf, the Lab mix shedded like crazy, that terrier was waaaay too hyper, and that really cute whatever-it-was pulled so hard on the leash, I couldn't walk it.

And so we got Star. A "pit bull." (I guess.) Even though I really didn't want another one.

Why? Maybe it's because, subconsciously, I know that the pleasures and positives of pit bull ownership ultimately outweigh the hardships. Or perhaps it's because I don't want to betray Felanie's memory by taking the easy way out, by giving up the fight even when I no longer have a stake in the outcome, by letting the bigots and the haters win. Or maybe it was selfish; Star looks a bit like Felanie, after all. Or maybe I just enjoy the stress and pain of discrimination. I don't know.

But it's clear I'm going to own pit bulls from now on. Even when I don't really want to.

I survived last week... but...

Okay, I'm still alive and my nerves are (mostly) intact. The last week was... um... what is the word I'm looking for? "Insane" doesn't seem strong enough.

Unfortunately, it didn't end with last week.

This week heralds the dawn of a new age in our house. It is the age... of STAGE 3!

We have been remodeling our house since the moment we moved in (nine years ago). The house was nearly unlivable when we acquired it. It had no A/C or heat, the strangest floorplan imaginable, two additions that didn't quite attach to the original house (we discovered old asbestos siding buried within two walls), and a mosaic of flooring that appeared to have been chosen based on what was on sale at the hardware store--pink, white, and aqua tile, black linoleum, pink and tan carpet.

Stage 1 involved demolishing and rebuilding the original house while we lived in the two additions. This took years. We ate and breathed sheetrock for longer than is probably healthy.

Stage 2, which we started last summer and are just now winding up, was the exterior remodel. This included the front yard (sprinkler system, gardens, landscape), siding, fence repair, and so forth.

Now we are at Stage 3: demolishing the crappiest addition (pier and beam with known rotten walls and floors) and entirely redoing it. The good thing about this project is that the addition has a single access point, a hallway that can be closed off with a door. So the debris should be contained.

Also with Stage 3 comes the total revamp of the A/C system. We are getting a new A/C unit, installing the interior unit in the attic rather than under the stairs, and redoing the vents. The reasons for this are two: one, the A/C unit we installed way back when we moved in was small and cheap, and was only supposed to be a temporary fix to keep us from dying in Texas summers. Nine years later, that temporary fix really, really needs to be swapped for something more efficient. And two, the upstairs loft portion of the house relies on a window unit for A/C at the moment. It's time to get some vents cut so we don't need the window unit anymore.

Stage 4, I believe, will involve the backyard, the back porch, and possibly the garage. We do not have a back porch or garage, but we plan to build one of each. The backyard needs to be leveled, fenced, and landscaped as well.

Right. So as of this week, I will be dealing with construction, once again, inside our house. Starting Thursday, we will have guys in here redoing the A/C.

Also this week I have three doctor's appointments; I am getting another book to copyedit; Star has obedience class; and I have standard household chores to deal with, complicated by the construction because the laundry room is... well... it's in the addition that's being torn apart.

Oh yeah, and on Saturday, my family is getting together for Moussefest, an annual event wherein everyone tries to make mousse that's better than my dad's. (So far he has retained the title and the trophy.) Byrd insisted on entering the contest even though neither of us have ever made mousse before!

Commission Hearing

So yesterday I went to a commission hearing on a proposed vicious dog bill in the Texas House. The hearing started at 2 PM. I figured I would probably be there for a couple hours.

Wow. So totally wrong.

The bill was not even up for discussion until 10:30 PM. I sat there in the hearing room in a tiny chair, taking only one bathroom break, eating and drinking NOTHING, for a full eight and a half hours listening to testimony on bills that I had absolutely no interest in.

Then I sat in the chair and listened to testimony on this bill for another hour.

During the entire time, the committee members (various state representatives) went in and out of the room freely--to eat, to go to another committee, to talk on the phone--chatted with each other, worked on things at their giant desk, and occasionally asked questions of those testifying.

By the time it got to our bill, which they intentionally delayed because of the sheer quantity of people wanting to testify against it (approx. 21--they were hoping to discourage people, and it worked, because a lot of folks had gone home by the time they got to our bill), only three committee members were still in the room.

Then the committee chair stepped out of the room as our bill came up. The bill sponsor was in the room, and the chair substitute permitted actual debate about the bill between the sponsor and testifiers right there in the committee room (this is not the way it's supposed to work--you are supposed to go in and tell the committee why you want them to pass or turn down the bill, and they listen and ask some questions--the bill sponsor is only there to introduce his/her bill and answer the committee's questions, not to debate). The bill sponsor turned this to his advantage, lambasting anyone who spoke against his bill with misleading and confusing statements about what his bill would actually do. Those average citizens who hadn't read the bill thoroughly and could not think or speak like a lawyer were at a loss to respond. They had come with written statements and were not prepared for a courtroom debate about the law.

Now, the person who went with me to this hearing, and was going to testify against the bill, happens to be a lawyer. And when she saw what was going on, she was chomping at the bit for her turn to speak, because she loves debate and she badly wanted to call the bill sponsor on his unethical and disgraceful tactics. But before she was called up, the committee chairman returned to his position, called a halt to the debate, and asked the bill sponsor to leave the room. The chairman then proceeded to treat the next two speakers (which included my companion) very rudely in an attempt to reassert his control over the proceedings. Which was a shame, because my companion made some excellent points that, it seems, fell on deaf ears simply because the chairman was more interested in hurrying things along than in actually listening.

My overall feeling about the hearing? It was appalling. It made such a mockery of the system. By the time we finally got to our bill, it was so late, and everyone was so tired and hungry, and the committee chairman was so pissy, that I think a large part of our message crumbled under the strain, and what little was left fell on deaf ears. Fortunately, some very powerful speakers made their presentations at the end, so I think a good impression was left on the handful of committee members that remained.

I will have to do this again for HB 925. But at least now I know to bring a book, lots of snacks, and a lot of patience.

If I pull off this week...

...I will be really amazed.

On Monday I have a legislative commission hearing to sit through, which could last four to six hours or more--unless I can squeeze out early, which is what I'm hoping for.

On Tuesday there's Star's obedience class.

On Wednesday I have a meeting with folks to strategize for another commission hearing.

And I also have a literature textbook to finish copyediting by the end of the week, plus a teacher's edition of the same book to be arriving some time this week (I think) for copyedit.

Then there's grocery shopping, laundry, dishes, cooking, walks for dogs, and vacuuming. All of which badly needs to be done.

I am not too sure how this is all going to work.

This weekend was lovely but incredibly busy. On Saturday Byrd finished building my new desk/work station (AWESOME!!) and we cleaned my office. We were up until midnight. Today I recycled a ton of stuff (from the office cleanup), went to a Canine Good Citizen practice with Star downtown, then caught up with blogs. Mr. S keeps calling me, bugging me to play Warcraft with him, but I just don't have the time.

Now I'm off to knock out some copyediting.

Green egg white?

I tossed out the last of our store-bought eggs the other day; we'll be eating our fresh chicken eggs from now on.

I was convinced of the need to avoid store-bought when I cracked open the first of the last of the store-bought eggs, intending to cook it, to discover that the albumen (the white part) was a florescent green color.

I could not believe it at first. I thought I was surely seeing things. I popped open a second egg. This one was a normal clear color. I could compare the two and see the obvious difference in color. It was like someone had poured highlighter ink into the one egg.

I started frying, still thinking I had just completely lost my mind. Maybe the florescent part would go away if I blinked a whole lot?

Frying only made the difference more obvious, as the good egg turned a lovely white with a bright yellow center, while the odd egg's florescence fairly glowed.

All the eggs went in the trash. I don't know why that egg was green inside. But I think I'll take my chances with the backyard hens.

I tried to get a photo, but the color difference just doesn't show well on a camera phone.

Meetup fun

Yesterday Star and I went to a Love-A-Bull meetup downtown.

There were quite a lot of other dogs there, some friendly, some not so much. It was all good, though. One of Star's problems is that she loves to rush up to any dog that she sees. After a few encounters with less-friendly dogs, Star slowed down quite a bit.

As our group took a walk through downtown, Star pulled on the leash like crazy. All loose-leash training had evaporated. This is another thing I'm going to have to work on: loose-leash while walking with others.

This was helpful socialization and a good opportunity to train for the CGC. We're having a mock CGC next weekend and this will help me pinpoint where Star needs the most work.

Getting involved

I'm now the BSL person ("Director of Legislative Affairs") for the Love-A-Bull pit bull group here in Austin. Very cool. I've wanted to do something more local and hands-on for a while, and now I get the chance.

We're facing BSL in the legislature this year in Texas, so I'm getting prepared. Flyers, handouts, and possibly some presentations.

It's amazingly hard to get people to actually do stuff, even simple things like call their reps. But change only happens when you act. You can't just join a group and then brush your hands off. What's the point of that?

People always say "Well, I'm just so busy." So what? I'm busy too. We're all busy. You're telling me you can't take three minutes to dial a phone and say "Please don't support HB 925."? It takes longer to order a pizza, for crying out loud.

A while ago, I posted a notice announcing that I needed help with the daily postings for my BSL site. Seriously, it takes me several hours a day, every day of the week. Sometimes I need a break, sometimes I'm on a trip and I can't post, and sometimes I have a real job to attend to. Is it so much to ask for volunteers to assist with posting?

It wasn't too much to ask, apparently, but it was too much to expect that anyone would hang around. I got dozens of cheerful responses, offers of assistance--lots of people willing to help. But that's as far as they went. When it came down to actually doing the job, only one person lasted longer than a week. I'm on my own again.

Similarly, when I asked for help writing some static pages, which is a limited commitment to a single topic, only one person has ever come through for me. And she's done a bang-up job, but still, out of all the people who said they would happily help, she's the only one who actually did.

Why offer to help if you're not really going to? I can understand why some people might do it--to feel altruistic--but all talk and no action is really just the opposite of altruistic. It's quite selfish and obnoxious.

I cooked it, ate it, and did not die

Thinking of starting a blog section called "Things I cooked that were not toxic."

Easily half my meals are experiments.

We keep cereal and frozen waffles on hand for those evenings when things don't go as planned.

Tonight's test tube baby: salmon, rice, and peas. No big deal, you say? Well, I threw it ALL in the rice cooker to cook. Yeah, that's right, I put rice, peas, salmon, and water in the rice cooker and turned it on. Makes me nervous, considering it's a RICE cooker, not a "salmon, peas, and rice" cooker.

I'm off to go see what happened. The smoke alarm didn't go off, at least.

Update: It was edible. In fact, Byrd said it was "pretty good." Sweet!