A Brief Visit

This last weekend my brother and sister-in-law visited with their dog and dog-like thing. Being in the Cardiac Care Unit (CCU) still I was semi-lucid throughout most their visit which is about 25% more lucid than I typically am in the intensive care unit. Despite the wacky hours and Sushi's repeated attempts at thwarting good times by her unrequested pooping and stick leg punch assaults we managed to have a reasonably good time complete with Robin Hood, Sea World, and the requisite Nerts play.

The best part, though? Toxic Waste candy. Between visiting Sea World's timeless Cannery Row Caper and the slightly less entertaining spray-water-in-your-face 4D Pirate movie experience we visited the candy shop which, in addition to the standard candy fare, advertised Toxic Waste: Hazardously Sour Candy. It was sour, no doubt, but I would have hesitated to call it hazardously so. As such, in the interest of ascertaining the truth, we then insisted Adam eat six of them at once. He survived with little more than some superficial sloughing of the oral mucosa and with little in the way of face puckering. Still not terribly hazardous. Then we saw that they were made in Pakistan. He now has cancer.

Anyways, here, finally, are photos from Canada.

Dog - 2, Human - 0

I have been bested. By a dog with a tendency to tear up things.

Last week I had two jobs: watch my friend's dog, protect the bag of feathers. The second job wasn't so much explicitly communicated as generally understood seeing as how the first time I was tasked with watching the dog ended with a torn up bag of feathers. It seems, though, I am good at neither because on the third day of dog watching, my first day back at work, I returned home to find a few feathers scattered on the staircase and one million plus feathers strewn about the living room with a very proud Siberian Husky standing in the middle. Exasperate and clearly defeated I didn't know what to do. So I sat down on the couch and played some Call of Duty. The cats, meanwhile, threw up.

And then we all went out for ice cream.

The Pushiest Dog

Last week I house sat for some friends. After eight days of drinking all their Dr. Pepper I called it and went home, a resounding success. Aside from a brief visit from the police due to my inability to effectively turn off the alarm system the stay was uneventful. What was eventful, however, was their dog. Or rather, dang that's a pushy canine.

My friends are the proud owners of a Siberian Husky -- Sienna. How it survives in San Antonio I am not entirely sure, but I believe it hibernates in the freezer from the months of June to September. Although friendly and unassuming in appearance, she has the perseverance and single minded focus of... a Siberian Husky? Perhaps a very focused and relentless Siberian Husky. Regardless, when she wants her walks she will let you know, and she wants her walks all the time. My daily strolls proved insufficient, however, and so every afternoon upon returning from work I would sit on the couch only to be repeatedly, in 3-4 minute cycles, interrupted by a very eager Sienna. Typically she would bound up to the couch, get as close to me as possible, make a few mildly disconcerting-sounding dog noises, and then spin in circles a few times. If ineffective she would either then give me peace for a few moments or proceed to lick my legs. If I refused walks this loop would then proceed on for hours. And If I gave her walks then it was time she let me know she wanted to play, the whole process repeating itself. Unfortunately while her need for walks was satisfiable enough, her need for play was a little more difficult to meet. Considering she seemed happiest just jumping around the living room, though, perhaps she was demanding less play and more frolics.

Sienna aside, there were two bulimic cats to take care of as well. Thankfully they were relegated to the lower level of the house. Whenever I ventured to the kitchen, though, I would be welcomed by their incessant meowing to be fed no matter the time of day or time of most recent feeding. I would have happily fed them to their early obesity-related demises had I not been warned that overfeeding leads to throwing up behind the furniture so instead I agreed to ignore them and they agreed to keep meowing whenever I went downstairs.

The similarity in tactics shared amongst all the household's animals may not have been purely coincidental, though, as near nightly the dog would amble over to the top of the stair case where one of the cats would be waiting. After exchanging greetings or stares or telepathic cartoon thoughts, whatever, the cat would then carry on a 1-2 minute lecture during which, presumably, Sienna would take careful mental notes for the following day. I broke up one of these pow-wows one evening more out of curiosity than anything else, and the next day I returned from work to a 30 gallon bag of down feathers torn up and strewn about the living room.* A word of warning I dutifully heeded. No way I'm going out like a strange plastic bag of feathers.

I will admit though. As much as I at times wanted to, and sometimes did, yell at the dog to leave me alone, and as many times as I teased her with the leash when it was walky time, I miss her a bit. Dogs are one of the few animals that seem to make us love them more even as they drive us further crazy. She's a good dog, that Sienna. Her friendliness; her pushiness; her beady, red eyes and all.

* The destruction of the bag of fluff may or may not have happened after my pet conference interruption.

The Organic Squirrel Gets a Bike Helmet

Last week I visited my sister and her family in Molokai, the Wild West of Hawaii. Or, at the very least, the slow country cousin of the same.

But, alas, they have grown so old. And acquired new pets it seems. Averaging about 1.3 dogs annually over the years -- as most seem to meet an early demise either runned over on the dusty streets immediately outside their house or gunned down in some forlorn, whiskey soaked saloon in Kaunakakai proper -- I was expecting some sort of dog but not quite the household I was welcomed by. On arrival I was greeted by three lovely, and taller, young nieces (Moriah, Sarah, and Lily) and three cute, and excitable, young canines (Mash Potatoes, Summit, and Monkey Pod.) Add to that a bitey rabbit named DC, a kidnapped chameleon named Gus, and about 3.5 million ants of various shapes, sizes, and colors, and I felt right at home.

Once settled we then began my grand packaged tour. First a meandering hike to Haipuapua Falls in Halawa Valley (we shot for Moaula Falls but got lost,) then some time at the beach, followed by Easter at Lane's, a luau, a trip to the Kamakou Preserve (where we absconded with Gus), some more time at the beach, and lastly a brief bushwacking to the Iliiliopae Heiau (one of Hawaii's largest temples and a site of human sacrifice) which concluded properly with me climbing a tree in an abandoned orchard to wack down some oranges with a stick. Life was good on Molokai. Simple and satisfying.

There was also considerable hormonal moodiness, not nearly enough lunch meat, and too much Moriah horse collar tackling Lily into a concussion to be certain, but that is part of the family experience. You're not supposed to get what you want, just three square meals a day, a roof over your head, and a body in your personal space.

If I had wanted boring I would have stayed in San Antonio.

Molokai mo bettah.