ON THE TRACK ONCE AGAIN

One of the most difficult moments in an argument is when you realize you are totally and completely wrong.

And I have no right to complain about something where I am the only one responsible.

I let our greyhound out around 9:50 p.m. tonight, following the logic that it was late, it was FREEZING (literally - it was 32 degrees outside), and she would simply do her business and rush back in.

HA!

I finally found her by driving my truck far far down the road - at least she had turned around and was headed back.




Reminder - never ever EVER let the greyhound without a leash on her.

Or at least not until Arizona warms up.

THERE IS A WHIRLPOOL FORMING RIGHT HERE

I have a operational dishwasher once again. Hallelujah.

I have lived before without a CLOTHES washer (worse reality was with a newborn). I have lived without running water (only hours at a time, thank goodness). I am tough enough to have our air conditioning off during July (hurrah for Arizona winds!) - I have hung laundry on a line.

 

So I have regarded a dishwasher as an unnecessary luxury - a machine just to heat water to a higher temperature and sterilize your plates.

But right now? In August? In Arizona?

No - it is an essential piece of remaining alive.

Because when you are still dealing with 90 degree inside the house during the day, I can think of a thousand things I would rather than do than have my hands soaking in hot dishwasher - can't you?

And I'm also more than a little ticked because the greyhound broke it.

Stretches the imagination just a bit, doesn't it?

But the dishwasher was open, she came racing through the kitchen, and fell on the door, CRASH SMASH BROKEN.

So she just cost me $300.

Do you think maybe I should put her back on the track for just ONE more race and see if I can make it back?

CHANGE

It's not so much that we're afraid of change or so in love with the old ways, but it's that place in between that we fear . . . . It's like being between trapezes. It's Linus when his blanket is in the dryer. There's nothing to hold on to.

- Marilyn Ferguson

Sometimes change is welcome -- discovering you have lost 10 lbs. - that the blue shirt you've been drooling over for the past six weeks is now in the sale rack and 50% off - someone else did the dishes.

But it can also be scary -- when you move to a different part of the country/world, far away from friends and family - parts of your body stop working like they are supposed to - you begin to agree with some Republican candidates.

Now, tonight there was a major modification in the life of my husband's pet, the greyhound Delilah.

Now pay attention, this was a RADICAL deviation in her existence.

She got a new bed.

My husband may not sleep at all tonight, because the dog is not immediately taking to a different dog bed.

Have I mentioned in the past how my husband does NOT respond well to change in any way, manner or form?

PURE GRACE

(Sorry, Jen, this isn't about your daughter. At least not yet.)

My husband owns a greyhound. For those of you who are not acquainted with greyhounds, I must clarify just a few points (honest, just a few):

1. Greyhounds are not dogs. They are greyhounds.

2. Contrary to assumptions, greyhound are couch-potatoes. Yes, they race fast on the track, but they are sprinters only. They need to run about once a day at 45 mph for 24 seconds, and then sleep the next 23 hours, 59 minutes and 36 seconds.

3. Greyhounds are big. Ours weighs almost 80 lbs., and none of it is fat. The ultimate in long and lean.

Okay, enough information - let us move on.

My husband's greyhound's track name was, honestly, "I Don't Know." It leads my mind into an entire "Who's On First" routine; can't you just see it?

"I wanna place a bet on a dog."

"Okay, what's the dog's name?"

"'I Don't Know'"

Abbot and Costello, watch out.

But off-track, her name is Delilah, and that's what we call her. And she sleeps at the foot of my husband's bed.

Which leads to the fact that my husband and I have separate bedrooms.

Not for martial differences (although, of course, we have our share of those, but so does everyone), but because after 22+ years of being kept awake by his thunderous snoring, I pulled rank when we moved into this house, took over the master bedroom, study and bathroom and banished my husband to the servants' quarters next to the laundry room.

And Delilah sleeps on two dog-type pillows in there.

Since my husband goes to sleep around 7 p.m. (1900) every evening, and I go to bed after midnight, I wake Delilah up to take her outside for her very last business for the night around 11:30 p.m. (2330).

Generally, I open the door, am blown back two steps by the resonation of a not-so-soft palate vibrating (or perhaps throbbing is a better word), wait for a breath intake to take the two steps forward, and wait for Delilah to stand up, stretch (you haven't seen an animal stretch until you've seen a greyhound stretch - it's almost orgasmic).

Then she shakes her collar, which has three enormous metal I.D. tags dangling from it, loud enough to wake the dead but not someone who snores at the 90+ decibel level (anything over 85 will cause hearing loss,, just FYI), and she then comes out of the bedroom.

Until last night, that is.

When I opened the bedroom door, Delilah tried to rise. However she had somehow moved in her sleep to a east-west position from a north-south position, thereby wedging herself exactly between the bed and the bookcase in such a manner to be firmly and solidly stuck.

We all can agree that uproariously laughter and uncontrollable glee can lead to increased levels of endorphins, less bladder control, and augmented blasts of myself snorting.

She did (eventually) free herself, but this is one of the times I wish I had had a cam recorded within reach, so you could see it also.