Beware Fowl Play

The Stephenville City Park is relatively average. Lots of running space, lots of open grass, a river that probably has some undiagnosed disease floating in it...you know, the works. My dog, Layla thinks this park is just the SHIT, and every time I say a word starting with "P" her radar ears perk up and she starts doing her "walk dance."

One thing the city park also has, are ducks and geese. The ducks are fine, they generally keep to themselves unless you have bread. The geese tend to stay out of you way...unless you get in theirs. Then they turn into big horned demons with red eyes and big flappy wings and honky beaks that breathe fire and have fangs and...did I mention I was terrified of birds?

Call me crazy, but that is horrifying!

I try to take Layla on a walk every day, and about three days a week or so I'll take her to this magical land where she can chase ducks to her leash's extent, fight violently against me to go say hi to other dogs, and jump in front of runners just to laugh doggily when they trip (and sometimes fall).

A couple of days ago, we had an experience that I don't think either of us will forget any time soon.

Ducks are cute. They're cute when you feed them bread, they're cute when they swim, and they're cute when Layla bowls them over then runs away (as she thinks she's playing tag, so far as I can tell). Most times I'll let her almost get a duck, then we'll be on our way to torment the athletes of the Stephenville City Park. Our last trip, Layla decided that mere ducks were no longer enough of a challenge for Super Corgi. She had to take on a goose.

I was walking along by the river looking at my phone, minding my own business. Trying to keep my dog from tripping anyone or eating their picnic (again). Next thing I know, I no longer have a leash in my hand, and my dog is sprinting headlong at the biggest goose I've ever seen. Remember demon bird (see above)? I've met it...and it was trying to kill my dog.

So there I was, in my jeans and (relatively) nice jacket, trying to decide if it was worth saving Layla from a few bites to brave the mud (remember, jacket) and the FREAKISHLY BIG TERRIFYING MEAN SQUAWKY BIRD THAT MIGHT KILL ME AND TEAR OUT MY HEART FOR SACRIFICE. Obviously, I chose to tiptoe forward, thinking that maybe if I was sneaky I could grab the leash and drag Layla out of the line of fire. I did just that, but then...

The damn thing started chasing us! In all of its squawky wing flappy glory, it waddleflipflapfloped (which is a much faster gait than it sounds) after us, gaining with every flap of those giant leathery dragon wings.I could feel the fire breath on my back. I'm pretty sure it singed some of the hair off of the back of my head. I bent down to pick up a stick to throw back at it (don't judge, it could have killed me), and nailed it square in the...grass two feet to the left. I never had good aim.

With the car in sight, Layla and I found our second wind, and leaped to safety, locking the bird (I'm telling you, it was the size of a horse) out. It stood outside the car for ten minutes (yes, I sat there that long), watching us. Just waiting for us to get back out.

We braved the park today. Fortunately, we didn't see the geese. Something tells me that little shit is going to hold a grudge.

The Derailed Skateboard

I normally don't like to post twice in one day, but sometimes I'm reminded of a story that's really freaking funny (to me, anyway) and I know if I don't post it now, I'll forget about it and it'll never end up on here.

So now that I've felt I need to explain myself, here we go:

I lived in San Antonio for a year, going to the University of Texas branch there. Loved the school, loved the classes...if I hadn't been battling severe depression at the time, I might still be there. However, had I not come home, I wouldn't have met my boyfriend, all that sappy shhhhow of emotion.I've gone off on a tangent again.

 These people aren't kidding when they say it weighs you down

While I was at UTSA, I remember walking to my Biology class one day, not really paying much attention to where I was going...or really much of anything. Remember, when you're depressed, you don't notice anything else exists. You're totally alone in the world. Anyway, I was walking along, staring at my shoes, and the next thing I know, something slams into me like a freight train, slamming me off to the side and almost knocking me on my ass. I looked up to see some dude about 5'10 on a skateboard looking at me like I'd just killed his mother. He shot me the finger and yelled some stream of expletives at me, but while he was doing this--he forgot to watch where he was going.

This idiot runs into a pretty good sized rock on his little skateboard and if any of you know anything about them...they aren't meant for rough terrain. If those little wheels hit anything even remotely solid, the skateboard comes to an immediate stop. It did. He didn't.

I stood there and laughed probably the hardest I laughed the whole time I lived in San Antonio as this asshole rolled down three flights of stairs (they weren't steep stairs, he wasn't hurt. I'm not a monster). Karma doesn't often work in my favor, but when she does, she makes it worth all the time I had to wait.

Just to give you an idea.

I never saw the guy again, but I'm sure that to this day, he still has to nurse his wounded pride when he thinks back to that day. I know I end up with a big goofy grin on my face every time it runs through my head.

See ya lato, Armadillo!

I love warm weather like an Irishman loves potatoes. There's just something about a violently blue sky that stretches from horizon to horizon with a sun that beats down relentlessly at temperatures of above 100 degrees for most--why am I describing Arizona? I live in Texas. Close enough.


Anywho, it has recently been brought to my attention that, come July, I'll be needing to move out of the armpit (armpit, asshole, take your pick) of Texas where I currently live. I've always wanted to move north, despite my love of the unbearably high temps of the south, but I always assumed that before I took the plunge and moved to  Siberia (better known as Montana), I needed to move somewhere else in Texas just to get accustomed to living somewhere else for a bit. Apparently, that's where I was wrong.

See? Armpit.

It seems, that when the lease on my rental house is up in July, there is a possibility that I'll be moving to Idaho. Yes, everyone I've told has looked at me like I have two heads, and said "Why in God's name would you go to such a random place?" or maybe something like "You love the sun. You do realize that in Idaho there's lots of snow, right? Like feet of snow?" I'm aware. I happen to love cold weather too, so get off me. Call me crazy, but in my head if you live somewhere long enough, you adapt and get used to the damn weather.

The primary reason for all of this is work. My best shot for moving up in the company will come from me moving to where I have a better opportunity to learn, blah blah blah everyone knows the story. I think it'll be a nice little adventure, even given the fact that it's 40 degrees where I am right now, and it's 8 degrees where we may be moving. Makes me shiver just looking at it, but I think that's more from excitement than imagined cold.

Damn, that does look cold, though.

Of course, it so happens that we may just end up going somewhere else in Texas. I've heard rumors of Lubbock...guess we'll see. I really like the state, I'm just ready to be out of it for a while. I'm that person who's always wanted to move to Germany and Paris, and New York and actually live in really different places just for shits and giggles. Maybe this is just the first step. I'll be sure to keep you updated whether you want me to or not! Wish me luck!

Foil Roasting Pans are the Devil

I love roast. I love it just as much as the next person when it's done correctly. All tender and juicy...just that melt-in-your-mouth type of meat. My roommate Calvin made a very small one for himself the other night. He made it in one of those $3 foil roasting pans you get at Walmart that are likely to be bent into some sort of almost painful-looking shape before you even get them to your kitchen.It cooked, we sniffed, and my soul, along with that of my boyfriend Greg, wept in despair that we would not be partaking in this succulent slab of joy that was basking in our oven heat.

The roast came out of the oven around 6 pm that night. Calvin ate, Greg and I watched, and the roasting pan, left forgotten and full of grease, sat precariously on the edge of the stove. I noticed this, but decided that if, by some unforeseen chance, the cats managed to knock it down, we would hear it fall and I could rescue everyone from the mess. If I only knew then....

We sat in the living room for maybe an hour, the boys watching the old Marvel X-men cartoon that bores me to tears on netflix, me reading Savor the Moment by Nora Roberts, enjoying a slow evening and just kicking back and relaxing. Little did we know, that all hell was about to break loose.

As previously stated, I was under the impression that a roasting pan (yes, even a foil one) full of congealed grease would make enough noise as it fell to the linoleum kitchen floor that it would alert me that something was amiss. I did not, however, take into consideration that with the TV on volume levels high enough to entertain people in Dublin (Ireland), and that me being 100% engaged in my book, would cause me to perhaps...miss the light whump it apparently makes, as opposed to the CRASH! BANG! CLANG! I was expecting. And thus, our story begins:

Calvin got up, wandered over in the general direction of his bedroom, then immediately came back into the living room informing us that "someone," meaning either my dog, Layla, or one of my two cats, had thrown up "hardcore." Resigning myself to the fact that "my pets, my mess," I got up to go see what the fuss was about. Sure enough, as I rounded the corner, I saw a puddle worthy of a Saint Bernard spreading itself across my dining room floor. I have a Corgi. She weighs eighteen pounds at most. Call me crazy, but a dog that small should not be able to flood your house with puke. Turning to look at her, my jaw hit the floor. My little tiny dog had bloated up like a hot air balloon and was quickly reaching sizes similar to the "Great Skittle Episode." But that's a different story....

(this was once the bloating had gone down a lot)

 

As I was standing there, staring at my dog, something warm and wet started sloshing around my foot, reminding me that I had a rather unpleasant task ahead of me. Jumping back and letting out a stream of words to make a Russian sailor blush, I leapt over this flood of gross like you've never seen and ran to get all the clean dog towels I could find. It took every single one of them to stem the flow. On the way through the kitchen to toss the towels outside, I happened to look over into the corner, and all my questions were answered. There, on the floor, was a foil roasting pan with about half as much grease as there had been when I'd last seen it. Needless to say, I was not amused.

I'm a worrier. It's what I do. If something goes wrong, my mind immediately jumps to the worst possible conclusion (hey, at least that way nothing ever gets worse than what I was expecting). So when I came storming back into the house and saw my dog swollen to the point of exploding (again), more lethargic than I'd ever seen her, and shaking so hard it was closer to a seizure, I immediately think "well shit, my dog has developed pancreatitis in thirty minutes." With trepidation creeping up on being full panic, I hurried her into the bathroom so I could keep an eye on her (and, maybe, because linoleum is easier to clean than carpet), and stayed up until around midnight just in case she croaked (told you, I assume the worst).

The next morning, she still looked more like a watermelon with legs than a dog, but she had more energy. The face explosions seemed to have stopped, so I was getting myself all prepared for the ass ones. All that day I watched her like you would a time bomb (if you were stupid enough to be standing next to a time bomb) just waiting for it to start. And it never did. I was starting to think that maybe we were in the clear. Then I got up yesterday morning. I stepped over the baby gate that keeps Layla out of our bedroom and got a nice little splat as my foot hit the ground. Praying that it was just pee, I turned on the light and looked down. No such luck.

The ass explosions had begun, and my bathroom floor, which is usually white, looked like someone had just splattered white paint onto the dirt. It was EVERYWHERE. It was all over her bed, splattered on the walls, and drenching my socks that I'd left in there (which are now in the trash). And there she stood, right in the middle of it, almost back to normal size, looking at me as if to say "I feel better, now will you clean up this shit and feed me?" My answer was another very colorful statement that would shame my mother.

After a long day outside, she seems to be feeling much better, though I'm not sure her intestines quite agree with her yet. The morale of this is simple. If you have three animals and want to make a roast, make it in a pan that will make a REALLY LOUD NOISE when it is knocked to the ground.