Warning: Religious Thoughts to Follow

I recently came across this meme which was very timely considering my church just celebrated The Passover on Sunday evening (we keep the Holy Days outlined in the Old Testament modified as specifically demonstrated by Jesus Christ His Own Self in the New Testament). Passover, for the uninitiated, is one such Old Testament Holy Day which dates back to the Book of Exodus when the children of Israel put the blood of a lamb on their door posts and lintels so that the Death Angel would  literally pass over their house during the final plague of Egypt in which the first born were killed. The Old Testament commanded that the Israelites celebrate the Passover every year as a memorial to how God brought them out of Egypt. 

By the time of Christ, the ceremony had become more of a lavish and relaxed meal. Christ changed things up a bit at "The Last Supper" (which was a Passover meal immediately before He was arrested and condemned to death). He taught His disciples about the new meaning of the Passover which included the breaking/eating of bread and sipping of wine to symbolize the broken body of Christ and His shed blood for the remission of our sins. Other places in scripture say that Christ took the beating leading up to His Cruxifiction so that we could be healed. The main thing that Christ did during that ceremony was wash the feet of His followers as an act of humility and service. 

It is that act of service and humility that is a core practice in my church that baptized members perform every year as a solemn reminder of what He did for us. Most every year, we get a sermon or two leading up to The Passover talking about all the familiar bits about the bread, wine, the sacrifice, etc. Rarely does a minister focus on the foot washing. So, that is why struck me so strongly this year.

I tend to be a caretaker type personality to begin with, and acts of service come pretty naturally to me. That said, the point that brought me up short was that He KNEW He was going to die, He could have done ANYTHING, and He chose to wash the feet of his disciples. 

I admit that, when I run through the things I might want to do if I knew I was going to die tomorrow, washing feet is not at the top of that list. If I am being perfectly honest, it's not even in the top 10. That said, I would want to take those last few hours and spend as much of it with my wife and daughter and those close to me as I possibly could. 

We only get one chance at this ride, and there are no guarantees, do overs, returns or refunds. Make the most of  it of the time you are given. 

 

Good Beer

When I became old enough to drink, I was the weird kid that brought "good beer" to the parties. Whereas my counterparts were swilling Keystone Light or Busch Lite or anything light by the case, I was the one bringing a six pack of something higher quality and usually leaving with 3-4 beers at the end of the evening. I blame my uncle (Mimi's brother) who lived a very epicurean life. He instilled in me the idea that life is too short to drink bad booze or eat bad food. 

Unfortunately, he died far too young from a life of excess. There is a lesson in there somewhere. If I can shake my cravings for a cinnamon roll, I might put some thought into what that might be. 

That said, the youngest nephew (affectionally known as Baby Huey) seems to have taken a page from my uncle's playbook and has dedicated his life to beer. Once upon a time, I had to take a business trip to Denver, CO and decided to make a family trip of it. Baby Huey and his (at the time) fiancé caught wind of it and asked if they could  tag along. We, being the enabling types, acquiesced.

Once we arrived in Denver, Baby Huey asked if there might be a chance that he could be dropped off at a location near downtown the next day. We allowed as how that might be possible; but, we being curious, asked why. He allowed as how he had an interview with someone for a job working at Coors Brewing.

Aha! The light bulb clicked on.

So fast forward a few or five years, and Baby Huey has relocated completely to Colorado, married his fiance, spawned a couple of boys and taken a job with Avery Brewing where he is one of their Cellarmen. He recently came home to visit and brought several cases of beer  to share. 

We were fortunate enough to snag 4 six packs of differing flavors to share: White Rascal, The Reverend, Avery IPA and Gose Con Sandia

 I'll be upfront and disclose my bias: I hate IPAs. They are way to hoppy for my tastes. The Queen, however, professes to like them. Even she said the Avery IPA was too hoppy for her. So, if you like IPAs on the hoppy side, this is the one for you. 

The Reverend is a quadruple ale in the Trappist ale style. It boasts 10% ABV and is very smooth and tasty. You don't want to drink too many of these at once if you are used to standard American pilsner and lager styles. 

The White Rascal is a Belgian Style White Ale similar to Blue Moon. I highly recommend drinking this one from a glass instead of the can. 

My personal favorite was the Gose Con Sandia. Here again, the beer benefits from a pour into glass, but the flavors are just about perfectly balanced. 

So, if you see this in your local store, consider throwing a few shekels their way to keep Baby Huey in diaper and rent money.

My Sister...The Devil

 I give My Sister...The Devil a fairly healthy dose of crap here in my little corner of the world. It's what snarky siblings do, and it's not like she doesn't give me ample reason. For instance, the following photos were taken recently of MS...TD's childhood dollhouse preserved for posterity by our mother, Mimi. 

As you can see, something sick and twisted is lurking in MS...TD's head. Her children could not be reached for comment, and forensics suggests that the chopping block might have been bleached. Draw your own conclusions. 

Having said that, long time readers will recall that MS...TD is a budding smut serious author. Not too long ago, she succeeded in landing a publishing contract for her latest effort, And They Danced. I had an...ahem...opportunity to read an earlier version of the manuscript before MS...TD squared off against a New York (hack...spit) editor. I can honestly say with no sarcasm or crossed fingers that this one is/was tolerable(bear in mind, the genre is not my cup of tea...). 

So, if you are interested and in a position to throw a shekel or two towards some reading material for the outhouse, please consider My Sister...The Devil's latest offering as an alternative to the latest Tik Tok video. It should be released for sale on March 6TH if my understanding is correct.

P.S. I asked to write the author bio, but my request was rudely rejected. I did receive a lovely envelope with ashes in it though. 

Daddy Daughter Date

As many long time followers can probably figure out, M&M has progressed from The Cutest Baby In The World to The Cutest Little Girl In The World and is racing head long towards The Cutest Little Young Lady In The World. She turned 11 not too long ago, and she's been horse crazy for several years now. The Queen and I, being doting parents that we are, get her horseback riding lessons to indulge this youthful passion. Last week, she had her first lesson in a while after taking a rather hard fall off a horse and then being sick and us traveling and such. She chose to have a trail ride instead of a formal lesson. I mentioned as how I wanted to go too, and plans were hatched. 

M&M confident upon her trusty steed, Turbo

My view for most of the ride

It's rather peaceful in an open field on horseback

The weather was absolutely amazing. Even thought it is mid January in north Texas, the temps were in the mid 70s, the sky was clear and the winds were light. All in all, a beautiful day to ride. The place we take M&M to for her lessons has about 80 acres worth of land to ride and a fairly nice trail to follow. 

It has literally been years since I was atop a horse for any length of time. Fortunately, M&M's instructor had pity on me and chose an even tempered horse named Ginger for me and even took care of saddling her up for me. Now, come to find out later in the ride, Ginger is known to be lazy. She also likes to eat. ALL. THE. TIME. 

She was not thrilled with the prospects of leaving her hay bale and feed bucket behind to trot my fat sorry *ss around. She did not want to keep up with the group either. So, I repeatedly had to encourage her to keep up which led to a "lope" every few minutes to catch up. Thus, my groin, thighs and lower back all got a workout they were not expecting. 

All in all, I am not too displeased with my performance. Ginger only tried to kill me twice. The first time, I was just giving her more squeeze to catch up to the group again when she literally dug in all four hooves, dropped her head and took a massive mouthful of dry grass in her mouth. I almost went Tango Uniform right off the flight deck. I did lose my grip on the reins which Ginger took as a sign to keep her head down and keep eating. 

The second time, Ginger decided she needed to relieve herself of some recycled feed. Unlike some horses who are quite content to keep egressing the area while conducting evacuation exercises, Ginger prefers to stop dead, lift her tail and take careful aim. Not a problem says I. I'll wait. Someone forgot to mention that Ginger is "extra spicy" when she is finished. I don't know if she burned her bung whole or if she was so overcome with joy at offloading something foul, but she shook her head and took off with nary a warning almost leaving me hanging in mid air a la Wile E. Coyote. 

Before long, we had circled back around to where the barn was in sight. Ginger liked that part of the ride and was only too happy to take the lead at that point. She didn't want to stop for gates or wait for the group to catch up. We had a little discussion about that. 

Everyone survived.  No blood was shed. My groin and thighs were not happy for days afterwards. M&M had a great time, and we have another Daddy Daughter outing in the planning stages. 

 

If The Shoe Fits...

 

I'll not name names or point fingers, but I'm sure there are a few in the audience who could use a "Just say no!" pep talk right about now. You can't please everyone nor should you try. It's especially pointless to try to please dead people on account of them being dead and all. 

Burritos and Jews: A Memorial

It has been four months today since Oma passed away. I intended to write this and post it much sooner, but it got back burnered for a variety of reasons. My apologies. 

While I recognize that the title of this post may sound a tad insensitive and even offensive to the uninitiated, I assure you it is not. At least not intentionally so. The explanation will sort itself out as we go. I hope. I would encourage the easily offended to reserve judgment until the end. Or, better yet, take your judgment elsewhere.

So, who was Oma?

She was born in San Pedro, CA and was the younger of two children. She graduated from high school but did not pursue higher education. She lived for a few months in Hawaii. Sometime after her return from Hawaii, she met the young man who would eventually become Opa. According to family lore, Opa proposed to Oma three weeks after they met; Oma, having nothing better to do, accepted. 56 years ago, they eloped and went to Las Vegas to get married (a fact Oma desperately tried to hide from The Queen for years until a friend of the family innocently spilled the beans).

Oma was a homemaker and a stay at home mom who gave birth to three children at home from what I have been told. The oldest, a boy, died from the flu when he was only an infant. The Queen is the youngest. Between The Queen and her brother, there are four grandchildren (including The World's Cutest Little Girl M&M) and now two great grandchildren. The most recent great grandchild was just born a week before Oma's passing. Unfortunately, the littlest wasn't able to make it by the house to meet Oma as his momma hadn't fully recovered from giving birth yet. The older great grandchild was able to meet Oma briefly in January. He won't remember it, but we do have photos of the event.

I've shared a few snippets of life with Oma since the Alzheimer's. So, I won't spend too much time on that now.  It is kind of funny how some of the things which were seriously annoying in the moment (like the whistling, the drumming, the Sundowners, and the "S" word) are now almost fond memories compared to watching her waste away over the last month. Oma would have been mortified had she been in her right mind.

So, what was she like before Alzheimer's?

For starters, she was an indifferent cook if we are being generous. Oma herself said she was allergic to the kitchen although she was only too happen to clean up the kitchen for anyone willing to use their culinary efforts for her benefit. Oma would cook for sustenance, but there was no art to it. Spices were a foreign concept. If she roasted a chicken, it would behoove you to add a large helping of your favorite condiment to reconstitute some level of moisture to the bird and add a flavor...ANY flavor...to the meat.

Strangely enough, that's not to say that people don't remember her cooking fondly. Ask anyone who knew her for any length of time what they remember most about Oma's cooking, and, invariably, they would say her "Bean Burritos". What do I mean by a bean burrito you ask? To answer that, I have to tell you this. Oma was a classic introvert to Opa's gregarious extrovert (though you would never have known she was an introvert if you met her at church). According to The Queen, Opa had a habit of inviting a number of people over to the house after church for dinner...and not telling Oma until they were in the car on their way home. Oma would blow a gasket, threaten Opa with bodily harm (occasionally inflicting some) and then set throwing together a meal with whatever was on hand which usually meant speed cooking a massive pot of pinto beans, mashing them up, heating up some tortillas and setting out the burrito fixings buffet style...complete with Mayonnaise. No joke. That family has kept Kraft and Hellmann's in business over the years.

Oma had one, to my eyes, very odd quirk in the kitchen. She would "dissect", as she would call it, her eggs. For reasons I could never get her to explain, she would crack eggs into a bowl and proceed to stick her fingers in the eggs to remove the white, stringy stuff next to the yolk (my quick Google Fu tells me this is the Chalaza which are spiral bands which hold the yolk in place in the egg whites). She would readily admit that she could not tell the difference of whether the Chalaza was in cooked eggs or not, but she would not cook an egg without removing it. Odd that. Go figure. 

Oma could also be quite resourceful. In true Scottish fashion, she was also a penny pincher and a bit of a hoarder. Anytime she was out walking in public, her eyes were fixed firmly on the ground in search of loose change, lost fasteners and other items. We would sometimes have a bit of fun with her and toss coins in her path. She would get so excited until she figured out what we were doing. When we cleaned out their house, there were stashes of coins and hardware everywhere. She was not above stopping the car to inspect items left on the curb by others and not a few items were deemed good enough to be salvaged and repaired. 

Oma was also somewhat mechanically inclined. Opa is a procrastinator of the highest order; and, as I have mentioned in other posts, he is the only man I know who is cursed with the "Anti-Midas" touch when it comes to mechanical objects. He would (and still does) put off preventative maintenance until well beyond it's due date. Oma would step in and change the oil on the cars or whatever needed doing. Opa tried to get the minister to tell her to stop doing that, and the minister told him to let her do it if she was good at it. 

Finally, the last tidbit I intend to share. Oma was convinced that everyone is a Jew. Everyone. No exceptions. Bear in mind that Oma was raised as a Christian; and, to my knowledge, never set foot in a synagogue or had any Jewish ancestry whatsoever. I didn't matter what your ancestry is, what you looked like, skin color, you name it, she didn't care. She was insistent that you were a Jew. You can imagine some of the looks she got with that one. It was downright comical when she said that to one of African American brethren in the Church. I'm pretty sure they got whiplash when the cocked their head to the side trying to make sure they heard her right. 

So, there you have it. A brief memorial to The Queen Mum, Oma, and some of her more endearing qualities and quirks. May she rest in peace. The next time you eat a bean burrito, think of her. 

Rest In Peace Oma

As the title suggests, The Queen Mum, Oma, passed away peacefully in her sleep early Sunday morning sometime between 3:30 AM and 9:00AM. She was 77.

Friday night had been a difficult night for her. Fortunately, hospice had sent over Sir Morphine and his squire Lorazepam to help Oma's pain and anxiety. I spent a sleepless night tweaking the dosages from the recommended starting point suggested by hospice until finding the right combination that made her comfortable.

After finally getting to sleep at about 6:30AM Saturday morning, I had no intentions of getting out of bed unless there was a winning lottery ticket or Ed McMahon involved (you younger kids will have to look up the Ed McMahon reference to understand why that's amusing to me). At roughly 1:30PM, there was a banging on the door. The Queen hinted that I should be a dear and find out who was rudely disturbing our slumber on a Saturday afternoon.

I stumbled through the house bleary eyed with my hair sticking out in all directions. I peered through the peep hole in the door to see the blurry shape of a vaguely male figure in a white shirt and tie. Since I had left my glasses on my nightstand, that was as good as it was going to get ID wise without opening the door. I took a risk that I wasn't about to get preached too before having been caffeinated and, hoping Ed had finally brought that huge check from Publisher's Clearing House, unlocked the door. I figured the risk of a well dressed home invasion was pretty slim.

Turns out it was a long time friend of my wife's family and his daughters coming to visit Oma at my brother-in-law's suggestion. So much for sleeping in. I woke up The Queen. Opa was in the bathroom taking care of his necessary business which takes a fair bit of time as he has to catheter and generally ends with him walking through the house butt naked back to his bedroom. Rather than scar non-family members for life, I gave him a heads up that we had guests and brought him his clothes so that he could exit the powder room somewhat decently attired.

The rest of the day Saturday was spent entertaining as my brother-in-law, his wife and my niece arrived around 3:00 and were later joined by another family friend. Oma had a pretty good day overall with the help of The Queen and Sir Morphine. The Queen had nice music playing in her room, a breeze was blowing in throw the window, and she was surrounded by people who loved her. In hindsight, it is pretty apparent that she slipped into her final coma sometime during the afternoon/evening.

I went to bed around 3:30AM Sunday morning after a final check in on Oma at which time she was still breathing. The Queen and I chatted for a bit about how much longer this would go on. I told The Queen I felt the end was very close. She asked me what made me say that to which I replied it was just a feeling based on what the nurses had said and watching Oma over the last several days. I had no idea how right I was. The Queen tried to sleep but reports tossing and turning with no real sleep. She checked Oma a few more times also finding her still breathing. Eventually, The Queen was able to fall asleep shortly before sun up.

It was 9:08AM Sunday morning when Opa woke us up completely distraught saying that Oma was dead. The Queen and I jumped up and went to their bedroom. Sure enough, Oma was gone. I called Hospice, and the on call nurse arrived within 45 minutes to take care of the final details of pronouncing her death, calling the funeral home, arranging pick up of the medical equiment, etc. The funeral home arrived within an hour of being called taking Oma for her final car ride.

So, the grieving process has begun. The Queen is handling things much better than I expected. Opa is handling things much harder than I expected. I suppose that is understandable as he didn't exit denial mode regarding her condition until about 2 weeks before Oma died. It remains to be seen whether he can come to terms with his life without Oma or if he will give up and follow her.

That is all for now. I will share some more details about the woman who was Oma in another post. 

Oma - December 1942 to  March 2020

Liberty Cookbook

I have mentioned a time or two my grandmother's Victory Cook Book which is an heirloom of shared custody between My Sister...The Devil and I. The cook book had been in MS...TD's custody in recent years before, inexplicably, turning up at Mimi's house. I took the opportunity during recent visit at Mimi's to take a few photos of it to share. 

The cover has seen better days and is no longer attached to the binding...which is also MIA. 

My favorite page in the entire book. The much celebrated Cinnamon Cookie recipe. 

I love these sections as they give a window into life during WWII. Can you imagine feeding a family today on $15 a week? The mind boggles. 

Tough Day

Today has been a tough day emotionally. One of the hospice nurses stopped by the house today for a regular visit. I was busy with work and did not get to sit in like I do when I can. I was stuck on yet another monotonous conference call about how our business unit can support the larger corporate goals for 2020....blah, blah, blah. How about we try focusing on fundamentals for starters and quite trying to "innovate". Seems like every time some wet behind the ears manager gets a wild hair, we have to sit through unproductive training as they roll out another useless tool that robs our efficiency and distracts us from our core jobs. If they would quite screwing with us and just make the tools we have actually work as they are intended, it'd be a nice start. But, nnooOOOOooo, we have to innovate and play with shiny new toys because someone had a light bulb moment instead of asking whether we really needed another new turnip twaddler.

I digress.

The Queen reported the findings from the nurse visit: Oma is starting to show signs that her body is shutting down. Of course, they cannot say how long she has left; however, based on what's happening, we are looking at days to weeks as opposed to weeks to months. The Queen, understandably, has been taking it very hard.

M&M is handling things surprisingly well for an 8 year old. We've been extra attentive towards her and listening more. We also have plans in place for when things appear imminent. So, we've been thinking ahead on that front.

I've given my boss a heads up that bereavement leave is probably in the near future. She appreciated that.

Opa, while also taking things very hard, has finally moved out of denial mode. I don't think he is fully at acceptance yet, but he's making progress. So, that's healthy. I was able to have a good heart to heart with him this evening about arrangements for Oma which he has been avoiding for months now. It went better than I expected, but I had prayed for wisdom before approaching him too. So, maybe a small answered prayer went a long way too.

One small insight that came to me during the discussion with Opa was something I really don't think many people consider when they get married. Opa and Oma have been together for over 56 years now. Opa has said a couple of  times now, "What am I going to do without her?" I told him, "Genesis says the two shall become one flesh. That's more than just a physical bonding. It's emotional, mental and spiritual as well." Opa has relied on Oma for so long, I'm really not sure what's going to happen with him when she is gone.

Sorry for the Monday evening downer post. It's just helpful to write about it. Gives me a way to process what's happening so that I can focus on The Queen's and Opa's needs.

A Brief Lesson in Auto Mechanics

I've been tinkering with cars for almost as long as I can remember. My mother, the sainted Mimi, attempts to tell the story of my "working" on my little red pedal car when I was a wee lad of 3 or 4 years of age. I say she attempts to tell the story as I don't think she's ever successfully finished telling the story without hyperventilating in hysterical laughter. Oh well.

I have learned a thing or two along the way. One of the first things I learned was that a novice mechanic of a tender 16 years of age should never attempt disassembly of a 1973 Ford Thunderbird carburetor by oneself. Surprisingly, there are a bunch of tiny little parts inside one of those suckers, and the shop manual was not very instructive on how to find ball detent A and spring B after they shot across the driveway much less where they allegedly came from in the first place.

Live and learn I suppose.

Now, here I be a mere 30 something years later giving my father in law's Jeep the hairy eyeball after what seems like the 30TH time it has slit its metaphorical wrists in a pathetic cry for help or a desperate plea for attention.

I should digress here for a moment and provide some backstory. My father in law, Opa, while a genuinely good person in many respects, is nothing short of death incarnate to anything mechanical or technological. I've never seen anyone who has reached such an advanced age who is so completely mechanically inept. He once asked me to take a look at a previous vehicle of his (which was The Queen's former Jeep that was in perfect running order when it was turned over to his tender mercies) as it was having electrical issues. Electrical issues and I don't get along very well thanks to a sadistic grandfather (but that is story for another time), but I gamely agreed to give it a look. So, I popped the hood and immediately identified the problem. For reasons that I was never able to get him to fully explain, Opa had used a 3 inch decking screw to "tighten" the battery cable to the battery post. Said screw was, in turn, contacting the hood which, in turn, welded the screw to the hood shorting out the electrical system in the process.

Anyway, so Opa's current Jeep, which has been something of a basket case since the day we bought it two years ago (seriously, this was the 11TH time in 2 years I've had to diagnose and fix something on this vehicle), started running rough, hesitating on acceleration and at highway cruising speeds and generally being a pain to drive. It took me borrowing the Jeep one day to discover that something was amiss as Opa rarely mentions these things until parts are dragging the ground. I took a look at it a month ago with my handy dandy automotive code reader which dutifully reported that the Jeep was experiencing misfires on multiple cylinders and there was a fault in the EVAP system (essentially the fuel system's vapor recovery system). The misfires are pretty easy to deal with as they usually result from a bad coil or spark plug on vehicles of this vintage. The Jeep is a 2001 with over 170,000 miles on it. A post mortem examination of the ignition coil suggested that it just might be the original ignition coil pack installed at the factory. It was cracked and showing it's age. Not a good thing, and the most likely source of the misfire issue. After replacing the plugs and coil, no more misfire code.

One problem down.

After the plugs and coil were done, I moved on to noodling the EVAP system problem. Now, YouTube is a great resource for DIY mechanics like me. I watched a couple of videos on diagnosing and repairing the system. One guy did a great video involving a smoke machine, removing the gas tank cover, the rear bumper cover and poking around in the rear of the vehicle. It was a lot of wrenching and crawling under and feeling blindly around the back end of the car to get to a small hose that had a crack in it. But hey, he fixed it.

Now, we finally arrive at the point of this whole story. I told you all that to tell you this. The first lesson of DIY mechanicing is to work from easiest solution to hardest. My code reader gives helpful suggestions on potential repairs to fix the problem. Check this. Replace that. Blah, blah, blah. I read through the list of suggestions and found the easiest solution and started there.

What was the easiest solution you ask? Tighten the gas cap.

That's it.

I checked the gas cap; and, sure enough, it was loose. Tightened it until it clicked, checked the code reader; and, voila, no more EVAP system code. Apparently, Opa hadn't tightened the gas cap until it clicked like he was supposed to last time he gassed the vehicle, and it caused the Jeep to swoon like it'd been given Hemlock or something.

Go figure.

Miscellaneous, Randomness and Other Stuff

In no particular order, I thought I would open the tap a little bit and relieve some pressure in the blog material accumulator before things get too jumbled up.

In the Frankensteinian "Fire Bad!" category, Number One Follower had an unfortunate incident in his home shop a while back. To add insult to misfortune, it was were the bulk of his firearms and associated accessories were stored. Neither NOF nor his wife were home at the time. Fortunately, a neighbor called NOF and the fire department before things got too out of control. That also triggered calls from NOF to the FD that there was ammunition and such in the shop. I also got a call to come assist with removing items as necessary. The fire department investigator said the fire was accidental. Based on the area of origin, the most likely culprit is faulty/damaged wiring. The good news is that NOF has pretty good insurance and should come out of the deal in pretty good shape overall. 

Formerly a plastic shelving unit full of ammunition. 

Ruger Precision Rifle with heat damaged barrel

The Queen and I decided it was high time for some one on one quality time not too long ago. We love our daughter, M&M dearly and will and have taken her pretty much everywhere with us. So, it was not much of a surprise to either of us that it had been more than 7 years since the two of us had taken  solo getaway. Plans were hatched, and we hoped in The Queen's chariot for a long weekend jaunt down to Corpus Christi. I should make a brief side note here. Anytime The Queen is in the car, her eyes are invariably drawn to animals in distress. This trip was no different. I was in the passenger seat, head down, working (being able to work from literally anywhere there is a half way decent cellular data connection has huge advantages for me) when I hear a gasp from the driver's seat.

I asked what the function was, and The Queen informed me that she saw a cat in the center median of the highway. Said highway being 1-35 in Kyle, TX just south of Austin which is six lanes of NAFTA's main thoroughfare in the US. So, I told The Queen to flip a U-turn at the next exit and go back in search of the feline. The Queen was conflicted for a moment between her concern for the cat and her desire not to ruin our trip. I reminded her that, if we did not make efforts to resolve the mystery of said feline's fate, The Queen would spend the rest of the trip worrying about it.

After a failed first attempt to relocate the fur ball, we were able reacquire the ungrateful fur turd cat on The Queen's pet radar with the second north/south U-turn circuit. Not wanting to spook the cat into running into the highway and also being fairly certain that the center median was not wide enough for the chariot, I had The Queen Park in the outside shoulder. After assessing the chances of making it across and back more or less in one piece, I found a narrow window in traffic through which I could reasonably shamble across three lanes of interstate without getting flattened by a semi or causing a soccer mom to panic stop a mini van.

Then, I began the process of trying to convince Kitty McDeathwish that I was a really nice guy who was not with the government but "here to help.(TM)" After a couple of tentative crouching duck walks and sidling shuffles, I was able to get within sniffing distance of the cat. He/she/it? (we were never on first gender basis with each other) gave me a cursory sniff before allowing me to touch its head briefly before retreating back out of arms length. After several more tense moments of getting back into arm's length and watching traffic (you'd be surprised at how many people can't stay between the lines [I'm looking at you white Ford SUV...you're lucky I didn't slash your tires]), I spotted a window in the traffic that offered a reasonable chance of success, grabbed a double handful of fur, and commenced to hoofing it back across the highway. The cat was pissed off thoroughly unamused and expressed its displeasure by trying to eviscerate my arm. Fortunately,  my wind breaker took most of the  abuse. Once we reached the grassy shoulder, I engaged the catapult and released it in the tall grass of the shoulder fully realizing we weren't done with the rescue yet.

Your Truly, trying to garner the trust of a feral cat and questioning my life choices.

After assuring myself that I was not bleeding to death and retrieving a bottle of water and a wet wipe from the car to wash the cat spit off my arm and out of the puncture wounds, I returned to my efforts to complete the rescue of the bag full of razor blades just in time to receive the assistance of one of Kyle PD's finest. We had to herd the cat (literally) to a spot where we could grab it. I got a grip on it just before it tried to imitate a speed bump in the highway again. This time, the cat got up under the sleeve of my jacket and did it's level best to chew my arm off. I handed the ugly, pointy thing off to the officer who, wisely, was wearing mechanics gloves and a bullet proof vest. He escorted the cat across the service road into the woods on the other side where it was released into the relative safety of the country side.

No good deed goes unpunished.

After thanking the officer and stopping the bleeding (again), we made tracks to the nearest Starbucks for a more thorough clean up with hot water in the restroom. I'll be darned if those puncture wounds didn't bleed most of the rest of the day. They were pretty tender for the next several days too. As of this writing a couple of weeks post rescue, I still have one puncture that is still scabbed over and serving as a reminder to wear armor and bring tazers when dealing with stray cats.

M&M continues to grow like a weed. She just finished the second grade, she got a gold medal at her piano theory test, auditioned for the national piano guild and is generally continuing to be her amazing self.

Tinkle and Taco keeping a watchful eye on the pups. 

The puppies are also growing like weeds. They are inseparable. Literally. Take one away, and they both whine and cry like they've been beaten. This, of course, creates cute and humorous moments.

Dawww...the cute version of spooning

The funny version of  spooning

Oma's Alzheimer's continues its inevitable march down the drain. While generally happy when she is riding in the car or watching TV with Opa, she has developed a stubborn and belligerent streak when asked/told to do something she does not want to do...which is pretty much anything other than ride in a car or watch TV. She has also rediscovered cursing; and, while not ideal, we are thankful she latched on to "Sh*t!" instead of the universal adjective.

Lastly, we were sad to learn this past week of the passing of a long term church acquaintance of ours. I have known/been acquainted with this family for over 20 years now, and my wife has known them even longer. The family is no one special in terms of wealth or fame. They are just good people. When The Queen was going through her mystery illness and I was stuck commuting between Dallas and Houston because of work, I would call the husband semi-regularly just to have someone to talk to on the long drive. They had six kids who are all grown now.  We found out a while back that the wife had been diagnosed with cancer; and, more recently, we found out that she was bedridden and on hospice care. We took a "day off" from work to drive out to their place to visit (they live a couple hours east of us), catch up and generally give encouragement in whatever way we could.

During our visit, the wife said something that really struck me as profound. She was talking about how her bedridden state has left her totally at the mercy of others for her care most of which falls to her husband. The thing that struck me was when she said this was not what she had in mind when they said their marriage vows. She said this was not what she wanted for her husband to have to care for her and clean her and watch her in that state.

That got me to thinking. Most people say their marriage vows without ever really thinking about what they are promising or giving even a moment's thought about what the future may hold. I know I didn't really comprehend it at the time either. Everyone focuses on the "to have and to hold" and forgets about the "in sickness and in health" or "for richer or for poorer" parts of the vows. She told us that she had to learn the hard way what those vows really meant. The Queen and I understood what she meant.

She passed away peacefully surrounded by her family. I know her husband would trade anything to have her back with him and healthy, but they fulfilled their marriage vows in every sense of the word. That's increasingly rare these days. I count myself blessed to have my Queen by my side as we continue fulfilling our vows.

Puppy Glamour Shots

I know this blog has suddenly become the "All Puppies All The Time Channel", but I can't help it (and it's kinda necessary unless Casa de Mimi becomes overrun with the little buggers and...by extension Casa de Daddy Hawk). There is a Friday Funnies post in the hopper for tomorrow to get your random humor fix  in. So, after concluding that immediate relocation of momma dog (now known as "Lucy Laverne" because...reasons...that are actually pretty funny) and pups to a local rescue organization was not a viable option (long story...TLDR...YMMV), we decided it was in the best interests of Lucy and "Friends" to be fostered at Mimi for the next 6 to 8 weeks while the pups grow from wiggly worm mini hungry hippos to...whatever they will be in 6 to 8 weeks.

Lucy Laverne has been exhibiting excellent momma dog instincts and is taking great care of  her babies. I'll try to post a video of the pups later. They are a hungry bunch and make the cutest little grunts and noises.

So, without further adieu, please allow me to introduce you to the pups. Niece "I Do It" gets credit for the idea to name the pups after Snow White and The Seven Dwarfs (Dwoofs).

Dopey - Male

Dopey

Grumpy - Male

Grumpy

Grumpy

Doc - Male

Doc

Happy -  Female

Happy

Bashful - Male

Bashful 

Sneezy - Female

Sneezy

Sleepy - Male

Sleepy

Snow White - Female

Snow White

Bonus pic of Sneezy snuggled into my hand.

Daddy Hawk's Discount Doggie Emporium

To those of you acquainted with me in real life (or at least the facsimile of real life that exists on FaceBook), you already know what's coming. Shhh...don't spoil it for the rest of the readers.

So, last week, I had business in the southern part of the state. Since I live in North Texas, that would be pretty much most of Texas. However, in this particular instance, I am referring to the arm pit of Texas, the "greater" Houston metropolitan area, and San Antonio. Since it was a "two-fer" trip, I elected to drive as opposed to trying to deal with flights, hotels and rental cars. Just dealing with cars and hotels is a lot simpler and allows me to do two things: 1) control my own destiny (more or less), and 2) bring The Queen and M&M along with me for the ride.

Business was uneventful, and the drive home was sufficiently late enough Tuesday evening and near enough to Mimi's house, that we chose to stay the night since I didn't have to have the rental returned until Wednesday morning. When Wednesday morning dawned and we loaded up the rental for the short drive back to our home to off load our junk before returning the rental, we were departing Casa Mimi (aka "The Farm") when we spotted a female dog in the driveway who most clearly in "a family way".

We snapped the above pic and texted it to Mimi to see if she was aware of this young lady casing her house (this is not an unusual occurrence as Casa Mimi has been the refuge of  choice for many a stray over the years). Mimi denied any and all knowledge of the poor, lost waif but promised to keep an eye out for her. We proceeded to depart secure in the knowledge that God and Mimi would take care of it.

We didn't think much more about it until Friday morning when Mimi texted to advise that there was a 12 week old black lab puppy in her driveway. I thought that was oddly specific considering Mimi was departing for work at the time. We have not been "in the market" for a new dog since our beloved Numbnutt had to be put to sleep; however, a chance at a free black lab puppy is not to be missed. So, The Queen, M&M and I loaded up the chariot and returned to Casa Mimi to begin hunting for the rumored black lab puppy.

We arrived before Mimi returned from work at noonish to find no sign or trace of any black lab puppies. What we did find was the little lost, pregnant waif still loitering in the neighborhood. After much searching and following of little miss preggers, we came to the conclusion that the mamma dog to be and the black lab puppy were, in fact, one and the same. Mamma in waiting had been curling up in the flowers next to Mimi's driveway; and, when so cuddled up, her white patches were not visible. Mimi confessed to not having seen the fabled puppy standing or otherwise moving. So, a lab puppy was not to be.

But, the adventure endeth not there. A cold front was coming (or so sayeth the weather guessers...truly Texas forecasts are a joke at best), and temps were expected to drop below freezing. This was intolerable to one and all, and The Queen set about making efforts to befriend one pregnant female dog of uncertain pedigree (it's hard to tell in the photos, but she has a long neck, smallish lab shaped head, longer body out of proportion with her legs and a pit bull tail).

At first, mamma mia was reluctant to come near The Queen and gave a subtle "I'm scared. Leave me alone." low growl. Several treats later, some water, a dog bed and some food along with gentle coaxing by The Queen, and she was down right sociable.

As we spent more time around her, it became apparent that she was most likely a "dump". Some sub-human pile of excrement most likely dropped her off in a "nice area" (Mimi lives in a small, rural town...not quite "turn off the paved road", but you can see it from there.) thinking she could fend for herself. I'm here to tell you, after the better part of at least 3 days, she was not fending for herself. She was thirsty, hungry, scared, stressed, uncomfortable and still keeping a close eye on the road and perked an ear at certain car sounds. So, we suspect she had stayed close to where she was dropped in hopes that her "pack" would come back for her.

There are no words I can share for my thoughts on the person who would do that to a pregnant animal. Then again, I like animals a whole lot more than I like most people.

Anyway, on with our story. As night fell, temps were dropping, condensation was making everything wet, and she was a shivering ball of bloated beached whale. So, we decided she needed to be relocated to more suitable accommodations. Mimi just happens to have a reasonably well built greenhouse complete with heaters, etc. Mimi's house is in "no vacancy" status due to the pipsqueak in residence named Lulu who is sweet dog one on one but who has vociferously expressed her displeasure at the presence of an interloper. So, we made a comfy place for her and set about deciding how to relocate about 50 pounds worth of female dog and her bus load of puppies without inviting disaster.

Since she hadn't reach full trust stage with us yet, she was in no mood to help or make things easy for us. We wound up helping her into a dog bed after which I carried the dog, bed and all, to the greenhouse. She promptly spread out and made herself right at home. Several pettings and head scratchings later, and we received a couple of contented doggie sighs signaling that she was good for the night.

Saturday morning dawned to find us no closer to puppies getting their eviction notices. Mamma May I is much more  relaxed but as uncomfortable as one might expect a short legged dog to be carrying a wide load.

We did attempt to take her out for a walk or two to get her some fresh air and sunshine. Unfortunately, both walk attempts ended in short order after she got tuckered out necessitating yours truly acting as your friendly neighborhood sherpa to carry her back to her bed.

In the mean time, puppy watch continues. I expected to hear the pitter patter of little paws yesterday, but God apparently hasn't given the pups their GO signal yet.

Momma is really a sweet little lady, and I expect she will be a good momma dog to her babies. We have no idea what the pups will look like since we have no clue what the  male side of the equation looks like. I'm gamely trying to remain unattached to her which is really hard because she is an easy dog to like and who wouldn't want to take in an animal in need (discounting the piece of trash who dropped her off on the side of the road). M&M is already in love with her, and Momma Dog lights up like a church on Christmas Eve when M&M comes in to check on her. As much as we would like to take her in, we have other considerations not the least of which are three cats, a rabbit and an unknown number of puppies who need new homes. So, her status remains in limbo for the time being.

So, anyone looking for a sweet dog or a puppy? The puppies need a few more minutes in the oven before they will be done cooking at which time the recipe says to rest them in a cozy spot for about 8 weeks. Pics of pups to follow. Let me know if you are interested. Free to well qualified good homes.

The Pen Is Mightier Than The Sword...

...unless it's a .50 BMG Pen.

In which case, the .50 BMG Pen has an effective range in excess of 2600 yards. This was a recent gift from Mimi. I just have to remember to keep it out of my carry on bags when traveling. I'm pretty sure TSA would not allow this pen on a plane.

M&M-isms

Here a while back, a little over two years ago to be more specific but no more precise, I wrote a quick post about some of M&M's cuter vocabulary choices. It had about the average number of page views but was an underloved and uncommented post. These things happen. I don't expect comments on every single post from every single reader. I do this for my own sanity. Your comments, while greatly appreciated and always well received, are a side benefit of my own self prescribed mental therapy.

So, of course, I have to add to it since M&M the Wonder Midget (a term of endearment she hates) continues to grow and develop which includes adding to her verbal repertoire.

First, a visual point of reference.

M&M is addicted to these things. Anytime we are on a road trip and stop at a gas station, truck stop or convenience store, large or small, she asks if they have any of these "sucky juicy things". She is, of course, enamored with the cartoon character tops. She has a pretty complete set of the Paw Patrol characters as well as a few others. Anytime we stop, she pipes up with "Can I go inside with Dad?" The Queen and I know what she's hinting at, but we don't care. It's cute. I will say, these buggers are pretty pricey for the amount of  juice you get out of them though.

The second M&Mism that I am recording for posterity is her new term of endearment for dear old dad (that'd be me). At random times, she will call for me by the name "Dadwah" (she says it pretty much like it's spelled..."dad wah" with the "wah" slightly drawn out for effect). Which, of course, endears me to her even more than normal.

One of these days, I'm getting a hat with that embroidered on it. Maybe a nice polo shirt with that embroidered over a pocket.

I just hope she keeps being cute and coming up with fun ways to look at the world. It's a lot more interesting that way.

Comings and Goings*

*Much has transpired since last we spoke. Those who are connected to me on the Book of Feces already know some of what I'm about to write. Grab your tissues now. You've been warned.

Along about Thursday evening before Mother's Day, The Queen and I were out and about minding our own business running mundane errands. One of those errands included a stop by the local PetSmart to receive our semi-regular fleecing for the privilege of overpaying for pet food (this is not a complaint against PetSmart as it's not really their fault that our animals HAVE to have the "good" stuff). As we were pulling into the parking lot, we noticed a lady pushing a shopping cart with a small ball of fur in it. The Queen immediately squealed sweet nothings about the unknown boo boo, and I slowed the chariot to avoid making the poor woman and said boo boo a grease spot in the lot. I did roll down my window to ask if The Queen could take a closer look (I know my wife too well).

Before I could say "Whatcha got in the basket Red?", the somewhat harried lady apologized to me for blocking the way. I allowed as how we were not in a hurry nor were we miffed with her presence and advertised The Queen's desire to inspect the fluff ball. Come to find out, the smidgeon of fur was a wee feline of roughly six weeks of age that the lady had spotted in the street moments before it had a close encounter of the Goodyear kind. The kitten apparently did a fair job of tuck and roll or was clipped ever so slightly by the unknown vehicle as the only visible indication of a near pancake experience was a slight scrape on his chin.

The lady told us she was bringing the little guy to PetSmart to see if they could take him in or connect him/them up with a rescue group as they already had their full allotment of felines currently and were unable to find room at the inn. The Queen immediately gave me "The Look"; and, I, manfully trying to maintain a desperate grip on some semblance of control and sanity, allowed as how we did not need another kitten either. The Queen was clearly disappointed, but she did not press the issue.

In what I suspected to be a foregone conclusion, I told The Queen to stick close to the lady and intervene if PetSmart was unable or unwilling to assist. The Queen was only too happy to oblige and proceeded to "help" the lady by holding the micro feline while the lady attempted to talk reason with the PetSmart employee and eventually a rescue organization loosely affiliated with PetSmart.

I went off to take care of the hunting and gathering of the supplies we had come for in the first place.

When I returned, I overheard the last part of the call with the rescue organization. The net result was that they could not take the feline until they found a willing foster family. Failing that, they would have to take the little to a regular animal shelter with the possibility of very short life expectancy.

I heaved a heavy sigh, told The Queen to take possession of the fluffy thing that was sharp and pointy on five of six appendages and staggered off for a bag of kitten kibble while muttering quietly about the fairness of life in general.

A half-hearted effort was made to locate a suitable home for the interloper, and I even received one interested party. Unfortunately, he and I were unable to connect before the kitten had dug his little claws into the family's heart and refused to let go.

Dirty pool little fuzzball, dirty pool.

So, we are the proud slaves to a now 10ish week old male kitten named Winkerbean.

Several other names were tried on for size including:

Binky

Rocket

Stinker

Clawed

Ozzy Clawsbourne

Pinball (appropriate, but taken by my aunt’s cat)

Hissy (previously taken by another family cat and retired)

Rocky

Freebie

Spot (also previously taken)

Have you ever tried to get a six year old to agree on a name for an animal? Especially a six year old who named her rabbit Taco? Winkerbean was the compromise with two out of three family members agreeing and me issuing the deciding edict that we were done trying on new names.

He's definitely settled in for the long haul now. Cute little bugger with a healthy purr and an unhealthy appetite for electrical cords. 

Little did we know that God, in His infinite wisdom, had sent little Winkerbean to us for a reason. 

We have known for about the last two years or so that our remaining dog, Numbnutt - The Half Dog, has been living on borrowed time. He had a close call with a bad case of acute gastroenteritis a couple of years ago and less serious recurrence about a year ago. We just never knew how much time we had left. 

He was born in August of 2005 to my oldest niece's dog, Lilly, while The Queen and JuJu were off cavorting in St. Kitts while I was stuck finishing out my last few days working for a truly evil company before relocating to Houston for a new job. 

The proto Numbnutt on the right.

My niece claimed the proto Numbnutt for her own before giving away his siblings to those well qualified suckers who showed interest. She gave him his first name by trying to placate my displeasure at her lack of responsibility for allowing Lilly to get pregnant by naming the proto Nutt after me. At the time, I was not pleased with the comparison. I got over it. 

So, the proto Nutt went home with Juju and Lilly. Several months later, we received a call from my brother in law that the proto Nutt was in danger of becoming extinct thanks to his momma teaching him to kill chickens. It seems that my brother in law's wife had marked the Nutt for death and was seen looking for suitable implements to off the goofball for the crime of being a dog with a taste for hatched eggs. 

My brother in law, not being one to allow such a fate to befall an "innocent" dog when he knew there were animal lovers in the family to guilt, called The Queen. The Queen asked for/told me I was giving permission to rescue the Nutt, and he was delivered somewhat unceremoniously to our house whereupon he became of ward of my father in law since we had relocated to Houston and had not yet found permanent housing. My father in law bequethed upon him the second of his many names, Tornado, because of his boundless energy. To this day, my father in law refuses to call him Numbnutt. 

Following our return from Houston thanks to The Queen's Mystery Illness interlude, he more or less became a shared dog between us and the in laws. Hence, the appellation of "The Half Dog." It was during the Mystery Illness/Unwilling Two Year Separation that The Queen essentially claimed the Nutt as her own. On one of her good days, she was playing with the dog in the yard, and he was happily acting goofy as always. The Queen said, "You're such a numbnut!", and the rest is history.

From that day forward, he has been Numbnutt. Anywhere we went, he drew praise for his good looks.

Handsome little devil

Inevitably, people would ask his name...and then do a double take when we said "Numbnutt" with a straight face. It became really funny when M&M came along and was old enough to proudly say his name. The college girls at the nearby university found him irresistible when we took our evening walks over there.

Numbnutt has been fiercely protective of his humans and loyal to a fault. He was always especially fond of sharing kisses with anyone in range...which was surprising how far that tongue would reach. "No tongue!!" became a standard phrase around the house.

As he aged, he never lost a step. He would go and go and go. He never grayed around his muzzle like most dogs in their 10s.

Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end. Last Thursday, M&M came into the bedroom where I was doing something and said that there was problem with the Nutt. I came to investigate and immediately called The Queen. Numbnutt had just finished his dinner when he collapsed in the living room. I found him on his side, breathing heavily with a rapid heart rate. He had voided his bladder and bowels and was not focusing or responsive. We succeeded in getting him to his feet, but he only made it a few feet to the kitchen before he collapsed again. This time, he threw up his dinner.

Being after normal vet hours, I was not looking forward to another visit to the 24 hour vet in town. My last experience with them was not pleasant. So, I did a quick Google search and the first result was another vet's office that was open until 10:00PM. We loaded the car quickly, and I called the vet's office while on the way to see if they could work us in while explaining the situation.

Numbutt gamely tried to stand up during the car ride to watch the world go by, but his legs wouldn't keep him up. We arrived at the vet's office in short order, and The Queen filled out the necessary paperwork. We were ushered to a room, and the vet came in after a short wait. He was an older gentleman evoking the image of a kindly, family doctor. After hearing our description of the symptoms and doing his own examination, he laid it out for us in gentle tones that he could do a lot of tests to confirm what he already knew....our dog was dying. He said plainly that he could run the tests and probably determine whether it was a tumor or an internal bleed; but, ultimately, there was nothing that could be done. He recommended euthanasia as opposed to prolonging the suffering.

The Queen, in particular, was heartbroken. We were all crying, but The Queen was especially sad. Numbnutt was her comfort during her illness when I was unable to be there for her.

The Queen and Numbnutt - May 2017

The Queen was Numbnutt's Alpha. He would listen to her no matter what. He stood by her and made her smile no matter what. He lived to make her happy and receive nothing more than a kind word and a head scratch or a belly rub in return.

His passing was as peaceful as we could make it. The vet did an excellent job of a difficult task, and I cannot say enough good about them. They earned our respect and will be our regular vet going forward. I took Numbnutt down to Mimi's property to find a suitable resting place.

Like any good dog, he loved to dig holes and lie in the sun. Unlike many dogs, he never bothered cats and left Taco the rabbit alone as well.

I found him a nice spot in the open surrounded by trees so that he could still lie in the sun.

Like all good dogs, Numbnutt loved to dig holes and lie in the sun. He just needed a little help digging the last one.

Rest well our faithful boy. Enjoy the sun.