Post procedure 3-way w/the 2 objects of his "affection": kangaroo and German shepherd.

Last week Petey the one-eyed Boston Terrier went under the knife for the snip-snip. The nip-and-tuck. The neutering.

Why, you may rightly ask, would we do this to our sweetie Petey? Well, we got this feedback when we boarded him at the super awesome Polka Dot Dogs here in Houston two weeks ago: “Your little darlin’ is trying to become a father and has his [one] eye on that chihuahua over there. And the cockapoo. Oh, and also the maltese.”

Pooooooor Petey. In his defense, he told me all three were super hot little bitches.  And he loves Polka Dot Dogs. Instead of kennels, they let all the dogs of similar size and temperament play in open rooms together. He’d like us to take him along wherever we go, but, if he can’t go with us, he prefers PDD.

PDD, however, has a policy. At the age of seven months, little boy doggies no longer get to stay in open room boarding if they can’t keep it to themselves. While I think anyone would be lucky to get the bonus of little Peteys along with the price of their boarding, I guess I can accept this.

So, Petey visited his very intimate buddies at the vet. After three months of eye treatments, they know and love him. After neutering my poor baby, they know him even better. Before the procedure, they asked me if I’d like them to put a microchip in Petey, in case he ever gets lost.

I called Eric. “Do we want Petey to have one of those Pet Finder microchip thingies?”

Eric said, “Sounds like a good idea to me.”

“Okey dokey. They said they can put one in when they remove his you know whatsies,” I explained.

Eric paused. “Wait a second. They remove his you know whatsies and put the chip in the space left behind?”

“I didn’t ask, but that sounds likely, since this only came up because of his procedure.”

“So he’ll have a tracker in his ball sack??”

“I wouldn’t have put it quite like that, but, yeah, I guess that’s about right.”

Another pause.

“Well, I guess we’ll always be able to find it, then,” Eric said.

Ew. If we ever wanted to actually know where it was. Other than between his legs, I mean. I’m thinking this microchip may tell us a little more than we really wanted. Plus, whatever happened to the right to privacy? What do we do when Petey starts dating? Or God forbid, if he marries? Wouldn’t it be enough of a challenge that he couldn’t father little Peteys without his anxious parents tracking his every move with his beloved? This is a little more intrusive than, say, a GPS tracker in a car, which I’m not above installing in my kids’ vehicles if they deserve it. But a ball sack tracker? Could I do that to him?

As I pondered the horrors, Eric broke into my reverie. “I’m kidding, Pamela. It’s a good idea. It’s fine. I’ll bet they don’t even put it there. They probably just use the occasion of anethesia to tuck it in somewhere else.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

I exhaled. What a relief, because I was pretty sure that wherever they were going to put the microchip, it was a done deal by now.

Later that same day, I picked up our Petester. Oh, what a pitiful sight he was, head hanging, eyes downcast. He seemed awfully low, even for a dog who had lost his manhood. I paid and whisked him to the car, whispering supportive and encouraging words in his ear about his bright future and the long line of female dogs who didn’t give a rat’s ear about puppies, citing to our own Layla and Cowboy as an example of devoted and puppieless partners.

Nothing worked. I just couldn’t cheer him up. We were almost home when a cold dread seeped over me.  I pulled to the side of the road and put the car in park. I knew even before I carefully searched his 16-pound body for a microchip incision what I would find — nothing.

The only point of entry? Yes, you guessed it: the poochy pouch. Little tears of guilt welled up in the corners of my eyes. I stroked him and begged for his understanding and forgiveness. This appeared to mollify him a bit, and I headed for home.

As I was making dinner that night, my daughter Susanne came in. “I guess that surgery didn’t work. Petey’s humping his stuffed German Shepherd.”

A few minutes later my son Clark swung by. “What a stud, Mom. Petey’s giving it to that kangaroo. Didn’t he just get his balls chopped off today?”

When he walked through the door, Eric exclaimed, “Wow, Petey, you aren’t letting a little pain stop you, are you?”

I could only imagine. As I pondered his actions, even I had to admit it. Our Petey is a total slut. Maybe the vet put the tracker exactly where we need it to be.

Pamelot

"Pet bathing" (Juliet, who gets her cat box back).

Remember in my holiday letter I told you we had to install a cat box in our bathroom because my middle-aged bladder couldn’t handle the hike around the house and up the stairs to the bathroom, while our master bath was under remodel/reconstruction?  Well, I didn’t *actually* put a cat box in the bedroom.  And now, there’s no need for it anymore, because, ladies and germs, we have a new bathroom. Sure, there’s still some doomerflotchies and hooha’s to finish up in the next few weeks — like the installation of shower glass and the top to a half wall – but it’s still beautiful, and better yet useable!

We started with this:

Opening into shower/potty.

Here’s the bathrom after they started framing out the shower and tub.

 

The answer: practically nothing; strip it to the studs. So they ripped everything out leaving a bare 8×10 space.

I did not change the size of the overall bathroom, as I didn’t want to take space from the master bedroom on one side or the beautiful office on the other side.  I decided to create an open space bathroom instead, to give the illusion of more room. So, the watchwords of the remodel: space, light, functionality, natural.

 

The 3×3 enclosed shower in the tiny potty area became a 4.5′x4.5′ shower with frameless 3/8″ glass walls that are 76″inch tall, It has a dual Moen Caldwell brushed nickel shower heads (we used Moen Caldwell brushed nickel for the tub and sink faucets, too). The shower heads are great, the hot water FUNCTIONS, and we only had to make one adjustment to the design by having the contractor screw the shower head slide bar into the tile. The design had it affixing to the tile/stone with a suction cup, which did not work on stone.  We also punched out the ceiling to make the shower taller, and floated the floor lower in the shower to add height and an overall feeling of space. This bathroom had unually low ceilings to begin with (8 foot, before finish out).  Yao Ming won’t be able to use it, but most other humans still can; overall the lower ceilings keep it warmer and cozier. The frameless glass will add to the feeling of space and, of course, light.  The contractor built in two oversized shampoo holders — his and hers — and also a shaving “foot perch” for me. Heaven.

We put a light in the shower, and a frameless glass block window replaced the original window to let in natural light without having to open the blinds. This is a pretty “naked” bathroom with its clear glass shower walls and open design ;-). Before, the window, which faces onto the neighbors’ driveway, had no functional impact on the bathroom because we kept the blinds closed 100% of the time.

The shower is in the same place as before, but we moved the shower head to the back wall (it had been mounted on the no-longer-existing interior wall), and we eliminated the potty wall altogether, replacing it with a half wall for an illusion of privacy and to balance one side of the vanity area with the other.  The light above the potty has an incorporated extra powerful fan to remove the humidity from the shower.

The new bathtub is smaller than the old one, shaped for the body, and jetted. It’s 60″ x 32″. I would have liked a wider tub, but we couldn’t have everything our hearts desired due to space limitations, and I wanted the illusion of space more than I wanted a swimming pool. Bigger bathtub = crowding, less floor space, and an overall cramped feeling. And the tub’s relative size makes the shower look and feel bigger. Fear not, it still fits two!

 

The potty is a tall potty.  Yay! Yay!  Yay! It has a spiffy little head knocker cabinet above it, much smaller than the giant white monstrosity before, which you can’t see in the original pictures, but, trust me, it barked.

 

The countertops are Lux Granite, which is a reconstituted granite that is poured into the shape you want.  It’s gorgeous, and it was a cost-saver for us, as we really blew through our budget on natural stone and frameless glass. We went with undermount sinks attached to the countertop.  The same granite will also go atop the half wall separating the counter from the potty, next week.  This wall is not just for privacy. It also houses electrical so that we could have outlets on that side of the vanity where there were none before. The wall-to-wall mirrors are GONE.  Instead we opted for for simple framed mirrors over each sink.  We also put in a recessed medicine cabinet on the wall adjoining the bedroom, to add back a little of the storage we lost with the smaller cabinet above the toilet.  Even better, we added a standing linen “tower” cabinet (tall and skinny) by the tub, in the place that used to be swallowed up by the footprint of the giant tub step.

 

We repurposed our existing cabinets with a fresh stain job and new hardware. Eric refinished them himself, and don’t they look marvelous? He’s staining all the woodwork in the bathroom to match over the next few weeks, as we had to buy “creatively” to fit our space and budget, and thus ended up with some pieces with different finishes. With the addition of sleek new brushed nickel hardware, the cabinets’ wood tone and clean lines completed the natural look I was going for.

 

I used brushed nickel throughout for fixtures and hardware, and I found some nice pieces to use for towel racks, etc. Most of them won’t go in until the shower and wall top are installed, so you won’t see them in the video.

 

My big splurge?  Besides that frameless custom 3/8″ shower glass, of course?  16×16″ Scabos Travertine!  That’s natural stone  you see on the entire wall behind the tub as well as on the shower walls.  The vivid pattern of the Scabos might not scream “resell” to our real estate agent in four years when we plan to move, but we fell in love with it and plan to enjoy every second we spend with it.  Plus, doesn’t just about everyone love natural stone? And I created something of an impressionistic mural, with a “storm” below “clouds” below “sun” bleeding into a “sun over cloudless sky and land.”  You follow it from left to right around the room.  It’s truly stunning, IMHO, and only took me two days of heavy lifting to create as I moved tile around on my dining room and office floors! We chose a lighter 1×1 travertine for the shower floor, and a less vibrant but coordinating 13×13 travertine for the floor. Think “chill” on the horizontal plane to balance the “vivid” on the vertical plane.  I also found some wonderful Scabos border pieces for the tub box edge, and for the shower/wall junction by the window.

Here we were midway:

Supplies and appliances were staged in our family room.We gave up our large entry way to floor tile, and later to paint and other supplies as well.Our dining room gave way to the hand-selected, hand-arranged Scabos, numbered to match the plot plan I drew up for the tile installers. I love me a good plan.

Entry way/storage.

Dining room numbered tile grid. And Layla.

Numbered tile grid in my office.

So where did all the furniture go? The breakfast room, the music room, and the play room. And then there was the contents of our bathroom itself, which landed in our bedroom and our son’s bathroom. Boy, did that bathroom get the cleaning of its life before Eric and I used it. My son actually enjoyed sharing; us, not so much. He’s 16, 6’2″, and a boy. And did I mention he’s a 16-year-old boy?? The only rooms left intact were the upstairs bedrooms, one of which I temporarily (if nine weeks is temporary) moved myself/office into, although the contractors could still find me there, and did, 73 times a day.

 

Here’s the almost final result. Was it worth it? We think so!

 

Three things we “settled” on, that we are glad we did, but would have done differently if we had more space:

1. We left the too-big entrance door inward swinging. We evaluated options such as an outward swing (insufficient space) or pocket door (impossible, it turned out), and ultimately decided that we had no viable alternative. You can see in the video that it really encroaches on the bathroom, but I think we made do adequately.

 

2. Despite the encroaching door, we went ahead and installed the linen tower cabinetry. We considered leaving it out because we couldn’t resolve the door issue, but I wanted the storage space, and so Eric put a bumper on the bottom of the door to protect the cabinet.  When the door is closed, the door/cabinet becomes a non-issue altogether.

Here's a picture of the cabinet-restaining-in-progress, along with the door shut, mostly.

 

3. See how our window is pushed up against the edge of the shower such that the window frame is not symmetrical? Well, we wanted every millimeter we could get for the shower, and moving the window back to achieve that symmetry would have been an expensive nightmare that required brick demolition. It just wasn’t worth it.

 

I’m even more pleased with it than I had imagined I would ever be. Things I love? The glass blocks let light in 24×7, because they catch the streetlight 150 feet away. I love the “H” bathmats (so does Petey Sweetie!).  I adore the tile. The tub rocks.  And the shower makes me weep. The potty is such a huge improvement over the old squatter. We have plenty of cabinet space now. I love everything, and 10 times as much now that we have the contractor out of the house, the house cleaned and rearranged, and can use the bathroom.

I’ll update with more pictures when the last few touches are installed.

 

WHEW, FRIENDS, I can’t tell you what a time-consuming project this was. I work from home, so I was Jane-on-the-spot for the contractors. Which was a fortuitious thing, even if painful. As they dismantled and reassembled the bathroom, they ran across many surprises and challenges that we solved the way I wanted, which was never how they envisioned. It also took nine weeks and cost a bajillion dollars, including an unanticipated $1000 for an electrical emergency (let’s just say at least we didn’t burn the house down). But that’s why I go jetting off to London for work on short notice, right? So I can have a new bathroom! And we couldn’t just not pay for Liz’s college this year, so I had to find a new stash of funds.

 

Well, meanwhile, I have several books under deadline with my taskmaster editor, so I have to tear myself away from the fun and beauty of the new bathroom, and off to workland I go.

 

TTFN,

 

Pamelot

 

p.s. While I did not hire a decorator, I must say that I had used the services of Lisa Baer of Baer Home Design a few years ago on a house. Some of the pieces she helped me select still appear on the walls and tub surround in this bathroom! Everything I did right, she gets education credits for; the mistakes are all mine! Be sure to check out the great design tips on her blog, where you can subscribe/follow, and follow her on Facebook at Baer Home Design.

Actual Quacker photo of joyous Petey on the bed during the arctic freeze.

You know that age-old saying, “rednecking can lead to redneckedness?” No? Well, deal with it and work with me, people.

Let’s try that again:

You know that age-old saying, “rednecking can lead to redneckedness?” Last weekend, it didn’t hold any water. We spent the weekend rednecking, and there wasn’t a damn bit of redneckedness.

Here’s what happened. Eric and I hoofed it to Nowheresville for another idyllic weekend camped out in the Quacker. For once, I have no poo stories for you (And the crowd screams, “Yay! Thank you!”). Nor, it turns out, do I have any naked stories. Not that I usually share any naked stories. I’m simply confirming there were none.

And the reason for no naked stories? 1) Gas and 2) Petey the one-eyed light of our lives. No, not that kind of gas. Although there was some of that, there is no causal connection between that “gas” and the “no naked” issue.  Instead, I’m talking about propane  gas. My husband Eric aka, in Nowheresville, Bubba-mon ran out of propane in our two propane tanks. Guess what kind of heater we have? Pr-o-p-a-n-e, yes.

Today in Houston on January 16th it was a balmy 70. But last weekend in Nowheresville it got down to 25 degrees on the fateful propane-less night. 25 is a brisk daytime/sunshine temp. It sucks for camping, however. Which is what you are doing if you are in the wildnerness with no heater, even if you are on a mattress in a trailer.

So, for starters, it was wayyyyyyyy too cold for naked. It was flannel jammies double comforter cold in the Quacker. But I mentioned reason number two for “no naked:” Petey.

Since it was just the right temperature for the Abominable Snowman but not for a 16-pound dog with a thin layer of hair, Petey did not find his own bed a satisfactory place to spend the night. Actually, the big dogs, Cowboy and Layla, didn’t either; they were living the highlife in the back of the old Suburban. Don’t scoff. There’s a big difference between the inside of a vehicle warmed by their breathing and without a breeze — and away from the yelps of coyotes and calls of the wild hogs — and 25 degrees when laying on the ground outside the Quacker. Worry not, friends, the broken seals around the Suburban windows gave them ample oxygen as well.

Where was I? Oh, “no naked” and Petey. So Petey suggested that he join us under the double comforters in our bed. Normally, Petey is a no-people-bed kind of dog, although not for lack of trying. He only spent a night on the bed with us once before, and that was the night of the day that Cowboy put Petey’s eye out. You would have let the little bugger sleep with you that night, too, I guarantee.

On this night, as we breathed whole storm systems of frost clouds over our heads, I again felt sorry for Petey.

“Just for tonight,” I said.

“Just for tonight,” Eric agreed without hesitation.

We didn’t even have to say, “Come, Petey.” He sensed the change and leaped up between us where he tunneled under the covers and to the foot of the bed. I couldn’t have asked for more. My feet were encased in blocks of solid ice, and his warm little body thawed them right out.

As Eric and I finished eskimo kissing goodnight a few moments later, though, a rocket shot out from under the covers, and, when we pressed our lips together for a people kiss, Petey’s cold, wet nose and extended tongue made contact with both of our lips. It may not have been the most romantic way to end the evening, but I’d trade my cold feet for his cold nose anytime.  So, after a few dry heaves, we bid our little critter a fond goodnight and fell asleep three abreast, all snuggled up and warm as a summer day.

I <3 Petey sweetie.

Pamelot

Cowboy, our big yellow dog, the mutant labrador, the dainty little waif who talks like Chewbecca and steals hearts like a master thief: Cowboy is no longer a young dog. Tonight, after a weekend in Nowheresville, he lays at my feet. Occasionally he moans. If I talk to him, he answers in what could best be called a wail. It wasn’t such a tough weekend for him, comparatively, but every weekend of physical activity is hard now. The temperature stayed cool, which helped, and we walked more than ran, which did, too, but the end result was the same: an old arthritic dog heavy on his feet and feeling the passage of every day.

Once upon a time, Cowboy ruled the rainforest of St. Croix. He was master of his domain and pack of six dogs at Estate Annaly. He ate up the 10-mile runs with Eric and me along Scenic Road overlooking North Shore on the West End of the island. He lived the life, man, he lived the life. He had his own swimming pool out back and pond out front, with trips to the beach every weekend. He regularly made the magic hike up the stream to Caledonia Springs. How could it get any better?

Then we moved him to Houston, to a city-sized backyard whose ponds were barely deep enough for wading. He was little more than a captive there. “Don’t worry,” we told him, “we promise this isn’t the end. We’ll find you a new home to rival Annaly, someday.” He wagged his vase-breaking bass drum mallet of a tail in understanding. He trusted us to make it right.

Oftentimes, though, we would pull up in our driveway to see his huge mournful head behind the bars of the gate, only his long nose sticking out. Even if he went for a run, it was on a leash, feet pounding the concrete.  Years passed this way. He made the best of it. He held it in. But he had lost so much, and the clock ticked forward steadily.

We bought 16 acres in Nowheresville, a beautiful place. He would cry with joy when we pulled the old Suburban up to its gates. From our earliest days there, though, it was clear he had lost a step. The charm of the place wore thin after a few hours. He’d limp around on city paws.  He would stay curled up in the shade rather than join Layla in a game of Chase-the-Suburban or in one of her forest explorations. He lost in a fight with a water mocassin, although even that couldn’t stop him for long.

We plan to build our someday house there and make a permanent move when our youngest child Susanne graduates from high school, Susanne as in the Dog Whisperer, as in Cowboy’s best friend. Only one problem though: Cowboy will be nearly 14 years old by then, which is 98 in normal dog years, and nigh impossible in giant mutant labrador years.

Only a few months ago, we had allowed him to join us on a 7-mile run.  It was 6:30 a.m., but it was summertime Texas. 90-degrees and humidity were too much for him. He crawled under our Suburban, which we had parked at the halfway point, and lapped up all the water and ice out of our open cooler.  Layla galloped along beside us. He watched, making no sound, licking his sore paws, and panting in the heat. Another time that same summer when we had left the Suburban at our trailer aka the Quacker, he simply laid down in the road and would go no further, three long miles from home. We had no way to help him except to continue on without him back to our vehicle, then return to cart him home. We found him one and a half miles from our property, laying in the muddy bottoms of a nearly-dried up pond.  Eric coaxed him back to the Suburban and lifted his limp, stank, and steamy 125-pound body waist high and into the truck bed.

And just last weekend, he had stumbled along in the loamy trail behind me, behind Layla the “canine muscle” and accomplished runner, who was in turn lagging well behind Petey, the 16-pound distance terrier who had churned out the canine-equivalent of a ten mile run to our five on two consecutive days over the Christmas holidays. Petey, the dog I had thought too small to run more than a mile or two with us. Petey, with his one eye and giant swagger, was, in a twist of fate so painfully ironic that the angels wept, the heir apparent to the kingdom of the giant yellow dog who had stolen Petey’s eye. To the home Cowboy was to have at Nowheresville, the home that should have replaced his beloved Annaly but maybe never will. Layla will grow old there. Petey will spend his prime there, a runty little dog no match for a coyote or wild pig. But Cowboy, who in his best days could have kicked the coyotes’ ass and still had enough left in him to give the hog a thrashing? These shorts visits may be all he has.

For Cowboy, the dog that ran rings around life and all of us on St. Croix, is running out of time.

So, God, my God and the God of all creatures great and small, if I could ask for just one thing of you for our old friend: Please let him stay with us long enough to spend peaceful evenings in front of a Nowheresville fireplace, knowing he has made it full circle back to the promised land of a home fit for a kingly beast, a real home at last.

Amen.

Pamelot

***

Dear Tim Tebow:

I’ll bet there’s a lot of pressure on you already, what with you being the Broncos’ quarterback, building third-world hospitals and all, and inventing Tebowing.  I really hate to add to the stress, I do, but Tim Tebow, only you can save my daughter.

We’ve done (almost) everything right with 15-year old Susanne, but you know how precarious morals and behavior are in a girl this age. For awhile, we had her wearing a WWJD (What Would Jesus Do)  bracelet as a reminder of how to act. Then she discovered live boys, and a dead Jesus, even a risen one, just didn’t completely cut it anymore.

We’ve seen signs she may be headed down the wrong path. When she was in 8th grade, she had 23 unexcused absences to homeroom, and it’s possible she was selling drugs or committing sins of the flesh when unaccounted for. Another time she didn’t return her leftover lunch money at the end of the week, and I am pretty sure that breaks one of the Ten Commandmants, but I’d have to look it up. Also troubling are her attempts to emulate Angelina Jolie.

I think that’s the worshipping false idols, right? Anyway, I saved the worst for last. At Halloween, she made this cake:

Clearly, this cake is decorated with twelve penises. I don’t know where that one falls vis a vis the Commandmants, but I know that it is bad, really, really bad.

Things have improved lately, and this is where you come in. Last month, Susanne announced that she was marrying you, Tim Tebow. My husband and I discussed the possibility, and we want you to know that, while she is still a little young, you have our blessing. However, in the meantime, we assume you would like her to graduate from high school with virtue intact and no criminal record.

To that end, we have a new and effective strategy to control Susanne’s more wayward behavior.  Let me give you an example.  Last night, I asked her to set the table and was aghast at her response:

Me: Sweetness, would you please set the table for our sit-down family dinner, and be thinking about what you are thankful for. It’s your turn to say grace.

Susanne: Mom, I don’t have to set the table. I’m going to marry Tim Tebow and be really rich and have a maid to set the table. I’m thankful for that.

You see what I mean? So then I prayed about it for a while, and that’s when I received what I took as a message directly from God: only Tim Tebow can save my daughter.

So, I said: Susanne, I haven’t met your fiance personally yet, but from everything I’ve read, I believe he would want you to honor your mother. I’m concerned about the impact of your behavior on your upcoming nuptials.

Susanne, eyebrows raised: Huh?

Me: Please, Susanne, set the table and make Tim Tebow proud of you.

Susanne, flipping her hair: Make Clark [her brother] do it.

Me: Susanne, Tim Tebow wants you to set the table.

Susanne, with her hand up: Whatever.

Me: What I meant to say, Susanne, is that Tim Tebow told me to tell you to set the @#$%* table. Right now.  And I’m not kidding.

And you know what? She did. I’m really pleased with the positive impact you have on her; I think that’s the kind of relationship any parent would hope for.

Right afterwards, I snapped this photo:

I think it’s a sign.

If you can resurrect the 1-4 Broncos and bring them to the playoffs, I feel certain you are strong enough to save my daughter.

Thanks in advance.

Your Future Mother-in-Law,

Pamelot

p.s. Please, God, forgive me for telling my daughter that Tim Tebow used the word @#$%*.

p.p.s. If things don’t work out between you and Susanne, Tim Tebow, I have two more daughters.