Bruce’s Online Journal

“I write because I don’t know what I think, until I read what I say.” — Flannery O'Connor

Week of April 30, 2001

May 6

What's a mother supposed to do? The kids are acting out. All of them.

See, Mark's gone away again this weekend. This time it's to Chicago to see the Cubs. When the alarm went off at 6:30 yesterday morning, I thought to myself, Damn, I've got to remember not to have broccoli, peanuts and ice cream all in the same night. It was, shall we say, fragrant.

Within seconds of falling back into bed, which is the only way to do it since my desk consumes the space that would ordinarily be next to a bed, a basset pushed the door open. Not a good sign to begin with, then in an instant, the atmosphere went from fragrant to pungent.

As with so much in life, it was one of those good news/bad news things. The good news is that I hadn't had an epic attack of nocturnal flatulence. The bad news greeted me when I stepped out into the hallway. Dog poop. An incredible quantity of the stuff, and no, it was not in a nice, neat, easy-to-pick-up pile of turds.

I tried not to be judgmental but from their looks and behavior, it seemed obvious which of the two was the guilty party. Oxford, the young male who had pushed my door open, wore a look that said, "I just know he's going to yell at me." Molly, the graying female, looked at me as if to say, "Dog poop? I don't know what you're talking about. There's no dog poop here."

I made them wait until after I had cleaned it up before I served breakfast.

We had wonderful July weather all last week. The forecast called for a cold front overnight, so on Friday it seemed like the perfect way to end the week was to have a couple of friends over for a cookout before the meeting. Contributing to the decision was the $1.98/lb sale on London Broil at the supermarket. Grilled Portobello mushrooms, macaroni salad and broccoli completed the menu.

Being too hot in the kitchen and since the outdoor furniture isn't out yet, we dined in the dining room. The birds looked at us suspiciously as the broccoli was passed. As you may recall, they get a sprig of kale and a broccoli floret every morning. If there was anything going through their little birdy brains it must have been, "They're eating our food."

Stuffed, us not the birds, my guests seemed disappointed when I told them, "No, the dogs can't have table scraps. Mark says it keeps them from begging and the steady diet keeps their digestive tracts in order."

The disappointment on their faces and the mournful looks from the dogs (as if bassets can look any other way) caused me to relent at dessert. As we ate ice cream, the dogs had Frosty Paws frozen doggie desserts.

"They really like it," remarked one. "I wonder what it tastes like?"

Speculation ran wild. Beef? Liver? Bone marrow? The thought of beef or liver flavored ice cream had us laughing. Then we consulted the ingredients listing. "From what it says here," my other friend concluded, "it must taste like malted milk."

That's a little easier to imagine.

In any event, on Saturday morning I attributed the soft, custard texture of the dog poop to Frosty Paws.

Feeling like Bill Murray in the film "Goundhog Day", the alarm clock blasted me from slumber at 6:30 this morning. After turning it off, I fell back into bed. Moments later a basset pushed the door open, and the room filled with the aroma of warm, fresh, creamy dog poop.

Letting out a mighty sigh, I got out of bed. I'd forgotten to bring the laundry up last night which meant I had to get dressed since my bathrobe was in the dryer. As I sat on the end of the bed pulling on my pants, across the hall I saw that a large wet spot of piddle joined the dog poop this morning.

Disgusted, but trying to remain non-judgmental, I opened the gate at the top of the stairs. The dogs raced downstairs and I trudged along behind them.

Beeeeeeee.

What's that sound? There's nothing in the microwave.

Beeeeeeee.

As I reached the sliding door enough of the fog lifted for me to realize the sound was coming from the burglar alarm. I knew I'd forgotten something upstairs before I opened the gate.

Fortunately I didn't fall as I tripped over two bassets in my dash for the side door, but I wasn't the picture of grace either. Leaning on the wall by the alarm panel I suddenly drew a blank. What's the code? Dammit!

Beeeeeeee.

Okay, first digit, uh…

Beeeeeeee.

It's gotta be close to thirty seconds. What's the rest of it?

Beeeeeeee.

As the adrenaline reached my brain, the neurons began to wake up. Beep, beep, beep, beep. I entered the rest of the code and was rewarded with silence.

Warmth hadn't come to the sun yet as I stood on the deck waiting to collect evidence. I figured whichever dog peed or pooped first would be the innocent party.

It was timed perfectly, choreographed brilliantly. They went to opposite sides of the yard, then peed and pooped in unison.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," I muttered, letting myself back in the house. "That's it. Not only are you waiting for your breakfast until after I clean up the carpet, but I'm going to feed and water the birds first."

This of course was after I'd slid the door shut, so effectively, I was talking to myself.

I pulled the cover off the cage and greeted the birds. "Hello my little turkey vultures!"

They screeched at me.

"What is it? Morning breath? Or is my hair a fright?" Probably both, I thought. I unclipped their seed and water dishes and carried them to the kitchen.

There was bird poop in the seed dish. I called in to the birds, "Didn't your mother ever tell you that you don't shit where you eat? Oh well. At least I don't have to clean it out of the carpet."

Famous last words.

Returning to the dining room with fresh kale, broccoli, seed and water, I found The Universe wasn't through challenging me this morning. One of the birds sat preening on the top of the cage.

I knew I hadn't opened the cage and sure enough, the cage door was closed. All I'd done, like so many mornings before, was unclip the bars that hold the dishes. And although it leaves a cockatiel-sized hole in the cage, it's never been a problem.

Okay, I thought. It's the little one. Mark says the little one comes out for a few minutes a couple of times a week. No need to panic. I replaced the seed and water dishes as if there was nothing out of the ordinary, let alone out of its cage.

I opened the door and replaced the kale and broccoli. How am I going to do this? I thought a minute and decided that since the bigger one never comes out of the cage, I could leave the door open and wait until the little one went back inside. No problem. I'll just have my coffee here instead of in front of the PC.

I went into the kitchen and poured a cup. While I had my head in the fridge getting orange juice, there was a cacophony of screeches and wings flapping from the other room. Okay. The bird flew back into the cage, everything's going to be fine.

"Screeeee! Screeeee!" the bigger one cried in alarm as I rounded the corner, coffee and orange juice in hand. The bigger one now occupied the top of the cage, and spurning the kale and broccoli, the smaller one was perched in a hanging basket alternately pruning and eating the plant. I sat down to the table, sipped my coffee and wondered how was I ever going to get two birds back into the cage.

Four hours later, I'm still wondering.

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