Favorite Things Friday - Excellent Customer Service.....

My very favorite thing in the world (at least as of the moment of this writing) is excellent customer service. When a salesperson goes out of her way to make me happy, I am likely a customer for life.

I have discovered that finding an acceptable dog groomer is much harder than finding an acceptable hairdresser. I had a wonderful groomer who worked out of her home, took appointments in two-hour intervals, and was very reasonable as far as price.

Then she got married and moved to Texas. Butthead.

I tried a couple of other places, but they proved to be unsatisfactory. One told me I could drop Gus off at 7:30, but drop him off is what I would have had to do. There was no one there until well after 8:00, and I was late to school. Another wouldn't take appointments and was only open sporadically. Sort of like a business in a Mexican resort town. Imagine Gus's disappointment when I told him we were going to the beauty shop and he didn't get to get a haircut.

I finally broke down and took him to the chain pet store that starts with the word Pet and ends with Smart. (Or, as Larry the Cable Guy has wondered, does it start with Pets and end with Mart? I don't have a logo handy to check it out.)

I didn't really want to go that route. I was afraid it would be considerably more expensive (correct) and that Gus would receive less than personal attention (woefully incorrect).

I won't go into the details of each and every one of his appointments. He's already changed groomers even there, but at least the location has stayed the same.

I knew his "regular" groomer was going to be out of town at the end of May, when it was time for his next appointment, so I didn't make an appointment ahead of time. Things got crazy with bicycle rides every weekend and getting ready for BRAG, so I didn't get around to making his appointment when the end of May rolled around. (Heck, I haven't even made MY doctor's appointments.)

Last weekend, though, the folks from the pet store called ME and asked if I would like to make an appointment. I was astounded enough to text Hubby, "Times must be hard." The girl said Gus's regular groomer, Alyssa, wouldn't be in until Friday, and I said I needed it done before then, so I would just schedule with whoever was available.

Imagine my surprise when I went to pick Gus up, and not only was he beautifully groomed, but the girl who had groomed him was Alyssa. She said she was supposed to be off that day, but when she saw Gus on the schedule, she came in so she could be the one who groomed him.

It may be a load of malarkey, but it was a nice thing to say even if it was a lie.

Service like that is worth a little bit more money. Besides, they are open early and are only two miles from our house.

Because I'm in such a good mood and am excited about leaving tomorrow morning for BRAG, I'll share with you a bonus photo from my travels (and travels and travels - story later) with Roz this afternoon.

It may appear this dude was sitting in a parking lot, but I assure you he was driving - DRIVING!!!! - in the lane right next to me. Sure, traffic was slow, but he was still in a MOVING VEHICLE! (The newspaper is either in Japanese or Chinese. I realize that has nothing to do with this story.)

Chattahoochee Bend State Park.....

Hubby and I are "roughing" it in the RV at our state's newest state park. It's only about 2 hours from home, approximately an hour south of Atlanta.

It's a gorgeous park with most of the amenities anyone would need. Well, if the amenities people need involve mostly getting away from everything, this is the perfect place. We have no cell service, and I don't mean spotty service, I mean ZERO. That's not altogether a bad thing, since my internet connect card works. If I had no internet AND no cell service, I might be twitching like Hubby was yesterday when we realized we had left the remote control for the satellite receiver at home and might not have television. (As usual, I figured it out and saved the day. Possibly the trip. Potentially the marriage.)

RV camping is "ruff" on a dog. I have an entire folder of pictures of Gus in this same position.

Each campground section has a lovely bathhouse with clean restrooms and showers. I prefer to shower in the RV because I don't like hauling everything to the bathhouse, but if we didn't have the RV shower it would be nice to have the facilities nearby. There is a nice playground (where I have been to swing on the swings twice today, once with my great-niece and great-nephew, who live nearby and came to visit), and the camping sites are level, clean, paved, perfectly spaced, and aesthetically pleasing.

Before we came here, I mapped out a 20-mile bike ride loop from the campground using a computer program. After we were inside the park, however, I realized I could likely ride 20 miles and never leave the park. Shortly after that I realized I had left my cycling shoes at home, so a ride of any length was in question. When we arrived yesterday, there was a sign on the visitors' center door that no one was on duty, so we should check in with the campground host, choose a campsite, and come back to the visitors' center today before 11:00 AM to register and pay.

The visitors' center is two miles from our campground, so I rode my bike up there this morning. It was a struggle because I didn't have the proper shoes, and my pedals are so small it's hard to keep my feet on them wearing tennis shoes. (My cycling shoes are cleated and clip into the pedals. I call them "suicide pedals," but they work.) In addition, the terrain inside the park is hilly. VERY hilly. I rode the two miles to the visitors' center, then the additional mile back to the main gate, then on to the road where we turned off to get to the park, which was just under 4.5 miles. Then (of course) I rode back, so what I hoped would be a 20-mile ride today was only just under 9 miles, but the best I could do without proper shoes. (Note to self: Put your extra pair of cycling shoes in the RV and leave them there. Thank you.)

Hubby and I took a little hike along the river this morning. The park ranger had told him about an observation tower from which we could see "a lot of the river." It was about a mile to the tower, and we enjoyed the walk, but the tower was a bit of a letdown. We could have seen just as much from the top of our RV. It was a VERY NICE tower, but it wasn't exactly what I would call a tower. The trails going through the woods are well marked and very scenic. I could have walked forever. But then I would have had to walk back, and since forever would have been gone... I don't have any idea how to finish that.

On the top level of the observation tower. I like the benches made out of trees.

It's very quiet here. The park has been open less than a year, and there were only two other campsites occupied when we got here yesterday. A few more have been occupied today, but it is still very quiet and peaceful. I will hate to leave here in the morning, but the rest of Spring Break is full of events. Besides, two nights in one place away from home is about all I can get out of Hubby.

Chattahoochee River

Stay tuned for our trip to Wisconsin late this summer. Surely he knows that is going to take more than two days...

The Birthday Boy.....

For some reason, at some point today I realized it's Gus's birthday. He is seven years old today, and I can't remember what life was like before we had him. We didn't do anything silly like bake a doggie cake or even make him some homemade treats. Goodness knows we don't need to give him any more excuses to expect royal treatment.

I swear to you, when I got ready to take this picture, I patted my recliner and told him to get up there. Then I told him to smile. I promise you I didn't give him a treat or any food or even put peanut butter in his mouth. He just smiled.

It's hard to believe he once looked like this. I think he was wondering what in the world had happened to him.

"Please, can I just go back to my mommy now?"

His fur began to fill out and his darker colored spots started showing up.

Personally, I like him with a longer coat, but it's just such a bear to brush. I mean, it's such a bear that the groomer charges extra to groom him when we let his hair get this long.

And then we have to shave him. I don't blame you, Gusman, I would turn my back on the folks who made me look like this too.

He has such a unique personality.

I don't know what we would do without him.

Happy Birthday, Gusman!

Excuse My Tardiness.....

Forgive me for being tardy with my blog post tonight. Or if you're one of those who read it the next day, you probably didn't even NOTICE I was late.

I had good intentions of posting during halftime of the UGA game, but I flipped over to another game, and I forgot. And I was sort of crocheting between plays, and I didn't think I could triple-task. Yay for UGA - they beat Tennessee 20-12. What a relief.

I sort of dozed off during the Georgia Tech game earlier today. [All tuckered out from a 20-mile bike ride? That doesn't bode well for the 60-mile ride tomorrow IN THE FREAKIN' WIND.] When I woke up there was an ambulance on the field. The game was delayed about ten minutes while they tended to a Maryland player. They said it was a leg injury, which sounded better than a neck injury, but they said it was so gruesome that they would NOT replay it. What? They broke Joe Theismann's leg over and over and over and over and over again on television. And for some reason I've never seen it.

I've done better in my College Pickem games this week. I have 41 points out of a possible 55, with three games still to be decided. The person who is currently in first place is a 12-year-old. In this contest, there are ten college football games every week. You have to pick the winner of each game and then assign "confidence points" to each game, with 10 points assigned to the game you feel the most certain you have picked right. One of the games still to be determined tonight is my 9-pointer, and they are currently losing. But I am an eternal optimist, and I fully expect them to come back with over ten minutes left in the game.

Up way past my bedtime, and a bike ride tomorrow. I'd better turn in. Gus has been trying to get me to go to bed for the past two hours.

If there's anything I hate, it's being bossed around by a dog.

E 5 L .........

This is one of those stories I really shouldn't tell about myself. I shouldn't even have told Hubby. I should just keep it inside, relieved to know that no one else witnessed my stupidity. But no.

In a show of supreme self-confidence, to demonstrate just how high my self-esteem is, to acknowledge in a very public way that my three college degrees sometimes appear to have been wasted time and money, I have to tell you the mistake I made yesterday morning.

First a little background.

Our new bedroom suit (you know, the one that caused us to have to make $10,000 renovations on our house and it's now a two-bedroom instead of a three-? Yeah, that one) has a HUGE headboard/bookcase/mirror combination (it even has a compartment for WINE, for Pete's sake). It makes it impossible to sit up in bed and read, but that's beside the point. There is an open section (for books, I presume) right behind our pillows, and this is where Gus has decided he likes to sleep. He goes to sleep on the end of the bed, but after everyone has sufficiently settled down for the night, he makes his way to the headboard and proceeds to make a lot of noise carving himself out a place to lie down. Sometimes I think the carving is literal.

Night before last, sometime in the middle of the night, Gus managed to pull the clock off the shelf above his lair. I put it back on its shelf and went back to sleep.

When I was getting ready for my bike ride yesterday, I walked in the bedroom and looked at the clock. It had a very strange error message on it.

E 5 L.

E 5 L? What the hell is THAT?

That damn dog. He's broken my clock. And I really LIKED that clock. It has a wonderful feature on it whereby you can silence the alarm but not turn it off. Therefore you don't have to remember to turn it back on every day. (What you DO have to remember is to turn it OFF for the weekend. Only takes a couple of 5:00 AM Saturday wake-ups to get in THAT habit.) I guess you could consider it a 24-hour snooze button. The button even has a little indention in it, so you can feel whether or not you're on the right button. Just in case your dog has a habit of moving the clock in the night.

E 5 L. My poor clock.

I wondered what kind of error message that could be and whether or not it could be fixed. I become attached to things, and I have had this little clock for several years. I know I can get a new one relatively inexpensively, but I have a RELATIONSHIP with that clock. I want THAT one.

But now it's E 5 L.

Those of you who are smarter than I (which is possibly every single person reading this post) have probably already figured out my mistake.

E 5 L isn't an error message.

It's what a digital clock reads at 7:53. If the clock is upside-down.

My Husband and My Dog.......

Ways my husband and my dog are alike:

Both of them are big fans of naps.

They both like steak.

Both of them expect me to read their minds.

Dog and Hubby both like to go to bed while it's still daylight. And they think I should go to bed then too.

Both of them like to swim.

They both wait to be fed, instead of pitching in to help.

Both of them make stupid noises about inconsequential things, and never mind if someone else in the household is trying to hear the television.

Neither of them minds interrupting me while I'm doing something, like crocheting, reading, or playing a video game.

Both of them can be very charming.

Both of them can be very annoying.

Dear Mom......

Dear Mom:

You might wonder how I'm typing this message on YOUR blog, since I don't have opposable thumbs and all. Ever since you taught me to dance for cheese, though, I've been learning other tricks while you weren't looking. I figure there's a filet mignon in there somewhere, if I can just find the right trick.

This blog post isn't about tricks, though. It's about disappointment. Make that disappointmentS. Plural.

Almost every day you and Dad get me all excited about going to the park. You make this huge production about changing into your tennis shoes, while I stand there with one of my front paws in the air, wondering if this is one of those times I'll get to go. You deliberately drag out your motions, taking your own sweet time, finally wandering downstairs in the direction of the shelf where you keep my leash.

I see you reach for it, and I almost can't contain my excitement, wondering where this adventure will take us. Will I get to meet some new playmates? Will there be cheese? Filet mignon? A cat I can chase?

Then, being the mistress of torture that you are, you make me SIT and BE STILL while you put my collar on. Do you realize just how difficult this is? I'm about to pee on myself, Libby is already barking her glee from the backyard, and I have to SIT? and BE STILL?

Finally, after a drive of almost a mile and half, we get to the park. Oh, the beautiful lake. How I love to swim in it. I chase Libby down the path, looking for whatever fun we came for.

And all we do is walk. And walk. And walk. Sometimes I use my superior directional capabilities and try to lead you back to the car, sure you and Dad have made a mistake in this little outing. But no, you continue to walk AWAY from the car, and I have no choice but to go along, because you two are sure to get lost on your own.

And we walk.

And walk.

And walk.

By the time you FINALLY make your pitiful way back to our vehicle, my little legs are just about worn out, my tongue is lolling, and all I want is a sip of Dad's beer. Add that to my growing list of disappointments.

Then there's the basement. When you head toward the basement door, I get so excited that I lose traction on the hardwood floors (add THOSE to the list too, by the way) and my feet slip out from under me, which apparently is a source of great entertainment for you and dad. I get all worked up because I think maybe, just maybe, you're headed to open that great big door, the one that makes all the noise, and I can grab the rope and hang on for dear life while you take me on a mini-roller coaster ride up in the air.

But no.

More often than not, you're going to put clothes in the washer. Or the dryer. Or take them out. Or search futilely for something that should be in the toolbox but isn't.

And now you have this machine down there. It doesn't do anything useful that I can determine. It makes no noise, it produces no food, and I can't even lie down in your lap while you're on it.

I should have known that all that cheese would come with a big old long string attached.

It's tough being a dog.

Love,

Gus

Gusman's Report Card.......

Ever since our beloved groomer up and got married and moved the heck to Texas, we have been struggling to find a groomer.

Actually, we have ignored the need for a groomer until Gus is embarrassed about how shaggy and unmanageable his coat is, and then we go into panic mode.

We tried a new little place in a strip mall in town. They did good work, only it was a crap shoot getting Gus in there. They didn't take appointments, you just dropped in. And you just hoped they might be there. Regular hours were not their thing. Perhaps they should have set up shop in Mexico, where that is the norm. Is it any wonder the business went under? (I mean it obviously has nothing to do with the crappy economy.)

Then we took him to an animal hospital, not his usual one because they don't do grooming, and they did a nice enough job. But Hubby had to call, make an appointment, take Gus, pick him up, and then remember to do it all over again in about six to eight weeks.

Yeah, that ain't happening.

So today, on Weesa's recommendation, we took him to the chain pet supply store that starts with Pet and ends with Smart (or, as Larry the Cable Guy asks, does it start with "Pets" and end with "Mart"?). No appointment was needed, and they said they would call when he was ready. Since they are only about 2.5 miles from our house, it was very convenient.

I don't know why, but like any parent I'm a little nervous when I take Gus anywhere for the first time. I dread negative comments like, "He barked continuously," "He bit one of the groomers," or the embarrassing, "Gus has fleas."

Here, though, is what his report card looked like:

"Gus was an absolute joy to groom! He was perfect for everything. I think he is part fox; his face is so cute. Thank you for the pleasure!"

I mean if nothing else, you just have to be giddy about a dog groomer who knows how to use a semi-colon correctly. 

When I told Stephanie that his last groomer said he loved the dryer so much he almost went to sleep standing up, she said, "He DID love it! He loved it almost as much as I loved grooming him."

Yeah, it might be a sales pitch. It worked.

He didn't understand I was only trying to take a picture of him. He thought I was trying to take his treat, which is why he looks so suspicious in these shots.

I think we have found a new best friend. And if it costs twice as much as his old groomer, I can take comfort in the fact that it's still a heck of a lot cheaper than driving to Texas.

Thanksgiving Pictures.....

I am officially middle-aged -

My child now cooks Thanksgiving dinner for ME.

In all fairness, it's most likely the only way she was going to get a Thanksgiving meal. I CAN cook, I've never poisoned anyone (so far), and I have even received compliments on my cooking from time to time, but it's not something I'm known for. More like I'm known for avoiding it.

In all my (middle-aged) years, I think I have been compelled to cook Thanksgiving dinner exactly twice. We don't have any deep-rooted family traditions regarding Thanksgiving. Sometimes Nurse Jane hosts the entire family at her home (bless her), and on at least two occasions Hubby and I have gone to one of those belly-up-to-the-buffet type restaurants.

Sweet Girl loves to cook. I don't know where she got that gene; we know it wasn't from me. And as for her father's side of the family ...... uh, probably not. Perhaps it isn't genetic at all. Maybe she developed a desire to cook simply to survive.

Okay, I'm not really that bad. I generally cook at least four nights a week, although they generally aren't gourmet meals. And I don't enjoy it. Cooking is not a hobby, it does not relieve stress for me (rather it creates stress), and I would be happy never to have to cook again. On the other hand, if I won the lottery and became very wealthy overnight, I don't think I would hire a chef either. A maid is a different story.

Thanksgiving dinner at Sweet Girl's house was wonderful. I felt guilty having so much food for only three people (and two dogs). I hope Sweet Girl will eat most of the leftovers.

Hubby trying to figure out the iPad. Is it just me, or is he wearing that same t-shirt every time I post pictures of him? I know he's been wearing it on several of our RV trips. Perhaps it's because I'm usually taking pictures of him on the weekend, and we tend to wear our UGA stuff on football weekends. 

Sweet Girl trying to figure out a recipe. Check out what her t-shirt says. It's an aviation thing.

 Daisy trying to figure out how to get to the food:

 Gus trying to figure out how to keep the ball to himself:

My lone contribution to the meal was pinto beans because Hubby loves them. And they didn't come out of a can, either!

Sweet Girl timed her cooking perfectly, and everything was ready at the same time. That takes talent, especially in a small kitchen.

Sweet potato souffle with marshmallow topping:

Macaroni and cheese. And it didn't come from a box!

Sweet Girl calls it stuffing. I don't know where she got that. We've never had "stuffing" in our house. It's always been called dressing. But it was moist and delicious, so she can call it whatever she wants to.

We also had the requisite turkey, but the picture looked gross to me and reminded me of my post about raising chickens from several days ago. It tasted delicious, trust me, but the picture did not conjure up images of deliciousness.

After the heavy meal, Sweet Girl and I took the dogs for a walk. I can't say we burned off many calories, since it was mostly a stroll, but it felt good to get out in the fresh air for a little while. It was 80 degrees there yesterday. Both Daisy and Gus wished they could get off their leashes and terrorize these geese and ducks.

Camping is Hard Work.......

We got the mountain bikes out today and started off through the woods. Poor Hubby, it was his first experience riding over rocks and roots, between trees, and around curves too sharp to negotiate. Plus he had the same problem with his bicycle seat that I had on my first mountain biking expedition, so many curse words ensued. [Note: He wasn't particularly sympathetic when it was MY seat that kept flying up for no apparent reason. Never mind that I don't have the body parts it kept offending on HIM.]

When we returned to the campsite, Hubby parked his bike (after calling it a few more choice words), and I took off on mine again. I wanted to make a couple more loops around the campsite, since it is paved and makes for nice riding. I have to confess, though, that I left the bicycle helmets at home. And I still rode. **Gasp**!!! I even violated the speed limit when we rode down to the little country store at the park entrance. The posted speed limit is 25 mph, and I was going 27.7.

I thought that would be the end of our physical activity for the day, and it would have been fine if it had been. But around 3:00 Hubby suggested we go for a hike on some of the same trails we had traversed this morning, and I was happy to go along. Gus was allowed to go with us this time, and he behaved perfectly. He trotted ahead of us on the trail, looking back every now and then as if to tell us he knew the way.

We head home tomorrow. I'm trying to get Hubby to work up to trips longer than just two nights. But for now I'll take what I can get.

I thought the Georgia hat on a flamingo was a nice touch.

I fell in love with this bridge. In typical fashion, Hubby commented "I pity the fool who had to tote the logs to build this bridge." Or something to that effect.

Something about the randomness of being out in the wilderness and seeing a box full of rocks.

This is an indication of how exhausted the Gusman was when we returned from our walk. He didn't even want to exert the energy necessary to jump up in the chair.

The tiki lamps and flamingos were a gift from Lawanda the Warrior Princess. Note that we have to build a fire in the daylight, because by the time it gets dark, we are asleep.

 

 

Gus and His Vocabulary......

Gus probably isn't that much smarter than a lot of dogs. He does have quite a vocabulary, though. Besides the obvious "treat" and "out" and "walk," he knows some others too.

One of his favorites is "swimming." He thinks he and Libby are really blood siblings, so he thinks he's a Lab also. He gets in the pool even before Libby does. And if we accidentally leave the back gate open to the pool, he will go out there all by himself and take a little dip. Even Libby doesn't get in the pool if we're not out there. I have fussed and fussed at Gus, because he knows little children aren't supposed to get in the pool alone. He just can't resist.

He also knows the word "clothes." If I say that word, he goes to the basement door. He waits at the top of the stairs to see where I'm going. If I turn left, he just stands there and waits, because it isn't really that exciting to go get laundry out of the washer or the dryer. If I turn right at the bottom of the stairs, though, he goes kind of crazy. Then he knows that I'm about to open the big overhead garage door, and he goes into a barking frenzy. If I do raise the door, he grabs hold of the rope at the bottom of it and hangs on for dear life, riding the rope upward with the door. I guess it's sort of a doggie amusement park ride.

One of his favorite phrases is "time to go to bed." He gets his nightly treat and heads up to the bedroom. Hubby usually goes to bed first, and Gus goes up with him. If I stay downstairs for any length of time, though, he comes back down and lies at my feet until I get ready to go up.

A treat is one thing, but he will dance for "cheese." If I ask Hubby if he wants cheese on his sandwich, I have to spell it, or Gus goes to the refrigerator and refuses to move.

It isn't just words, though. When I come home in the afternoon, if I change into tennis shoes and shorts, he knows we are going to the park. Or he hopes we are. He stands there at my feet, one paw up in the air, looking at me expectantly and slowing wagging his tail one way. Then the other. Wag. Wag. If I say the magic word, he starts barking to let Libby (outside) know that we are going to the park, going to the park, going to the park, going to the park, going to the park.

He also seems to know when I'm planning to ride my motorcycle to school. This morning when I came downstairs, before I could even head to the basement door, he was already standing there, anxious to get on with the opening of the big door.

If he's all that smart, why doesn't he know where the squirrels go?

The Good, the Bad, the Ugly, and the Scary......

I almost deleted yesterday's whiny post when I reread it this morning. It's not like me to go off on a vacation THAT I PICKED OUT AND PLANNED and then complain about what's wrong with it. The site is a little disappointing, yes. but we are somewhere we've never been before, we are in the motorhome, and we are together. So I realize I have few grounds for complaints.

Besides, we have Bloody Mary stuff.

The Good

We have satellite television, and it's mostly because of me. Hubby had me type up the instructions from Stanley-the-bootleg-cable-guy, which I did faithfully. I printed them out and even brought them with us. And nothing was working when we tried to set up the satellite system. You would have to know Hubby to understand how unpleasant it is when he can't get something to work. Especially something he's having to do in the blazing sun when it's 90-something degrees outside. I won't bore you with the details, but the satellite system was giving us a setting that Stanley didn't mention. When I suggested we try it, Hubby snapped, "He didn't say anything about that! He didn't do that when he was at our house." It involved loosening three bolts on the satellite and rotating it. I thought (but didn't say aloud) that what we were trying wasn't working and it couldn't hurt. Finally Hubby said, with no small amount of derision, "Fine. Put it where you want it." The most satisfying sound I've heard (at least recently) was the beeping of the television to indicate it had located a satellite. He hasn't once acknowledged that it was my suggestion that finally worked, but he knows it. Better yet, I know it. Hee hee hee.

The Bad

My first photos this morning. When we left the (blessed) air-conditioned cool of the motorhome and ventured out in the steamy morning to take photos, I didn't allow time for the lens to adjust to the new temperature. So the first few pictures, including one of Gus swimming in the creek, were too foggy to save. Perhaps I'll do better tomorrow. I'm not sure what to do, though.... put the camera outside for a little while first? Suggestions would be appreciated.

I did get the picture below, of a funky tree I am fascinated with. I also posted it on another blog, a photography blog of which I am honored to be a part. Venture over there to see some fine pictures by some other women I know only through the Internet.





The Ugly

Thankfully I don't have a picture of this one. Hubby and I took a leisurely bicycle ride across the road and down to the end of the bike path to a beach. We weren't allowed to swim there, but we walked out onto the beach and stuck our toes in the water. Before that, though, we circled through a parking lot, where I promptly fell off my bicycle and skinned both knees. In a parking lot. I was barely moving. It sort of reminded me of the time I fell off a horse that wasn't moving. Hubby waited a while to test the waters as to how much teasing I would tolerate about falling off the bike. A lot, apparently.

The Scary

I wish dogs could talk sometimes. I got out of the shower tonight and reached across the bed for my clothes, coming into contact with Gus's foot. He yelped like I had stabbed him, so I felt his paw to see if I had injured him. I didn't see how, because I barely touched him. He jumped off the bed and ran to Hubby, limping and holding up his left front paw as if to say, "Mama broke my leg!" I accused him of faking and exaggerating, but I lifted his paw again to see if I could see anything. I found a thorn sticking into the front of his lower leg, and when I pulled it out you would think I had amputated his leg. He yelped and yelped and yelped, and he startled me so badly that the thorn went flying out of my hand, so one of us is destined to pick it up again. All he had to do was TELL me he had a thorn in his leg.

On the way down here yesterday, having left home a day early to break the trip up into two days, I realized Hubby would probably have the same idea about going home. I was already planning how I was going to refute his arguments and insist on the four full days. When my visions of carrying our chairs down to the beach each day were dashed by how far it is, I decided that leaving a day early won't be that bad after all. We'll stay at the same adorable state park where we stayed Saturday night, almost exactly halfway home, and we won't have a six-hour drive in one day. And I will admit it is a good idea just as soon as he acknowledges it was MY solution that gave him satellite television in the motorhome.

Things that Go "Woof" in the Night.....

I watched three hours of Dancing with the Stars last night, including Monday night's final dances which I recorded but didn't get to see, so I was up way past my bedtime.

I must have fallen into an exhausted sleep immediately. My restless legs weren't so restless and I dropped off to sleep right away.

I was awakened by the sound of Gus tearing out the door of the motorhome, in full I'm-gonna-kick-your-ass mode, snarling and yapping. My first thought was, "Why is Hubby going outside in the middle of the night?" and my second thought was, "Why is Hubby allowing GUS to go outside in the middle of the night?" Then I realized that Hubby was sleeping next to me and Gus had departed the RV all on his own.

Uh oh.

I snatched my breathing mask off my face and started toward the door, oblivious of the fact that I was in no state of dress to go outside. The clock on the microwave read 3:07.

Luckily Gus was standing right in front of the motorhome door, looking dazed and confused like he does when he chases a squirrel but can't figure out where it went. He came inside willingly and I didn't have to A) embarrass myself by going outside like I was; or B) taking the time to put on suitable clothes.

My heart was pounding. First of all it was traumatic being jolted out of a deep sleep, and then the "what ifs" started plaguing me. What if it had been a bear? What if Gus hadn't come back? What if he chased away someone who had opened the door of the motorhome with malicious intent? What if they kicked us out of the state park for having an animal who wasn't on a leash? What if I couldn't go back to sleep? What if someone DID come in the motorhome, and before Gus chased him (or her, I guess) off he or she stole my iPhone and or my laptop?

I was much calmer in the light of day, and I guess I just didn't latch the door securely when I went to bed last night. Since it was so late and I didn't want to disturb Hubby, I didn't slam it, which is what it takes to make sure it's closed all the way. We had left a trash bag hanging off the back of the RV, and this morning it had a few holes torn in it. In addition, there were sandy critter footprints in my chair. MY NEW ANTI-GRAVITY CHAIR!!! What cheek those wild animals have.

It was probably a raccoon, and perhaps when Gus heard it and leaped onto the door, the door popped open because it wasn't latched all the way, he went outside, the raccoon beat a hasty retreat, deciding he didn't really need a laptop or iPhone that badly, and Gus felt all proud of himself for doing his duty.

Tonight I'm making sure the door is closed all the way. I just don't need that kind of excitement in my life.

Gus and the Beauty Shop.....

I realize that having to search for a new dog groomer doesn't rank up there with one of life's GREATEST problems, but it is an inconvenience. Valerie was recommended by a co-worker and his poodle Pebbles, and we have taken Gus to her for about three years. She has (had) a small shop behind her house, and she was on my way home from work. Hubby would drop Gus off at Valerie's place at 2:00, and I would pick him up at 4:00. It worked so much better than those places where they insisted I leave him at 8:00 and pick him up at 4:00.



I think he looks cute with long hair, but it was a mess to brush. I suppose. When we let his hair get this long, Valerie charged us extra because it was so matted underneath.

The first time I took him to a groomer in a strip mall, it was a brand-new place. I was excited about getting Gus groomed there. Until I went to pick him up.

"Don't shave him," I said.

And this is what we got. When we got out of the car at home, Hubby met us at the door.

"Well that sucks," he said.

Notice that Gus is too embarrassed even to face the camera.

I gave the place another try, next time telling them, "We don't want him shaved. Leave some length."

They shaved him again. We didn't go back there again.

The next place we tried was in town, and they said I could drop him off at 8:00. "But if you need to drop him off earlier, just let us know and we'll be here at 7:30."

I did let them know, they weren't there by 7:30 or 8:00, and I was late to school. Then they sort of forgot to call and let me know he was ready and charged me $50.00. We didn't go back there again either.

I was relieved to find Valerie. Her price was VERY reasonable, her location was perfect, and Gus loved her. She said when she was blow drying his hair, Gus would almost fall over because he was on the verge of going to sleep.

And now Valerie has decided to get married and move to Texas, of all places. I thought she was already married, but apparently that was her parents' house she had her shop behind.

We are once again in the market for a good groomer. Gus has high expectations, so it won't be easy.

Name That Photo....

I need a caption for this photo.


That's our dog Gus, or Mr. Gus, or the Gusman, or Gus Gustofferson. His official name is Augustus McRae, named after possibly my favorite character from all time, from Lonesome Dove.

He almost never gets up on Hubby's recliner when Hubby isn't home. He almost never gets on the arm of either recliner. That's the remote control in front of him, if you can't tell.

Gus is so smart. [I know it's like children ... people everywhere claim their dogs are the smartest.]

When I gather a load of laundry [oh crap....forgot to put the clothes in the dryer....be right back], Gus goes to the basement door because he knows that's where I'm going. And he thinks something exciting is going to happen down there that will involve opening the garage door. One day I'll have to take a video of what he does when we open the garage door.

He knows when I'm going to ride the Harley to school. On those days I usually have on blue jeans, and I don't dry my hair. [I keep a hair dryer and curling iron at school just for those days.] Gus goes to the basement door those days too.

Of course he knows what "walk" and "go to the park" mean, and he starts barking and dancing in circles, and somehow Libby [the outside dog] knows the difference in Gus's bark, and SHE starts barking. If we don't mention going to the park but we start putting on our sneakers, he stands there with one of his front paws raised and looks at us earnestly, head tilted to one side, like he's thinking, "Go ahead....say it....please say it."

He knows where Granny lives. Hubby's mother lives at the end of our road, and if I say "let's go see Granny," he prances off down the road and straight to Granny's front door. He now gives the dog that lives next door to Granny's house a wide berth, ever since he found out that just because a dog is tied up doesn't mean he can't kick a little Pomeranian's ass.

He knows the difference between "treat" and "cheese," and while he will occasionally turn his little nose up at a treat, he will dance around in circles for cheese. I have to be careful about asking Hubby if he wants cheese on his sandwich, or Gus goes nuts. Lord help us when he figures out what c-h-e-e-s-e spells.

It took a while for him to learn that doorbells on television don't mean someone is at OUR front door. We used to have to race to mute the television when certain commercials came on.

He knows when it's bedtime, and he knows when I get out of the recliner whether I'm just going for another cup of coffee or I'm going upstairs to take a shower.

He knows what "Daddy's home" means, and he knows if we say, "Who is it?" that someone is coming to visit.

So why can't he figure out where the squirrels go?

Gus the Motorhome Dog......

I haven't had a chance to write a thorough blog post about our first motorhome experience over Thanksgiving weekend. I loved it; Hubby will need some time to adjust. I think the fact that it was our first time and there was a steep learning curve had something to do with it. He hasn't put a "For Sale" sign on it yet, so I'm guessing we'll go again.

I want to dedicate this post, however, to Gus.

Before we got Gus, we used to say when we retired we would buy a motorhome and a motorhome dog and tour the country. Then Hubby got all practical and junk, and I thought the motorhome dreams were dead in the water.

We did, however, get the motorhome dog, in the form of Augustus McRae, a Pomeranian who pretty much rules the house. And the neighborhood. And the park. He is the epitome of "little man syndrome," taking on any dog of any size and number. He was terrified of a bunny rabbit at school one day, however.

I will say that Gus did pretty well on his first camping experience. First he had to get used to the idea that he couldn't ride in Dad's lap. He has always preferred to ride in the driver's lap, whether anyone else is in the car or not. This time Dad had his hands full, though, so Gus had to sit in my lap. Never mind that he had the run of an entire motorhome, with many windows to look out. He had to sit in my lap. Those cross-country trips might get tedious.

At home Gus is used to going outside and patrolling the front yard for a few minutes at a time. We don't leave him out there long, and he scratches at the door when he's ready to come in. At the park where we camped, he wasn't used to being on a leash. He thought he could roam around on his own like he does at home, so he felt a little restricted. For our next trip I will get a long tie-out lead and a stake so at least he can get further than 4' from me.

We let him off the leash when we walked through the woods, and I think I heard him say, "That's what I'm talking about." He was very good, walking just ahead of us just like he does in our own nearby park, coming back when we called him. We put the leash on him whenever we saw any other people on the path, particularly if they had dogs.

He always did "his business" outside, and he didn't feel the need to christen the motorhome in his own special doggie way. Not even when we left him inside to go mountain biking, which would have been an excellent opportunity for him to show just how pissed off he was. But dogs are very forgiving (or forgetful, I'm not sure which), and he loved us just as much when we came back.

Mostly, however, Gus did a lot of what he does at home, which is lying around sleeping. When we sat at the table playing gin, he got under the table between our feet. Or he jumped up on the "sofa" and made himself comfortable. When he thought it was time for bed, he went back to the back and got up on the bed as if to say, "I'm ready, y'all can come on to bed anytime now." He's a creature of habit.


I have to tell you that we did NOT do this to the Gusman. He got up on the sofa and rooted around until his head was underneath Hubby's cap. Apparently the light was bothering him.

Randomness from my MP3 Player.....

Yesterday Gus and I took a walk in the park for about an hour. When it's just the two of us, I take my MP3 player, because Gus isn't much of a conversationalist. I like to walk while I listen to music, because sometimes I add in the challenge of walking to the beat of whatever song is on. Some are more challenging than others.

It can be hazardous, however. One of the first times I took my MP3 player, I rested in the comfort that Gus barks at everyone, man or beast, especially beast. I was tooling along through the woods near the back of the park, just me and my dog. A Pomeranian. Who can bark his fool head off, but isn't really much protection.

I was strolling along at a nice clip, burning calories and reveling in the glory of the day. You know how the lyrics of songs come through so much more clearly on ear buds? I was listening to a song, and toward the end of it, I thought to myself, "Wow, I've never heard those words in there before."

The words turned out to be "Excuse me." As in, "Get out of my way, you and your damn dog are blocking the whole path and I've been trailing along behind you for 15 minutes trying to get around." These words were spoken almost directly into my ear, and I jumped violently. Probably wet my pants. Gus looked up, moved aside for the man to pass, and never uttered a sound.

I have what I consider to be an eclectic collection of music on my MP3 player, and because it is set on random or shuffle or whatever they call it, you never know what you're going to get. Here are some of the songs that played during my walk yesterday:

"A Horse With No Name" by America
"James Dean" by the Eagles
"Brandy" by Looking Glass
"Run for the Roses" by Dan Fogelberg
"When You're Good to Mama" by Queen Latifah from Chicago
"Do It or Die" by Atlanta Rhythm Section
"Scenes from an Italian Restaurant" by Billy Joel
"Lay All Your Love on Me" from Mamma Mia
"Say Goodbye to Hollywood" by Billy Joel
Something by the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, but I can't remember what.

It seems that just as I get back to the car, there's always something good playing that I don't want to stop in the middle.

But not good enough that I want to walk for another hour.

Vacation is Killing Them.....

One of those Kodak moments that got away from me....

I had the perfect opportunity to capture Hubby and Gus, both asleep in the recliner. But when I got up to go get the camera, Gus got curious enough to open one eye. And when I came back, he decided he needed to be an equal opportunity recliner dog, and he jumped over here with me. He tries very hard not to play favorites.

But he couldn't sustain it, and he got down in his usual place under my laptop table. He props his little head on the bar all the time. It doesn't look comfortable to me, but he must not mind it.

Hubby is on vacation this week, and he didn't get his "power nap" today. He mowed the lawn, he put pine straw out, he had a man come pick up some scrap metal that we have somehow accumulated, he repaired the telephone line where said man yanked it out of the side of the house in his zeal to get at our scrap metal, he worked on the pool pump, he sprayed for weeds.

I floated in the pool.

Oh hush up, I helped too. I did the PUSH mowing, and I did most of the pine straw on the bank where we've planted juniper. And I washed my motorcycle. Most of it.

I just find it much easier to relax than Hubby does.

It's Getting There....

This is what the pool looked like when we first took the cover off.


It actually looks kind of pretty because of the reflection. The water, however, is green.

Believe me when I say it has been worse. In past years we had been known to accidentally dump ALL the nasty water AND the leaves on top into the pool.

This is about 3 hours later that same afternoon. Hubby dumped some shock in it, and it works pretty fast.


This is the next day.

You can still see there's some dirt in the deep end. We hadn't yet put the automatic vacuum in the pool. We call him "Kirby."

This one is 4 days later. So much for taking pictures every day.


It gets prettier every day.

Kirby is still working on getting all that dirt out. He works hard......so we don't have to.


Libby loves it when we open the pool. This is a rare sight, because when we're out there trying to enjoy the pool, she gets on our nerves. Hubby thought it was cute to teach her to beg for beer. It's not so cute anymore. Usually she has to stay outside the fence. Occasionally she gets desperate and climbs over it.

You kind of expect it of Libby. She's a lab, after all.

Gus, however, thinks he's a lab too.


It's almost there as far as looking good.

Now we have to work on getting it warm enough to get in.