Christmas from the Base of the Tree by Ginger

I woke up yesterday morning to my usual scratch under the chin and the words, "Merry Christmas". Whatever that means. A woman who I know has been here before, was in the front room where I'm not allowed to go. Mommy let me in, I hopped up on the bed and kissed the woman on the lips. When she started screaming, I was just a little bit frightened. But then she called me Ginger and kissed me back.

After breakfast Daddy brought out some boxes wrapped in bright gold paper. Mommy got mad at him. Something about they had an agreement not to buy each other gifts. He told her that after she opened them, she could regift them to anyone she wanted. Mommy continued to glare at him. She unwrapped the first box and handed me a very cool black rubber tire with a bell inside. In the next box she found a bright red doughnut shaped toy with a squeaker which she also dropped on the floor for me. My lips started to quiver, I was so excited! I guess I put on quite a show since, they all started to laugh at me.

I didn't know which one to attack first. New toys!!! I haven't had anything new in such a long time. I moved the tire to a safe place so no one could take it from me. Then I went back and got the doughnut. Keeping them both close I sniffed one and then the other. Then I think Mommy made up with Daddy but I was too busy to pay much attention.

The tire tasted so good I couldn't stop chewing on it. And the dingling of the bell was music to my ears. After I chewed a great big hole in it, Mommy approached me with a biscuit. Biscuits are even better than tires so I nabbed it quickly from her hand. In return she grabbed my new toy out from under me and regretfully I haven't seen or heard from it since.

Later in the day some other people came over. I'd seen them before too and they called themselves Scott and Becky. Becky handed me a bag from which I extracted another squishy, orange bone shaped toy. Hiding in the dining room I chewed through the fabric, leaving a trail of white stuffing and a punctured squeaker across the room. I ran from Mommy thinking she wanted this toy too, but she was only picking up the stuffing. Company was here and I was supposed to be neat.

All these people eventually sat down at the dinning room table. No one ever sits in there. I abandoned by play things for a few bites of prime rib, which Daddy gave me under the table. Mommy smacked my paws when I stood up by the side of the table looking for more. It smelled so good! I went around to the other side of the table and got the man named Scott, to give me some of his when Mommy wasn't looking. I'm not stupid, you know.

After the meat was put away, I curled up on the sofa for a little nap. There was a lot of excitement on this day they called Christmas. I'm glad they don't do this every day. I'm kind of tired.

Mac and Cheese

Richard's had a hankering for macaroni and cheese lately. Don't ask me why. I've never made it and according to him his mother never did either. A commercial must have caught his eye and he thought he wanted to try it.

"Guess what?" Richard sounded as excited as a schoolboy on his return from the grocery store.

"What?" I wanted to know.

"Macaroni and cheese was on sale. Two for one." He handed me two blue pouches of Kraft macaroni and cheese. "Can we have it tonight?"

When it was time to make dinner, I opened one of the pouches and began to prepare it. Four cheese flavor. I boiled the noodles and melted the butter with milk. I mixed it all together and it looked pretty good. I made chicken breasts to go along with it just in case.

Richard took a bite and then another. "What was I thinking?"

"What's the matter?" I asked.

"Macaroni and cheese is horrible. It's prison food."

"You've never been in prison. How would you know?" I was enjoying my dinner until now.

"I watched 'Lock Up' and saw a big glob of it on a metal tray." He pushed what was left on his plate to the side. "I'm not eating any of the leftovers either."

"OK. I'll have what's left for lunch tomorrow." I smacked my lips.

"Why do you like it so much?" he asked.

"In college we used to make mac and cheese after a night out drinking. Great hangover food."

Richard watched me lick my plate clean and then finish his. I said to myself 'thank God I don't drink anymore'. If I did I'd be at the grocery store stocking up on two for one.

"No more watching 'Lock Up' for you or next thing you know, we'll be eating off metal trays and making license plates." I added.

Boy, that mac and cheese was good.

Lady Gaga and Baseball

Richard is a huge baseball fan. It's a pastime he's discovered in retirement. Every morning he checks the paper to see what time the Tampa Bay Rays are playing. He plans his daily schedule around the game.

Yesterday was a dilemma, however. HBO was playing a 24 hour marathon of Lady Gaga and the Monster Ball. They filmed her show at Madison Square Garden. Lady Gaga is an amazing talent and the show is full of energy and artistic creation. Ah, but the crack of the bat is music to my ears.

Thank goodness for the squeaker (our nickname for the television remote control) and the 'last' button that allows us to go back to the previous channel. The Rays were playing the Orioles. Three up, three down. Alejandro! Flashing lights, a flowing white dress that opened and closed to the music.

"The score is 3-nothing! We missed it!" I screamed when the game came back on.

"But we would have missed all that crotch grabbing," Richard replied. "And who'd ever thought she'd play a keyboard under the hood of a car."

Back to Gaga. The volume went up. The room throbbed to the beat of the music. Costume change, back to the ball game. Great catch, Sam Fuld. Johhny Damon, line drive into center field.

"Hey let's go to the Monster Ball. C'mon Monsters!"

Pop fly!

"You are all monsters. You were born this way. You Monsters!" Gaga growled.

Sparks flew from her boobs and her crotch. I have to admit the costuming was pretty amazing. But I was getting pretty tired of being called a monster. Back to the game and the score was now 8-3. Monsters were winning.

The lights, the costumes, the sets, the infectious beat of the music is no match for a simple game of wooden bats and leather mitts. Lady Gaga is an awesome talent but I wonder what kind of monsters she's creating. Kids today want more, more, more. Every show, movie, gadget has to be more stimulating and over the top than the last. I think I'll stick with the simple excitement of running the bases and be thrilled to watch Lady Gaga mentor the final four on American Idol this week. Just like baseball, I know that Lady Gaga is in it for the long haul. When the radio on my alarm clock went of this morning, guess who was singing? Lady Gaga. And I sang along.

Beds and Bones

Ginger is in my bed again. My nice clean sheets and fluffy pillows are strewn about as only Ginger can do. She doesn't listen to me and my calls to get down from the bed are ignored. She's never listened to me. If you read her story, 'Treat, Pray, Love' in Chicken Soup for the Soul: My Dog's Life you'll learn that her disobedience started at a very young age.

Why is she in my bed? She's hiding her bone. It's not a real bone dripping with delectable juicy red meat. Oh no. It's a bone just for dogs that came out of a bag that I bought at Walmart. She insists on hiding it amongst the pillows, but the real entertainment is messing them up first.

I wondered why dogs insist on burying their bones so I looked it up on the Internet. It's a survival instinct that goes back to the days when they killed other animals for food. The dog had to eat quick before other hungry predators arrived to steal it away. They'd bury it and come back later to retrieve it. Ginger gets regular meals but I guess it's the same thing when she drinks out of the puddles in the street. She loves to act like I'm neglecting her by not giving her any water when in actuality she has two doggie water bowls and three toilets which in her mind are also water bowls.

I've seen her scratch at an area rug in an attempt to hide a bone under it. But the bed? Doesn't she know we sleep there? Hide it in the kitchen, Ginger. It'll be ready and waiting for you at dinnertime. But there are no pillows to mess up in there so it wouldn't be nearly as much fun, would it?

Tonight when I get into bed and scream when I lie down on the half chewed bone, she'll decide to finish it. It's much more fun that way.

It's My Bed!!

I took my morning shower today at the usual time for my day off, 1:15 pm. I lounged around all morning, ate lunch and then got ready to start the day. I walked out of the bathroom to see my neat and precisely made bed, now a shambles.

"Ginger! Why did you mess up my bed?" I shouted. She didn't budge.

The decorative pillows that usually line up in a perfect row at the head of the bed were now strewn across it every which way. Four king size sleeping pillows were no longer orderly but instead in a circle with a brown fuzzy dog curled up in the middle.

"What are you doing in there?" I asked expecting an answer. Her little brown nose popped up above the fluffy down head rests. She sighed a big sigh and put her head back down.

"This is my bed, not yours." Still no response. I walked out of the bedroom into the family room and heard the patter of little dog paws on the floor behind me. When I sat down on the sofa, Ginger hopped up and planted herself across my lap.

"Are you going to go back in there and fix the bed?" She licked me on the lips.

"I guess that means no." Ginger smiled and kissed me again. "I'll have to do it."

"Thanks, Mommy for making my bed," Ginger softly gurgled. "I'm lucky to have such a big cozy bed to share with you."

I left her in her spot on the comfy sofa and went back into the bedroom to put her bed back in order. With the last pillow in place, Ginger appeared from nowhere and climbed back in and began to rearrange her pillows. Exactly as she wanted them. It's her bed after all.

Sam and Sally Return

Peeking out my bedroom window I saw two sand hill cranes pecking around the backyard. I looked again to be sure. Sam and Sally.

How did I know that? Sam is very large and Sally is extremely petite. I've seen plenty of sand hill cranes pairs (they are always in pairs), none have every been this mismatched in size. I knew it was them.

They hadn't been around in awhile. We stopped feeding them. All the experts warn against feeding them anyway. The birds have no fear of humans. When Ginger started charging at them through the screen on the patio and they only came closer, I knew it was time to stop. They have beaks like long spears. The last thing I need was Ginger to have a hole in her nose.

Sam and Sally snooped around for a little while, squawked a few times and flew away. I guess they just wanted to pop in for a quick 'hello'. It was nice of them to stop by. I miss them.

I Think It's Finally Spring

Now I know that all my friends and relatives living in the frozen north have absolutely no sympathy for me here in Florida. But I have to say our winter has been grueling. We're simply not equipped for temperatures under about 50 degrees.

We're used to cloudless blue skies, warm ocean breezes and chirping song birds. None of those things are around when the threat of snow is imminent this far south. We retreat inside and huddle under every available blanket we could dig out of the attic.

I've forgotten what it felt like to read the morning paper on my back porch with Ginger sitting by my side, or to watch the ducks swimming in the pond and listen to the birds sing. This is spring. All the birds who escaped the frozen north are here. And they're singing from morning until night. I've missed the calming sound of their constant chorus.

Aside from having breakfast on the porch, there is something else I've missed. During the bitter cold winter I practically lived in the same pair of cozy warm sweatpants. Sometimes I even slept in them so I could get out of bed in the morning and still be toasty warm. Today with the temperature stretching toward 80, I tossed them in the laundry basket and went searching in a corner of my closet I hadn't visited in quite some time. All of my shorts, undisturbed, were anxiously waiting for a trip out into the world again. Touching them all, I finally selected a soft and well worn pair and slipped it on.

Wearing my new garb, I grabbed my laptop and headed out to the back porch. I propped my pale white legs up on the loveseat and started writing. The birds are chirping, the ducks are swimming and Ginger is cuddled up by my side. Thank God, it's finally spring.

Old Farts

"There is really nothing on TV tonight," I said as I flipped through the channels with the remote control.

"Turn on the guide. See if there are any good movies on," Richard commented.

Every conversation at work or lunch out with the girls turns to television. Did you see this show or that? Do you follow American Idol or Dancing With the Stars or Grey's Anatomy or Law and Order? I think Richard and I watch too much television but we never seem to be watching what everyone else is.

"Why don't you tape it?" my friends ask.

"I don't have a DVR." I refrain from adding that I probably wouldn't know how to use it if I did. The DVD player is rarely used for that very reason. Too much hassle.

I scrolled through the TV guide. "How about Saturday Night Live reruns on VH1?"

"Sounds good," Richard mumbled.

I hadn't watched SNL in years. In college we stopped whatever we were doing on Saturday night to watch it at 11 or whatever late hour it came on. I haven't stayed up past 10 pm in years. We curled up on the couch pretending it was midnight. Some of SNL was funny. I liked Tina Fey as Sarah Palin and Will Ferrell as George W. Bush. But alot of it I just plain didn't get. Neither did Richard. We were just getting ready to call it quits when a commercial came on. Our eyes quickly riveted to the screen.

When the commercial finished Richard said, "Did we just see a condom commercial?"

"I think we did. On prime time television? How did that happen?" I was dazed and shocked. I'd learned to tune out the feminine pad advertising long ago but condoms? I'd never seen a condom commercial before.

If we had a DVR and knew how to use it we wouldn't have seen the condom commercial. I'm told I'd be able to skip all the commercials and watch an entire program in half the time. Imagine all the shows we could watch! Speed watching! Just think of the excitement we've missed!

The condom shock faded quickly and our eyelids began to droop once again. I turned off the TV and we trudged off to bed. To sleep.

We really are a couple of old farts. Good night!

Ginger, You're Killing Me!

Have you watched television or read the newspaper lately? Don't let your dog sleep with you. It can kill you.

Wait 'til I tell Ginger that her soft, warm bed is soon to be a thing of the past. She's giving me the plague. The plague??? I thought the plague had been wiped out centuries ago. And that her sloppy kisses that I regularly ask for, expose me to meningitis. I'll be dead before my time if I allow her to remain in my bed.

What happened to pets help us live longer by reducing blood pressure and keeping our bodies moving with regular walks? Ginger jumps for joy when I return home after a long day at work. She brings a smile to my face when I least expect it and when I need it most. She doesn't want to kill me. She loves me.

How can I tell her she's no longer welcome to curl up in the crook of my arm each night? Or that I won't be able to feel her soft warm breath on my cheek as I drift off to sleep or she mine? Her heart will break when I explain about the plague.

I've read all the facts and listened to all the news and I've made a decision. As in Medieval times, when I see horses drawing wooden carts down my street filled with bodies that have succumbed to the Black Death, I'll see that as a reason to become concerned. Until that happens Ginger and I will sleep nose to nose, cheek to cheek and heart to heart. And if I die of the plague, the horse drawn cart will stop to pick me up.

Beano Before

"I love this Raisin Bran Crunch," said Doug, the cashier at Walmart as he scanned the three boxes of cereal Richard had moved from the cart to the counter.

"I do too. I'm addicted to it," Richard added. "Did you know it's sixteen percent fiber?"

"I didn't know that," Doug answered.

"It makes me fart alot," replied Richard. "When was the last time you farted, Doug?"

He put the last of our purchases in a plastic bag and pondered for a moment. "1956," he declared. "I take Beano so farting isn't a problem for me."

Richard's curiosity piqued. "How much does that cost?"

"$3.87. There's usually a coupon in the Sunday paper."

I swiped my credit card while Doug and Richard continued their conversation about passing gas.
Richard stood close to me and wrapped his arm around my shoulder before asking Doug one more question. "Where can I get this Beano stuff?"

"They sell it over in the pharmacy," said Doug pointing toward the opposite end of the store.

"Thanks, Doug," I responded. Pushing the cart in Richard's direction, "Honey, I'll meet you at the car." I waved goodbye as I walked across the store in the direction of the Beano. If it works, it'll be $3.87 well spent. When I find the Sunday coupon, I'll save it for next time. Richard's got an awful lot of Raisin Bran Crunch to eat. I'm sure there will be a next time.

A Meal Fit for a Spoiled Little Dog

I think when my siblings read this posting, they'll all have a good laugh. Pot roast is a long standing joke in my family. We've descended from a long line of bad cooks. Our mother passed that along to all of us. But she did know how to make pot roast. Or at least a version of pot roast that my father absolutely loved. Since it was about the only thing she knew how to make, she made it often.

There was also a rule in our house that you had to clean your plate before you could ask to be excused from the table. And we hated pot roast. Once we left home, I think each of us vowed never to make a pot roast in our adult lives. But I happened to marry a man who loves pot roast.

The other day I saw a huge piece of meat defrosting in the refrigerator. Five pounds of a red slab of bloody beef I knew was meant for a pot roast. I got up on Saturday morning to find potatoes, onions, carrots and green beans all cut up and ready to go. The slow roaster had also made an appearance out from its hiding place in the bottom cupboard. I assembled our dinner, set the time on the slow cooker and went to work.

When I arrived back home, dinner was ready. Pot roast is seemingly a perfect meal. And Richard and I are not the only ones who think so. Instead of her usual dog food for dinner Richard heaped Ginger's dish with carrots, beans, and meat all covered with the beefy broth.

Slurp, slurp, slurp. Lick, bang, burp. Ginger's little brown head and fuzzy paws popped up on the corner of the kitchen table. Richard picked up her dish and looked at his reflection in the gleaming stainless steel. He refilled it and set it back on the floor. Slurp, burp, gasp.

"Wow, she really likes the pot roast." I commented.

In a nano second the she emptied the dish for the second time. Licked clean. She stood on her hind legs looking for more.

Ginger is a very picky eater. I've never seen her wolf down any kind of food like she did the pot roast. We spoil her rotten lacing her dog food with treats and people food just to get her to eat. It's not unusual for her to not eat for a full day if she decided to turn her nose up at what was in her dish.

I looked over at Richard's plate. It was also licked clean.

To my sister and brother, it doesn't matter if you can't boil water or follow a recipe. Making a pot roast everyone, even the dog loves....

It's in the genes.