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.