Two bitches are better than one!

It’s a Wednesday and I’m home from work on a vacation day. Yeah, I know – why a Wednesday? Well, the kids are up at Put-In-Bay with the folks, so I took the day off to spend with the wife. Yeah, I know – isn’t that sweet.

We took the dogs for a walk first thing in the morning. It’s definitely been a change having two dogs in the house, the double load of daily poo being only one indicator of the difference. There are other more subtle changes, changes that don’t require a scoop and a bag.

For example, having Daisy around has transformed Ginger into the regal old lady of the manor, at the ripe old age of three years (or twenty-one dog years!). Daisy’s presence, the Daisy Effect, seems to have calmed Ginger down a little, the spastic and reckless puppy energy Ginger once possessed has fizzled as she faces a new dog with even more spastic and reckless energy! Now that Daisy’s the puppy, Ginger’s kinda forced to grow up.

Although Ginger could seem to be more regal and mature simply because she’s tired all the time from fending off Daisy’s puppy attacks, the constant nips at the legs, the tugs on Ginger’s ears, the yapping and high pitched barking, the not even intimidating growls. Exhaustion, oddly enough, has a calming effect on the dogs.

So Ginger spends lots of time lying around looking somber and aloof. And she grumbles a lot more than she used to, back when she was an only child. Like late at night, when shifting positions in bed, you’ll hear Ginger grumble. And for a split second you think that maybe there’s a bitter eighty-year-old man with arthritis and a bad back in bed with you, and that he’s bitter and grumbling because he has to work full time ten hours a day in a cramped guard shack at a shabby chemical manufacturing company because he blew his retirement at the dog track.

Yeah, that kind of grumble.

This morning the dogs were fed after their walk, since they’re supposed to work before they can eat breakfast, according to Cesar Millan’s philosophy, which we evidently subscribe to around here. So we walked the dogs and worked them and fed them. And now they are curled on the couch next to me as I watch Jerry Springer, this exposure to daytime television making me feel like I’m watching television in a foreign country. This stuff’s all new to me, foreign and strange and plenty exotic.

And watching this show suddenly makes me depressed over the state of our country; the white trash love triangles, the commercials for professional management of your structured settlements, the credit card offers for low-end consumers who have no capacity to buy even as they chase their low-end consumer dreams.

This country’s in sorry shape if this is the majority norm of our society. And I suspect that many of these people vote!

But back to the dogs –

Daisy wants to play. She barks her ferocious little bark, or perhaps precocious would be a better adjective, and she picks up an old sock, shaking it viciously and growling fiercely. Ginger casts a weary eye to the pup, obviously not in the mood, more relaxed than regal. But Daisy doesn’t have the gift of experience, so she can’t properly interpret Ginger’s body language. There’s a lesson fast approaching.

Daisy bounces around Ginger, shaking her sock and growling, as if to say “You will play with me, doggone it!” Then she shakes the sock again and whacks Ginger in the face with it. The sock lays draped over Ginger’s snout and Daisy growls again, her snout a centimeter from Ginger’s, her way of saying “Pull on this, dammit!”

And eventually Ginger does, grabbing the loose end of the sock and giving the sock and Daisy a firm tug, the puppy in Ginger giving in to the puppy.

Two bitches are better than one!

The Daisy Effect

Haley and I are home with the dogs, both of us bored to differing degrees about different things – me, bored with my general existence; Haley, bored with television in general. Hannah and Mommy are at piano lessons. Ginger is in heat, lounging about the house on the couch like a depressed, middle-aged, sexually frustrated housewife on her period, generally miserable and miserable to be around.

Daisy, our three month old Vizsla pup and Ginger’s new little sister, is the most energetic of us all, running about the house with boundless chaotic infantile energy, casting random growls about, and haphazardly lashing us with her ferocious tongue. And this is Daisy when she’s bored, like she is now because Ginger’s in heat and has no desire to play. Imagine her not bored!

Daisy barks at Haley, who redirects her attention back to a chewie on the floor. Undeterred, Daisy jumps up on the couch, a feat she only perfected last week after two straight weeks of crashing chest-first into the cushions. Daisy pounces on Ginger, who is trying to be comfortable in her bitchy misery, and mouths Ginger’s left ear. This forces a grumble out of Ginger as she rolls over, pinning Daisy against the back of the couch.

The subtle realization of how completely and irrevocably our lives had changed set in about a month after Daisy’s arrival. Ginger’s life has been the most impacted. I almost believe the puppy has actually become a calming influence on Ginger (and those of you who actually know Ginger are right now thinking “Yeah, right”).

The Daisy Effect on Ginger has most noticeably made her less manic, especially whenever visitors come over. There’s less of the wrist-mouthing, leaping kisses, and incessant cold-nosing that Ginger normally performs as she comprehensively greets each and every individual guest by trying to lick every square inch of their exposed flesh. Now she just tries to lick most of the exposed flesh. It’s a subtle change. Before Daisy, Ginger was a kamikaze attack greeter, blitzing guests with slobber and love as she mouthed their wrists and leaped into their faces.

After Daisy, Ginger now acts like a frazzled but polished Martha Stewart who has just opened the front door to her weekend home to find one hundred uninvited and important guests waiting to come in and eat. And even though Martha knows she has nothing to feed these guests and nowhere for them to sleep, thus damning them all to a weekend of misery, she hides all of this horrific news behind an impenetrable veil of elegance and grace as she greets every one of these guests warmly and personably, shaking hands and taking coats. There’s very little licking or mouthing in the Martha example of the refined Ginger.

Daisy is finally beginning to even out in her growth. For a few weeks her front legs seemed shorter than her back legs, resulting in a butt-up stature that would most certainly not lead to AKC victories and eventual champion-hood, with its allotted glories and privileges for champion bitches. This unevenness was most apparent when Daisy ran, her longer hind legs reaching forward like a jack rabbits when she was at full gallop, her little auburn head pumping, tongue flapping, running with all her puppy might! Every time I saw her run I was reminded of the song for the Flying Monkeys from the original Wizard of Oz. It seemed to fit her funny, loping gait and has since become Daisy’s theme song.

I cut the grass the other night, riling up hordes of mosquitoes who were perfectly content to slumber in the tall grass, waiting for the dogs to step outside to pee so they could have a nice little snack of warm canine blood. The mosquitoes swarmed me, bumping into me with enough force that I could feel them. I moved quickly so they didn’t have time to land on me, avoiding them like I was trying to avoid raindrops. Once the old John Deere was fired up, the mosquitoes disappeared. This made me wonder if the bugs are dumb enough to be confused by the differences between the carbon dioxide from me and the carbon monoxide from the old John Deere. Although I suppose if the mosquitoes were truly confused they would have attacked the tractor and not me.

There is a deep-seated weariness in me these days, which bores down through my bones to sit heavily in my soul. I am exhausted and tired of everything, work especially, the house a close second. I am reading Edward Hoagland’s book of essays, “Heart’s Desire,” and I have found the perfect passage to illustrate my current state. It is a statement describing a mass of people who feel so hard pressed “that their main effort was just to disengage themselves.” That is where I am right now, trying to disengage as Hoagland describes in his essay “Of Cows and Cambodia.” Only without the luxurious wealth to be able to run off and buy my very own antique farm somewhere deep in the heart of rural Vermont.

Trying to keep from calling Daisy Ginger and vice-versa!

The Pack

What’s happened to Civil Servitude? Where’s the latest cartoon? What the hell’s going on?! Is Miller on strike?

These questions and many others have been posed to us here at Jackson Press, as realization that no new Civil Servitudes have shown up in a while begins to mount. Some of you may not have realized this yet – we forgive you for the inattention.

Our last Civil Servitude was posted June 30 and we just haven’t felt like doing any more here lately. Call us lazy, call us slackers, call us all of the above. We’re calling it a “holiday”, like those fine people in Europe might say, or perhaps you could say we’re on “hiatus”, or that we’ve been “hi-jacked”, or maybe we’re “hacked” or “harvested”; just pick your favorite “H” word that’s a synonym for “lazy.”

It’s summertime and we just haven’t felt like working – at work, at home, on the strip. And with all the projects we’ve got lined up here at Jackson Acre, like our drainage project and fixing up the front porch and probably one or two other projects I haven’t discovered yet, I just don’t have enough energy to work on any new strips. Plus, I’m trying to catch up on some reading that I haven’t had time to do, which has inspired me to do some more writing, which means I don’t have enough time to draw the strip and, well, you get the general idea. Tough it out and quit whining.

And then there’s Daisy, our slightly new, ever rambunctious and louder-than-Ginger puppy. Right now she’s bouncing around Ginger, who’s chewing contently on a chewie, and Daisy’s barking her fool head off, intent on getting Ginger’s chewie. Ginger’s already snapped at her once, so Daisy learned enough to know not to actually touch Ginger’s chewie.

So now she just bounces around Ginger and barks, which is really more of a yap, with an occasional growl thrown in for good measure. The stupid dog’s not content to chew on one of the other six chewies strewn about the room. No, she’s gotta have Ginger’s chewie.

There’s a fly in the house and it just buzzed Ginger. She stops chewing to hunt for the bug, stalking it like she would a bird, a really tiny, little bird. Daisy takes the opportunity to snatch Ginger’s chewie while Ginger hunts. For the moment Daisy’s now content and Ginger doesn’t care about who has what chewie.

This uneasy peace lasts all of twenty-three seconds, and then Ginger decides she wants her chewie back. She takes it from Daisy and the lunatic yapping begins anew.

Then Holly comes out and chastises me and the girls for not putting a stop to Daisy’s insanity. Holly’s been reading Cesar Millan’s “Dog Whisperer” books, about how to be a better pack leader to your dogs. Or how to just be a pack leader, in situations where your dogs rule the roost. Cesar has given Holly all kinds of new ideas on how to properly control the canines running amok here at Jackson Acre.

Holly immediately puts the kibash on Daisy, asserting her alpha female dominance and putting the yappy little beast back in her place in the pack. Then Holly puts the kibash on the girls and I and puts the rest of us in our place in the pack.

And I, the only male here at Jackson Acre, among three women and two bitches, certainly know my place in the pack. It’s somewhere at the back. Way at the back.

The only thing the last sled dog smells are the butts ahead!

Gov’t 2.0

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Man, has it been a wet spring here at Jackson Acre!

How do I know that, you ask? I know this because the sump pump continually reminds me of this. And the latest way it informed me of our wet spring was by dying on me.

But wait, I’m getting ahead of myself. I have other, non-Jackson Acre, flooding news to share.

Thursday evening saw torrential downpours visited upon Grandview, Ohio, about the same time I was enjoying a beer with friends at a favorite pub of mine. And as I was sipping my beer, admiring the tumultuous rainfall and watching the street fill up like a swimming pool, I noticed the water slowly rising around my car.

Ten minutes later the water peaked and within thirty minutes the streets were relatively clear. My car, however, had about a half inch of water sloshing about the floor on the passenger side of the car.

After shop-vaccing out what water I could (approximately one quart), the next three days found my car parked in the garage with the windows, doors, and sunroof open as I tried to dry the carpet. The sloshing noise and musty smells are rather annoying.

The rain gauge at Jackson Acre has recorded about four inches of rain over the last six days. The swamp in the back yard has returned and the mosquitoes are quietly gathering forces. The sump pump’s been pretty steady, going off every minute for the last three weeks.

In fact, the sump pump’s not slowed down at all yet this spring. Typically not a good sign. An even worse sign is when your sump pump decides to die when it’s been going off every minute. This happened last night.

The backup sump pump kept up with the flow of water long enough for me to pull the dead pump out of the pit and put the old pump (the one that was here when we bought Jackson Acre! Who knows how old that thing is?!) back in. I tightened all the hose clamps and we were back in business.

Fortunately, my sump pump has a lifetime warranty, and this is the second pump that will be replaced under that warranty. But I can’t return it to Home Depot (blatant plug!) until tomorrow, so here’s hoping the old pump can keep up. Late last night (or early this morning, depending on your perspective) I thought maybe the old pump had died, too.

It was about 2:30 (AM!) when the neighbor’s Great Dane began barking hysterically, waking me up out of my usual fitful sleep. I laid there for a moment, waiting to hear the sump pump, to make sure all was still well, when I heard a strange gurgling noise as the pump went off.

Strange. It’s never sounded like that before.

I kept listening, waiting to see if it still sounded like that when it went off again. I waited, waited, waited, and … more gurgling.

Not good. Especially at 2:30 in the morning.

So I ran downstairs, expecting the worst, and almost found it.

Water was spraying like a geyser out of the sump pit, drenching the basement floor and everything else nearby. I looked down into the pit of Hell and saw that a hose clamp had broken off the pipe coming out of the pump. And every time the pump went off, half the water sprayed around the pipe, not up the pipe.

And it sprayed all over my legs, in addition to everything else nearby.

Ten soggy minutes and one new hose clamp later, the problem was solved.

The neighbor’s Great Dane, however, was still barking hysterically.

So not only does my own puppy wake me up at all kinds of ungodly hours, so does the neighbor’s dog!

Wondering when I’ll ever get a good night’s sleep!

Mugs 4 Ideas!

Light news from Jackson Press tonight.

I do believe a general lack of sleep is beginning to catch up with us, here at Jackson Acre.

Lack of sleep, you ask? Always poking your nose into things, aren’t you?

Yes, we’ve found it a bit hard to actually find a good night’s sleep around here lately. New sleep patterns and all, partially because of the new puppy, partially because it’s summer, and partially because the universe is secretly screwing with me.

You see, the first reason for our general tiredness (not quite tired enough to call it exhaustion) is due to our new Bowflex. We’ve started our Bowflex exercise routine, striving to reach that Bowflex body we’ve seen in all those commercials. Now we’re already probably in the best shape we’ve ever been in, even better than when we were twenty years younger, primarily because of all the drinking, smoking, and carousing done in our misspent youth. There’s a whole lot less carousing going on these days.

And there are several other factors contributing to our general lack of energy. Let me paint a picture of a typical night. First, we finally get to bed about midnight, after making sure the puppy has gone out for a final night-night potty. We usually lie awake for about twelve minutes, filled with dread over the thought of going in to work the next day.

About 3:30, the backup sump pump alarm will go off, always for no apparent reason and always loudly. It goes off so often around here that it’s a little like the boy who cried wolf. I don’t think the wife even hears it anymore. Last night the sump pump took the night off, so it’s role was covered by the dead batteries in the carbon monoxide detector, chirping to inform me of their impending death.

By 4:30, the puppy has to pee again. Usually the wife takes her out, since I have to get up to go to work in two hours and need as much uninterrupted sleep as possible. Puppy always comes back a little frisky after draining her bladder, so it take another twenty minutes before she finally settles down to sleep.

At 5:30, the birds all around the house here on Jackson Acre all start chirping, singing, calling, cawing, and crowing. I’m quite amazed that they all start up at the same time. And they’re quite loud, so they wake me up and I have to groggily reach up and shut the window, so I can get another hour of uninterrupted sleep.

At 6:30, my alarm clock goes off and the first waves of dread start washing over me, followed quickly by my brain choosing some inane song to play over and over in my head. See our essay on “Fake Plastic Trees” from last year.

I’ve also found that eating something after 10PM tends to disturb my sleeping capabilities. It’s about 10:30 and I’m munching on Cheez-Its. I wonder what we’ll dream about tonight?

Cheez-It! Cheez-It!

Dirty Laundry

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Well, we’re into June already! Where’d May go? Oh, that’s right – I turned 40 in May … the memory’s already starting to go.

Jackson Acre plans for June include completing our drainage project. I’m very excited! This should be the final step to our complete domination of drainage problems in Jackson Acre! And this should fix the bloody persistent sump pump!

I knew it was time to proceed with Phase 2 when I noticed how little water was now draining into the sump pit, maybe a drop every minute or so. This means the water table at Jackson Acre has finally dropped below the level of the sump drain pipes. It was finally time to excavate!

So today we dug! Or I should say, today I dug! This obsession with poor drainage at Jackson Acre is my folly and I will not subject my family members to helping me in this cause.

After an hour of digging I found the other pipe in our yard. And then the hole promptly filled up with water from the pipe. But now we know where the other source of the water saturating Jackson Acre is. All we need to do now is reroute the new pipe to the old pipe and – voila, problem solved.

Or so we’ll hope. We won’t really know until November when the winter rains start back up. But I have hope, that thing which causes we humans to march onward in the face of superior adversarial numbers, boldly making our way to certain doom.

On the puppy news front, I must report that I slipped up in my duties and the house is no longer poo/pee free. I wasn’t watching Daisy the other day when she sniffed her way into the family room and tinkled on the carpet. I managed to catch her before she saturated the carpet, but now she wanders over to that same spot whenever she has to potty and tries to go there first.

Actually, I’ve been thinking about doing the same thing myself.

On a related note, Ginger’s taken to vomiting first thing in the morning, usually around 5:00 AM. You know, a perfect hour when no one in the house is awake or even conscious. And then, out of a dead sleep, you hear the “hornking” noise, that unmistakable sound of a dog (or maybe a cat) trying hard to regurgitate whatever it is they still have in their stomach. Probably to eat again.

The act of Hornking sounds something like this – “hornk, gork, hornk, gork, hornk” and then the beast lets loose with a wet gagging sound as something sloppy hits the floor.

Fortunately, as soon as my subconscious mind hears the first hornk and jolts me awake, I know I have another three or four hornks before the vomit erupts. So far that’s been enough time to grab Ginger and carry her over to the tile floor in the bathroom.

And then she hornks up a vile looking concoction, thinks about licking it up again, then she goes back to bed. Oh the joys of having two dogs!

Hornking my way through life!

Forgotten Skills

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Well, reality has officially changed at Jackson Acre.

We have now completely given our lives over to the puppy. Daisy’s existence here has restructured our entire schedules around her wakings and sleepings. We live to serve and entertain this amber little beast hiccupping her way around the house.

Daisy’s first night at home was relatively (and thankfully) uneventful, no accidental bowel movements (or BMs) or pee-pee in the bed (yes, both dogs are now sleeping in the bed with us). Daisy and the missus stepped out about 4:30AM for a little tinkle, which is to be expected, since Daisy’s bladder is about the size of a walnut, but no accidents in the house yet. Woo-hoo!!

One important thing I’d forgotten about newly minted puppies is how sharp their little needle teeth can be. Yesterday I noticed several fresh scratches and puncture marks on my left forearm. Looking like a right-handed heroin junkie who shoots up more often than breathes, I spent at least a minute trying to figure out what had happened to me and my arm.

I studied the haphazard array of track marks up and down my arm and considered the possibility that maybe I’d stumbled through some unfriendly shrub while doing yard work at Jackson Acre. Trying to determine which shrub was the likely culprit so I could hack it to the ground this weekend, my train of thought was rudely interrupted when young Daisy bounded up to me and promptly bit my big toe.

Mystery solved!

Having an eight-week-old puppy in one’s house is a perfect reminder (or practice) of what it’s like to take care of a new baby. Forget living your own life in your own house at your own pace; you’re now a slave to when the little one wants to eat, wants to sleep, needs to poo or go potty, wants to play. Human or canine, they’re all the same basic needs. And while neither infant nor puppy can speak, both do lots of whining in between BMs.

In fact, safeguarding the house for a puppy is a lot like safeguarding for a baby. I would challenge anyone to tell the difference. For example, one must make sure the basement door stays shut so the baby doesn’t fall down the steps. One must be careful not to step on the baby. One must keep the baby from chewing on the laptop cord and electrocuting itself. One must keep the baby from pooping on the floor. One must keep the baby from rolling in the poop on the floor. One must keep the baby from eating the poop on the floor. I’m sure you’ll agree the similarities are uncanny!

Right now the amber blur is resting in momma’s lap, on the couch next to big sister Ginger. We’ll see how long that lasts.

Rolling in life’s poo and lovin’ it!