A Watched Dog

My husband cut off three fingers and gave his arms a close shave one day while mowing the grass.

“See, I told you we needed a riding lawn mower.”

Our lawn is the size of a golf ball dimple.

“What we need,” I muttered, reattaching his fingers with Gorilla Glue, “is a yard man smart enough to keep his hands out of the whirling blades of the lawn mower. Doesn’t the term ‘moving parts’ mean anything to you?”

“All I know is that it’s a good thing I was wearing my lucky hat.”

There’s always something to be thankful for.

“We could have lost Bo’s squeaky ball for good.”

Bo is the Labrador. He’s the closest thing the Captain has to a disciple. He sprawled in the grass and whiled away the time waiting for the bleeding to let up by chewing an old rag. If one man can double the time it takes to do a single chore, a man and his dog can create a time vortex that modern science can’t explain.

I can replace the dog’s squeaky ball for ninety-nine cents at the pet store. Human fingers, on the other hand, go for quite a bit more. And you can’t find them in the express lane at the Piggly Wiggly.

I don’t know what it is that make men think they’re invincible. About the time in their lives that they need to check in with headquarters to make sure their prostate isn’t the size of an orbiting planet, they’re hanging from the eaves looking for blockages in the drainage system. His own pipes are exploding from four decades of chili cheeseburgers, and the man is swinging from the roof like a chimpanzee.

Call me crazy, but this time I’m tempting fate and sending him out to finish the job.

Let’s hope he doesn’t find out what Bo did to his lucky hat.

Win the Cap'n's Booty!

Arrrgh! This be The Cap'n talkin'!

In honor o' International Talk Like A Pirate Day, I decided to conduct me own little raid on the Weddin' o' th' Sentry, at some fancy hoity-toity lubber tavern callin' itself the Ritz Carlton. (I gots t' admit, I don't see what the big deal is, jus' cause they named it fer a cracker.) I was lookin' fer to catch the lovely wench AmyDoodle, cause she makes me laugh, and even a pirate cap'n needs t' laugh ever now and agin.

But when I got to the crumby place, I heard that the wench had absconded and was nowheres t' be found! I was a right mite miffed, lemme tell yez! I searched and I searched, and all I found was... her shoes. The purtiest little pair ‘o satin slippers you ever did see.

Well, me and th' lads (Bo and Sam, the first Labradors) was peerin' at th' sitchy-ashun, and we allowed as how the day might still be won. All we had t' do was figger out a way t' use th' shoes t' my own advantage.

But what can a pirate do with a pair o' size 8M Mootsies Tootsies? They don't fit a big manly pirate cap'n like meself....

They don't make much of a hat....

And, puttin' the lie t' Get Smart, yer can't use it like a tellyphone....

Me first Mate Bo can't be induced to wear 'em....

And the Beard Enhancement Technology jus' ain't ready yet.

Finally, I tried to eat one. But satin jus' makes me mouth dry....

But wait. A plan began t' be formin' in me head. A devious, cunnin' plan!

I'll give 'em away! Tha's right! We'll lure this Amy Doodle wench by

offerin' up 'er very own shoes -- a $50.00, er, $34.99,er, $29.98 value -- to a

lucky winner whose name will be drawn from my cap'n's hat by a random

lubber we'll pick up off th' beach.

So 'ere's yer chance! Jus' post a comment t' this here missive, or email

the wench herself a' ashley1949@gmail.com, fer a chance to get the

cap'n's booty!*

Note: Souvenir Ritz-Carlton Plastic Cup with Sissy-Girly Drink not included.

*Translation for non-booty speakers. You’ve read about them here on Mind Over Mullis. Now you can win the very shoes that attended, but did not get worn at the deluxe Ritz Carlton wedding. Worn for an hour, carried for an evening of dining and dancing! Just add a comment to this post or e-mail ashley1949@gmail.com. Hope you can walk a mile in my shoes—because I couldn’t walk at all!

Deadline: 11:59PM, September 30, 2010. Void where prohibited.

A Terrible Waste

Those crazy kids Barack and Michelle made the cover of In Touch magazine this past week sharing the secrets that keep their love alive. Is it just me or does anybody else have a problem with the President of the greatest nation in the world dishing on his love dare in a trashy magazine? I can see him giving up his diet tips to help reduce the need for national healthcare, but isn’t it a little undignified for the First Couple to act out their version of the Presidential Dating Game in the cheap seat glossies?

I appreciate candor as well as the next person, but I don’t want a President that kisses and tells. That’s just un-American. That sort of thing is supposed to be exposed by freedom of the press.

My problem is this. If the man doesn’t keep quiet about keeping the First Romance alive, how can we expect him to keep his lips locked when it comes to lying to the Russians about how many nuclear half baths we’ve added to the White House? How do we know he won’t leak the National League standings to Fidel and Charlie McCarthy Castro?

I refuse to encourage the media in meddling in the private affairs of the President and his main squeeze. I’m proud to say that I did not buy that magazine. No siree, I read that puppy right there at the cash register, leaning against the Snicker bars and Juicy Fruit gum.

Speaking of puppies, I’m wondering how long true love is going to last now that they have a pooch on Pennsylvania Avenue. A few episodes of Doody Gate and there’s going to be a drop in the polls for the love match.

I can just see the President getting up and shrugging on the First Plaid Bathrobe in the middle of the night and padding along the White House shag when all of a sudden the First Feet find a squishy gift left unnoticed by the new puppy Bo who, at five months old, is still a better leaver than Retriever. The first thing the man of the house is going to do is blame it on the Missus.

“Michelle!” he bellows over the handy Intercom.

A few minutes later a sleepy voice answers back. “Baby, I’ve been up interviewing with trashy magazines and modeling longwaisted dresses all day. This had better be good.”

“There’s POOPY in the White House!”

Silence. Then, “Baby, this is America. There’s been poopy in the White House for 200 years.”

Mr. Obama, wise in the ways of political excrement, thinks to himself a minute. “The situation is foul and stinky and I put my foot in it and smeared it everywhere. I need someone who’s an expert in smelly waste to help me out.”

So he calls Bill Clinton.

MIA

I'd like to express my thanks to the alert reader who noticed I've been missing in action this week, although I'm not really sure how Bo the Dalmador Labmation is logging on. He's partial to the mouse, so he's great at the point and click parts, but typing in the login password usually gives him trouble. He probably bribed the cat to do it for him. Justin will do anything for a sniff of crazy cat weed.

I'll be back this weekend with my salute to the Olympics: Sports Injuries I Have Known. I'll lead off with my Bat on a Balance Beam vignette and finish up with the Broken on the Bars episode.

So, I'll see you soon. I've had a bit of a medical emergency in the family, but it shouldn't take any longer than Saturday to find a place to hide the bodies.