A Letter for the Labradors

Dear Dogs,

I realize you have a reputation to uphold. After all, you don’t sleep 15 hours a day just because you’ve got nothing to do. (Oh, wait; yes you do.) The spastic hyperactive crazed dog fit that comes in the twenty minutes it takes me to drive to the store for kibble, hamburger, and Pine Sol is the perfect opportunity to use all that energy you’ve stored up sleeping on my grandmother’s hand-sewn comforter.

The sound of the deadbolt slamming into place in the back door and the pathetic wheeze of my ten-year-old oil-burner valiantly attempting another run at the hill at the end of our driveway is exactly the incentive you need to leave your cozy nest and mount an assault on the trash can that leaves my kitchen resembling the remains of the Bin Laden compound after Seal Team Six came through. The only thing missing is the news team recording misinformation for the masses.

I understand that the Iditarod is run by teams of sled dogs that work with such precision that a single wrong step can throw the whole team off, but those puppies are sock puppets compared to the destruction a pair of Labradors can instigate during a fifteen minute absentee-owner break. If there are mass destruction world records to break, you can’t live with yourselves another second without sliding down the hall on your blubber-filled butts and shattering them like Lalique crystal on a brick floor.

I also realize you are trying to make a point. To the best of your tiny sesame seed-sized recollection, you’ve been nothing but good and true ever since the incident with the television remote. Since you have no sense of time, it’s hard to explain to you that the vet trip for that little snackfest ended just last night. And the one for the pantyhose ingestion drama is still front page news. So even though you’re rallying against oppression, I have to insist that you stay out of the coffee grounds, drop the banana peel, and back away from the scented soap.

And while you’re at it, stay out of the kitty litter. There’s some things that give you breath that even Irish Spring can’t erase.

Besides, a goatee made out of Fresh Step just looks silly.

Love,
Mom

Live Long and Pamper

I don’t always get much useful information from women’s magazines. If I could really Walk Myself Thin,” I would be decked out in Kate Moss’s cast off clothing and people would refer to me as “that poor woman with rickets” instead of “Tank.” I'll walk myself thin the day Richard Simmons sports a comb-over and wears Dickie's work pants instead of silk shorts.

So when I saw the article on how to live longer that suggested eating fruits and vegetables, I knew there had to be more to it. And since I am always trying to improve the quality of life for the man who promised to love, honor, and carry in the groceries, I came up with a quick list for hubby dearest to help him improve my quality of life.

1. Just Say No to the sarcastic comment. My new stretch jeans may make my behind look like two transfer trucks passing on the Interstate, but you won’t outlive the day old bread on the kitchen counter if you say so.

2. Refrain from asking the faux innocent question. It is not amusing to inquire if my mother was the star of Shark Week on the Discovery channel.

3. Never use the word “nice” in regards to my new outfit. Either it takes your breath away, or somebody at the Salvation Army is getting a leopard-print dress for Christmas.

4. Remember: “Refrigerate after opening” is not a suggestion. Neither is “Proceed with caution.” Come to think of it "Don't touch the roast on the second shelf" can be added to the list.

5. Three little words: No cat baths.

6. Use an old rag when checking your oil. Pass up any item of clothing that bears a "dry clean only" label or that looks as if it’s trimmed in lace that could be older than your grandmother.

7. Don’t eat any freshly baked item that you find in our kitchen. There are no such things as Pecan Pie Pixies or Double Chocolate Leprechauns who leave goodies sprinkled about the globe. If there is anything worth eating at our house, there’s been a death in the family. You know how refined sugar comforts the bereaved.

8. Stop putting Granny’s teeth in the dog’s mouth. He may look like he’s smiling, but the Purina sticks to his dentures. And Granny keeps getting choked on Pupcorn bits.

9. Back away from the cat. A kitty stretched out on his back may look like a cuddly ball of cotton, but he has a weapon of mass destruction on all four corners. A friendly game of Cootchy Cootchy Coo will result in a trip to see the nice folks at the all night trauma center. Luckily they do a great job with stitches. And I think you need just one more hole punched in your Frequent Flyer Blood card before you get a free pint.

10. It is now against Federal Law to feed hot dogs to the Dachshund. The last occurrence resulted in a chemical reaction that brought a swift penalty from OSHA for unsafe fueling procedures. It also set fire to the electric blanket and melted two pairs of house slippers and a Hello Kitty pillow sham, and took a team of Navy Seals and ten Boy Scouts wearing HazMat suits to secure the area.

Now that you're going to live longer, you may plan to use your extra time to improve my quality of life with clever surprises of sugary snacks.

Either that or we'll take a nap. Time with you passes too fast anyway.

Check Me Out

I’m of the school that believes that as long as there are self-check registers in the grocery store, our quota for terrorists has been met. I’ve had paddle-wielding principals in elementary school that didn’t inspire the fear in my heart that one lone machine with a blank stare and twenty question does when it starts prowling through my personal effects.

However, since I’ve made great strides operating the toaster oven, I thought it might be time to give the self-check ninja one more try. Last time it took the produce boy, a store manager, and a passing grandmother with a customer card and a death wish to get me straightened out. This time it might not be so easy.

I checked ahead and was glad to hear that the manager that helped me the last time was still out on sick leave. Sure, I wish the man well, but anybody who goes all white around the mouth over an innocent mistake shouldn’t be in the people business. And anyway, I paid for those bananas.

I couldn’t help but wonder, though. Weren’t these touch screens a breeding ground for the kind of bacteria that closes up my head like the entrance to a nuclear reactor the day they all notice a funny smell? Or did they install touch screens on these things to make sure they’ve got a good set of fingerprints in case I make a run on the plastic bags and Tic Tacs? And couldn’t that midget behind me in the clever Boy Scout disguise lift my prints so that he could assume my place on the lower half of all the credit reports in the free world? Well, they’re not getting the goods on me without a fight.

“What’s that?” my husband asked as I snapped on my rubber gloves with the care and precision of a proctologist.

“Rubber gloves.” I picked up my broccoli and waved it at the screen like I was conducting Beethoven’s fifth for a vegan orchestra.

“What are they for?”

“Identity theft. And the common cold.”

“I didn’t know they were related. Have you alerted the government and the American Medical Association about your amazing breakthrough?”

“They already know.”

“Can we expect a Nobel Prize?”

“You’re being sarcastic. They say that people can lift your fingerprints off these machines and use them to steal your identity.”

“I don’t think Grandma Moses there has a fingerprint kit in her apron pocket.”

I surreptitiously checked out the Q-Tip of a lady behind us, flipping through Cosmo, white hair glowing softly under the fluorescent lights. She looked harmless enough if you didn’t count the keg of industrial strength prune juice she carried under one arm. If she was hosting a party, I hoped that she had more than a single bathroom in her apartment at the retirement home.

I sighed and peeled off my gloves. “Okay, maybe you’re right. Show me how to work this monster.”

Bill punched a button. The machine greeted us in a voice that passengers on an outer-Mongolion-bound stagecoach could hear without straining. He plopped a large cantaloupe on the scanner with a thud.

“Weight?” the electronic voice bellowed.

I snatched that melon off the scanner so fast it tried to quick dial the Farmer’s Market for assistance. The light above the register started flashing, and the display read, “Wait for cashier assistance” in an insulting font.

About that time my old manager friend walked in. He took in the blinking light, the angry checkout display, and me, holding a ripened cantaloupe like it was a smart bomb and the store was full of the folks in charge of gas prices. Without a word, he threw his name tag and price checker on the floor and ran out of the store so fast the automatic door flapped open and closed like a flasher on New York street corner.

“What’s the matter?” Bill’s brows were drawn together like they’d been shrink wrapped.

“I don’t discuss my weight with anybody who can’t give me a prescription for hormones.”

“Honey, the machine was asking for the weight of the cantaloupe. Not of you.”

“Oh. Perhaps I should explain to the manager when he gets back.” We listened to his car as it squealed past the outdoor furniture display and, dragging a two lawn chairs and a mini-cooler, screeched out of the parking lot.

Bill looked at me and rubbed his head. “How do you scare them off without even speaking?”

“I don’t know,” I answered trying to pull out a piece of plastic that was jammed in the payment slot. “But if he’s after my identity, he’s never going to get it.” With a tug, I pulled half of a mangled card out of the machine so fast I fell against the buggy behind me and squished some lady’s buns.

“Because I just paid for the groceries with your library card.”