Puzzled

I’m puzzled by the studies that show that the way to hang on to the last frayed threads of my mind when they threaten to weave themselves into something resembling the dream sequence on Dallas is to diligently solve the daily crossword. I’ve heard so many stories about synapses saved by a steady diet of crossword puzzles that I’m convinced that the only way to hold on to what’s left of my sanity is to discover the answer to 22 across.

The trouble is that I never finish crossword puzzles. I’m the sort of gal that remembers the name of the person I was supposed to introduce approximately 15 minutes (or six weeks depending on the degree of difficulty) after everyone has left the party anonymously. My guests are known to one another as “that girl in the tacky red dress” or “you know, the man who didn’t shave below his chin,” or “that woman who called me Hortense.” It’s easier for me to fit into last year’s swimsuit than to come up with a word at the right time.

So as I stumble over clue after clue on my daily crossword, I’m troubled by the fact that I’m unable to stave off the inevitable destruction of my little gray cells. Every minute my brow is furrowed, I’m certain that I’m heading downhill faster than a mutt after a meatball, only to find that one night after I’ve peeled open the fast food bags for dinner I remember the four letter word for bacteria. At this rate, I should become senile in another six months. I’d better type faster.

Luckily, there is a new school of thought to bring serenity to the chaos between my ears. Studies show that a simple change in my routine, such as taking a different route home from work, will save more of my mind than puzzles ever did. This is especially good for me because while I’m prone to living in a deeper rut than Hummer tires leave in red mud, it is not at all unusual for me to get lost. On especially good days, it might take three tries to make it to the mailbox. Without too much trouble, I can arrange to find a new way to get to the kitchen every week.

So now I can throw away my GPS, stride confidently from the house, and happily continue to take my wrong turns. And I won’t have to worry about any more cross words.

Puppy Class Is No Treat

I don’t have a dog. I have a WalMart greeter that drools and wags his tail. Slobberchops is the canine equivalent of a used car salesman; he’s always happy to see you and anxious to share what you’ve got in your pocket. He’s also the size of a Pinto, the car not the horse, and his output is likely combustible. However, he is not cost efficient to operate, and pound for pound can pack away more fuel than a fully loaded Kenworth.

Why didn’t I get a dog with a job who can finance his liver habit, like Lassie, who was the canine equivalent to a First Responder? Timmy’s in the well? Lassie checks his doggie utility belt, throws a coil of rope over one shoulder, and rakes in twenty grand in photo ops. Instead, I ended up with a Lab-Dalmation mix who wouldn’t go near a well if it was filled with Swedish meatballs. His attitude is firm on this: if there’s not a squirrel involved, it’s best to contract out.

But he’s a real dog. He produces a an actual throaty bark instead of an annoying toy dog yipyap, has feet large enough to do real damage if a misstep takes him near your toes, and is large enough to see in the hallway late at night when you’re on a sweet tea-induced pit stop.

But I’m of the popular, but slightly misguided opinion that everyone should experience the unconditonial love and stinky goo-filled treads on your shoes that make dog-ownership a fulfilling experience. If Nike knew I’d be wearing their tennis shoes out in the doggie obstacle course late at night they might have reconsidered their “Just Do It” campaign. (Of course, I also think everybody should skin a chicken once in their lives or cook a meal without using any product that has the word “easy” on the package, but that attitude isn’t helping my bid for Team Mom.)

So last Saturday, for penance, I accompanied my sister and her “dog” to Puppy Class. This animal looks like a cross between a wild Dingo and a housecat. She’s an unusual shade of dark tan, has ears that look like the wings on a glider, and she’s not afraid of anything in the world, except tall, dark, men with deep voices. So maybe she’s smarter than I thought.

I can’t think what sort of heinous crime I committed to submit myself to the cuteness overload at Puppy Class. I’m leaning toward the grudge theory since I was the one who told my sister to take the thing home in the first place. Anyway there I sat surrounded by tufts of fur and rhinestone collars, seated between a hairball and an earmuff, which seemed safe enough until somebody accidentally dropped a cheese treat on the floor. Then there was enough fur flying to style toupees for Michael Jordan, Bruce Willis, and pre-rehab Britney—with enough left over to make her a little terrier to carry around in her pocketbook.

We sat with the defendant at the pet store, squinting through our bifocals and filling out the paperwork for obedience school. Puppy whiled away her time making mulch out of my glasses case while we filled in the blanks.

Under description, the form asked for color. We regarded the dog. “She’s, well, brownish” I said, chewing the eraser off the pencil.

“Put taupe,” my sister said, caressing the fiend’s ears.

“Taupe? Dogs don’t come in taupe. Stockings come in taupe. Designer shoes come in taupe.” I glanced down at the dog who was sitting on my foot and drooling down my instep. “Dogs come in brown.”

My sister gave me the same look I got the time she caught me trying on her toe shoes when we were kids.

T-A-U-P-E, I wrote on the form, then paused.

“It says distinguishing characteristics.”

“None. Unless you count her endearing personality.”

I shook the creature off my shoe and cleared my throat. “That would be her ears.”

“What do you mean, her ears? They’re lovely.”

“She looks like a sailboat in full wind.”

“Sure says the person whose dog has one Dalmation spot on his. . .”

“Shut up. That spot is an inheritance from this mother.”

“Well it looks like he has two. . .”

“Shut UP.” I clipped her smartly on the ear with the pad holding the obedience form.

“You’re just jealous because your dog is afraid of the dark.” She poked me in the ribs.

“At least mine doesn’t dive in his water bowl like a submarine performing evasive maneuvers.”

Suddenly two sharp blasts of water hit us right in the middle of our discussion. Our attention immediately focused on a short lady wearing a navy blue shirt and a stern look and holding a water bottle set for stun.

“Ladies, if you can’t behave in Puppy Class, you’ll be subject to disciplinary measures. Now come join the class please. There are your chairs. Sit. Stay.”

So in the end, obedience school turned out just fine. I learned the importance of group activity, how to sit quietly, and to keep my paws to myself.