Dog food is so good for you, it makes you strong and clever, too. . .

September 25, 2010



Apparently, cosmic karmic shit storms have a longer shelf life than I had anticipated.


48 hours so far.


In spite of my best efforts to sit still eating nothing but Arrowroot cookies and lime-flavoured Crystal Lite, the shit storm just kept on blowing around me.


Diabolically.



Once I finally made it home, I wanted nothing more than to put on my flannel jammies and sit in the kitchen, working on my computer until I was to tired to even comptemplate a key stroke.


At first, things were fine. But a niggling ping in the my brain was sending messages to my nostrils that something was smelling like dried dog pee.


Of course, the fact that I was smelling dried dog pee wasn't a complete surprise. Between the excessive urinating and uncontrollable pooping the dogs have been producing, it would have been more surprised if I hadn't smelled anything.


I presumed it was because I had inadvertently missed a pee-drenched step going to the upstairs, so I hauled out my trusty bucket and scrub brush and scrubbed those steps and all surrounding them, just to be sure, within an inch of thier 1970s lime green carpeted life.


Satisfied that everything had been taken care of, I returned to my computer and resumed working.


Only to have the niggling ping tell me that the smell of dried dog pee was still present, but clearly not accounted for.


I called in the big guns.

Stephen.


Stephen can identify an unclean smell, no matter how faint, from at least 10 kilometers away.


In the past, I have tried to clean up messes so he wouldn't see them, returning everything to its pre-mess state, and he will still come into the house, walk over to the spot, kneel down and ask what happened here?


Tres annoying.


He sits beside me.


Indicates he, too, smells the dried dog pee.


On the one hand, this was reassuring because at least I wasn't imagining it.


On the other, there was obviously a dried dog pee smell I wasn't capable of finding on my own.


We looked.


Hunted around the house.


Got down on our hands and knees and actually sniffed every. single. stair. leading to the upstairs.


And at some point, Stephen stops.


He looks at me.


Eyes wide.


Mouth agape.


And then he utters those faithful words:


"It's you."


"Whaddaya mean, it's me?????"


"You. You smell like dried dog pee."


Just to be crystal clear, and leaving no room for ANY possible thought that I had wandered around all day at work smelling like dried dog pee, he was referring to my I-can't-wait-to-get-home-and-put-on-my-flannel-jammies me, and not the I-was-at-work-reeking-of-dried-dog-pee-me.


Although that would have been an appropos scent given the day I had.


At some point I must have come in contact with the wet dog pee, probably while trying to ascertain what I should do to address the mess, at 3.13 am, still three-quarters asleep.

And didn't realize it, as the dog pee on me was simply part of the overall melange of dog pee permeating our house.

A fitting end to a shit storm day.

Yesterday afternoon I left work at 3.30.


Early, non?


Oui, but, I just wanted to go home, and be left alone.


So that is what I did.


Stephen picked me up, we then traversed to Blockbuster to procure Mer, who has finished her labourious shift conjuring souvlakis and donairs, and for some reason just didn't want to walk home in the pouring rain.


And then, last but never least, we collected Em from FHS.

She had manage to live through another week of the trials and tribulations of teenage adolescents whose existance is fraught with saturated hormones driven, not by edicts as mundance as "right" and "wrong" but a simplified Cookie Monster mantra of "Me want!" "Me have!"


Home.


Finally.


Exhausted.


Must have sleep.


Even if its just for a short time because I had to take Em to work for 6.00.


While wrapped in the warmth and comfort of my duvet, nestled deep under the covers and dreaming of absolutely nothing, at least that I'm aware of, I am thrust into wakefulness by a stench so fetid, so putrid, so abominable, so rank that I had to fight to prevent myself from vomiting.


The air was so thick with this malodour, you could almost chew it.


Almost at the exact same time, I hear Stephen walking down the hallway, to the base of the steps, inquiring about the source of the suffocating stench overtaking every single air molecule of our house.


While Emily and Keith also emerge from their respective dens of teen solitude to query about the cause of this rancid stench.


Immediately, we start searching the usual places: bedrooms, offices, bathrooms, inside the bathub, under the beds, through the interiors of the closets, no centimeter of the upstairs of our humble abode was safe from our quest in search of the putrid stench.


Nothing.


Nada.


Just as we were about to collectively conclude that Frankie must have let out one hell of a fart, Stephen spewed explitives I didn't even know he knew.


And on Emily's purple Converse hightops was a large, steaming mound of peanut coloured dog shit.


Even more upsetting: before my sojourn to the land of slumber, I had taken both dogs out.


They are still medicated.


They are still peeing as if they want to create their own water table.


And we are still trying, desperately trying, to keep ahead of it.


The bathroom behaviours of our beloved canines has literally taken over our lives.


But I digress.


Stephen picks up the tray upon which this putrescent pile of poo is resting and immediately takes it outside.


Em comments she will never wear those shoes again.


Keith opens all the windows in an effort to repopulate the house with non-feculent air molecules.


The cats are frantically trying to capture all their fur that has fallen out as a result of contact with the rancid air molecules.


Tikka is looking at Frank with a level of disgust hitherto unknown to exist among canines.


I just stare at Frank in wonder and astonishment.


Frankie, laying on the floor oblivious to the hubbub around him, lazily lifts his head, looks at me for a millisecond, then lays his head onto the floor and goes to sleep.


Stephen gets the hose.


Sprays Em's shoes and the boot tray within an centimeter of their existence.


Leaves said shoes outside hoping that he has prevented the cloth from disintegrating as a result of the acidic, noxious pile of poo.


And brings the yet-again-rinsed-boot-tray back into the house, expressing his deep seeded hope that this would be the finale of Frankie's poop parade.


Later that evening, alone in our house, drinking glasses of a well deserved rosé, we are again assaulted with an eerily similar, and equally potent, stench.


Wasting no time even looking around, we immediately head to the previous scene of the crime and are greeted with yet another pile of stinking poo.


On Stephen's Crocs.

This is the second time Stephen's Crocs have been the inadvertent site of the Frankie poop parade.

Same procedure, except this time Stephen is loudly proclaiming his frustration with the situation and voicing his doubt that "all of this shit" is the result of one tiny pink pill.

I am forced to agree with him.


Frankie's poo parade does seem slightly excessive for one pill about the size of a lentil.

Even if it is pink.

Our investigations begin again, our earnest attempt to uncover the source of the poo parade.

We scour the upstairs, the main floor, and then, as we are walking downstairs to the basement, we have a eureka! moment.


Dog food.


Two half-full bags of dog food that we are no longer using on the advice of Annette-the-best-dog-trainer-in-the-world (http://www.barkbusters.ca/).


Two half-full bags of dog food ON THE FLOOR as Stephen wanted to be reminded to take them to the SPCA.


And our little canine poochie was helping himself whenever he wanted to what, in his mind, must have been a buffet of epic proportions.


Mystery solved.


Bags put up on a shelf so they no longer reside on the floor, beckoning Frankie with their come-hither-and-eat-me essence.


And, we hope, the end of the Frankie-stinky-poo-parade-from-hell.


Because Stephen will swaddle Frankie's poop-shute in diapers, if he has to, with not one iota of guilt in taking such drastic actions.

In keeping with the dog theme, we spent this afternoon at the first ever FSPCA Pet Expo. All sorts of vendors who provide dog services, from dog training, grooming, babysitting, keepsakes upon the passing of your pet, funeral services, cat clubs, ferret breeders, greyhound adoption info, portait studios, agility training groups, it was phenomenal.

The second I walked into the Exhibition Center, I knew I had reached what heaven must look like for animal lovers.

Barkbusters had a booth, and because Annette and Greg has to be present at this event and meet with their clients, they asked if we would be interested in volunteering a couple of hours this weekend to help cover the booth.

Spend two uninterrupted hours talking about how much Annette and Greg have helped us with Frankie, how far he has come, and what we have left to do.

All while spending time with their 5 year old purebred Newfoundland dog, Izzy?

Twist my gumby rubber arm.

Really.

It was a wonderful afternoon.

And it ended much too soon.

We could have stayed longer, however, we were out of milk, lunchmeat, grapes, etc., so we had to go to the Superstore.

And we had 30 minutes before we were due at the Nursing Home.

Because we were in Montreal last weekend, and I didn't get to see my mother, I called and told her I would be there for the weekly Saturday meal of beans and homemade bread.

Superstore on Saturday when Charmin 24 roll package of toilet paper is 4.44 instead of 8.99, and it happens to be 4.30 = no carts.

People were milling around the cart cavern, asking each other how come there were no carts.

No time and no patience = Dawne going outside to get a cart, leaving Stephen in the foyer of the Superstore holding on to rolls and rolls of toilet paper.

Because nothing brings shoppers out faster than a sale on asswipe.

Title Lyrics: Dog Food by Iggy Pop

There's no way out from here, there's no other place. . .

September 23, 2010

This morning was the beginning of a cosmic, karmic shit show of epic proportions.

Getting people out of my house in the morning is, at best, challenging and at worst, incredibly-frustrating-to-the-point-that-when-I-get-to-work-I-lock-myself-in-my-office-and-scream-silently-while-my-fist-is-jammed-into-my-mouth-and-I-am-curled-into-a-fetal-position-on-the-floor-and-contemplate-cancelling-my-classes-for-at-least-the-day.

Keith has an 8.30 class on Tuesdays and Thursdays.


The *second* he informed me of this, in April, I knew getting him to this class on time was going to be a problem.


I don't have trouble getting up and out of the house in the morning. I've been doing it for so long that I'm convinced that most mornings I run on autopilot.


Some mornings I get to work, fully dressed (including accessories!), lunch made, coffee in hand, kids dropped off, and I have no recollection of doing any of these things.



Auto. Pilot.


Of all the kids, Keith was the easiest to get up and moving in the morning. Always the first kid ready to go. He's still like that; even now he can get up at 7.20 and be ready to go at 7.50.


Meredyth was/is impossible to get moving in the morning. She would wait until 15 minutes before we were ready to go, and leap out of bed, in a foul mood, attempting to do everything a teenage girl thinks she has to do to get ready to school, in that 15 minute period.


Many mornings I would leave. I had to.


Keith would be in car, agonizing over being late. Practically sweating kittens.


Again.


My mother guilt would kick into high gear, and I would sit in the car, torn over wanting to get Mer to school because if I didn't she would happily go back to bed, sleep some more, and spend the day watching television and eating whatever she wanted.


And getting my always ready son to school on time.


I can say with complete conviction that at no time did I ever make the right decision.








Emily, when she was younger, was very easy to get out of bed.


As she has grown older, getting her out of bed has become akin to trying to move a 1000 pound boulder with a toothpick.


She simply doesn't like getting up until she naturally wakes up.


She likes to wake up slowly, spend some time cuddling with Reilley, talking to him about how her night was, asking him about his, perhaps reading a little bit, listening to some music, contemplating her day, thinking about whether or not she'd be able to go back to sleep.


She likes to take long, languid, luxurious showers, and, as she says, "think."


I can relate.


I like to wake up on my own time and think about my day, pet the dogs, talk with Stephen.


But what we want to do and what we need to do are two.very.different.things.


Keith, on the other hand, her time-conscious-I-have-an-8.30-class-and-hate-to-be-late-for-anything-older-brother is somewhat less understanding about Em's need to greet the day slowly. He wakes up, gets up, jumps into the shower, gets dressed, comes downstairs, eats something, brushes his teeth and is ready to leave in 30 minutes.


I understand this, as well.


And this morning, therefore, was one of those mornings where I understood both sides, and was stuck in the middle, the adult, the parent, the one who was going to have to be the arbiter.


The heavy (metaphorically as well as literally).


The authority.


In the car, Keith is fuming in the backseat.


Literally.


Waves of anger and frustration rioling from him. It was so thick in the air I could have cut it with a knife.


He is verbalizing his litany of (justifiable) concerns about being late for his Forensic Anthropology class, sharing what his professor said to the two students who wandered into Tuesday's class at 8.40.


Stephen is in the passenger seat, oddly happy for a man who hates getting out of bed as much as Em does, and blissfully unaware of the inner turmoil present in the car.


I honked the horn.


Em HATES it when I honk the horn. I feel the same way when Stephen honks at me.


No Em.


I honk again, twice.


Now things have gone to the extreme.


She comes out, that look on her face, the one where thunderclouds filled with hail and lightening looked nicer than Em did.


She gets into the car.


By this time, I'm in knots. I know how Keith is feeling, I know how Em is feeling.

And I definitely know how I am feeling.


I have no idea what to do to restore peace.

But I do know how to impose order.

Once everyone was in the car, I put in place a new edict:

"This car will leave the driveway every morning at 7.50, and if you are not in it, you will have to find your own way to school or university or where ever else you have to go."

No one said anything.

At that point, I didn't care.

From Em's point of view, I was "yelling" at her.

She felt ganged up on.

I used the word "people."

She took that to mean her and her alone.

Guilty conscience, perhaps???????

Deluded, I believe that as long as I can get everyone where they need to be, I would be able to experience some peace before my 10.00 class.


I should have known better.







We live in a U-shaped court and we live in the first house on this court.


Technically, the street is one way: you come in at our end, and in order to get out, you have to drive the entire U to get over to the otherside.


Most of the people on our court do not follow this traffic pattern. It falls under the umbrella of "unwritten informal law." There aren't many people on our court, so the liklihood of encountering someone driving up the street while you're driving out is very, very rare.


In our neighbourhood, we have an individual who doesn't work. He drives his wife to work everyday, and then returns home.

What he does there is anyone's guess.

On occasion, he is the guy who sits at street corners with signs saying "We need a left turn lane here!"

He sends "anonymous letters" through the mail outlining all of the things you've done wrong.

Scary?

Yes.

Because you feel like you're always being watched.

And I encountered him this morning while driving out of the court.

He wags his finger at me, while shaking his head, and manouvers his car so I can't pass.

I so needed this.

Really.

Only Keith's death stare boring into the back of my head prevented me from stopping the car, getting out, and unleashing Emily and her wrath from the back seat to deal with him.

I fully expect some "letter" in my mailbox when I get home, or, if I'm really lucky, he'll actually put a stamp on it and send it through Canada Post.

Cause he's done it before.

I drop Keith off first.

You can imagine how happy this made the already "she-who-looks-more-menacing-than-thunderclouds full-of-hail."

As I drive into the BMH parking lot, I notice all the lovely, open, available parking spots.

And I know when I return, all of those gloriously empty parking spots will be full.

I was 10 minutes.

That's all.

10 minutes to drive Em to school and get back.

And how many parking spots were left????

One.

Thankfully.

This time.

The one bright, shining moment of my day was that I was able to get a parking spot.

Its the small things, right???

I know that the next time, I won't be so lucky.

In fact, a wonderful staff member pulled in beside us as we are unpacking our stuff from the car and offers her breakfast, a coffee and egg McMuffin, for our parking space.

Maybe for a Big Mac and large fries, with a chocolate shake, I would have considered it.

While not being one to make grand overgeneralizations, I think it safe to say that not one university in this country has enough parking.

They operate on the assumption that not everyone will be on campus at once, therefore, they sell more parking passes than they have spaces for.

Couple this with the inability of some people to read signs, you know, the signs that tell you that the first two rows of the BMH parking lot are reserved for Faculty and Staff, makes parking a contentious and stressful concern.

I *try* not to be a bitch about these things. But if there is one spot left, and a student is trying to park there, and I need to park there, I have been known to inform said student that they are parking in the faculty/staff parking lot, and they need to move.

Bitchy, nasty, elitist.

I know.

My logic is that if when students are late for class, it is sad, to be sure, but the class will go on.

When I am late for class (and not for any of the other reasons I would be late for class), can't find a parking spot, and I am not in class, class does not go on.

I have even devised strategies to get a parking spot when there isn't one available. I will sit, radio on, car off, and AS. SOON. AS. I see someone coming into the parking lot, with keys, I turn on my car and follow them.

Granted, this does not bring out my better side, stalking people for their parking space, however, there are times when decorum is ousted by the desperate need for a parking space.

By the time I had addressed the being-on-time issue, the man who would be King of the court-where-I-live, dropping off Keith first instead of the usual dropping off Em first, and getting the very. last. parking. spot., I was FINALLY able to unlock my office door, walk into my office, shut the door, drop my things on the floor, and fall into my chair worrying about what will happen next because when the cosmic, karmic shit storm decides to land on your doorstep, it never stops at just the morning.

For all that effort, the shit storm is gonna last all day.

And it did.

During my 11.30-12.50 break, I decided that eating lunch may help stave off any further trauma.

I heat up my leftover spaghetti from last night's dinner, go back to my office, and there is my son in the midst of writing a note to me in Sharpie marker, on an index card, in CAPS no less.

Relief flooded his face when I opened my office door and walked in, carrying my lunch.

Apparently, he received an email from the Registrar's Office indicating that he had not yet made arrangments for the payment of his tuition, and if he did not make arrangements by 1.00 today, he would be removed from his courses.

The technical term is actually "purged."

I wish I could say this surprised me.

But, it didn't.

So instead of enjoying my break, I spent my lunch hour emailing and phone calling and trying to sort out the latest backlash of my own personal, cosmic, karmic shit storm.

Now, for the rest of the day, I am going to not talk to anyone, to not engage, to remain as inconspicuous as possible, eat Arrowroot cookies and drink lime flavoured Crystal-Lite and hope that my shit storm decides its time to move on to someone else.

Title Lyric: Shit Storm by Casey Jones.

I'm comin' home, baby, now, I'm sorry now I ever went away. . .

September 21, 2010

We made it to Montreal and back in one peice.

Tired, but in one peice.

We returned with at least 24 loaves of egg bread, or challah, or kolache. Whatever you want to call it.

Bags of kolache buns, too.

Whatever you want to call it, its good and we can't get it here.

The freezer is full to bursting, and if I want anything other than bread, like homemade jam, chicken breast, steak, frozen veggies, etc., I will have to dig below the bread layer to retrieve whatever I can get my hands on first.

But it's still worth it.

And you should have seen the look on the cashier's face when we unloaded all the kolache Maxi's (the Montreal version of the Superstore) had onto her conveyer belt.

We had a couple of other items, Spruce beer for example.

You can't get it here. Ask Keith what it tastes like and he'll respond, "It's like Christmas in a cup!"

Stephen's father's intimate dinner for 30+ people was held at La Chambertin.

At least that's what I think its called.

Tables were set up end to end, two rows, and for six hours we dined on a squash/carrot soup with warm kolache, followed by a salad with the most wonderful dressing. Next we had a choice between escargot and shrimp. I had the escargot: six glorious snails floating in garlic butter, and another warm kolache bun to sop up the sumptuous garlic butter. There were four choices for the entree: chicken, salmon, veal, filet mignon. Stephen and I had the filet mignon; it was perfect: brown on the edges and red in the middle, a beautiful chateaubriand sauce with mushrooms on top, mashed potatoes piped onto the plate in a mouthwatering pile topped with watercress. Veggies artfully arranged.

Dessert: baked Alaska soaked in Grand Marnier and then lit on fire.

And if I drank less than one bottle of wine, I'll eat asphalt.

This place was packed. I addition to our party, there were two other parties: an anniversary and a birthday party in our room, and a wedding in the adjoining room.

And every party had baked Alaska.

When the baked Alaska was ready to be served, the lights in the dining area would dim, a waiter would come out with the baked Alaska held high, sparklers proving the only light, and the voice of an unseen woman would boom over the speakers wishing Happy whatever to whomever, and everyone would clap and sing.

It was loud.

Very loud.

And with more wine everything became louder.

Six hours to eat a five course meal and drink at least a bottle of wine.

THAT is what I call dinner!

Sunday morning found us tired, wanting more sleep, me with a slight headache from the excess of wine I had consumed, and in St. Sophie's Ukrainian Orthodox Church.

Stephen's family has been attending this church for at least the last 50 years. And each Sunday we are in Montreal, we attend church with Stephen's parents and Aunt Irene.

Well, we sit in the pews, they are all in the choir.

The very first time I entered the sanctuary of St. Sophie's, I nearly fainted.

I attended the United Church when I was a kid: Oromocto United Church to be exact.

It looked like this:

Trust me when I say the interior isn't any more exciting.

The interior of St. Sophie's looks like this:

Can you see the difference?

I can see the difference.

And it is even more breathtaking up close.

I spend the entire two hours of church gawking at the colors, the icons, and asking every five minutes what Father Kushnir is saying as the entire service is in Ukranian.


I love it!







There were dinners and church and visiting, and yet we still had time to go shopping.


I have lots of favourite places to shop in Montreal, too many to mention. However, we were able to get to Adonis, a grocery store of epic proportions, a smorgasborg of ethnic delights, none of which are available in Fredericton.


A 9 foot long display case of nothing but petit fours. $18.00 a kilogram.


We bought a half a kilogram.


Chocolate, vanilla, pistachio, dipped in chocolate, or nuts, or with chocolate or jam in between flaky, melt in your mouth cookies. Petit fours with icing, without icing, I just looked at the man behind the counter and said, "give me three of everything."


A six foot long display of gelato. . .lemon, coffee, chocolate, strawberry, vanilla, raspberry, orange, lime, pistachio. . .and beside the display case a freezer containing a melange of gelato creations with fruit, as cakes, in muffin-like plastic containers each holding a baseball size scoop of gelato in various flavours.


15 feet of nuts, mounds of cheeses I've never heard of, multiple kinds of tzatziki, hummus, and things I've never heard of.


I could have spent all day in there.


It makes shopping at the Superstore feel like digging through a thrift shop.

But of all our purchases, the one that brought the most joy to Stephen's face, the one that made him dance with glee was a $4.99 bottle of Herb de Provence.

Another thing we cannot get here.

However, we did get a small bottle from Stephen's parents a while ago. And he put it on everything.

And he loves it.

When we found it, and it was one of those club pack spice bottles, he grabbed it to his chest, cuddled with it, stroked it, looked at it lovingly as it sat in the grocery cart.

Several times over the weekend he grabbed the bottle from the car and caressed it in the same way a Price is Right model would show off an appliance or car.

Thankfully none of the neighbours saw this.

After church on Sunday, with Mary Ann and Roman, (Stephen's sister, my sister-in-law, and her husband, our brother-in-law) we went to the flea market of all flea markets.


Rows and rows and rows jam-packed with vendors.

I found nirvana.


Shoes, socks, jewelery, winter coats, leather coats, pants, shirts, suits, cowboy boots, watches, earrings, necklaces, paintings, bedding, towels, sheets, duvets, guns, video games, dvds, cds, candy, purses, wallets, kid's toys, sunglasses, literally rows and rows of sunglasses, dishes, cutlery, pots, pans, egg cups, plastic containers, cell phones, washers, dryers, futons, chairs, persian rugs, clocks, olive wood birdcages, cutting boards and various other cooking utensils. . . .


And the list goes on, and on, and on, and on. . . .


Bartering was expected.


"Just for you, I sell this watch for $25.00."


My reply: "I'll give you $20.00."


Three pairs of shoes, all for me, for $60.00.


A dozen pairs of socks for $10.00.

And something I can't mention here because it may possibly be for someone's birthday. . .a birthday coming up next month. . . .and that someone occasionally reads my blog. . .

You could spend days in this flea market and not see everything.

We were only there for a couple of hours and Stephen only got me out of there under threat of what his mother would say if we were late for dinner.

And no flea market was enticing enough for me to take such a risk!



Meanwhile, back at the ranch. . .

Roadtrips in our house happen infrequently, and when they do its either a combination of me and all the kids, me and some of the kids, me and Stephen and all or some of the kids, and on every occasion possible we include Frankie and Tikka. . .

Can you see a pattern here?

Roadtrips always include at least one of the kids.

Not this roadtrip.

This was an important rite of passage for our little family.

The parents went away.

The kids stayed home.

I suspect that the kids were experiencing the euphoria that accompanies having your parents believe you are trustworthy enough to stay at home overnight on your own.

Or even more than one night.

I remember that feeling. Having the entire house to yourself. You could play your music where ever you want, whenever you want and no one would loudy request that you "turn that crap down!"

The television remote, the seat of power in any home, becomes your sole property. No one is going to invade your television membrane and a.) change the channel without saying a word to a television program so boring you would rather watch the grass grow, or b.) take the remote and starts surfing through the channels competely oblivious to the fact that you were watching a really good program, or c.) flop down on the couch and ask, in that condescending tone of voice that can only belong to parents, what you're watching and surely there has to be something, anything better on.

You can eat chicken nuggets, hot dogs and nachoes slathered in cheez whiz, washing it all down with Kool-Aid, in the same meal because your mother isn't going to come into the kitchen and wonder aloud whether or not you've hit you're head on something because that could be the only plausible explanation for any sane human being to want to eat that much processed food and sugar in one sitting.

And you can have your friends over for as long as you want to play video games, watch movies, drink yourselves into an alcohol induced coma that results in you waking up the next day on the front lawn wearing your sister's bra, panties, a pair of red patent stilettoes and the words, "For a good time call. . ." written on your torso in permanent marker, while the neighbour's dog urinates on your leg.

The kids were, I think, a lot more comfortable with us going away for a few nights.

A lot more comfortable than I was.

Throughout our drive to Montreal, when I wasn't sleeping, I would turn to Stephen and ask, "Do you think the kids are going to be alright?"

And each time he answered me exactly the same way, "They'll be fine. Relax. They're responsible kids and there won't be any problems."

He was half right.

The kids, at least two of them, were responsible.

The problems, well . . .

The dogs were on medication for their scratching issues.

This medication has had some side effects.

Among them, excessive drinking, which led to excessive urination.

And for some reason, they were pooping a lot.

A. Lot.

Every morning we were away, Em and Keith, well, actually Em, woke up to a river of pee covering the tile and rubber mats in the entry way.

And fecal boats floating amid the river of pee.

No matter how hard they tried, how well they timed the bathroom activities of our beloved canines, there would still be loads and rivers in the house.

By the time we arrived home Monday evening, Emily looked as if she could happily spend the rest of her life dog free.

Keith spent the weekend home with Em, who in addition to dealing with bladder and bowel issues of two medicated canines, was sick with a cold.

Congestion, runny nose, fever. . .

Meredyth, on the other hand, spent her weekend with Tim, drinking at the Social Club, eating the meals prepared by the sick and miserable and up-to-her-eyes-in-pee-and-poop Emily and not helping with the dishes because she was "in the bathroom" or "on Mum's computer."

Initally Keith and Em were supposed to come with us, and Mer was going to look after the dogs.

As it stands, it was probably good that Keith and Em stayed home. Otherwise, we would have come home to a house flooded with dog piss and poop floating around aimlessly, cats trying to swim their way through the house while coping with the indignity of one, having to swim and two, being saturated with urine.

So, we are home. I taught my two classes today, and then HAD to go to the grocery store. We may have two dozen loaves of bread and bags of buns and bagels, but, one cannot live by bread alone.

The other necessities, milk, cereal, fruit, veggies, cheese, were conspicious by their absence. If I didn't get groceries the kids would have had to take a mixture of dog and cat kibbles for their lunch, seasoned with baking powder and cumin.

Yummy!


Title Lyric: Comin' Home Baby by Michael Buble