Is when the people return to Bad Dog Central and have in their hands...The White Takeout Box of Leftovers! Little guy scored a bone. Casey got pieces of meat (yes - we collected them from everyone at the table. We are THOSE people).
03 November 2006
I ran this afternoon - short but hard. It was a good run, and I decided to walk the last couple blocks to the house to shorten my total time-spent-gasping-in-the-living-room.
As I strolled up the sidewalk, the ground trembled. There was a rumble to the west, then a building wall of sound. I looked up (I know what this is - you gotta look ahead of the sound). The roar built, until it was almost painful and almost overhead. Then I saw it.
(photo courtesy USAF)
Taking off from the Air Base. It cleared the base perimeter and shot almost straight up. Three more followed at angles less steep.
We get a lot of transport and utility planes here, not so many fighters. But man, are the fighters ever awesome. From the sound to the sight, whether they're taking off, landing or just screaming by at low altitude...well, it makes me smile. Not a little smile, either. A big ol' shit-eating grin.
Now, I've (thankfully) never been in a position where fixed-wing air power had to come to the rescue. But I have been in a couple spots where it was REAL nice to know those fighters were out there. I see them now and it just makes me realize the amount of talent, technology and sheer POWER we can bring to bear on anything or anyone that threatens us.
And I defy anyone who ever watches fighters fly to not feel a little envy. I know that flying in the military, particularly flying fighters, is a lot more work than glamor. And I know that getting there requires massive effort (and a buttload of math). But...I'd just about give a kidney to launch one of those off a runway and into a steep climb someday. I never will, but it makes me happy to see that people do.
Anyway, fighters just give me a warm fuzzy way down in my boot-wearing, warmongering heart. And I felt like sharing.
OK - time for the ---hold on, gotta answer the phone...
IF THERE'S A PAWN FOR THE INSURANCE INDUSTRY IN THE FLORIDA STATE SENATE RACE IT'S KIM BE-
Okay. I'm back. As I was saying, the Official Position on Election 2006 here at Bad Dog Central is: Please God, let it be over.
Please observe what came in TODAY'S mail.
That's just today. These people are insane. And that's to say nothing of the phone calls. And the commercials.
I've been a politics dork for years. I care far more than the average individual about this sort of thing, and even I don't give a shit about the vast majority of the offices.
And attack ads? Boy howdy, can Florida politicians run attack ads.
There's a woman named Kim Berfield running for State Sentate. She's a pawn of the insurance industry, might be a scientologist, might still live at home with her parents, and doesn't like kittens.
Her opponent is Charlie Justice, who wants to quadruple property taxes, mandate gay marriage and shoot puppies.
Both of them have, according to the ads, apparently taken duffel bags of cash from insurance companies (a big thing here since people insist on building waterfront home in hurricane country).
I give up.
I'll vote on Tuesday. But really, shouldn't I look forward to election day as an opportunity to elect a candidate I'm enthusiastic about, rather than as the painful which-one-of-these-assholes-will-screw-up-less selection process that it usually is? I am absolutely certain that only cretins will be elected to any office, and that's because, as near as I can tell, only cretins RUN for office.
I hate all these people.
So I don't know anything about this guy. I'm opposed to the religious right on priciple. It's as though every time some twitchy man starts yammering about "family values" I can hear, very softly in the background, "and you, missy! What are you thinking, wearing TROUSERS??? Get into a shapless long-sleeved floor length flowered dress and get in the kitchen where you belong! And why aren't you surrounded by squalling infants? Have babies! Lots of them!"
Ugh. Makes my blood run cold.
Anyway, I'd never heard of this Jesus-told-me-to-tell-you-what-to-do guy, but apparently he's a big deal in that world. And apparently there are Troubling Allegations about him and some excesively attractive young man.
This would be a problem for almost anyone, mind you, who was married. Obviously a Huge Problem for someone of his ilk. Anyway, CNN just showed a little clip of him trying to explain this away, and it was the most priceless soundbite I've heard in years. Check this out:
"I have never had sex with a man in Denver."
Well, that clears THAT up.
02 November 2006
So Casey had an upset tummy today. A little yard pukin' and a serious case of the I-gotta-go-out-RIGHT-NOW. So I called Mom up, got a Course of Action (that's military speak for what-the-Hell-we-gonna-do), and did it. Went to CVS, bought Pepto and a syringe.
I came home, fired up the syringe, grabbed the German Shepherd, pried open the Giant Jaws of Death and thoroughly Pepto'd the dog. Then I did it again. Mr. Abby kept looking at me like I was crazy.
However, Mom always taught me:
If you're going to be a Critter Person, you have to be able to deal with your critters.
When I was a kid, we had barn cats. Now, the average barn cat gets about one trip to a real veterinarian in its life (if it's lucky). That's the spay/neuter trip. Other than that - why would anyone, my mother would ask, pay for an office visit for shots you can buy through the mail?
(Disclaimer - Abby's Mom is a medical professional)
So at least once a year, we'd trap the barn cats out in the garage. Then it was my job to a grab a cat and wrap it in a towel, leaving the neck exposed so Mom could administer the shots. We also did this with the housecat. And Dad's hunting dog.
When I was in high school, I had a couple of horses. One of them was a freak of epic proportions and ran through a barbed wire fence. Since we believed in Dealing With Our Critters, I applied ointment to those lacerations every day for weeks (and the horse kicked, too).
The two horses needed shots, too. This seemed to my Mom to be a GREAT OPPORTUNITY for me to learn to give shots. I remember her standing on the OTHER side of the fence and giving instructions as I warily circled Freak Horse with a needle. But I did it. I learned.
One weekend, my Dad and I were Up North and Mom was at home with our two bullmastiffs. On their Last Pee of The Night, Boris, our large male (and I do mean LARGE), somehow got tangled up with a raccoon family in the woods below the house. Raccoons are MEAN and Boris was not. He DID triumph (decisively, my father found the next day), but sustained a nasty ear-tear in the process. Nasty as in his big, floppy, velvety ear was ripped pretty well in half from tip to base.
Mom fixed it. With a flesh stapler. The woman stapled an ear together on a I-shit-you-not-150-pound frantic dog with no assistance.
That's Dealing With Your Critters. And that's why I could never even contemplate calling the veterinarian to administer dog tummy medicine. Because Mom would laugh at me.
Ah, yes. Another day draws to a close. Mr. Abby is already asleep, and one of us has apparently decided it's time for the Last Pee of The Night. Yes - of course I took a picture. You should just be thankful I cropped most of our nasty ghetto backyard out of it.
What? Too tacky? Oh, okay. Then we came back inside and Sparky decided to paw at the couch blanket and build himself a nest. Isn't that cuuuuuute?
I KNEW you would like that one.
01 November 2006
Literally. The dogs laid down the law recently and said "no more blogging until you get some DOG PICTURES!" Hence our recent lack of posting. This afternoon I managed to wrestle both of them AND the camera into the Jeep for a ride to the park, so I'm back in business.
And can you really beat a CAR RIDE?
No. You cannot.
And once we got to the park, there was much running and standing and looking to do.
And then there were the SQUIRRELS!
Sparky ALMOST got this one. Almost.