Tag Archives: Sh*t happens

A Rare Horse; A Rare Friend

My husband’s horse was born on May 5th.  That’s how he received the name Cinco.  A horse with a sweeter disposition could not be found.  As soon as he saw you, he was lumbering your way to nudge and beg for attention.  My husband sometimes got aggravated with him when trying to work.  “He’s always right in my hip pocket, ” he occasionally complained. 

As fitting as his name, Cinco only lived five  years.  He got sick with an upper respiratory infection.  J-Dub took him to the vet, and they gave him some medicine.  He began to pep up.  Then two days later, I drove out to our place to find Cinco laying down.  Now, I admit I don’t know much about horses, but one thing I know is they rarely lay down.  He wasn’t just resting, he was slowly rolling from side to side.  I walked closer to look at him, and his eyes had a look of illness to them.  I felt very uneasy, but not wanting to be the over-cautious wife who freaks out at a rolling horse, I decided to watch him a while.  He got up slowly, took about 5 steps, and then was back on the ground rolling.  I decided something truly must be wrong.  I called J-Dub immediately.  He was far away in another county, so he called his friend Matt to drive out to check on him. 

In the meantime, Cinco would rise very slowly onto his knees with his hind legs in the air, attempting to get up.  Sometimes he would make it, and sometimes he would lay back down.  When he did manage to struggle to his feet, he would walk for a short way, then lay down and begin rolling.  My husband said it sounded like he was trying to colic.  I didn’t know what that meant.  Matt arrived and when he saw him, he ran to him, slapped his butt and pushed on him, forced him to get up.  He put a halter on him and began walking him around.  Matt explained that when a horse colics, they get a terrible stomach-ache, so they lay down and begin to roll to try to relieve the pain.  That causes their intestines to twist, and they die.  The best thing to do is make them walk. 

As Matt walked Cinco all around the place, I paced inside the house.  I felt helpless.  Shortly after, the vet arrived.  She listened to Cinco’s stomach, then inserted a tube down his throat, and began pumping his stomach.  She removed the tube and drained all this liquid onto the ground, and then reinserted it again for another round.  This continued for a very long time.  The vet then decided to take him into the clinic and keep him overnight.  Rabies was suspected, and possibly West Nile Virus. 

The next morning Cinco wasn’t any better.  They continued observing and treating him throughout that day and the night, but he died there in the vet’s clinic by morning. 

Because the only way rabies can be detected is through a post-mortem exam, and the only way to test is to send an animal’s head into a laboratory, my husband had to drive to the vet’s to pick up his dead, headless horse and bury him.  It was a sad day.  I wish I could have helped him, but there wasn’t any help I could give except my words of sympathy.

The results for rabies came back negative.  The cause of death was never known. 

My husband has been without a horse since November until yesterday when his friend Shawn gave him a horse, and a dang nice one at that. 

Here’s Shawn hamming it up as usual.

This new horse goes by the name Freak because of his rarity.  He is a palamino roan. 

Palamino is a yellow color, and roan refers to little white speckles.

Right now he is roaned from his middle to the back, but in the summer he roans all over.

He reminds me of a Californian surfer with his bleached blonde mane.

What a horse!

But more importantly, what a friend!

My husband and I are blessed beyond words to have a friend in Shawn who sees a need and fills it. 

Thank you Shawn!

 

My New Old Truck

I’ve been on the hunt for an old truck.

It’s on my list.

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#6 says “Drive a restored classic pick-up.

I had an idea for something like this.

Or even this:

But instead, I got this:

when my husband came in the other day and said, “Hey babe, I got good news for you.”

Of course my interest was piqued right then and there.

“My buddy, Ol’ Earl is going to give you a pick-up.” 

Give is the operative word here.  At this point, I should have come to my vehicular senses and realized that a truck that is going to be given away probably didn’t win first prize at the Car Show last weekend. 

J-Dub says it’s nice, as he draw the word out for emphasis.  There isn’t a tear in the seat, it’s clean.  It’s niiiiiiiiiiiice.

We go to pick it up.  Rather, we attempt to pick it up.  J-Dub grabs a can of starter fluid ’cause Ol’ Earl says it’s a cold natured bleepity bleep.

I crawl behind the wheel.

The problem with these old trucks and me is even with the seat pushed all the way forward, I can barely get the clutch all the way to the floorboard.  I’m going to have to put a pillow behind my back or something.

J-Dub gives it a squirt of starter fluid.  I pump the gas and turn the crank. 

It rr-rrrr-rrr-r–rrrrr-r-r–rrrrrr-‘s for a while. 

But nothing.

So J-Dub gives it some more squirts.  I pump the foot feed some more and crank it over.

Rrrrrr–rrrrr-rrrrr-r-r-rrrr-rr-rr–r-r–r-r-r.

But nothing.

So J-Dub gives it some more squirts.  I pump the gas and  turn the key, and pump the gas some more.

And then we catch it on fire.

I mean literally.

Not that it fired up, but now I think I know how that term originated, but it caught on fire. 

We (I mean Jason) put out the fire with a couple bleepity bleeps as I rushed for my camera.

We don’t give up easy however.  A measly old fire isn’t going to deter the two of us.  We tried some more, with no success, and then gave up.

Within the next few days, Ol’ Earl changed the fuel filter.  He’s niiiiiiiiiice.  So tonight we went out for Picking up the Truck:  Take Two.

It had been sitting on a battery charger, so my hopes were high.

After hunting for the key for a good 10 minutes, and a few more bleepity bleeps out of Jason, a few more pumps on the gas, a few more turns of the key, a few more rrrrrrr—r-rrrrrrr–r-r-rrrrrrrrrrr–r-rrrrrrrrrr’s and it fired right up.

Then died.

Then a few more pumps of the foot feed, a few more turns of the key, a few more rrrrr-r-rrrr-r-r-r-rrr-r-r–r’s and it fired up again.

And died.

Third time is always the charm.

So now I’ve got a truck.

It’s not restored.

It’s not classic.

Heck, it’s not even legal.

But check out the stereo system in this thing.

Now that’s what I’m talking about.

Prosperity and pee-pee

Have you seen the new movie Lottery Ticket?

I haven’t.  And don’t laugh, but I want to.  I’m sure it will be dumb, dumb, dumb, and I will be filled with movie remorse like I always am when I pick out bad movies, which I always do.   It’s a gift of mine.

In case you haven’t heard of the movie, here’s the trailer for it.

 I’d like to think that if I won the lottery I would have a tad bit of self-restraint and not go spending my money like a wild boar hog. 

A few days back,  it was flying around the rumor mill here in my little town that someone won a million dollar scratch-off from the gas station at the Walmarts.  Then lo and behold, it was confirmed on the news.  The fellow chose not to have his name released.  Which makes him a pretty fart smeller. 

I remember watching a documentary of lotto winners and what happened to them after the madness of the moment.  The ones on this documentary are all dirt broke today.  Poor people just don’t know what to do when handed a wind-fall like a lottery win.  They start  buying boats, houses, cars, jets, taking trips, drinking fancy wines.  And then they must deal with all the people who come out of the woodwork with their hands out.  Before they know it, they’re back to being broke and often times in more debt than before they won. 

Which reminds me of my dogs. 

This is Drew Miller on the left, named by my niece after one of her pre-school friends.

The one on the right  is Grace.

I like this picture because it just shows the guilt on their faces.  They’re always guilty of something.

They are probably the two stupidest animals on the planet.  They are “outside” dogs, and for good reason.  They’re  hairy and hyper.  I would like to think they’re house-broke, but last night they proved me wrong.  When the weather gets downright brutal, we let them come in.  Drew cannot really be trusted, (he’s a chewer) so we shut him up in the bathroom.  Grace is more trustworthy and obedient, so she sleeps in the closet, by choice.  The last time they came in, my husband, J-Dub found dog dookey in the living room the next morning.  It belonged to Grace we know, since Drew was locked up in the bathroom.

Last night, we let them in again, and Grace went and peed right behind Jason’s chair where she had laid claim as her potty spot from the last cold snap.  As soon as Drew got a whiff of that, he hiked his leg and peed right on my husband’s recliner.  He didn’t even try to sneak.  He just out and out peed on the chair.  Right before his eyes.

Needless to say, I figure they got pretty chilly last night.

My husband’s famous words, “They can’t handle prosperity.”

Just like a poor boy with a winning lotto ticket.

The Seinfeld Post—a post about nothing

I’ve accepted a challenge by WordPress, the site where I blog.  They are challenging bloggers to either post once a week or once a day in the year 2011.

I am going for the once a day posting challenge.  It’s a biggie.  Especially considering how long it takes me to write one of these boogers.   

I missed the very first day of the year.  Which technically means I failed before I even started, but I am going to perservere anyway. I may be a failure but I ain’t no quitter.

Now its January 5th, Day #5, and guess what?  I’m out of ideas.  I got nothing.  I have nothing to write and a sneaking suspicion this might be a long year.  Yesterday evening, after I pushed publish on my last blog, I closed my laptop feeling very insecure about my post, and thought  It’s a good thing noone is ever coming back to read anything I’ve ever written, because I have nothing more to say. 

Nevertheless I’ve accepted this challenge, I want to do it,  and I need to post something daily.  Something with a little substance.

All day I’ve been thinking about a topic. 

WordPress is putting out ideas over at dailypress.wordpress.com, so I hopped over there for some inspiration.  Today’s topic is “Are you stressed out right now?  If so , why or why not”  Uh, yeah, I kinda, sorta don’t have an idea for a blog the 5th day into a challenge. 

Next I thought I might do a Wordless Wednesday post like other bloggers do, where they just post a picture and no words at all.  But I can’t, I tried that before.  And I just can’t say nothing.

But if I was going to do a Wordless Wednesday post, which I’m obviously not, here is the picture I would use.

But I can’t post a picture like this and not explain it.  It’s just not right.

This was taken on Thanksgiving Day.  My mom was cooking and we all gathered up at her house.  It was a pretty large crowd and one must admit, it is hard to cook for a large crowd especially when the cook is out of practice, has adult ADHD, and is displaying the early stages of Alzheimers.  I LOVE YOU MOM!!

Authors Note:   Okay so right now I must pause in writing and tell you, if my mom ever reads this, which she probably won’t because she’s forgotten I even have a blog, but if she does, I will need protection from her immediately.   I will pack my bags, move to a remote location and not leave a forwarding address.  If I make it out alive.  I’m scared.

Back to the story.  My mom was a bit frazzled, all with the turkey being undercooked, forgetting the ham,  not having enough chairs for everyone,  the broken plate and the spilled tea.    So when I saw a cigarette on the rolls, and my mom being  the only smoker in the house, I thought Holy Cow, she’s gone over the edge now.  There’s no turning back.  Call in the white coats.  Haul her to the loony bin. 

But she denied doing it.  That was not me, she claimed. 

She was adament about her innocence.  I would NOT have done something like that. 

Now mind you, this is the same woman who drove off and left my niece ordering a milkshake at  Jay’s Drive-In the other day and didn’t realize she’d left her until she got home, then had to rush back only to find her leaning against the bricks sucking on her straw with not a worry in the world.  So laying a cigarette on a dinner roll and walking off seemed very plausible to me.

So I was all like, mom you probably just forgot.  Who else would have done it?

And here I must give my mom a little credit.  It wasn’t her after all.  She was right.  She would not have done something like that.  Of course she wouldn’t.  The heathen children later confessed (after torture and beatings) that it was them.  They were playing pranks on the grown-ups.  They felt we needed some revenge after forcing them to sit at Mr. Tiny’s table, which in itself is a whole ‘nother story.

 

Here are three of them shaking their fists at us just because we forgot they existed and didn’t have a  table or chairs for them.  I don’t know why they’re complaining.   Children never get to sit at the grown up table during the holidays.  It’s like the law or something.

*****************

Here’s something funny that happened today.  I was teaching my classroom full of second graders that I adore.     There is not a single child in there that I want to hog tie and gag.  Not one.  We’re studying weather patterns and the water cycle.  So I ask the question, “Who can tell me the four seasons?” 

And one of my boys blurts out, “Matthew, Mark, Luke and John.”

Preg Checking

There comes a time in every cowboy’s life when the question arises as to whether or not a cow is pregnant.  But only dudes say pregnant.   Real cowboys say bred.  For fear of embarrassing my husband, I shall only speak in cowboy lingo for this blog.  So try to keep up, okay?

Recently we acquired a cow that was believed to be 8 months bred on August 25th.  Cows are pregnant on average 283 days, just like a woman, which meant she should’ve calved (Dude translation:  given birth) back in September, October at the latest. 

As of December 27th, she still hadn’t calved, nor was she springing heavy (Dude translation:  showing any signs).  Click here for a visual.  So J-Dub questioned if she was even bred at all and thought she was probably open (Dude translation:  not pregnant).

Since cows don’t voluntarily lay on a table and put their legs in stirrups or pee on a stick on demand, there’s really only one cost efficient method to determine a cow’s state of pregnancy.   

For this method you need a:

1.  a cow  (for obvious reasons)

2.  a plastic sleeve (for obvious reasons to be seen)

3.  lubrication (for obvious reasons)

4.    one tough cowboy (for obvious reasons)

Here we see Maybelle looking a bit wary.  She knows something is up.  She has been penned away from the rest of the cattle.  And she’s not liking it one bit.

 

First, she takes a big ol’ crap.

Then she takes a big ol’ pee.  If you’ve never seen a cow pee, there isn’t anything dainty about it.  It’s a gusher.

 

Next J-Dub pens her in a chute.

And prepares himself by putting on a plastic sleeve and squirting some lube in his hand.

He enters the chute at the rear of the cow……

 

and does exactly what you’re wishing he won’t.

Sticks his hand into her #2 hole.  His arm rather.   

 Right into her poop chute.  He feels around a bit, concentrating. 

He doesn’t have to go too far until he pokes something in the eyeball.

“Yep, there’s a big ol’ calf in there”

And everyone is all smiles.

 

 Everyone except Maybelle.

The Kitchen Sink

When I was a little girl I was walking on my kitchen countertops.  I was too old to be doing such tom foolery, but my age has never really stopped me in any of my acts of tom foolery.   Our kitchen on Seminole Lane was a U-shaped orange kitchen in every sense of the word.  Orange countertops, orange linoleum, orange canisters, orange, orange, orange.    I had a method of walking on the countertops.  If you imagine an upside down U, I started at the bottom, next to the refrigerator, made the turn at the top of the upside down U, then I’d step on the center of the stovetop, make the turn to the last leg of the U, walk the dangerously narrow ledge in front of the sink, down to the end of the countertop and then reverse it.  Perhaps it would help if I drew you a picture since that was really hard to describe.

While I paraded across the formica, I imagined the floor was a pool of bubbling, gurgling hot lava and I kept my footing sure.  Then the lava morphed into a swamp of murky water with snapping crocodiles leaping at my pinkie toes and I focused on my mission. 

I became a bit over-confident.   Being the expert countertop walker that I was, I needed to up the ante.   Maybe not look down.  Maybe not use the upper cabinets to steady my hand as I traversed the course of the countertops.   I was a tight rope walker, thrilling my fans below as the gasped at my speed.  Then I was a gymnast on the balance beam, leaping, the regaining my balance before my big finish. 

 I was at the very treacherous narrow ledge of the sink.  I was making my way across as I had numerous times before, when suddenly I began to lose my balance.  I couldn’t fall into the mire of snapping crocodiles or fall from the balance beam and disappoint my audience, so I went for it, taking a huge step to clear the sink and grab hold of the cabinets for security, when suddenly I felt my bare foot sink into a mushy, sticky, blackberry cobbler sitting on the counter next to the sink.

I don’t remember the rest.  I’ve tried purposely to forget.

Something to the effect that my sister and dad laughed mercilessly at my misfortune, and like bullies in a school yard they began chanting, “Cobbler foot, cobbler foot, Angel is a cobbler foot”  until I cried like a baby.  Then they continued.

I have never walked the countertops since.  But it hasn’t stopped me from loving cobbler.

So I stand corrected.  I do have a nickname.  Thank goodness, it didn’t stick (no pun intended).

This Is What I Get For Bragging

“He who toots his own horn, the same shall not be tooted.”
That’s what my Grannie used to say.
Translation:  Quit Bragging.

Recently I blogged about my tough fish.  If you didn’t read it, you can read about it here.  I blogged about how they survived a freezing cold spell.  About how they were strong genetic creatures.  About how big and fat and juicy they were.

Well.
Folks.
Now they are dead.
Both of them.

One fish,
two fish,
both fish,
are dead fish.

They survived a freezing spell, only to be poisoned by me.
I changed their food, they wouldn’t eat, the water got all cloudy, and they floated to the top.

I’m grieving.
I know they are just fish, but good grief, my heart is sad anyway.

Sorry, no pictures are available for this post.  I didn’t want to remember how they looked with their big glazed-over fish eyeballs staring at me.
Or their beautiful fanned out tails lying limp in the water.
Or their small fish mouths gaping open.
Or their bulging bellies bobbing in the water.

Okay that’s enough of that.

Good-bye.
I’m going to find a grief support group now.