This business of having dogs has led me to wonder whatever happened to doghouses. Charlie Brown’s pal Snoopy lived in a doghouse, and so did my other favorite canine comic, Marmaduke. Hemingway says they’re politically incorrect. I think it’s equally incorrect for the dogs to deny me even a sliver of my king-size bed, and for my sons to see the pups trying to spoon with their parents. But that’s just me.
Speaking of beds, I take pride in changing the kids’ sheets and giving them nice fresh covers to curl up in. But I’ll be damned if I’ll do it for the dog. Leave it to Grundy to commandeer Cuyler’s bottom bunk and actually crawl under the blankets to sleep. When I came in to awaken the small man one morning, I found the furry, burr-covered beast with his head on the pillow and his paws atop the comforter. For a second I thought it was my young son, but his happiness at being told to “come down for breakfast” was a dead giveaway it was the dog.
Like I said, the newest members of the family are getting a little too comfortable.
They’re also getting big, and Hemingway has begun training them, and now they sit when you say “Sit,” and they just about stay when you say “Stay.” Which is a lot more than I can say for the kids. But seriously, they’re both rather cute, exceedingly friendly, and maybe just a few Kibbles & Bits short of a full bowl. Complete strangers who just might be homicidal maniacs come to the door, and Grundy and Pete lick them, beg for treats, and roll onto their backs for belly rubs. Clearly they’re not attack dogs, but that’s what we have Cuyler for.
They’re also not like any other dogs I’ve ever had in my life.
As kids, my brothers and I had our fair share of dogs. There was a little black dog with white paws named Gloves who broke his leg, then took off after the mailman the day his cast came off. I remember my dad searching frantically for my beloved pet, and coming home empty-handed, only to discover the bill from the animal hospital in our mailbox.
We also had a little red dog named Dee Dee, so named because she was supposedly my brother David’s dog. (Get it? Dee Dee—David’s Dog.) But when Dee Dee, whom my mom not so fondly referred to as Cee Cee, for Carpet Crapper, made a sudden and most mysterious trip to my Uncle Dan’s Maryland home one day, I was the only sibling to suspect foul play.
But maybe the pup de resistance of our mutt menagerie was our dumb blond dog with an even dumber name: Good Girl. Again, she was ostensibly David’s. But as my younger brother was never around to catch the hell that ensued when his tick-ridden tail wagger snatched a fresh-from-the-oven broiled chicken off the kitchen table, devoured a stick of butter while curled comfortably beneath my mom’s desk, and buried my father’s boxer shorts out back by the basil and tomatoes, and I was, I blame him to this day for my basic distaste for all things dog.
In short, the mad dogs of my youth definitely did some crazy stuff. But I have no recollection of any of them ever having a confirmed kill. No, that, apparently, is a country thing.
In the past two weeks alone, Grundy’s killed six groundhogs. How do I know? He’s brought them home. He leaves them by the driver’s-side door of the Durango so I can enjoy a send-off the likes of which I’ve never experienced in suburbia, and lays them at my bare feet on the front porch while I’m deep in an ad-copywriting77 coma, praying the perfect four-word headline will rush forth from my fingers, and completely oblivious to the fact that the warm, furry muff tickling my toes is not the big beast who likes to sleep in my kid’s bed.
Hemingway insists Grundy brings the groundhogs to me because “he’s not man’s best friend; he’s Mom’s best friend!” Honestly. How long do we need to be married before that man figures out that this mom’s best friend is a hair stylist with a blow dryer, a round brush, and a red-hot flat iron?
I realize I’ve been going on and on about Grundy, which may mean I’m more traumatized by the whole groundhog gift-giving business than I originally thought, but that doesn’t mean there’s not plenty to say about Pete.
Petite Pete should have been adopted by a family of means, ’cause that dog means vet bills. He’s there almost once a week. He might have mange. His eyes are runny. He could have mites. There’s a colony of crud living in his ears. He looks sick. He looks sick? Sick is how I look when I open the MasterCard bill. It’s gotten so bad the people from Best Friends Animal Clinic call every other day to inquire about their “favorite patient, Pete.” I believe there was even talk of adding a new wing in his honor with a plaque that says TO PETE. THANKS FOR MAKING THIS POSSIBLE.78
I was indulging my Oreck fixation the other day—vacuuming up the dog hair in my dining room, because Pete’s impressive vet bills prohibit my hiring a cleaning lady to do it for me—when I discovered what looked like disgorged cat food on the carpet. I’m pretty sure I’ve mentioned that, in addition to our two princes and their two new pups, we also have a cat. But if I haven’t, well, we do, and most of the time Inky, so named because he’s the color of a bottle of black ink, lives in the basement. Except when he ventures upstairs to vomit.
As you can imagine, discovering that the cat had hurled on the housewarming gift my mom gave me when we finally moved into Nate’s Place really sent me reeling. I was stomping around, swearing in Italian, and doing my little “Morte al gatto!”—death to the cat!—dance, when I flipped off the vacuum, crouched down for a closer inspection, and just about passed out. What I had come upon was not that favorite feline delicacy, upchucked tuna chunks, but rather pup-regurgitated potpourri. I’d put some wisteria-scented stuff in the room in the hope of making it a little more Desperate Housewives and a little less eau de dog, and my two mongrels ate it and retched it back up onto the rug. It might have been worth it if it helped their breath or turned me into the Gabrielle Solis of the sticks, but alas, it did neither.
Potpourri isn’t the only thing the pups have developed a palate for. The other night I was whipping up spaghetti and meatballs and it came time to put the fresh pub bread I’d picked up at the Home Farm Store in Middleburg—where they charge almost as much for a loaf as you’d expect to pay for a Land Rover—in the oven. Only it wasn’t where I’d left it. I checked the cabinets, looked in the fridge, and scoured the countertops. I even called upstairs to the kids to see if in their infinite impatience they’d inhaled it. But it was nowhere to be found.
And then I looked down.
There, torn to shreds on the dining room rug, the very same rug upon which I would find the ralphed-up room freshener just a few days later, was its clear, crinkly wrapper. Lying next to the ruins, sated and sleeping, crumbs like freckles sprinkled on his snout, was, you guessed it, Grundy.
Well, I went batshit. In a matter of seconds I was having a major “Morte al cane!”—death to the dog!—tantrum, with a little “Morte al marito!”—death to the husband!—tossed in for effect. Why? Because it’s Hemingway’s fault the damn dog is stealing people food. Despite my begging and pleading, my indulgent spouse has been sneaking table scraps to both Grundy and Pete, and now they love grilled salmon, prime rib, sautéed broccoli, and, obviously, expensive fresh bread.
Mark my words. If I ever get those doghouses I’m after, the hounds won’t be the only ones calling them home.
Big Bow Wow Bulletin
TO: Friends & Family
FR: Pete & Grundy’s Mom (Not!)
Date: Monday, 8 p.m.
Subject: Grundy Takes the Cake...
And I mean that literally.
Hemingway’s been working so hard around here that I thought I’d be a good wife and make him something special. So I whipped up his favorite dinner (macaroni and cheese, and fried fish sticks—we’re fighting low cholesterol), and decided to bake him a cake.
Now, I can’t bake, but I can read. I grabbed a box of Betty Crocker Supremely Fluffy white cake mix (white cake is Hemingway’s favorite, further proof that opposites attract), eggs, oil, and water and went to town.
Thirty-three minutes later, my first ever faux pas-free baked confection was complete and ready to cool. I was so proud. I
placed it outside on the table under a small towel, and set the timer for ten minutes.
Big mistake.
Apparently Grundy set his for eight, because when I went to retrieve the cake, there was the dog, standing over my Bundt pan, chowing down on Hemingway’s dessert. I just about died. I mean, who knew he and my honey had the same taste in sweets? (Makes me further suspect that my husband and that damn dog were indeed separated at birth....)
Since it would take longer to drive to the store and buy another cake than it would to bake one, I did just that. Only this time Hemingway was stuck with chocolate, and Grundy was stuck waiting till breakfast to eat again.
If that’s not bad enough, twice this week I was awakened by the sounds of that mutt scurrying about and barfing. I’m sure you’re thinking it has something to do with my questionable baking abilities, but, alas, it does not. In fact it has everything to do with Grundy’s superior groundhog-slaughtering skills. First he kills them, then he consumes them. And occasionally they disagree with him.
Which is how the whole thing starts, anyway, isn’t it?
Susan
Chapter Thirteen
EVEN FARM BOYS EAT FAST FOOD
Just as I consider it my duty to kvetch79 about the limited shopping options here in cow country, Casey and Cuyler consider it theirs to celebrate and frequent the myriad fast food places that dot the landscape. To be accurate, they don’t dot the landscape where we live,80 but if we make the million-mile, full-tank-of-gas trek to civilization, there’s plenty to pick from.
And pick they do. Unlike Ridgewood, where they still have a “no fast food” law beloved by many parents, here my kids can pick Wendy’s one day and McDonald’s another. The only criteria for eating the crap these places proffer is what toy they’re giving away that day.
Have I ever told you how much I hate toys from fast food franchises?
First, they only come with those darn Happy Meals, which contain three chicken fingers/tenders/nuggets/you name it, eight French fries, and a small drink. Definitely not enough food for the two human garbage pails I’ve produced. So I wind up springing for two Happy Meals at nearly six dollars a pop, plus two “real” meals, and suddenly the “free” toys total twenty-four bucks. Who’s happy? Not me.
And lots of times my boys aren’t too thrilled, either. Why? Because they’ve already gotten Patrick and thought SpongeBob would be in the bag this week. But no, it’s that goofy pink starfish again, and they’re freaking.
“Oh, man. Not another Patrick!” Cuyler wails as he slides from his seat to the germ-infested floor. “Get up! Get up!” I hiss. But it’s no use. He’s spinning on the floor of Burger King/McDonald’s/Wendy’s/wherever, covering himself in spilled food and filth from head to toe. I gag at the thought of the millions of disease-carrying microbes clinging to his clothes, hair and hands, and lunge for the little lunatic just as he flips onto his belly and breaststrokes away from me. He’s nearly to the door when I dive for his hood and connect—of course—with his hair. So now the boy beast I’ve unleashed on the lunch crowd is crying and flailing wildly to get away from me. Finally,81 I wrestle him back to our booth, where he discovers Casey playing happily with both Patricks, and promptly explodes all over again.
I just don’t understand my sons’ attraction to these plastic pieces of flotsam. We’ve given them five hundred rolling acres on which to play, and still they prefer the three feet in front of the TV and toys that are frankly nothing more than garage sale fodder. Heck, they have a collection that’s so extensive it could form its own garbage barge.82 I once tried to pare it down, only to be discovered midcleanout by Cuyler, who forced me—under threat of pain from the pointy Little Bo Peep top he brandished—to return every Batman, Spider-Man, Garfield, Power Ranger, Hamm, Homer, Marge, Bart, Scully, Plankton, Woody, Buzz, Rex, and toys whose names I don’t even know, to the huge plastic container they call home. Of course I obliged. You’ve no idea what that kid and Little Bo Peep are capable of.
Frankly, I’ve come to the conclusion that my sons’ fondness for such offal is my own fault. If I’d learn to make more than grilled cheese, maybe my boys could pass the golden arches without salivating like starved Saint Bernards. One minute we’re cruising along like a nice normal family (with Casey flipping from radio station to radio station, looking for sports scores, and Cuyler screaming, “Enough talking! Music! I said music!”), and the next I’m assaulted by a cacophony of commands (“Mom, McDonald’s at one o’clock! Get into the right lane! They’ve got Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles!”).
All’s well if I agree to purchase the cardboard fare that masquerades as food at these places (along with the “free” toy, of course). But God forbid I decide to do so via the drive-through. My boys go berserk. “We’re picking up? NO! They give the best stuff to the kids who go INSIDE!” I hit the brakes in front of the order board and turn to my eldest. “Are you telling me there’s some kind of vast fast food-collectibles conspiracy?” He nods, while the madman behind me screams and pounds the back of my seat with his feet to punctuate his points. “Mom, stop talking! We’re not picking up. We’re [kick] going [harder kick] in [hardest kick yet]!”
Oh, really?
Fast as the Flash, yet another collectible my kids had to have, I’m out of the car and ejecting Devil Boy from the backseat. I pop the seat belt, pull him toward me, and plop him on the walkway. “You want to go in? Go in.” Now Casey is frantic. “Mom,” he hollers, “are you insane?” Horns are honking. And then, over shouts of “Hey, lady, order already!” and “What the heck’s the holdup?” I hear, “It’s a rumor! Kid, it’s a rumor!” A voice over the intercom is yelling to Casey, who responds, “The toy thing?”
“Yeah,” replies the voice, “they’re all the same. Doesn’t matter whether you drive through or come in—everybody gets the same thing!”
Now my kids go wild with joy. So, to my surprise, do the kids in the pickup truck behind us. Cuyler scrambles back into the backseat and slams the door, and the mom in the pickup catches my eye. “I’m sorry!” I yell. “Don’t be,” she shouts back. “My boys have tried every trick in the book to get me to go into these places. They like the free toy, but I think what they really like is being surrounded by food that smells like feet.”
God, I wish that were true of my kids. If it were, I’d simply whip up burgers and serve them in their bedrooms. But no, for my boys, it’s all about the free toys. Doesn’t matter if it’s Jimmy Neutron or Pokemon. They’ve gotta collect ’em all.
Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if fast food chains had cool stuff for moms, too. Like a series of Ocean’s Eleven collectibles. They could stick them in “Mommy Meals,” and I bet you’d have women jamming the drive-throughs to get a Matt Damon, Brad Pitt, or George Clooney with their Chicken Caesar Salad. And if you wound up with doubles of Damon or a pair of Pitts, you’d be patient. Unless it took forever to collect a Clooney. Then you’d have to speak to the manager. And maybe even eat inside.
Chapter Fourteen
HOUNDED BY HONEY-DOS
You know that feeling you get on vacation, that sense of relaxation and peacefulness combined with anxious impermanence? If you’re at all like me (and God willing, you’re not), you lie on your lounge chair and think to yourself, Wow, this is great. Too bad I can’t stay right here forever, sipping my Sea Breeze and barely watching my kids play with kids they just met, who might be nice but who might also be bullies waiting to drown them the minute my eyelids droop. Too bad all this sun, sand, and cabana-side drink service can’t last forever. Too bad I have to go home and figure out how to pay for it.
I have those kinds of feelings and thoughts all the time—minus the ones about the kids drowning, as there’s no serious body of water anywhere near here, which, along with the lack of a Starbucks, really costs this place points from my perspective—and I live here. I’m not going anywhere. Trust me; Hemingway hates to travel even more than he hates to spend money.
Maybe after I’ve lived here a lit
tle longer Northern Virginia’s singular splendor will cease to take my breath away. But I doubt it. Between the lazy streams and the rolling pastures, the hummingbirds and the stone farm buildings, I feel like I’m living in a vacation paradise. And we all know what happens when you go on vacation. Eventually you have to go home, do the laundry, and address the MasterCard bill. And maybe even enclose a check.
But of course, I am home. This is good, and it’s bad. It’s good because I get to drink my morning coffee while watching baby deer lounge on my lawn in the dawn’s silken yellow sunlight. It’s bad because my sons usually interrupt me to demand something silly, like breakfast.
Everywhere I look, I see the Blue Ridge Mountains. But it seems the closest I’ll come to them is the “mountain-fresh” scent of my fabric softener. All around me, people are kayaking, rafting, camping, hiking, biking, horseback riding, and even hang gliding. And what am I doing? I’m searching for the mates to missing, manure-encrusted gym socks;83 vacuuming up potato chip crumbs from the arcade that does double duty as my son’s bedroom; and filling trash bag after trash bag with half-consumed silver-and-blue pouches of Capri Sun juice coolers, bags of moldy seedless red grapes, and sleeves of smashed saltine crackers. I’m beginning to think I should go through my house like an old-fashioned street cleaner, carrying a long stick with a spike on the end, stabbing at garbage, maybe a kid or two, and stuffing it all in a sack on my back. It might even make me feel like I’m trekking the trails of the Blue Ridge.
Confessions of a Counterfeit Farm Girl Page 9
