Dog eat dog

They call them the dog days of summer.

Hey. Did you know that means from about July third until approximately August eleventh? Or, twenty days either side of the conjunction of Sirius (the dog star) with the sun?

I googled it. Siriusly. So technically we are no longer in the dog days, as summer is definitely on the wane.

Except, in South Carolina, somebody forgot to tell the humidity.

At any rate, here at Casa de Weber it's been more like the dog daze anyway.

I told you about Rambo's shedding problem. What, you say, Javier does not shed?

Yes; the diminutive geriatric Chihuahua sheds. A singularly insignificant amount.

An amount so trifling that I daresay Javier has likely not shed as much in his entire life as Rambo does with one flick of his thick ropy tail.

Adding to the effectiveness of his already nearly-shed-free coat, Javier has elevated the sedentary canine lifestyle to near-epic levels.

When he does stir his stumps in recent weeks, it's mainly been to cadge food from Rambo's bowl. 

Yeah. You read that right. Javier prefers Rambo's food over his own, and truth be told, Rambo has been known to sneak a snack from Javier's kibble stash too.

Truly funny when you consider that Javier could curl up and sleep in Rambo's bowl (my Pyrex, ad hoc style since Rambo's dishes did not accompany him to our house), while Rambo's snout will only just barely fit in Javier's dish.

Proving once again: The grass is always greener on the other side.

Since both pooches are baby-gated into a section of the kitchen most of the time when they're not lounging out by the pool, there has been ample opportunity for Javier to sample the big-dog vittles.

Toothless as he is, I've caught him nibbling the new-to-him kibble at least once a day. He ignores his own full bowl, saunters over to Rambo's, and noshes away.

(However he drinks only his own water. He won't touch Rambo's water dish. I've asked him why but he declines to respond.)

Does Rambo care? You may be wondering. The answer is, if he does, he keeps it well to himself. I already told you: Rambo is the sweetest dog ever.

But I was indignant on Rambo's behalf and annoyed with Javier for being so what's-mine-is-mine-what's-yours-is-mine when in my opinion he should be more hospitable to visiting dognitaries.

So I devised a clever solution: I put Rambo's food up on a stool. He loves it. Now, he barely has to duck his head in order to dine.

Meanwhile the closest Javier is getting to Rambo's 24-hour buffet is to walk underneath the stool. Which he doesn't do because he'd hit the wall. Just saying: It's over his head.

Done and done.

So now a coexistence which was already charmingly peaceful and amicable, is conducted and enjoyed in an atmosphere of newly-enhanced fairness.

Everybody's happy. Especially me. The dog controller.

That is all for now.

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Happy Monday ~ Happy Week

#WingsWednesday

Since Andrew has been deployed, we've been helping to take care of Rambo.

Rambo may be the sweetest dog that ever lived. All he wants is love and attention. Alas, the shedding in which he is currently involved makes more than a few moments of that at any given time, nearly impossible.

As in, one begins to itch and sneeze at about the same moment it dawns upon one that their face, hair, and clothing is becoming uniformly downy-fied with dog hair.

Consequently Rambo is not allowed anywhere in the house except the sun porch (where his bed is, for sleeping at night) and a small quadrant of the kitchen. 

Today I allowed him briefly -- with strict supervision -- into the studio, outfitted him with angel wings, and took his photo. The pirate flag was an added bonus.

Speaking of outside, the hummingbirds are relentless at my new feeder, which gizmo I only recently figured out (I think) how to keep from leaking onto the deck.

The new feeder replaced the old feeder -- which isn't actually old, only used -- which never leaked a drop last year, but which this year could do nothing else.

The hummies fly in by twos now: First comes a high-speed chase over, around, and past the feeder. Then one (the victor, I presume) comes back and chows down.

I take the pictures from inside the kitchen, where I watch the hummers while standing at the sink.

Other tiny things have come to visit me. One little person in particular, whose babyhood has sprouted wings and is about to fly away.

Dagny. Going on fifteen months old. Y'all! This kid loves life. She has a ball every single day.

She babbles and crawls (refuses to even contemplate walking) and sleeps and eats and snacks and naps and sings and plays and swims and makes more funny faces than any of us can hardly stand. 

All we do is laugh.

Last night she spent the night with TG and me. It was her first-ever time to sleep over and the first time she'd ever been apart from her mother for more than a few hours.

She did great. She was tucked in by eight thirty and woke up only once -- at about midnight -- for reassurance.

Audrey's coming to retrieve her later, at the end of a busy day.

Here is Dagny wishing all of you a life as blissfully uncomplicated as the one she enjoys.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Wednesday

#MilitaryMonday

So we've been fairly busy what with this and that. You know: Summertime.

I promise my blogging buddies I have not forgotten you. I'll swing by presently.

Meantime, here is a picture my baby son sent me from Qatar, where he posed with a few buddies and proudly displayed Old Glory:

I think they may be standing on the wing of a plane. Andrew is the one in the center (even from infancy he was to be found in the middle of the action), sporting the dapper 'stache.

To me, with facial hair he resembles a young Don Ameche.

As his mother I can poke a little fun because one, Andrew knows I don't particularly like the mustache; and two, he says I'll never see it in person because once back in the States (or even before), he plans to shave it off.

On a recent mission over Iraq or Afghanistan -- I'm not sure which; it may have even been Syria -- in the midst of refueling their jets, Andrew "met" two fighter pilots out of Beaufort, South Carolina.

Naturally, over their cockpit-to-boompod radio hookups, they got to talking about the charms of the Palmetto State, and in the course of that convo, it came up that both pilots are graduates of The Citadel.

And since Andrew's Dear Old Dad is also a graduate of the Military College of South Carolina -- Class of '74 -- the two pilots offered to do some special maneuvers, complete with pyrotechnics, just for TG.

Forgive Andrew for having his iPhone oriented in portrait rather than landscape, making this a narrow video. That's him you hear sobbing with joy and I think he was too distracted to change it.

Switching to full-screen mode helps:

That must have been something to see from the boom pod! Oh and ... Go Dawgs.

I play it over and over just to hear his voice and his laughter.

Speaking of something to see, here is a picture he texted to me a few hours ago: Baghdad at night.

God Bless the United States of America, and confound her enemies both foreign and domestic. Especially domestic.

That is all for now.

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Happy Monday

Planned Paganhood

Talk about your dark sacrament.

As if it weren’t bad enough that, since January 22, 1973, nearly fifty-five million American children have been murdered -- by their own mothers, fathers, and grandparents, aided and abetted by willing “doctors,” no less -- but we now learn that their tiny parts are being sold like any other commodity.

Line-item style. As in, there is a price list.

You need a liver? Lungs? Heart? A brain? All of the above? Done.

Then do it again, the more times the better, because as one “doctor” admitted: 

I want a Lamborghini.

I don’t know about you, but some of the details revealed in those videos made me feel physically sick.

Yes ... the videos Cecile Richards claims are “heavily edited.”

I’d like a chance to tell Ms. Richards that on Judgment Day she’d better hope her life story is heavily edited.

Only, even if it were, she’d have no chance. God is not mocked.

Seriously though, that chick scares me. I smell fire and brimstone when I see her face and hear her voice.

People, wake up. Wake up and realize -- if you happen to be hung up on this point -- opposing the evil immorality of abortion has nothing to do with religion.

It has to do with being opposed to sadistic butchers getting rich off the wholesale slaughter and sale of unborn baby remains.

In the annals of bad-to-worse scenarios, it doesn’t get much more brutal than that.

Meanwhile the lawmakers in Washington -- whose job it is to represent the American people -- lack the moral fiber and intestinal fortitude to defund Planned Parenthood, the shameless juggernaut of death that passes itself off as health care for women.

Presidential hopeful Jeb Bush -- of whom I am no fan -- barely mumbled something about perhaps defunding PP and distributing the same Federal funds -- well, maybe not necessarily the whole half billion -- to clinics that do actually provide health care to women.

When Hillary Clinton heard that, you would have thought Jeb suggested she put on a dress and go to church. She flipped her wig and berated him publicly -- “You are absolutely, unequivocally wrong,” were her exact words -- until, tail between his legs, he walked his comments back. 

Then she lied some more. Because that’s what liberals do. She asserted that to attack Planned Parenthood is to attack women’s health and that to attack women’s health is to attack America’s health. Which is a bunch of hogwash.

Instead of standing up to her, the man hoping to become Bush 45 said he “misspoke.”

Could somebody please grow a spine up in here? Because these poor dismembered sold-for-parts little kids sure won’t have the chance to.

I found a timely poem. I hope you like it.

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The little eyes that never knew
Light other than of dawning skies,
What new life now lights up anew
The little eyes?

Who knows but on their sleep may rise
Such light as never heaven let through
To lighten earth from Paradise?

No storm, we know, may change the blue
Soft heaven that haply death descries
No tears, like these in ours, bedew
The little eyes.

= Algernon Charles Swinburne =

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That is all for now.

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Happy Thursday

When life gives you eyes to see

Hey!

I've been busy with family-type stuff but we shall return after these messages from our sponsors.

Meanwhile looky here: a post from two years ago that bears reading again, more relevant than ever.

If I do say so.

(One tiny caveat: If I praised Nikki Haley two years ago, let me remind you that was before she caved to pressure from liberal race hustlers and ordered the Confederate flag removed from our State House grounds.)

I prophesy that Ms. Haley will live to regret that lame decision.

See you soon.

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TG and I were headed out on Saturday for some errand-doing when, at the end (or beginning, depending upon your perspective) of our street, just across the way we spotted a lemonade stand.

Said establishment consisted of a card table outfitted with poster-board signage (in addition to standard black Sharpie, liberal use had been made of a neon-yellow wide-nib highlighter), some bright kitchen towels, two lawn chairs, and two kids.

A little brother and a big sister, to be specific.

Oh. And a large Rubbermaid pitcher of lemonade sitting beside a snowy stack of styrofoam cups.

Dad was nearby, mowing the lawn. A two-story brick manse served as backdrop.

Politely earnest humidity velveted the air. Thunder burred in the distance, warning of the imminent daily summer downpour.

Cicadas wheezed maniacally in thousands of trees.

By now I'm seeing visions of apple pie, baseball, and moms in aprons.

'Murca! Land that I luv!

TG always stops to buy lemonade from kids engaged in such activities.

In fact, I do believe TG would stop and pull out his wallet if the kids were selling three-day-old dead lizards as a snack to accompany the sweet-tart beverage.

I fetched my camera and chatted up the kids while TG made change. He bought not one, but two cups of lemonade. 

When queried, the little boy admitted he did not understand all about capitalism. So I told him it was when you are free to offer a product to the public and sell it at a profit.

He understood that, as he counted a wad of cash stowed in a styrofoam safe.

While we visited, a lady pulled her car up ahead of our idling auto and came to take advantage of the sale.

She appeared to be an extremely nice American person who just happened to not be strictly white.

Everybody was happy and unfazed. Despite the best worst efforts of Barack Obama and his race-hustling minions, we have virtually no racial tensions in our neighborhoods.

We simply get along, glad to be living in the greatest country ever to exist on Planet Earth. We are courteous to one another. It is not difficult.

But I digress. Without apology, but still.

I chatted up big sister -- she appeared to be eleven or twelve years of age -- and found that she offers the service of dog-sitting in the community.

"Do you walk them?" I asked.

Javier adores walkies.

"Sometimes," she said. 

Her dad, hearing the exchange, told me: "She'll send you a text and tell you how your dog is doing."

I generally know how Javier is doing -- since he's generally snoozing -- but you may rest assured that the next time I require a minder for Columbia's Finest Chihuahua, if Erica is not available I will seek out my enterprising young neighbor.

Big brother of the family is involved in a start-up too: He starts up the mower and trims lawns for pay. I don't need him yet but when/if I do, I hope he is still in business.

In other news, it wasn't long before TG and the father of the junior entrepreneurs had found out they are both Citadel graduates.

Class of '74 and Class of '92 exchanged the usual info: what company were you in, did you know so-and-so, weren't those uniforms scratchy and hot -- wait; I don't think they discussed that -- how 'bout them dawgs, et cetera.

It is kind of sad that, as the kids' mother came across her lawn and introduced herself to me, and we began chatting, I was on the lookout for the Po-Po to come by and shut the children's store down for failure to obtain a permit.

But that didn't happen. What with Governor Nikki Haley and Senator Tim Scott (who succeeded Senator Jim DeMint) and Congressman Joe Wilson making up our team, Senator Lindsey Grahamnesty notwithstanding, we live in what is still one of the most conservative states and counties in 'Murca.

God bless her. Long may she wave and long may her citizens consume lemonade sold by children who aren't lying around the house pestering their mothers.

Because you know what? This little guy's mom told me he himself makes the lemonade he purveys.

As it should be.

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Happy Monday ~ Happy Week