Green Monster!

This year I have gone green for the holidays. When tallying the count in the pro and con columns it was clear; the color is right and no hanging chads.

There have been several unexpected perks in addition to saving a sapling, several octopuses and wear and tear on postal workers.

First, and most importantly, I was able to expand my card list considerably and annoy even more folks than usual with my annual ramblings. More warm fallout is the many quick responses to my e-missive. Several conversations have been sparked and get-together plans are in the making!

As someone who bows at the altar of electronics, my abiding love for email and faith in the net has been reaffirmed. I will most decidedly choose to e-bomb my friends and family with cards in the future after the joy of this first experience.

Emily Post followers may judge it on the tacky side, but a resounding bah-humbug to them!

The Land of Empty Carcasses

Flat and sad, the empty carcasses are strewn across the battlefield of my hardwood floors. Stitch loves his toy animals, but the call of the squeaker outweighs his fondness for the posh pets. After a few seconds of mouthing them gently to hear the muffled squeal, the 110 pound puppy eviscerates his babies.

Fluffy innards litter the room. When I call his name, Stitch looks up guiltily, a slimy length of white intestine hanging from his upper lip. Hot on the scent of the plastic noisemaker, his glance is brief. He gives his massive head a shake in a futile effort to dislodge the bowel and dives back into the body cavity.

Zina proudly offered Stitch the gift of a stuffed red and black lady bug a few mornings ago. He ardently pulled it from her grasp and after a few perfunctory squeaks, had it decapitated before she finished ascending the stairs. The plastic squeaker was out, chomped and discarded within a minute and the gutting commenced.

The good thing about this dog is that he doesn't lose affection for his dead and dismembered babies. The skinny, wizened bodies are carefully collected and brought to his bed after playing. Often, while I sit reading, he comes to me with an ear or a midsection in his capacious droopy lips, dropping the saturated souvenir on my lap.

His given name is Stitch, but we call him many things; Not So Smart being a common moniker. But given the scope of his life expectations, he's a pretty savvy dude.

All of the dog toys in the house become part of his personal inventory, which he knows like the back of his paw. The Other Canines look confusedly at the heap of bones and carcasses on his bed. If I give them one, he waits patiently until I turn my attention elsewhere and stealthily lifts it from their grasp.

Yep, he's dumb like a fox.

Damn the News and Pass the Ammunition!

The THWACK! is immediately followed by the guttural woofs and ear-piercing shrills of three startled canines. My deeply relaxed eyelids spring open in alarm. As the sounds filter through my rapidly dissolving dream I realize that he's done it again!

For years I have had a love-hate relationship with newspaper delivery guys. Either they don't show up, are uselessly late, or poor aim lands the paper in the shrubs somewhere on the property. Just recently, prompted by the publication of a few of my pieces in local papers, I decided to try again. And the agony of the last attempt had subsided just enough to make it seem viable.

Wrong! While the Patriot Ledger person is stellar, the Boston Globe dude is a real nut cruncher. Every morning he throws the bloody paper like a guided missile toward my front door and it hits with a noise that can be heard on the next block. I have called a few times and told them that would prefer to walk down the drive if that is the only other option. But no, this guy has it out for me.

Somehow Globe Guy has discovered that I get up at 4:30AM several mornings a week and feels that sleeping in until 6:00 on the others should not be an option.

This morning, as I struggled unsuccessfully to get back to sleep, I had thoughts of lying in wait and chucking the newspaper at his retreating back. Another option would be to put one of those ball catchers used for hitting golf balls in front of the door to stop the paper before impact.

Or I guess I can settle for being grateful that he gives me something to bitch about.