CASTING THE FIRST STONE

We all do it. We see someone, and almost immediately our brain attaches a label to that face - "fat", "old", "ugly", "stupid".

And even when we get to know the actual person who owns that face, and may discover that some of those stamped classifications we so quickly put on are completely invalid...

They stick. Like labels do.

Yesterday, I was having a great deal of trouble watching a group of well-dressed teenagers scornfully glance over their shoulders at my disabled, seriously overweight daughter attempting to complete an on-line job application.

Then I realized what I was doing.

 Just the same thing these girls were doing - putting a label on them just as they were putting one on my daughter.

SNAKE IN A CAN

The fire department is great about a whole lot of things.

They put out fires - they get people to the hospital - they rescue kitties out of trees..

And in some areas, they even make nice calendars.

They also take care of rattlesnakes that refuse to leave the neighborhood, even when asked politely.

So I knew who to call when the female Western Diamondback who had moved in right under the faucet for the horses tank flatly refused my offer of relocation to the other side of the propane tank.

So two very polite young firefighters (sidebar: why do all professionals keep getting younger and younger every year I get older?) came out, picked up and dropped Ms. Rattlesnake into a can, and look her far, far away to a happy place where snakes live with rainbows and little bunnies to eat ... at least, that's what they told me.

(These are actually photos from my cool little iPhone - isn't she pretty?

And even better, now living somewhere else?)

ISN'T DISNEYLAND A PEOPLE TRAP OPERATED BY A MOUSE?

I can no longer make fun of my dog, Sofi.

Sofi reminds me of Goofy. Her tail can cause serious damage to concrete. Her cold, wet nose is guaranteed to make contact with whatever part of warm skin you would most like to keep dry.

She has a rather disjointed run - a little bit like her fronts legs are at a trot, but her back legs are at a gallop. And she needs constant reassurance that she is loved - to the point where she will chase the greyhound and the cat away when they are trying to get my attention.

But late this afternoon, she alerted me to a rattlesnake, which was just where I would have stepped on it if she had not freaked out at it. 

 

Suddenly she does not seem that silly of a dog.

COWBOY BOOTS

My first pair of cowboy boots didn't come along until a couple of years after I got Sherman.

When you're 14 years old and paying for buying, feeding, & stabling (a fenced-in patch of Los Angeles dirt, in this case) 800 lbs. of equine flesh by washing cars and making signs ... then things like riding clothes are put on the back burner.

(Also seeing "Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid" repeatedly - yeah, like eating pizza every night for two months can be considered 'repeatedly').

I rode in old jeans, a tank top and sneakers. I rode bareback for quite a while because I couldn't afford a saddle (and I thought it was much cooler, anyway). A group of us would buy a 60 lb. of carrots together and split it because it was cheaper.

But when I did get cowboy boots, they were worn every single day... for years. When I switched to English riding, those type of boots eventually showed up. But I never got ride of my cowboy boots.

Until about eleven years ago.

By that time, my cowboy boots were literally unwearable, for a couple of reasons - MAJOR holes around where your little toe join the rest of your foot (don't ask me why they wore out there more - I have no idea) - holes in the soles of both boots - and my feet had grown one entire size during the six years I lived in Honolulu (one of the extremely few disadvantages to wearing slippers - flip-flops to you haoles out there).

And I do not know why I didn't get another pair - I mean, heck, I live in Arizona, where we have Cowboy Poet Gatherings (I kid you not, look up the link), and wearing cowboy boots and turquoise neckties is as common as, well, as the gangs of people we natives refer to dismissively as "snowbirds" come from places like Wisconsin and walk around in December in shorts and sandals.

I decided to spoil myself - walked in our (one and only) mall's western-clothing store, and bought a pair of cowboy boots.

And now I am wondering why I waited so long, and what other sheer delights I have left behind?!

Besides Paul Newman, I mean.

CHANGE OF SEX

I've already done this to one animal.

My cat was picked up outside of Wal-Mart (literally - one of a group of kittens in a cardboard box being given away) as an adorable, fluffy, long-haired puff-ball.

So I took a dainty Pandora into the vets as a little feminine feline to be neutered, and took home a musky male cat (yeah, didn't really look closely at the little boy/girl parts when I first got her - I mean, him).

And now I have a newly adopted chunky, sorta pushy big Labrador stomping around.

But she's a girl.

I've just gotten used to having a boy and a girl couple.

I mean, like Najale and Sally - "Good boy! Good girl!" Delilah and Murry - "Good girl! Good boy!" Josiah and Joy - "Bad boy! Bad girl!"

And somehow "Good girl! Good girl!" just doesn't come across right.

So simply for the appropriate use of the pronoun, I am hereby announcing that Sofi from now is a HE.

And Sofi isn't objecting.

At least not yet.

TAKING MY NAME IN VAIN

There are disadvantages to certain names.

Scientific studies have shown that people respond very differently to certain names or certain types of names. You may have heard about experiments where different names were put on the same homework assignment and given to multiple teachers to grade. Names that were perceived as "old fashioned," like Bertha or Marmaduke, were given lower grades on the average. The problem is, "old fashioned" is a relative term. When those studies were first done, Emily and Ethan would have been considered old-fashioned names, now they're as current as can be.

I haven't met anyone named Monica for quite a few years now - did everyone change their names after Lewinsky became a front-page headline?

My dad's name is Bruce - and he was a musician - and back then every possible gay joke seemed to have the name Bruce, pronounced with a lisp and effeminate hand gesture.

How long has it been since you've met an Adolf - an Elvis - a Madonna - a Bertha - an Elmer? Do you know a Hortense outside of a Dr. Seuss book?

I like my name, but I am convinced now that I should copyright it and make some dinero from all the ways it is being USED nowadays.

And yes, they are all worthy causes - wonderful sentiments - fantastic groups. 

 

But I am getting TIRED of hearing it all the time!!!! 

EGG-SUCKING

An "egg-sucking dog" is one of those hillbilly expressions that I accepted as 'something yucky' without knowing what it refers to.

Now I know.

Sofi is a snoring overweight chocolate Labrador from the local animal shelter. Living three miles from an extremely volatile international border (at least according to every political candidate running on the "secure-the-border" theme down here), I feel slightly more comfortable with an indoor animal of, er, substance around - the greyhound is faster than the wind, but she also is an anorexic slip of a dog that slips away if a mouse challenges her.

But any animal needs some time to adjust to a household. Pandora, aka Master-Of-The-Known-Universe, is not your everyday feline, and it took more than a few seconds for Sofi to recognize and bow to his superiority.

Somehow, the bathroom is off-limits to Sofi, which I am enjoying a great deal - Murray would never request a need for privacy - "I can lick my balls in front of you, why can't you pee when I'm trying to push my snout between your legs?"

However, Sofi is incredibly well house-trained - to the point of where she will let herself become  VERY uncomfortable before she asks to be let outside.

But - back to the egg-sucking.

Yesterday my group of teenagers at church had decided to take plates of cookies and treats to several households. And in anticipation of 14 and 15 year-old girls forgetting to bring the assigned goodies, I baked some brownies and cookies Wednesday morning.

And then left my house to go work out (yeah, I get to the gym maybe, what, once a week now?), so I left some cooking supplies out - like the cookie sheets, and the eggs.

PLEASE NOTE - the eggs were INSIDE the stupid foam container they are sold in, on the counter, when I left/

And I came home to - yes, you guessed it - EGGS broken, chomped on, scattered over (of course) NOT the kitchen linoleum (where it could be easily mopped up) BUT the carpet - which, thankfully, has already been stained far beyond any reasonable amount by numerous cats, dogs, one very temporary snake, and klutzy humans such as myself.

But the scariest news of all (and I am quoting directly from  http://ezinearticles.com/?The-Passion-of-an-Egg-Sucking-Dog&id=4375334) is "it's too hard to drown an egg sucking dog, just haul 'em over to Somerville County and turn them out. It's probably where they come from anyhow."

Have I forced upon my poor fat dog an addiction that will never leave? Is there a support group such as ESCAPE (Egg Sucking Canines And Potential Enablers)?