Currently viewing the tag: "Wilson"
I tend to forget things. I can only remember a birthday if it happens to fall on my half-birthday. Or maybe if it happens to be a major holiday, but even then it’s not guaranteed, because it is competing with other equally important events like dressing up as a slutty vampire or eating chocolate bunnies. And anniversaries, forget about it. I can’t remember those out of self-defense. I already bought you a wedding present, went to your wedding, bought a dress to march in it, all without realizing that it was a lifetime subscription for “congratulations.” I have to forget about these, because if I stay too close, I’ll have to remember your kid’s birthdays, too–and their major achievements. Like their first Tummy Time or lost tooth. And honestly, I can’t keep up. I can barely remember to leave the house wearing pants. Birthdays and anniversaries are a slippery slope that I just can’t manage in these heels. It’s just too dangerous.
But this time I forgot something I didn’t even know I was supposed to remember. This one took me completely by surprise. And it happened while I was home this past weekend, visiting my parents.
“Honey, do you know what today is?” My mom asked.
“Yes, you reminded me three times yesterday. It’s senior citizen Zumba class at the community center, and I already told you, I’ll go.”
“No, besides that.”
“Tuesday?”
“A special Tuesday. It’s your brother’s birthday!”
Now, this would be all well and good, if in fact, I had a brother. I don’t. I have a spastic stepbrother without the benefits — there’s no Xbox, junk food in the house, or potential hot friends. There’s just forced exercise, and a trail of poop.
My “brother” is Wilson, my parents’ Miniature Australian Labradoodle. And this week, the boy turned one.
So for his birthday on Tuesday Wilson got a special treat- a dog cookie that looks like a birthday cake, which I imagine was a delicious dessert.
But not nearly as delicious as my Italian leather sandals, which apparently, he enjoyed as his main course:
I was annoyed as hell, and I swear he did it just to piss me off. Which, I’m told, is what little brothers do.
Happy Birthday, Little Shit.
Related Disasters:
I’ve been off-radar these days. I’ve been working so hard that there’s barely time to be a Disaster. My highlight last week was a trip to a rheumatologist, and he wasn’t even hot. So I figured I should sit the blogging bench until I was inspired.
Fortunately “inspiration” hit on Sunday night. It came in the form of my mother, highly excited, in downeast Maine. Of course, I didn’t know all that when I answered her call:
“Hello?”
“Shhhhh!”
“What?”
“Quiet.”
“Mom? Are you ok?”
“I’m fine, just keep your voice down.”
“Why did you call me if you’re going to shush me?”
“Because. Your father and I are moose hunting.”
Now, to be clear, we may be from Maine, but my parents do not hunt. They don’t wear camouflage or John Deere hats, and they don’t spit tobacco into empty Coke bottles. They ride electric bikes. They grow basil. And they take their dog Wilson to puppy kindergarten. And while they’re not vegetarians per say, my mom has made it very clear that the only venison she feels good about eating is from a deer that died naturally: on 1-95 and collected by a state trooper or our family friend, Malcom.
So the thought of my mom at eight o’clock on a Sunday night hunting moose in her crocs was simply too much.
“Mom. Do you have a gun?”
“No, no. We’re in the car. In a gravel pit. But I really have to keep my voice down. People say moose have very sensitive hearing.”
“Why are you in a gravel pit?”
“Because this is where you spot them. We’re going to test your father’s new camera. We’re parked next to two women in a Subaru. They have a “This Car Stops For Moose” sticker on their car, so they seem to know what they are doing. They haven’t made a sound and just seem to be laying down in the back seat waiting. They’re much more patient.”
“But I guess I don’t understand why…”
“Whoop! Here we go again! We’re moving gravel pits!”
“What?”
“Yep. I think your father got another one of his hunches. We’re now in another gravel pit next to the other one.”
“Mom. How many people are in the car?
“Just me, your father, Jerry, Mary Beth, and Wilson, of course! Your father took him hiking all day and he’s exhausted, but he’s the best miniature Australian labradoodle in all of Maine.”
“So you guys are just sitting in the car all night? Waiting?”
“We’re not just sitting in the car. We’re driving, too. We’ve been to four gravel pits.”
“Sounds fun.”
“Yes, well wish us luck! I… oh no. Oh no! …Wilson!”
“What happened?”
“Wilson just up-chucked. I have to go.”
Click.
Related Disasters:
You should know that last week my parents finally got the grandchild they’ve been waiting for. There’s a new cuddly object of affection in the house who is keeping my parents up all night, and his name is Wilson.
Wilson is some kind of gourmet dog–a golden poo, or a doodlecocker. I’m not sure exactly, but I do know that my parents spent months on a waiting list to adopt this miniature, hypoallergenic home-wrecker.
Last night my sister and I received the following email:
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Dear Daughters,
I thought I should send along the proper vocabulary to use with Wilson before your next visit. Consistency is everything and perhaps if I had practiced that principle that with you both things might have turned out differently.
“Leave it”– applies to untying shoelaces, pulling at the rugs, taking things off tabletops, chewing shoes, eating the newspaper, emptying the wastebaskets, etc. This is to be said in a firm, no nonsense tone of voice.
“ComeWilson” –this is used to get him out of the street, to get him into the house, to distract him from digging up the perennials, etc. Tone of voice is upbeat, excited, as in it is an exciting thing for him to do what you are asking. He gets a treat for this.
“Go Potty”— I know, he doesn’t actually sit on the toilet, but this term if better than “do-business”, “go pee”, “go poopy”, etc. The latter two require understanding of the difference between pee and poop, and frankly I don’t give a damn as long as it isn’t done in the house. Tone of voice somewhat urgent here, like you don’t have all day to wait. Gets a treat every time, even when he fakes it.
“Sit” — an essential command to keep him from running away when you try to grab him. Always gets a treat for this .
“No bite”—applies to nearly everything that comes within his range of sight right now, so master this command before you set foot in the door. This includes your hands, elbows, clothing, your bedding, all furniture legs, rugs, and anything not tied down. Tone of voice here is sharp, quick, authoritative.
________________________________________________________________
I was also told that Wilson will be starting puppy kindergarten next week. I can only assume this is because my mother senses he’s on the verge of mastering all of her pedestrian commands, and that his active brain is hungry for more. My hope is that puppy kindergarten will teach him the fundamentals that will give him the leg-up on an Ivy League canine education, where he will crack under the pressure, lose several years to pot, and eventually find himself and start a volunteer program to service displaced squirrels.
My mom also shared her plans to bring Wilson into Fetch (one of three local pet stores, but the one with the most caché) in the hopes that they will want to feature him in some of their promotional materials. (We once had a golden retriever who, on one serendipitous morning run, was “scouted” by L.L. Bean photographers in the midst of a photo shoot. Our pooch made the catalog, catapulting its owners into a glorious anonymous fame, now immortalized in the full-page parka ad that hangs on our refrigerator.)
When I asked for a photo of this prodigy puppy with striking good looks who is cunning enough to “fake it” for treats, she sent me this:
I took one look at this doggy Baby Bjorn and I knew my mother had completely lost her mind. I was horrified until I realized that somehow, in his puppy-genius way, Wilson has managed to hit “snooze” on my mother’s grandparental biological clock. To which I reply in a calm, authoritative tone: “Sit, Mother…Stay.”
