Archive for the ‘humor’ Category
classic cars, philosophy, shapes
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 05/31/2012 at 8:09 pm
“Wanna’ see me race this thing?”
As Olive and I walked past the local body shop this sun-drenched morning, we watched a beautiful classic old car park across the street. I couldn’t take my eyes of the wide whitewalls. When do you ever see those? A mechanic walks over to it and starts futzing with the door. “HEY, DO YOU MIND IF I USE THE CAR AS A BACKDROP FOR MY DOG?” I ask. I position Olive in front of the bright shiny automobile, and take a few steps backward to get more of the car into frame. I tell Olive to “STAY” and even drop her leash so I can move back even further. I figure it’s part of her off leash training. The sun is bright and it’s early morning so the lighting is going to be harsh; not great for taking pictures so I take just a few. Neither my skill or my iphone camera is going to outwit the sun. Olive gets up once and I put her back into a “stay.” “GOOD GIRL, OLIVE. WE’RE DONE. LET’S GO.” As we walk further down the street and cars pass us by, I am reminded by how “boxy” automobiles look today, so devoid of the style, grace and beauty of cars from the ‘40s, ‘50s and ‘60s. Now everything looks like a box. Whether it’s a Mercedes or a Ford. Zero personality. We drive fiberglass and steel cubes. Not beautifully styled pieces of art like our parents drove. And then a more troubling thought occurs to me. Our homes are like boxes. So is the property they sit on; carved up like squares. We go to work in boxes that are either long and flat or so tall and narrow that they almost touch the sky. So much of the food we eat comes in boxes, like cereal and pasta. If you start to think about all the man made objects present on our planet, you’ll find mostly boxes. Is it just our desire for a static sense of order? Is it a symbol of a hyper sense of pragmatism? ‘WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?” Olive interjects. “JUST GET ME HOME. I’M SO HUNGRY I’M GOING TO DEVOUR THAT FAKE CANADIAN TOURIST OF A GOOSE STANDING OVER THERE LIKE A LAWN ORNAMENT.” As we continue our walk, I can’t help but think. “CHRIST, NO WONDER SO FEW PEOPLE IN OUR SOCIETY CAN “THINK OUTSIDE THE PROVERBIAL BOX.” It’s not so easy when most of the shapes you encounter every day are boxes and squares. Long live the circle.
humor, outtakes, talking dogs
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 05/30/2012 at 9:47 pm
What’s Olive got to say about today’s outtake? It’s right here.
dogs behaving badly, vampires
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 05/26/2012 at 7:27 am
“Just call me COUNT Dogula.”
Last night was the first time I saw Olive turn into a Vampire. Really, the only thing missing was blood. As I sat around the dining room table with family enjoying a dinner that included bruschetta, Caesar salad, steamed carrots and snap peas, risotto and chicken marsala, my dog kept running into the kitchen wondering where hers was. Mind you, this was after she had eaten her bowl of Eukanuba Lamb and Brown Rice. And as hard as we tried to keep the food at paw’s length from her, I caught her standing over the kitchen sink, craning her long graceful neck deep into its stainless steel well, curling her tongue around the labyrinth of pots and pans, greedily lapping up the chicken marsala gravy swimming in the corner of the glass roasting pan. “OH THIS IS GREAT,” I exclaim. “TONIGHT I’M GOING TO HAVE TO DEAL WITH FECAL FIREWORKS. THIS DOG’S DIGESTIVE SYSTEM IS AS FRAGILE AS A BUTTERFLY’S WINGS.” As I drag Olive away from the sink, I notice a crazed look in her eyes, which actually seem to be glowing a fire engine red. The look is unmistakable. This is the look that Vampires get when they have tasted their first blood. This happens a few times throughout dinner. The next time, I catch her standing over the kitchen table licking a dirty dish that sits in its center. It has been licked clean. So clean, it sparkles like a freshly waxed floor. “OLIVE! OFF!” I command her. She ignores me and she begins licking even more frantically. I feel like I am watching a drug addict who has just stumbled into the pharmaceutical version of CandyLand. I grab her collar and pull her down and back into the dining room. She is now leashed and sitting next to me. Not happily. Just as I am about to swallow a forkful of risotto, Olive starts barking. I look at my watch. Yup. It’s 7:45pm. That means it’s time to leave. Olive is done for the day and wants nothing more than to lie down on some soft object and go to sleep. Sigh. Some days I feel like her schedule, is my schedule. “C’MON OLIVE. LET’S GO HOME. I’M GOING TO PLACE A PEA UNDER YOUR MATTRESS TONIGHT.”
dog training, off leash training
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 05/24/2012 at 7:53 pm
“Tired yet?”
Two years ago, when I brought this insanely exuberant puppy home, if you had told me that one day she would indeed learn to sit, stay, down stay, come and stay with me, I probably would have cocked my head and looked at you as though you were speaking in tongues. It seemed inconceivable. Olive seemed to epitomize ADHD (Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder). The only thing she could focus on for more than one seemingly eternal nanosecond was a bird. Everything else in her life was a momentary distraction. And there were indications of OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder). The digging and digging and digging and digging and digging. I felt like I had just purchased a backhoe, not a dog. I will frankly admit, and I have before, that in the first few months I had her, I had fleeting feelings of insecurity and intrusive thoughts that maybe I wouldn’t be able to handle this dog. After all, I wasn’t a spring chicken anymore and keeping up with weimaraners is not for the faint of heart. It’s made me understand why there are so many rescues. They are beautiful, graceful athletic-looking dogs, but if you do not allow this breed to get the exercise it needs, it’s like living with Curious George and his demented twin on speed. But I’m no quitter. Besides, Olive was also supernaturally intelligent, laugh-out-loud goofy and extremely loving. I ensured that she got plenty of exercise each day and I socialized her to near exhaustion. We’d go to neighborhood street fairs and parades crowded with people, strollers and sticky-handed toddlers; to soccer games and parks bursting with hyperactive children and colorful frisbees. Even to my friend’s pool and the local pet stores where she was constantly fawned over. I was committed to ensuring that she learned to be friendly, confident and obedient even if it made me mental. During most of this time, Olive also attended obedience training classes. And last night, my incredibly amazing pooch completed her off leash training class. Now the real work begins. I have to make the behaviors a consistent part of her life everyday. The progress she made by last night’s class was very rewarding. Especially since last week’s class was a train wreck. Once she learned she could get away from me because I have only two legs, not four and I’m about 25 times older than her, it was hard to get her back on track. Shelley, her trainer, had to have a “Come to Jesus” meeting with Olive and for the last 15 minutes of class, She kept getting her leash “popped,” and kept looking in my direction until she wised up and obeyed Shelley’s commands. It was not pretty to watch. But it worked. I am truly amazed at how attuned Shelley is to dogs’ behaviors. It’s like watching two people assuredly conversing in a foreign language and I stand by like the idiot American abroad who understands nothing more of the native language than “Can you please tell me where the ladies room is?” I also admire Shelley’s unfathomable well of patience with both the dogs and their owners. It is all extraordinary to me. Both Olive and I are very thankful and feel incredibly lucky to have found Shelley.
air horn, dog fights, unicorns
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 05/20/2012 at 7:52 pm
“WHAT the heck is THAT?”
I am very pleased with myself for accidently discovering a foolproof way to break up dog fights safely. And instantly. You can distract the dogs immediately and with such impact that they will forget what they were doing before this unique distraction. You can save your dog from being bitten or you from losing a finger or two by instinctively rushing to your dog’s aid and unwittingly becoming a third participant. You can also avoid the crippling fear and high-octane stress that comes with watching your dog getting attacked. And you can pre-empt a possible lawsuit if it’s your dog that’s being overly aggressive. How? It’s called an Air Horn. I now carry a pocket-sized air horn with me when Olive and I are around other dogs. I came across this trinket when I was cleaning my basement a few weeks ago. I vaguely recall buying it at a party goods store. Not sure why I bought it or how I intended to use it. Not sure what I’m going to do with it now, but apparently I still find it intriguing. I stuff it into the pocket of my hoodie and resume tidying up. The next day, I’m at the dog park and two dogs start to get into each other’s grille. The interaction is escalating quickly and it seems very, very close to turning ugly and dangerous. I reach into my pocket, pull out the air horn and give it a quick burst. The high pitched, skull-piercing sound instantly stills the dogs who now stare in my direction like they have just witnessed a unicorn streaking across the sky. Done. Fight over. They each go their own ways. Granted, I’m sure it’s not great for their ears, but a second or two of minor ear pain seems better than the excruciating pain of getting an ear torn off in a fight. And if you own a weimaraner, you have to be especially careful because large veins criss-cross their ears like a road map, and if punctured, these veins will start gushing blood like a geyser. “DON’T WORRY OLIVE. THERE’S NO WAY I’M EVER LETTING ANYTHING LIKE THAT HAPPEN TO YOU.”
colonoscopy, dog toys, dog tunnel
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 05/20/2012 at 7:09 pm
Read what Olive has to say about this snapshot.
dog park, dogs, pepper spray
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 05/20/2012 at 6:56 pm
“Hahahahahahahahahaha.”
Have you even been pepper-sprayed? I have. Sort of. Standing in a group at the dog park Saturday morning, I was telling the other human companions why I carry a vial of pepper spray with me whenever I’m out with Olive. As I’m explaining that it makes me feel safer when Olive and I walk past some very aggressive-sounding dogs on our walks, I take out the vial and say “Maybe I should test this thing. It’s over two years old and I’ve never used it.” With that, I turn away from the group and into the gentle wind and spray. A tightly-focused dark orange stream shoots 20 feet through the air. The equivalent of a line drive. “Wow. This thing shoots far,” I remark. “Much farther than I imagined.” Of course, that could be good or bad depending on my aim. Now that my product demonstration is over, I pocket the vial. I glance around to confirm Olive’s whereabouts and listen to the conversation around me. I reach up to scratch an itch on my face. Then my neck. Now I feel like my lips are tingling…and not in a good way. Finally, it dawns on me that tiny particles of pepper spray must have blown back onto me courtesy of the wind. My face gets itchier. My lips are now burning moderately like a Girl Scout campfire. “Christ, I can’t believe I was that stupid,” I think. Apparently my head and face remain their normal size and I’ve not broken out in screaming red welts. In fact no one seems to notice. Olive’s using her nose to tunnel up a new dog’s behind. I think she’s looking for daylight. Me? I’m hoping the itching and burning does not get worse. In fact, I’m hoping it goes away before I have to go to my genealogy seminar in a couple of hours. I have no one to blame but myself. My impulsive nature has gotten the best of me again. “GEE OLIVE, YOU’D BETTER HOPE I NEVER REALLY NEED TO USE THIS. BECAUSE WHO KNOWS WHERE IT WILL END UP.”
dog park, dog poop bags, giant ants
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 05/14/2012 at 7:39 pm
“HEY! I think I found a ghost!”
Picture me standing in front of the poop bag dispenser at the dog park early Friday evening. Of course, the last clown that used it must have ripped the bag from the roll hanging inside the forest green plastic dispenser so fast that it went spinning into oblivion, leaving no trail protruding from the box. These are the same people that do this in public bathrooms. They yank on the toilet tissue so hard that after they tear off a mile or two, the rest of the roll gets sucked up into the dispenser never to be seen again. What do they think they are, Canadian lumberjacks at a log-rolling competition? I use both hands to pull the bottom tray of the dispenser out so I can thread the roll of plastic bags through the outlet so I and others can access a turd tote when we need one. As the tray detaches from the top of this contraption, I stare in horror at my hands which are now covered with so many black ants that it looks like I’m wearing winter mittens. The bottom drops onto the grass while I watch the ants begin crawling up my wrists. “HOLY SHIT!” I exclaim, as I begin frantically wiping them off me. Olive’s nose seems to be fully engrossed (and I use that term literally and figuratively) in some other environmental rot halfway across the park. She has no idea that I am being attacked by ants. This idea immediately reminds me of the old sci-fi movie, “Them,” in which an atomic explosion created monster-sized ants that crawled around the desert, snacking on tiny pint-sized humans. “GOD THAT’S REVOLTING,” I say to myself, but out loud. Olive trots back over to me either to make sure I’m still here or because she wonders if there’s something more interesting to investigate. Little does she know. Had she witnessed this, she would have been distracted for hours. “HEY OLIVE. GO CRAP WHEREVER YOU WANT. I’M NOT PICKING IT UP TONIGHT. I THINK I DESERVE A FREEBIE.”
dog humor, funny weimaraners
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 05/13/2012 at 8:09 am
What’s Olive got to say about this photo? See for yourself.
outtakes, weimaraner photos
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 05/12/2012 at 8:19 pm
Tonight, Olive launches yet another page on this blog: Olive’s Outtakes. I have no idea where she gets all this time, but it makes me think that maybe I would like to be part Weimaraner. Since it’s not possible for me to steal anyone else’s youth, I’ll take the next best thing: the compressed energy of a Weimaraner released in bursts of unrestrained exuberance and unexpected literacy. Olive tells me that her outtakes will be a critical examination of my less than stellar photographs of her. And that she should have plenty of material. And that if I don’t move my ass and start shooting more frequently, she’ll start commenting on other photographs I take that are not of her and why do I waste my time on less worthy subjects? See for yourself.
gary larson, grammar, housefly
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 05/07/2012 at 7:20 pm
“Go ahead. Come CLOSER.”
It’s true. I can smell a fly fart 50 miles away. 60, if he had cheese for dinner. And as intelligent as I am, I still have difficulty understanding the difference between “scent” and “sent.” The human language often baffles me. You do realize that Gary Larson was correct in what we hear when you are speaking to us, don’t you? “Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, OLIVE? “OLIVE? Blah, blah, blah, blah BISCUIT?” “Blah, blah, blah DOG PARK?” Actually, I’m always paying attention to your body language anyway. It’s a much more accurate read of what you are doing or about to do, or what you’re feeling. Question. Doesn’t that make dogs smarter than people then? Just because I may not understand the “hard” things like calculus or engineering just means I haven’t been taught. But the “soft” stuff like body language, instinct, intuition? That’s actually more difficult. Just because it’s not scientific, doesn’t mean it’s not intelligent. It just means science hasn’t figured out a way to explain it yet. Am I making any sense right now? Because I feel incredibly bright and articulate at this moment. Oh look, a stink bug.
agility games, james bond films
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 05/05/2012 at 7:18 pm
“GUESS who I am?”
My dog, bored beyond tears today, re-enacts the opening title sequence to the 1964 movie “Goldfinger.”
dirty dogs, dogs digging dirt
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 05/04/2012 at 7:43 pm
“WHAT dirt on my nose?”
I love dirt. Stinky dirt. Dirty dirt. Dirt that’s old, dirt that’s new, dirt on me, dirt sprayed on you. Wet dirt, dry dirt. Black dirt, brown dirt. Dirt with bugs. Dirt on rugs. Here dirt, there dirt, everywhere some dirt dirt. Dirt on Jill’s nice yellow shirt. Dirt on some guy named Burt. Dirt on glass doors, dirt on tile floors. I love the dirt life, I like to boogie. In fact, I think I’ll make myself a dirt shake right now. Want one?
dog training, rube goldberg
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 05/03/2012 at 7:42 pm
“MUST. Sleep. Now.”
Olive has just started her off-leash training class. If you want to see a dog actually sweat, you should see Olive in class where she is required to summon the mental discipline of a Tibetan monk. And for a dog that is hyper-alert like my two-year old weimaraner, it’s like asking a two-year old child to close their eyes when they enter a candy store. The class starts at 7pm and I realize that I’m going to have to contend with “Princess Whiner” when the clock strikes 8pm. This is typically when Olive begins to wind down…all the way down. As in “I WANT TO GO TO BED RIGHT NOW. RIGHT NOW. RIGHT NOW.” She will start to bark and kvetch until we leave. The odds are very good that this little dramatic display will occur prior to 8 tonight because Olive had me up at 5am today with digestive agita. Out in her pen she began repeating cycles of eating grass and then launching what looked like undried tobacco leaves out her poop chute. It is at this moment that I recall that my Great Grandmother worked as a cigar-roller back in prehistoric times. “NONA WOULD HAVE LOVED YOU OLIVE. ESPECIALLY BECAUSE YOU ARE GERMAN AND SHE WAS FROM LUXEMBOURG.” Shelley begins the lesson and as always, Olive catches on faster than I do. Shelley is tremendously in tune with dogs and can elicit the behavior she wants from them in seconds. It is all completely rational when she explains how to train a dog, but for some reason, it is all counter-intuitive to most of the rest of us. I, on the other hand, listen very attentively to the instructions being given and can’t help but feel like I’m trying to absorb how to invent a Rube Goldberg machine. Olive is so focused, that you can see steam wafting out of her ears. I can feel her body temperature rise. She is working so hard to do well that I’m hoping she won’t pass out from mental exhaustion. Tiny cheese treats are being tossed at her from all directions like machine gun spray and she knows she must stay seated and not go after them. It’s like waiting for a balloon to burst. The suspense is nerve-rattling. “OK. OLIVE. GOOD GIRL. THEY’RE ALL YOURS NOW.” After 40 minutes worth of one-on-one instruction, Shelley and I are talking and Olive is now laying on the floor like a beautiful little sphinx. It’s about 7:50pm. Shelley notes, “Look at her, she can’t even keep her eyes open. She’s done for tonight.” I look at Olive, obediently in the same position, her head starting to nod. She’s not even barking. Not yet. In fact, I think she’s so exhausted, she’d sleep here if I let her. “C’MON OLIVE. YOU DID GREAT. WE’RE GOING HOME.” We get in the car, Olive stretches out on the back seat and is asleep in seconds. One class down, three more to go Olive. If she weren’t sleeping, I’m sure she’d roll her eyes at me.
carpenter ant, pinocchio
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 05/03/2012 at 6:54 pm
“At your service.”
Olive deserves a bright, shiny medal today. I caught her intently tracking something on the kitchen floor this morning so I walk over, peer under the kitchen table and see a gigantic Queen carpenter ant, complete with slender translucent wings, making her way toward the bare wooden floor in the dining room. “HOLY SHIT OLIVE. QUICK, HIDE YOUR PINOCCHIO TOY. IT’S A QUEEN ANT,” I exclaim as the toe of my loafer comes crushing down on the crunchy jet-black insect. Olive runs over to inspect the mangled corpse, her big brown nose sniffing at it so closely that if she sniffs just a little too vigorously, I’m sure the ant carcass will find its way on a log flume ride up through Olive’s sinus cavity. Disgusted, but very pleased with Olive’s discovery, I delicately pluck the dead Queen from the tile floor in a paper towel and flip it in the garbage. As usual, Olive observes all my movements like a prison matron, waiting for any opportunity that has even the tiniest prayer of exposing food vulnerable to one of her “snatch and run” maneuvers. I try to explain the difference between Carpenter Ants and Carpenter Bees to Olive. “YES, THEY ARE BOTH WOODWORKERS, OLIVE.” A little like you, now that I think about it. In fact, you might want to think about hiding your sticks from them. Because they are in our airspace and our ground space. You have no idea, Olive, but you just destroyed an entire militia of ants so I award you the highest medal of canine honor. Now what are you going to do about the bees?
dogs at work, office dogs, weimaraners
In dogs, humor, pets, weimaraners, writing on 04/29/2012 at 4:56 pm
"I'm done filing. What's next?"
So, I must have mis-heard. I thought it was Take your daug, not Take Your daughter to Work Day last week. Besides, Olive is my daug-hter. And she has better manners than most two-year old humans. At least in public. “OLIVE?” STOP DRINKING OUT OF THE TOILET PLEASE.”
cafe au lait, crop circles, weimaraners
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 04/24/2012 at 8:45 pm
"I wonder what's down THERE?"
In the pre-dawn hours the other morning, when my cognitive abilities were just starting to awaken from their collective nighttime synapse, I hear a distinct KERPLUNK. This accelerates the firing of neurons in my sleep-addled brain. Olive Bo Peep has tumbled off the queen sized master bed like a 2-year old child who was confined to a crib the night before. I reach across the bed to turn on the table lamp and the flood of incandescent light reveals my sweet little pooch lying on the floor. She’s on her back sandwiched between the bed and her giant blanket-covered crate. All four paws are in the air. She looks up at me as if to say “HOW THE HELL DID THAT HAPPEN?” I get her right-side up and she hops back on the bed. As is customary for Olive, she begins her ritual of creating not 3 or 4 but more like 14 circles both clockwise and counter clockwise before she’s finally satisfied and plops back down. “HEY OLIVE, HOW WOULD YOU LIKE TO PLOW SOME CROP CIRCLES IN THE CORN FIELD ACROSS THE STREET TOMORROW NIGHT?” She looks deeply into my eyes for a moment, sighs, closes her eyes and tucks her snout so closely to her tail that she looks likes a café au lait donut.
Howie Mandel, OCD, q-tips
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 04/23/2012 at 8:30 pm
"What was THAT all about?"
A few days ago, nearing the end of our morning walk, Olive and I encounter an old, scraggly man wobbling down the street. And when I say scraggly, I mean his snow white hair looks like an unspun Q-tip head. It announces his presence about four blocks before the rest of his body. And it’s quite a contrast to his seal brown leathery skin. I think he may be muttering to himself. His limbs seem to have separate lives of their own, each moving out of synchronization with the other. I tighten my grip on Olive’s leash, unsure of what to expect as we get closer. Suddenly, the geriatric scarecrow sneezes into a handkerchief. In a loud, slobbery sort of way. At least I hope that’s what I saw. Because if it’s not, then the alternative is that he sneezed into his hands and because of what comes next, I choose not to believe that. As Olive and I are about to pass the man, he reaches out while asking in painfully fractured English something like “Is the dog nice?” I am now torn between allowing a harmless old man to pet Olive with his potentially snot-stained hands and exposing her to Christ-knows-what while I silently gag many times over or being sort of rude and pulling Olive away from him. He’s so excited about petting Olive that I can’t bear to deprive him of this interaction. My eyes grow wide as he rubs his hands over the top of her head, her ears, snout and the sides of her mouth. As usual, my dog stands there enjoying the molestation. As he natters on energetically in his non-native language, I can no longer focus on anything but this: MUST GET OLIVE HOME IMMEDIATELY AND WIPE DOWN HER HEAD AND FACE. Yes, like Howie Mandel’s obsessive-compulsive fear of germs, I am now fixated on this thought. I gently start to pull Olive away as a means of signaling the end of the interaction. The cocooned old bean ambles away like a wind-up toy trying to move in at least four different directions at once. I turn to Olive and say, “OLIVE. DO NOT PUT YOUR PAWS ANYWHERE NEAR YOUR FACE UNTIL WE GET HOME.” I race home, wondering exactly how I would explain the need to go 50 miles per hour in a 35 mph zone to a Police Officer. I run into the kitchen, soak a paper towel and wipe down her head and face. I’ve never done this to Olive before so while she’s very obedient and allows me to do this, I can hear what she’s thinking. “IS THIS BECAUSE I LICKED MY ASS?”
ornament, scarecrows, weimaraners
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 04/23/2012 at 7:51 pm
"Is this for ME?"
What the hell is this? It smells pretty good. A slightly musky fragrance. I like the texture too. I could probably use this to floss my digestive track, not my teeth. Although I don’t want to end up with a “dangler.” I’ll look like a Christmas ornament at the end of a hook. This doesn’t make Patti happy. Tastes pretty good. A strong woody flavor with a delicate vegetable note. I may be over thinking this, but why do I feel compelled to make a nest out of it? And yet, there’s something a little disquieting about its presentation. “OH MY GOD, DO YOU THINK IT COULD BE A BUNCH OF GROUND UP SCARECROWS?” Holy agricide, I’m ‘outta here.
carpenter bees, ticks, weimaraners
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 04/20/2012 at 5:19 pm
"I think I see a BEE."
The insects have begun their seasonal invasion. The ticks are back. I’ve picked a tick off Olive’s daintily veined ear and pink undercarriage twice this week. I’ve also picked one off the back of my head. Gross. The carpenter bees are also back, buzzing back and forth across the deck, occasionally hovering in one spot like a helicopter above a rescue target at sea. Olive has taken notice of these plump, fuzzy, wood-chomping bees. She jumps up, opens her mouth, and tries to snatch them in mid-air. Because the male carpenter bees are stingerless (ouch!), they don’t present any danger to Olive so I happily just watch her eyeball them and lunge after one when it strafes her. She hasn’t caught one yet, but I’m betting she will soon. Then it will be interesting to see what she does with it. Will she spit it out when she feels it bouncing off her molars? Will she just swallow it whole like a velvet kibble? Or will she let it drop from her mouth and then start inquisitively pawing at it until it’s lying there dismembered and covered in spittle? I’m betting it’s going to be number one or number three. “LOOK OLIVE, HERE COMES A WHOLE BATTALION OF CARPENTER BEES!”
birthday, fairy tales, sleeping beauty
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 04/17/2012 at 8:10 pm
"It's my BIRTHDAY?"
As the spoiled Princess of Weim napped peacefully this morning on her queen-sized bed with memory foam topper, I, her loyal and dutiful subject, leaned over and gently sang “Happy Birthday” to her. She was largely unmoved by this display of affection. Perhaps she was expecting an orchestral arrangement. Maybe she just had gas. Sweet little Olive turned two today. It’s been an incredibly joyful two years with you Olive. I can’t imagine my life without you in it.
dog beds, dog crates, dog whining
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 04/15/2012 at 9:10 am
"This one feels just right."
It all started with the October snowstorm when Olive and I had to bunk at our neighbor’s home. And Olive had to sleep with me on a small pull-out oversized chaise lounge bed. The only time she will not sleep in her crate is when there’s no cover and she can see me just a foot away from her. Not good enough. The whining and nose whistling will go on for hours until my will is finally broken and I let her out so she can sleep with me. It’s all somewhat ironic because I do this to put an end to the musical performance so I can get some sleep. However, while it’s nice to have her close to me, I get zero sleep because she has to push up against me so hard, it’s as if she is attaching herself to me like a parasitic twin. They don’t refer to weimaraners as “Velcro dogs” for nothing. Then, I let her sleep with me when she wasn’t feeling well and I wanted to keep a close eye on her. Then, it was because of the hurricane. Then it was because of the bear. You get the picture. Olive is now sleeping in the master bed with me every night. It used to be that I let her up on the bed for a half hour or so while I read and then I’d escort her back to her crate. Now, in the middle of the night, I am so exhausted from not being able to fall asleep that I have to pull her off the bed like a piece of Bazooka bubble gum stuck to the pavement on a hot summer day and march her into her crate. And then it starts. I wish you could hear the sounds she makes. A pitiful, plaintive moaning, like she’s been mortally wounded. I don’t know whether to cry or laugh. On the one hand, it’s so primal and sad sounding. On the other hand, because it varies so much in pitch, tone and melody, it’s as though she’s trying very, very hard to speak in broken, mangled English. It sounds as though she is performing the lead role in a melodramatic opera. That’s the best way I can put it. Olive is snoozing on the bed in the guest bedroom this morning. Christ, she’s like Goldilocks. She ends up on every bed in the house. “Oh, I think I’ll try this bed today.” I’m exhausted. I think I’ll go back to my own bed.
ghosts, grey color, grey dogs
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 04/15/2012 at 8:28 am
"How redundant."
The grey ghost on a ghostly grey morning.
narcicissm, pet portraits, weimaraners
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 04/14/2012 at 9:40 am
"Yes, Olive, it's me...I mean you."
Does a bear s***! In the woods? When I am lying on the couch with my back toward this oversized photograph of Olive and she is sitting on the couch like a lawn ornament facing me, I see her eyes ever so casually glance upward in the direction of this photo. “ADMIRING YOURSELF OLIVE?” I say. Her eyes glance back down and look at my face just for a split second or two before she re-directs her gaze back above my head. She can’t help herself. I don’t blame her. She is beautiful.
bear encounter, black bears
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 04/14/2012 at 9:19 am
"Just doing my job."
At about 10pm the other night, I summoned Olive downstairs so we could make our last bio-trip outdoors. I hear the melodic tinkling of the five metal tags on her collar approaching. Standing in front of the sliding glass doors, I silently debate whether I want to let her out into her mostly dark pen alone or put on my shoes and jacket and leash her up to go outside. As fate would have it, those split seconds meant the difference between encountering a bear face-to-face in our driveway or in our backyard. As I tap the garage door opener and it begins to open, Olive shoots outside with explosive force, her flexi-leash unspooling like a fisherman casting his line. Except of course, most fisherman don’t have an impetuous 70-pound lure at the end of their line. As I’m being pulled into the driveway, Olive is straining at the end of her leash, barking and howling as though she’s just identified the Wolfman on her property. And she has. I glance to my right, and behind her pen, above the railroad tie retaining wall, I see a giant black object. While my brain doesn’t immediately process “bear,” I know by its immense size and color that that’s the only thing it can be. Standing in the driveway, we are about 25-feet from an adult black bear. Or at least a nice-sized teenager. Admittedly, I panic and start yanking on the leash with my bare hands pulling Olive toward me as fast as I can. I race back into the garage with her, pound the electric garage door opener, enter the house and slam the door, praying that the damn door shuts in time. I call my neighbors to tell them there’s a bear in my yard who seems to be just…sitting there. As they call our other neighbors, I call the Police who graciously come out with a huge light to chase “Yogi” away. Now I see what the bear was preoccupied with…my garbage…which is now strewn across the lawn. The first and only time I left a garbage bag out in the driveway next to the overstuffed trash can. And the last time. In the bear’s mind, he has just stumbled onto a buffet and he’s going to enjoy it even if he has to listen to a dog “yell” at him. Meanwhile, my bear-chasing dog is inside running around the house like her pants are on fire. Her long sustained woo-woo-woo howls run into each other until they sound like one long half-crazed siren. Even during an unexpected event like this, she can make me laugh. The bear, on all fours, lumbers across the rest of the property, disappearing into the night. The Police leave. I turn to Olive and say, “I’ll be right back Olive. I think I have to change my pants.” Olive looks over at me and says: “Good thing we weren’t part of the buffet.”
critical thinking, dog art
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 04/06/2012 at 9:56 am
"HOW high is the price of gas today?"
Leafing through an artsy-fartsy luxury catalog the other day, one product in particular caught my eye. For about $135, I could own a framed illustration of a dog with this message on it: Unencumbered by Critical Thought. I chuckled. Yes, I thought, if you don’t own a weimaraner. They are capable of critical thought. Anyone who’s ever owned one knows this. I look at this picture of Olive and I imagine she’s thinking about how high the price of gas is going to go and whether this will impact her trips to the dog park. (Don’t worry, Olive, it won’t.) And no, I didn’t buy the illustration. After all, it would be a lie to display it in my and Olive’s home.
muscular dogs, strong dogs
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 04/06/2012 at 9:13 am
"Who, ME?"
The average person has no idea how strong weimaraners are. They are so muscular that when they slam into objects, the objects usually crumple like aluminum foil or bend pretzel-like into an entirely new shape. Today, I am still nursing a bruised bone and hematoma the size of a petite squirrel head on my shin about two inches below my right knee. At the moment of collision between Olive’s head and my leg, I was more worried about her because she stood there for a second apparently somewhat dazed. I felt as if I could actually see the cartoon birds (Birds. Can you believe it?) tweeting in circles around her head as though she were knocked silly. All this from rapidly snapping her head and body around less than two feet from where I was standing. It was like a speeding car slammed into a telephone pole. This is not new to my highly alert, sometimes-obsessed pooch. On occasion she exhibits the child-like habit of walking straight ahead with her head turned to one side. In the past, she has smacked her head into street signs, sidewalk trees and other such objects while ogling something across the street on one of our walks. Today, she effectively “ran with a stick” in her hand, although she has no hand per se and the stick was clenched firmly between her teeth. And then when she took off like a corvette, the stick got stuck momentarily in the chain link fence and stopped her in her tracks. She turned to look at me as if to say “How did THAT happen?” I walk over to her, put my arms around her and kissed the top of her little taupe head. “NOT AGAIN, OLIVE. YOU LITTLE NUTHATCH. ARE YOU OK?” And then I see the damage. The stick must have gotten caught on the wire band that attaches the chain link fence to one of the upright poles. It had been torn clear away from one side of the fence. “HOLY SHIT. OLIVE. COME OVER HERE.” Now I’m examining her with the frantic energy of a medic on a battlefield, looking for blood and/or a puncture wound or a missing tooth. After an invasive inspection of her mouth and neck that would make both a Dentist and an automotive detailer proud, I thankfully find nothing amiss. I breathe a sigh of relief as Olive, who has already forgotten the incident, takes off after a bird that’s just landed inside her pen.
dogs, hyena, manipulation
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 04/06/2012 at 8:38 am
"Do you like my impression of a HYENA?"
The vet just called, confirming what I suspected. Olive’s urinalysis is fine. Negative. Clear. Pristine. Possibly on par with non-sparkling water from an icy-blue stream at the foot of the Colorado Rockies. Essentially, I paid $59 to learn that my dog is a master manipulator. She does not have a bladder infection. She just pretends to so I have to let her in and out of the house 60 times a day. Is this why only I can hear her laugh?
aviary, birds, weimaraners
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 03/25/2012 at 10:35 am
"So many birds and so little time."
Well, I guess it was bound to happen. How long do you think it would be before I would have to remove some dead animal carcass from my property? The answer? Not long. Upon waking, I took Olive out on a beautiful cloudless morning to empty her biological canisters. Because the weather has already been unseasonably warm, the birds are back. All of them. Thousands upon thousands of them. Ancestors, in-laws, illegitimate offspring, you name it. My yard backs up against the historic Morris Canal which nature has elegantly turned into an incredible organic aviary. You can hear bazillions of birds singing, tweeting, lyrically expressing themselves. It is actually incredibly beautiful. You’d think you were trekking through the amazon. Of course, this is titillating, frustrating and ironic for my biologically-bred “bird dog.” Poor Olive. There are so many birds zipping across the property, she doesn’t even know where to look first. Of course, this only heightens her ADHD-like attention span, distracting her endlessly from the task at hand. “OLIVE. PLEASE GO POTTY. I’D LIKE TO GET BACK IN THE HOUSE BEFORE THE NEXT SOLAR ECLIPSE.” On this particular morning though, Olive makes a beeline for some raised object on the front lawn. I can tell by the way she’s crouching like a tiger while advancing upon it, that it must be an animal of some kind. I tighten her flexi-leash so she can’t get to it before I can and lo and behold, it’s a dead robin. Wings splayed out to their sides, empty abdomen and…no head. “GOD, THAT’S GROSS,” I mutter aloud. Olive barely noses it before I pull her back. I bring her in the house and wipe off her nose and whiskers, hoping that there is no necrotic bacterial dust microscopically attached to her whiskers. I grab the “carcass” shovel and head back out to the front yard. As I scoop up the remains, I start looking around for the head by swiveling mine all around. I don’t need Olive coming back into the house with a cootified dismembered bird head in her mouth. I walk around in circles for a few minutes, before I decide that whatever killed the bird must have either taken the head as a trophy or eaten it as dessert. “I DON’T KNOW ABOUT YOU OLIVE, BUT SUDDENLY, I’M NOT AT ALL HUNGRY THIS MORNING.”
fossil art, glass art, insect art, nature
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 03/25/2012 at 9:48 am
"Yikes!"
Olive’s first encounter with organic sculptures that resemble oversized insects.
dog park, dog park applications
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 03/25/2012 at 9:36 am
"Was all THAT really necessary?"
What a week. I spent an inordinate number of hours trying to get Olive “approved” for membership to one of the local dog parks. The one in the wealthy, snobby town with property taxes that exceed $20,000 a year for most of the homes that dot its landscape. First, I had to apply for a dog license for Olive in the township we live in. The only reason I didn’t do this when I first got her was that you can’t apply before a dog has had its rabies shot. Olive didn’t get her first rabies shot until she was about 5 months old, which is fairly standard. But according to the township paperwork, Olive would have had to have another rabies shot two months later just to meet their administrative requirements. “SCREW THAT,” I thought. “I’M NOT DOUBLE-DOSING OLIVE JUST SO SOME CLERK HAS AN EASIER JOB.” So, Olive has remained license-free until now. Besides, many weims have adverse reactions to vaccinations and while I’m lucky that Olive has not, I didn’t know that at the time. So, I fill out the paperwork, provide proof of rabies vaccination and mail it to the township. In a few days, Olive’s dog license arrives. One down, one to go. I pull the dog park application down from the website of the other township. My eyes widen as I review it and the attached legal waiver. They require so much evidence that after I’m done reading the application, I’m surprised they don’t want to paw print her and perform a cavity search. It’s starting to look like it would be easier to get Olive admitted to the bar. Not only do I have to demonstrate proof of rabies, spaying, distemper, bordatella, but I also have to show proof that she’s on heartworm medication and that she’s had a negative fecal test for the infamous giardia in the past six months. Then, Olive’s veterinarian has to sign the application. I also have to have a witness sign the liability waiver. Maybe the New Jersey Division of Motor Vehicles should take a page out of this book. In the end, I don’t really mind, although it doesn’t stop people who are not members from bringing dogs who don’t meet all these criteria to the park. No township in their right mind wants to “staff” a dog park because they might as well just hold up a sign (especially in the culturally litigious state of New Jersey) that says “Referee for lawsuits.” I drop off the application at the Vet’s for signature, pick it up the next day and then take it to the neighboring township’s municipal building where I am presented with yet another metal dog tag to place on Olive’s collar. There are now so many tags on her collar that she sounds like she’s playing the xylophone whenever she moves.
birds, weimaraners and birds
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 03/18/2012 at 7:08 pm
"So THAT'S how it's done."
I love capturing Olive’s expression during a “learning moment.” Just like a child, you can actually “see” the wheels turning inside their little half-empty heads. Of course, I think she’s observing how the sliding glass door opens, but maybe she’s contemplating something entirely different. Perhaps she’s silently mapping the longitude and latitude of the American Red Robin sunbathing on the lawn inside her pen, a transgression that will not go unnoticed or unpunished by Olive. “CALM DOWN OLIVE. THE WHOLE BIRD IS PROBABLY LESS THAN 500 CALORIES. IT’S NOT EVEN WORTH USING TO PICK YOUR TEETH.” Olive’s focus breaks for a split second before she re-directs it back to the oblivious avian tart again. She remains so still, you can barely tell she’s breathing. I have a choice. I can either stand here and observe this mental challenge for another 5 minutes or I can just yell “BIS-CUIT” loudly and watch Olive race up the stairs to the kitchen faster than a Formula race car. Works every time. “HERE’S YOUR BISCUIT OLIVE. NO, I HAVE NO IDEA WHY THEY DON’T COME IN BIRD FLAVORS.”
gifted children, gifted dogs
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 03/18/2012 at 10:15 am
"Trees DO resemble life."
The thought occurred to me the other day, “Why do I ask Olive if she wants to go to the ‘dog park?’” When you take a child to the park, you don’t say you’re going to the “child park.” Why not just, “the park?” Trouble is, now Olive knows what the words “dog park” mean. When she hears me utter these words, no matter how quietly, her nose lights up and she starts spinning faster than Linda Blair’s head in the original “Exorcist,” movie. God forbid I utter these words when I’m not planning on taking her at that moment. Yes, just like a child, I have to spell the words d-o-g p-a-r-k if I’m talking to another human about it. One morning, when she was lying on the bed, half covered up, I whispered to her ever so faintly, “Olive? Do you want to go to the dog park?” Her pupils immediately dilate and she leaps off the bed like a comet streaking through the sky, tail wagging at the speed of sound, standing there, waiting for me to do the same. Now I must comply. However, I imagine Olive would act the same way if I just said the word “park.” She is smart enough to comprehend and to communicate her needs. Last night, we were at a friend’s house, sitting outdoors in front of a roaring fire while Olive chomped on sticks. Sure enough at around 8pm, she starts barking insistently in my direction. This is her way of telling me she’s tired and wants to go home. Sure enough, after about five minutes in the car, she’s stretched out in the back seat sleeping peacefully, snoring moderately. She remains this way the entire 45-minute ride home. Somedays I think of her as a gifted child. Other days I think of her as a special needs child. Either way, she requires a lot of attention. But you know what? I wouldn’t have it any other way.
curious george, dog park
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 03/16/2012 at 7:43 pm
"Here I am."
“Now I see you, you little monkey. You know yesterday when someone asked me who watches you when I go away, I said, First of all, I don’t go away, and second, the only person I can trust ‘Curious George’ with is her trainer, Shelley. That’s right, I think it’s quite apt that I refer to you as the mischievous monkey with the insatiably inquisitive personality. What foul treasure do you have your nose in right now?” Olive and I spent a gloriously sunny 70-degree afternoon at one of the local dog parks on Wednesday when I enjoyed a rare day off work. It’s true. A tired Weimaraner is a happy Weimaraner. Within minutes of getting home, my pooch was zonked out on the couch with her head resting on the orange microfiber pillow, quietly snoring. This has become one of my most favorite sounds in the world. Such contentedness.
humor, tiny deer, weimaraners
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 03/16/2012 at 7:19 pm
"Patti, where are you?"
“Olive. Where are you? I can’t see you.” The weimaraner’s neutral taupe color makes it easy for it to blend into its surroundings. Except snowscapes. There, they stand out like tiny deer sans antlers.
car colors, hood ornaments
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 03/16/2012 at 6:54 pm
"There goes another rodent."
In the early afternoon light today, the color of this car perfectly matched the color of Olive’s coat. Perhaps a weimaraner would make the ideal decorative hood ornament on cars this color. “NO OLIVE, THIS IS NOT A TYPO. I SAID HOOD, NOT FOOD.”
biological imperative, counter surfer
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 03/10/2012 at 11:20 am
"Yes Master, it was a biological imperative."
I deserved this one. The other night, I placed a freshly roasted chicken on top of the counter while I left Olive in the kitchen unattended, eating her dinner. Meanwhile I sat in the dining room less than six feet from her as she hungrily munched away. It seemed like just seconds later I hear a “PLOP.” Instantly, I know what’s happened. It definitely sounded like the chicken taking a swan dive off the counter. I race into the kitchen just in time to see the still warm bird splattered across the floor; its carcass in pieces; the flesh angrily dislodged from its bones. “FOR GOD’S SAKE OLIVE, WAS THIS REALLY NECESSARY? YOU JUST HAD SOME FOR DINNER.” I try to keep her at bay while I scoop up the carcass, quickly snatch a solitary bone and toss it all into the trash. Now I’m on all fours myself, with my ass facing Jupiter, wiping the aromatic grease spill off the floor while Olive stands nearby quietly idling like an electric car, clearly aware that she should stay out of the way but biologically incapable of doing so. She starts licking the tile floor at the perimeter of the epicenter of the disaster. It was my own damn fault. Anyone who owns a weimaraner knows that the kitchen counters belong to them. Maybe I need to sprinkle a little cayenne pepper on the countertops to take back ownership. Maybe my little chicken thief will think twice the next time she observes food lounging on the counter.
ambidextrous, dog behavior, weimaraners
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 03/10/2012 at 10:37 am
"Is she KIDDING me?"
I have come to the conclusion that Olive is right-pawed. As opposed to left-pawed or the even rarer, “quad-pawed,” which would make her doubly ambidextrous. How do I know this? Not from watching her try to pick things up with her paws, although she tries valiantly. Sometimes I can sense her utter frustration at not having thumbs. Like when she tries to pick up a ball when the Frisbee is already clenched between her teeth. I swear I can hear her yell, “WHY THE HELL DON’T I HAVE THUMBS!!!” She reluctantly drops the Frisbee, snatches the ball and then tries to jam the Frisbee into her mouth at the same time. Then she drops the ball, retrieves the Frisbee and the circus starts all over again. It is comical. No, I discovered Olive’s paw preference much more organically. When she comes inside after having been out in her pen digging for buried treasure, I march her straight into the downstairs bathroom, prod her into the shower stall and rinse off her perfect little feet. “GIVE ME THIS PAW OLIVE. NOW THAT ONE. LIFT UP THIS ONE. ONE MORE PAW AND WE’RE DONE.” More times than not I noticed, three of the paws are moderately dirty. But the fourth paw? The right front one? Filthy. I can spray it for days and there are colonies of dirt still present. So I conclude, that must be the paw that she prefers to use to do all the excavating. Now that I know this, I am going to find ways to validate her paw preference. Maybe I’ll ask her to say the pledge of allegiance, which of course requires her to put her right paw over her heart. Or perhaps, I’ll ask her to swear on a bible to “tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth,” while raising her right paw. “OLIVE. WOULD YOU PLEASE OPEN UP THIS BOTTLE OF DIET STEWART’S ROOT BEER FOR ME?”
cookies, dogs stealing food, packaging
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 03/03/2012 at 10:36 am
"What happened to my cookie?"
As I sat in my office, working at my computer the other night, I heard the familiar sound of packaging crinkling as it was being spindled. I sensed a semi-frantic effort to get to its contents. Without hesitation, I bolt upright in my chair and yell “OLIVE!” She is of course, nowhere to be seen. The crinkling continues unabated. “OLIVE?” I repeat loudly in the hopes that my voice distracts her momentarily. “OLIVE! I MAY NOT HAVE EYES IN THE BACK OF MY HEAD BUT I DO HAVE EARS THERE.” Silence. For just a few seconds. More crinkling. I race down the hallway and into the second floor loft-style dining room. From this vantage point, I spot my pooch standing in the living room below like a deer trapped in the headlights of an oncoming car. A white plastic wrapped oatmeal raisin cookie dangles from her mouth precariously, held in place just barely by her tiny, perfect porcelain incisors. Her pupils are dilated to the size of pool covers. Her tail wags energetically if slightly apprehensively. I interpret this as a dare to come downstairs and try to retrieve the package from her. Another showdown. To be effective, it requires that I channel Julius Caesar. “HERE I COME, OLIVE. DROP IT. DROP IT NOW. NOW!” As I approach her, she goes into pre-flight mode. All at once, all four legs tense, bend and she lowers her whole body. She is preparing to take off. The end of the wrapped cookie is still safely clenched between her teeth. “OLIVE. DID YOU KNOW THAT RAISINS ARE POISONOUS TO DOGS?” She just stares at me, trying to anticipate my next move. I reach out and gently grab the other end of the wrapper. “OLIVE. LET GO.” And after thinking about it for a few seconds, she does. ‘GOOD GIRL, OLIVE.” I examine the wrapper and unbelievably there aren’t even any holes in it. And the cookie has not been crushed. As I walk upstairs into the kitchen, I open the wrapper and eat the cookie before Olive can see me. Unless of course, she has eyes in the back of her head.
dog books, e.b. white, smart dogs
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 03/02/2012 at 6:33 pm
"My God, of COURSE I can read."
I also enjoy Gunter Grass novels. Like “Katz and Maus,” and “Dog Years.” I found “The Tin Drum,” very disturbing though. So I ate it. I think I may have also eaten a book by Herman Ebbinghaus, but I can’t recall for sure. What? Did you think I read only the backs of dog food packaging? Or Jack London novels? Please, I’m a weimaraner, not some common canine. I can even write. What the hell do you think you’re reading right now? I have no ghost writer. I AM the ghost writer of this blog.
Life With Olive 