A bit about Prompts. (updated)

“The advantage of a bad memory is that one enjoys several times the same good things for the first time.”
~ Friedrich Nietzsche

Prompt 17

I'm fucking starving, I think as I step over the baby gate blocking the entrance of the room. It's now...whatever time lunch happens to be today, and I'm ready to have at it - whatever it may be. There is a lot to be done, not a lot of time to do it in, and no matter how small or great the desire to do any of it is, it will all need to get done. But first -  lunch. As I head down the steps, it dawns on me that the boy-child had mentioned something about someone being "at the door." 

The shit from Amazon must have come, I think. Isn't that always the fucking way? Seven or later when school is in, but before noon on my "vacation." What a bunch of assbags. 

I open the front door and feel the chill of the mid-day air. The irony of it being 41 degrees outside, yet remaining overcast, bitter and shitty is not lost on me. The air cuts right through my thin orange REESE'S t-shirt, jeans and slippers as if I were standing there naked. I quickly scoop up the two brown boxes and shut the door, leaving the chill to bother the poor bastard who delivered the packages. Lunch is about the only thing I'm worried about. 

I stroll off into the kitchen with a gait possessed only by people who literally have all the time in the world. While it is true that a lot needs doing, all of these things are in-home things, leaving me able to slink around the house at less than warp speed. Once there, I head for the fridge. In my usual fashion, I open the door and peek in. The peeking process usually takes a few minutes. I often look at everything, combine these things in various ways in my mind, tally up the energy it would take to create said items, multiply that by the amount of dishes that would require being done and then come to the conclusion that I'm a lazy jackass. 

Aha! I rejoice inwardly. Peanut butter and jelly, it is. Only...there's no fucking milk. 

That shit doesn't matter to the kids at all. Well, that takes care of that. Now what about...Oh. Looks like lasagna in a cup. 

I fucking hate pasta in a can. I can't really describe how much, but seeing as I'm not anywhere close to whipping up a three course lunch, this shit will just simply have to do. After popping this crap that passes for lunch into the microwave, I prepare the children their PB&J's and let them eat. Upon hearing the "DING!" of the radiation box, I go back into the kitchen and pull my slop out of it. As I turn around to head back upstairs, I remember the packages and quickly head to the counter to grab them. Or, that was the plan. 

Where in the hell did I put those goddamned things? rings the voice within. 

As I look around, it becomes quite obvious to me that they aren't in the kitchen. Somehow, that doesn't stop me from walking back into the kitchen at least three times during my fruitless search. It goes like this for about ten solid minutes: me walking to the front door, turning around, scanning the living room, retracing my steps, looking around the kitchen, heading back to the front door, scanning the living room, etc. At this point, I'm absolutely flabbergasted. How in the hell does someone literally lose two big-ass boxes from Amazon in the time it takes to heat up a bowl of heartburn and make two kids a sammich? In a sentence - it doesn't. So I do what anyone in my position would do - assume that I'm fucking nuts and check upstairs, knowing that I absolutely did not go up there. 

So up the stairs I go, knowing that I'm not going to find anything and that I'll soon be back in the kitchen that they clearly aren't in, and making my way back and forth from the front-fucking-door and back all over again! But wait....what's that? There are fresh boxes open on top of a large pad of newsprint. I don't recall having seen those before. 

That's because they weren't there, genius. 

Oh, this is complete BULLSHIT! I think. 

And it is, too. It would seem that during my stint visiting fridge-land, Erica had come down the stairs and grabbed said "missing" packages, brought them upstairs and opened them. According to her, she even spoke to me. Also according to her, I was "oblivious, as always."

Ain't life grand?

"I agree with Agassiz that dogs possess something very like conscience."
~ Charles Darwin

Prompt 20

For most of my adult life, I've been living with animals. This is true in both that I have had a dog around for most of it, and that I have lived with people who are of questionable values, myself included. After all, people tend to keep "like" company. But that is another story for another time. Let us start this tale where times are starting to look their most grim. 

For about nine years, I had the great pleasure of keeping company with a Whippet, named Stella Blue. Having raised her from the time that she able to open her eyes on her own, I took great pride in what she grew into, which was a wonderful and majestic creature. We spent every day of the better part of ten years together, sharing the same space, bed, hardships and when money was tight, food. After her death from a uterine infection in  March of 2010, I was left with a hole in my life. To me, a dog isn't just some creature that you take care of. It becomes a part of who you are and a part of you leaves with it when it goes. 

Needless to say, I was... distraught. Without really thinking about the outcome (or what I was doing at all, really) I began searching for a way to repair the damage that had been done to me and like anyone who has an addictive personality, I set out to replace what was missing in the quickest and most irresponsible fashion. In just a few short months, I had replaced (but not dealt with) that missing piece of my life. I was the proud new owner of Thanos and Princess, two extremely antisocial Italian Greyhounds that I had rescued from a shelter in Columbus, Ohio, where I happened to be living at the time. These two had apparently lived with a woman who was an extreme shut-in and had a pack of animals running rampant through her home. Upon being moved somewhere for her "own good" (I assume she was very old and fragile of mind, though I never asked), all of her animals were dispersed to local shelters. One of these animals was physically challenged. She had a bad spine and one hell of a seriously malformed jaw. The other was a superior specimen of what an Italian should be physically, but due to the fact that he had never been anywhere but her home and that awful shelter, he was mentally unstable at best. Some might ever go so far as to say that he was feral. Well...in my vein of awful luck, I just could not cope with having the both of them. It was at that point that I decided that since Princess was the older of the two (and also the mother of Thanos) and that she was pretty much set in her ways, if not on her way out, that I would try to salvage what was left of Thanos' life, yet return her to the shelter. Not only could I not handle the both of them, I just honestly couldn't watch another dog pass out of my life. I didn't know it at the time, but that's exactly what I would end up doing.

After several weeks if not a month or two, Thanos started making real progress. I had gotten him to start sleeping with me, responding to his name and most importantly, I had finally gotten him to stop "marking his territory" on stacks of my things. He was making progress, and so was I. It was during this period in time that I was making plans to move here to Maine, so that I could start my life with Erica, who was just a few weeks away from coming to help me move. 

In June of that year, the move was on. We were driving to Maine in a rented Ford Edge, a mid-sized SUV that was literally packed to capacity with all of my junk I "collect" things). With Thanos in tow, we set out to start our new life, the road and happiness before us. Also before us was wine country. While passing through Madison, Ohio, we decided that it would be a good idea to stop off at the Debonne Winery to have a tasting and see just what went into this wine-making business. Upon arriving, we were greeted with what appeared to be a festival in full swing. Due to what went down, I never did exactly find out what was taking place there, but that's me getting ahead of myself.  We rolled into the parking lot and parked, making sure to leave a bowl of clean, fresh water for Thanos and departed with the windows cracked. 

And that was the last time I ever physically laid eyes on the little guy. 

While we were inside, we discovered not only a winery, but a small-batch brewery, aptly named Cellar Rats Brewing. The place was perfectly named, as it was all cabin-esque, darkly lit and looked like it could indeed hold a clan of rats. Not that it was dirty, mind you. I think this is exactly the atmosphere that these clever gents were going for. At any rate, we ordered a sampler of all of their beers and bought a pint glass from them. 

About the time that I sat down and got through two or three of their eight or nine beer selection, someone came in asking about a "Jeep" with Maine plates and the dog that was "burning alive in the car." Being the man that I am, I rushed out into the parking lot to see what was taking place. That's when I noticed that something was horribly, horribly wrong. The dog was nowhere to be found. Upon asking around, it was brought to my attention that some drunken bitch; some crusading goddamned do-gooder, had slithered her arm in through the cracked window, unlocked the door and attempted to "liberate" the animal. Well, little the sow know that he was halfway feral and he attempted to take part of her face off. She couldn't handle him (which is odd as he was probably about 5 pounds, soaking wet) and let him go....She. Let. Him. Go. And that was that. He took off into the vineyard and was never seen by us again, despite our gaining permission to drive through the vineyard looking for him. After close to three hours, we were forced by time constrains and monetary lacking to abandon the search. Exit stage left. 

Fade in to September, 2010. Being who I am and not exactly dealing with things in the most appropriate light at times, I pestered, and pestered, and pestered Erica into finally allowing me to have a dog in the house. This is where the black and white Pit Bull that loved to eat electronics and piss all over the floor comes in, in case you were starting to wonder. His name was Gozer, and short of being locked in his crate at all points in time, you were never 100% sure what he was doing at any given point in time. Seriously, I have personally witnessed this animal destroy an "indestructible"  dog toy (who's company name I will not sully) in less time than it took to pay for the damned thing. He was loyal, smart, great with the kids and at times, truly wonderful to be around. The only issue with him was that he basically felt the same way about us....and only us. Anyone else who got within knocking distance of the door was basically a new toy, which didn't go over so well with the neighbors or the mailman who happened to be walking the block on the day that he liberated himself from the confinement of the back yard. On this day, he stopped traffic, terrorized the neighbors and literally held the mailman hostage on some poor shmuck's front steps a few houses down from ours. Gozer's time with us was brief. With two kids in the house, it just wasn't conducive to visiting friends to have him around, no matter how sweet of a guy he was. No animal is worth having some visiting child's face torn away from their skull. After a brief visit to the Bangor Humane Society, Gozer was placed in a new home, where hopefully he can be as much of jackass as he wants. 

The curtain now opens on Valentine's Day. It's February 14th, 2012 and we're trying this again. After trying on some options such a nice straight razor set, a transforming BLASTER USB hub, and several other options, Erica has opted to get me a purebred White Boxer puppy. 

The night of the 21st, we drove down to Portland to pick him up from the Jetport and ever since then, he's been a pain right in my ass. It's been about 12 years since I have raised a puppy and due to the fact that I had been adopting semi-grown dogs since the demise of Stella, I had forgotten what it was like. I had forgotten about the bullheadedness. I had forgotten about the "accidents," the howling from the crate, the disregard for people's underwear. I had forgotten how much they eat, sleep, drink, play, bite, torment the other animals and somehow always manage to get between two people that are trying to snuggle in bed. I had forgotten about the fact that they will play, for hours, in the middle of the night as people try to get some goddamned sleep. I had forgotten that I love every second of it, and how much of a reward it is to look upon him; how proud I am when he learns "sit, down and crawl." But do not be fooled, reader. Cute and rewarding as it may be, this is a struggle and it is constant. I must always be on the ready. I must be ever vigilant, lest my bare foot land in something that can't be easily washed off. Until he is old enough to understand his place in things, the war rages. So let the battle begin. The can be be only one master, and I'll be damned if it becomes him. 

                                                    And there he is. The would-be King.