My morning hasn't been the greatest. It's 37 degrees out, the wind is howling non-stop, it's wet out, and I spent the last hour on the business end of a 24-foot ladder.
Late yesterday afternoon our neighbor rang our doorbell to tell us we had a piece of our fascia that had come loose and was making a crazy racket banging against the brick chimney each time there was a gust of wind. I went out a bit later to take a look at it and realized it was going to suck to fix. I didn't think much of it until I let Memphis out for one last whiz before going to bed at about midnight. When we got outside, it sounded like a shotgun was being fired. Memphis was barking at the sound and I was trying to figure out which idiot neighbor was causing the commotion so late at night.
As I walked around to the side of the house, I realized we were the idiot neighbors as the fascia was just barely hanging on and crashing into the chimney with each gust. My first thought was, "how in the hell am I supposed to sleep with that (because the fascia was right above our bedroom window)?"
Memphis and I went back into the house and I went into our bedroom. It was just as I thought, while Jennifer was sleeping fine, there was no way I'd be able to sleep through it since I hear everything (it's funny, when I'm trying to sleep I hear every noise, but when I'm awake, I can't ever seem to hear anyone when they're talking to me). So, I went into the mancave and went to sleep on the futon.
Very early this morning, Jennifer came into tell me that I needed to fix it. Her tone was apparent, like I was the one who made the wind blow or who caused the fascia to come lose. Being married I've learned that it doesn't really matter the situation or who or what is to blame, it's my fault and my responsibility to fix it.
Our house is a two story money pit. It was built in 1986 and virtually nothing has been updated so EVERYTHING is falling apart. I keep hoping it will burn down (Message to Dillow, my insurance agent/friend: nothing to see here, carry on) and I can start over, but so far, I've had no luck with that. Also, everything that seems to go wrong is a pain in the ass to fix...like this fascia. It picked the exact highest point of the house to come lose. Not close to the highest or just a high spot, the exact top of the A-frame. And because the nail holding it at the highest point stayed strong, the piece of fascia flipped, so it was actually pointing out a bit higher that the top of the house.
When I got up, I called a siding place. I explained it was a simple job, something that even I could do, I just didn't have a ladder tall enough to reach the highest point of the house. I have a 16-foot ladder and it doesn't come close. The guy at the siding place told me there was a minimum charge, which I understood, and said I was looking at at least a couple hundred bucks because his guys work in two-man crews and he had to pay for both them and their truck to come out. He suggested I just go spend a couple hundred bucks on a ladder and then I'd have it for future use.
Instead, I called Hayden's Grandpa because he's got tools and stuff he doesn't even know he's got and not only that, but I could probably borrow his truck to get the ladder home. He was in town and told me to stop by.
He had a 24-foot ladder and asked if that was enough. I looked and looked and wasn't convinced it was. He said to take it and try it, and if it wasn't enough to let him know.
I went back home and put the ladder up to the side of the house. The wind seemed to be blowing harder and harder with each passing minute. 13-feet of the ladder just reached the window as I kept sliding the one piece out farther and farther. As I started running out of ladder, I thought to myself, there's no effing way I'm going up there. With just a couple feet of ladder to go, it was just reaching the point where I might be able to touch the bottom part of where the fascia needed to go, but I was pretty convinced I wasn't going to be the one to do it.
I climbed up as high as I was willing, holding onto the ladder for dear life. It was cold, the wind was relentless, my wet shoes were sliding all over the aluminum rails of the ladder and I was sweating like nobody's business because I was pretty sure I was going to die. The one thing I had going for me was that with the rain last night, the ground was muddy and soupy and I figured I probably wouldn't die after all when I fell, as long as I could avoid the gas meter just below.
Just when I was ready to take down the ladder and head back to Grandpa's, it occurred to me I'd have to give back Man Card if I didn't at least give it a try. I figured if I fell, I'd only break my back, but I'd have a great story to tell. In the end, having a story won out.
I trotted back up to the top of the ladder, using 23 of the 24 feet available and reached for the piece of fascia, but it was just too far out of reach and there was no way I was going any higher. I again descended the ladder and went into the garage to find something I could use as a hook to catch the offending fascia. In the backyard, I found just the thing...a shepherd's hook that I'd neglected to put away for the winter. It extended my reach plenty, but meant I had to climb the damned ladder with mostly one arm.
Eventually the fascia had been caught and was back in place...but now I had to figure out how to hold nails in one hand, a hammer in the other, and still keep two hands on the ladder. I went back down the ladder for the umpteenth time, my butt still as puckered as my first trip up.
I grabbed a handful of nails and a hammer and placed them all in my little construction guy belt and climbed the ladder yet again. Starting at the lowest point of the fascia, I got the first nail in in no time and managed to stay atop the ladder. With the fascia now in a semi-attached state, I tried to reach a bit higher to the next nail hole. Unfortunately, there was no way to hold a nail and swing a hammer without ending up on the neighbor's roof so I called it a day.
After returning the ladder and truck to Grandpa (thanks Grandpa) I headed back home to get ready for a trip to the office, the fascia still attached where it's supposed to be. My butt is still a bit puckered from the morning's traumatic experience, but I'm not in traction like I partially expected to be at this point in the day. I'm really happy Grandpa had a ladder because I'd have wasted a couple hundred bucks buying one for my own because I have no intentions of ever going that high again.
Tuesday, February 19, 2013
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
Short story, please
Being a male, I'm not much of a talker. Sure, I'll give you my opinion on anything, but I typically use as few words as I can get away with and if I don't have to talk, that's even better. It's the same way when I ask a question. A simple yes or no will suffice, I don't need the long story. Whoever came up with K.I.S.S. was right on the money, keep it simple, stupid.
I get the long story at home a lot. One of Hayden's grandmas is quite the talker. Often I have to butt in and say, "Grandma, just give us the short story." From time to time, that long story gene makes an appearance with Jennifer. I ask a question that requires a one word answer and after a few minutes I stop listening. Same thing with Hayden, everything with him is a freaking negotiation. It gets to the point where I just stop listening to him as well.
I bring this up because I got it at the office the other day. The people that process our payroll sent me a file with a list of employees who hadn't received a check in a while and they wanted to know if those employees could be terminated in their system. I tried to open the file, got an error message and was told I couldn't access the file.
Subsequently, I sent a message back to the payroll girl explaining the message I'd received and asked if she could send me the file again. I expected an e-mail with an attachment and maybe a three word-sentence saying something like 'here you go.'
Instead I got a dissertation on how she didn't understand what the problem was, that she'd opened the file and had no trouble with it, blah, blah, blah...I stopped reading. I was prepared to fire back a nice, professional two-word reply; no not those two words, but two I use at home ALL. THE. TIME. "Don't care."
In thinking about it a bit more, it occurred to me that I get shit at the office all the time. Someone asks me something, I give a short, direct, wonderful answer; and then I'm given all the reasons why we can't do what I propose. The whole time they're talking (generally speaking, after you've reached the allotted number of words I think an answer should take, I quit listening), I've already stopped listening, wondering why in the hell they bothered me in the first place if they weren't going to like my answer and have started back on what I was working on. Then when they finish, if I'm still awake, I look up and say, politely, "I'm sorry, are you still in my office?"
In the future, I'd like for all to remember that my capacity for listening is several hampered by my y-chromosome and in the best interests of everyone, you should just give me the short story.
I get the long story at home a lot. One of Hayden's grandmas is quite the talker. Often I have to butt in and say, "Grandma, just give us the short story." From time to time, that long story gene makes an appearance with Jennifer. I ask a question that requires a one word answer and after a few minutes I stop listening. Same thing with Hayden, everything with him is a freaking negotiation. It gets to the point where I just stop listening to him as well.
I bring this up because I got it at the office the other day. The people that process our payroll sent me a file with a list of employees who hadn't received a check in a while and they wanted to know if those employees could be terminated in their system. I tried to open the file, got an error message and was told I couldn't access the file.
Subsequently, I sent a message back to the payroll girl explaining the message I'd received and asked if she could send me the file again. I expected an e-mail with an attachment and maybe a three word-sentence saying something like 'here you go.'
Instead I got a dissertation on how she didn't understand what the problem was, that she'd opened the file and had no trouble with it, blah, blah, blah...I stopped reading. I was prepared to fire back a nice, professional two-word reply; no not those two words, but two I use at home ALL. THE. TIME. "Don't care."
In thinking about it a bit more, it occurred to me that I get shit at the office all the time. Someone asks me something, I give a short, direct, wonderful answer; and then I'm given all the reasons why we can't do what I propose. The whole time they're talking (generally speaking, after you've reached the allotted number of words I think an answer should take, I quit listening), I've already stopped listening, wondering why in the hell they bothered me in the first place if they weren't going to like my answer and have started back on what I was working on. Then when they finish, if I'm still awake, I look up and say, politely, "I'm sorry, are you still in my office?"
In the future, I'd like for all to remember that my capacity for listening is several hampered by my y-chromosome and in the best interests of everyone, you should just give me the short story.
Thursday, January 31, 2013
"I seen..." is not proper English (even if you're from Kentucky)
Each day, at some point, by someone, in some way, shape or form, I see, hear or read an adult-type person use a sentence with the word "I" followed by the word "seen." I'm not an English major and I didn't stay in a Holiday Inn Express last night, but I'm pretty sure there is only once sentence that contains those two words in that order that is proper English and it goes something like this...'I seen' has the makings of shitty English.
Whether it's from someone in the office, a complete stranger at Wally World, or something I read on Facebook (Evansville Watch is hilarious, especially on the weekends), this seems to come up daily. I just cringe when I hear it.
The problem starts at school. Hayden is now a 3rd grader. He wastes a lot of time at home studying for tests in Science (who cares what soil is made up of) and Social Studies (does anyone care that Portugal, Spain, France and England were the first to send explorers west). Even in Math, he wastes a lot of time learning about shit that just doesn't matter at his age. Kids his age should spend all day (ALL freaking day) learning how to add, subtract, multiply and divide, and how to speak gooder English.
In his Grammar class, he's learning about irregular verbs, which I'm all in favor of (though if you just listen to most people or watch reality TV, you'd think those were actually regular verbs). However, in Math he's moved on from adding, subtracting and multiplying, to learning about right triangles, isosceles triangles and scalene triangles, polygons, lines segments and rays, and a whole bunch of other shit that he'll never use.
He's too young to give a rat's ass about why a rhombus is different from a rectangle or what you call a triangle with two sides that are the same length. Being a CPA, I've been involved in math on a heavy duty basis for over 20 years and I've never had a discussion with my boss, an IRS auditor or our outside accountant about how a square is actually not only a square, but a rectangle and a rhombus as well.
I suggest school officials (it's not the teachers' fault, they're forced to teach shit that doesn't matter) get their heads out of their asses before we fall even farther behind the rest of the world. For the first five or six grades, kids should have math (real math, stuff with numbers, not this shit with shapes) and proper English (no Ebonics or Redneck-speak, and if you want to speak Spanish, move to Mexico) literally beaten into them. By the time they reach the upper grades, they'll have mastered basic math and English and should be prepared for the more abstract concepts of pentagons and rhombi.
It's a shame I spend what I spend to send Hayden to a good school so he can learn shit that's only important if you end up on Jeopardy.
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
Boys and their toys
No, not those toys, get your minds out of the gutter. Actually it's more about kids these days and their toys. When I was kid, our toys consisted of a bike; a ball, bat and glove; a dump truck; and a basketball. We had three channels on TV, plus PBS which almost doesn't count. And yes, we had to walk to school uphill in both directions.
Now, kids are weak, soft. They don't know how good they've got it. There's new technology coming out seemingly everyday, shit that just years ago we couldn't even imagine.
Last year, Hayden got a Kindle Fire for either his birthday or Christmas (both events are within a couple days of each other so I never remember whether I got him something or Santa did). He was 8 at the time and had more technology in his little hands than NASA used to put someone on the moon. This year, Jennifer somehow won and Apple iPod and decided that would make a great birthday gift.
Before his birthday, she charged it and downloaded all the games he liked to play when he commandeers her phone. To say the least, it was a hit.
Over the past couple years, Hayden has used the land line phone at home like any other person. He's been known to call Grandma and set up dates without us knowing about it and is very at ease talking on the phone. Now, with his iPod, he uses Facetime or Skype to have video calls with family members....all...day...long. On the weekends, he's literally got the iPod in his hands all the time. He recently went to a hockey game with Grandma and Grandpa and had to take it, "in case I get any calls." Ask him about it, he'll tell you, "that's how I roll."
A couple days ago he and I were working on math and I wasn't pleased with his progress. I told him no more Skype or Facetime til he learned some basic math skills, that were up to my standards. You would have thought I'd just run over his puppy.
Yesterday was the first day of this corporal punishment (at least in his eyes). I told him he could use his Kindle for the math game that's on it, but nothing else. That grew old quick. One of his grandmas recently had eye surgery and he wanted to check on her, so he grabbed the iPod. I told him that's not how it worked and that if he wanted to talk to Grandma, he needed to call her on the phone.
Again, you would have thought I'd just run over his other puppy. "NO," he screamed, "NOT THE TELEPHONE!!!" Like it was some old technology like actually mailing a letter. I just laughed at him for how rough he's got it.
Kids, they just don't realize how good they've got it.
Now, kids are weak, soft. They don't know how good they've got it. There's new technology coming out seemingly everyday, shit that just years ago we couldn't even imagine.
Last year, Hayden got a Kindle Fire for either his birthday or Christmas (both events are within a couple days of each other so I never remember whether I got him something or Santa did). He was 8 at the time and had more technology in his little hands than NASA used to put someone on the moon. This year, Jennifer somehow won and Apple iPod and decided that would make a great birthday gift.
Before his birthday, she charged it and downloaded all the games he liked to play when he commandeers her phone. To say the least, it was a hit.
Over the past couple years, Hayden has used the land line phone at home like any other person. He's been known to call Grandma and set up dates without us knowing about it and is very at ease talking on the phone. Now, with his iPod, he uses Facetime or Skype to have video calls with family members....all...day...long. On the weekends, he's literally got the iPod in his hands all the time. He recently went to a hockey game with Grandma and Grandpa and had to take it, "in case I get any calls." Ask him about it, he'll tell you, "that's how I roll."
A couple days ago he and I were working on math and I wasn't pleased with his progress. I told him no more Skype or Facetime til he learned some basic math skills, that were up to my standards. You would have thought I'd just run over his puppy.
Yesterday was the first day of this corporal punishment (at least in his eyes). I told him he could use his Kindle for the math game that's on it, but nothing else. That grew old quick. One of his grandmas recently had eye surgery and he wanted to check on her, so he grabbed the iPod. I told him that's not how it worked and that if he wanted to talk to Grandma, he needed to call her on the phone.
Again, you would have thought I'd just run over his other puppy. "NO," he screamed, "NOT THE TELEPHONE!!!" Like it was some old technology like actually mailing a letter. I just laughed at him for how rough he's got it.
Kids, they just don't realize how good they've got it.
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
Proving a point but falling on deaf ears
I'm annoyed by many of life's little pleasures, but one of the things that pisses me off the most is when I'm trying to make a point, but the person my point is directed at doesn't get it. Most of the time when I'm trying to make a point, it involves me behind the steering wheel. I fully admit to having road rage.
A couple weeks ago, I was driving home, in the slow lane, minding my own business as I passed a few cars hogging the fast lane. I wasn't driving like an idiot, doing maybe 53 in a 45. For the most part, I do a good job of frequently checking both my side mirrors and my rear view mirror to see if anyone is trying to kill me. I must have been having an off moment on this occasion, because I took a peak in the rear view mirror and saw some guy riding my ass pretty good.
This doesn't bother me. I've got a master's degree in the Gran Turismo series on PlayStation. Over the last ten years, I've logged hundreds of thousands of miles racing against both the computer-controlled cars, as well as my friends online. While there is no likelihood of death in an online race with my friends, you still get used to guys riding your ass, swerving in front of you, and doing the same to them.
So, as I'm driving home, I see this guy riding my tail and I sped up a bit to get by the rest of the cars in the fast lane so the guy behind me, obviously in a hurry, could get to where he's going. Yeah, that's just the kind of guy I am, always trying help a brother out. The guy passed me and I figured since he was speeding, I'd just tag along so as soon as he got by me, I pulled right behind him. I wasn't tailgating (tailgating doesn't happen til you can't see the license plate of the car in front of you) and I wasn't trying to prove a point, I was merely doing my part to keep the environment clean by burning less gas...I was drafting to save fuel.
Apparently, this guy didn't mind tailgating, but he did mind being tailgated. The second I got behind him, he hit the brakes. It's a puss move, even in online racing with my friends it's frowned upon (called 'brake checking'). I expected more from the guy.
Ok, fast forward to the other day. I'm in the turn lane trying to turn left and I'm second in line. The left arrow turns green and the guy in front of me pulls out and turns left. I follow to do the same, but some dumb whore in an SUV is coming at me in the opposite direction, turning right. I've got the green arrow, and she never even slowed down, pulling right out in front of me.
"Hmmm," I thought to myself, "time to prove a point." I got on this lady's ass and never left it. It was some of my most impressive tailgating, even to the point that I'm not sure I didn't hit her a couple times. But this lady was tough, she never sped up, never slowed down, never gave me the finger, nothing.
I was amazed at her composure. At the next light, I pulled up beside her in the other lane and realized why she never flinched. She was talking on her cell phone and probably never noticed me, either when she pulled out in front of me or when I was ass-raping her down the street. I think that pissed me off even more.
Just this past weekend, we made a family gathering to the pet store. As we left PetSmart and drove past Wally World, some old shitbag driving a honey of an old Buick pulled right out in front of me, never even slowing as he left the Wally World parking lot. I looked behind me and there was no one, meaning all this ass hat had to do was wait another 3 seconds and I'd have been by, but I guess he had places to be and people to see.
I don't use the horn in the car much, but I felt I should test it to see if it still worked. The horn worked, worked fine, and worked til my wife started yelling at me. Then, the ass hat in the old beater Buick gave me the bird.
Yeah, this fuckball pulled right out in front of me, my wife, 9-year old and 8 brand new fish, and I'm the one who gets flipped off.
I was fully prepared to show Hayden how to handle such an instance, but Jennifer kept yelling at me. I tried to show Hayden how to tailgate, and I got yelled at. I tried to keep up foreign relations (Top Gun plug), using both fingers, and I got yelled at. For the most part, I got yelled at the whole way home, and I'm the one who did nothing wrong.
Sometimes it just doesn't pay to try to prove a point.
A couple weeks ago, I was driving home, in the slow lane, minding my own business as I passed a few cars hogging the fast lane. I wasn't driving like an idiot, doing maybe 53 in a 45. For the most part, I do a good job of frequently checking both my side mirrors and my rear view mirror to see if anyone is trying to kill me. I must have been having an off moment on this occasion, because I took a peak in the rear view mirror and saw some guy riding my ass pretty good.
This doesn't bother me. I've got a master's degree in the Gran Turismo series on PlayStation. Over the last ten years, I've logged hundreds of thousands of miles racing against both the computer-controlled cars, as well as my friends online. While there is no likelihood of death in an online race with my friends, you still get used to guys riding your ass, swerving in front of you, and doing the same to them.
So, as I'm driving home, I see this guy riding my tail and I sped up a bit to get by the rest of the cars in the fast lane so the guy behind me, obviously in a hurry, could get to where he's going. Yeah, that's just the kind of guy I am, always trying help a brother out. The guy passed me and I figured since he was speeding, I'd just tag along so as soon as he got by me, I pulled right behind him. I wasn't tailgating (tailgating doesn't happen til you can't see the license plate of the car in front of you) and I wasn't trying to prove a point, I was merely doing my part to keep the environment clean by burning less gas...I was drafting to save fuel.
Apparently, this guy didn't mind tailgating, but he did mind being tailgated. The second I got behind him, he hit the brakes. It's a puss move, even in online racing with my friends it's frowned upon (called 'brake checking'). I expected more from the guy.
Ok, fast forward to the other day. I'm in the turn lane trying to turn left and I'm second in line. The left arrow turns green and the guy in front of me pulls out and turns left. I follow to do the same, but some dumb whore in an SUV is coming at me in the opposite direction, turning right. I've got the green arrow, and she never even slowed down, pulling right out in front of me.
"Hmmm," I thought to myself, "time to prove a point." I got on this lady's ass and never left it. It was some of my most impressive tailgating, even to the point that I'm not sure I didn't hit her a couple times. But this lady was tough, she never sped up, never slowed down, never gave me the finger, nothing.
I was amazed at her composure. At the next light, I pulled up beside her in the other lane and realized why she never flinched. She was talking on her cell phone and probably never noticed me, either when she pulled out in front of me or when I was ass-raping her down the street. I think that pissed me off even more.
Just this past weekend, we made a family gathering to the pet store. As we left PetSmart and drove past Wally World, some old shitbag driving a honey of an old Buick pulled right out in front of me, never even slowing as he left the Wally World parking lot. I looked behind me and there was no one, meaning all this ass hat had to do was wait another 3 seconds and I'd have been by, but I guess he had places to be and people to see.
I don't use the horn in the car much, but I felt I should test it to see if it still worked. The horn worked, worked fine, and worked til my wife started yelling at me. Then, the ass hat in the old beater Buick gave me the bird.
Yeah, this fuckball pulled right out in front of me, my wife, 9-year old and 8 brand new fish, and I'm the one who gets flipped off.
I was fully prepared to show Hayden how to handle such an instance, but Jennifer kept yelling at me. I tried to show Hayden how to tailgate, and I got yelled at. I tried to keep up foreign relations (Top Gun plug), using both fingers, and I got yelled at. For the most part, I got yelled at the whole way home, and I'm the one who did nothing wrong.
Sometimes it just doesn't pay to try to prove a point.
Friday, December 21, 2012
"I'm just a little bit caught in the middle..."
I don't watch a lot of movies. At home we have HBO and Skintothemax, so I might catch a movie once in a while, but I'm not taking out a loan to go to the theater. However, a few weeks ago DirecTV was offering Starz or Encore for the weekend so I managed to Tivo a few things that I hadn't seen yet. One was Moneyball and I finally watched it last night.
It was a good movie, not exactly factually correct, but still a good movie. In the movie there's a song played a couple times that I didn't find on the credits at the end of the movie. But, after a 1 AM Google search, I found my new favorite song.
It was a good movie, not exactly factually correct, but still a good movie. In the movie there's a song played a couple times that I didn't find on the credits at the end of the movie. But, after a 1 AM Google search, I found my new favorite song.
It's first heard while Brad Pitt's character is shopping at some guitar place with his daughter. She finds a guitar she likes, then starts singing this song. Somewhere along the way, the daughter burns the song of her playing to DVD and at the end of the movie, Brad Pitt's character plays the DVD while driving in his truck.
Google tells me it's some chick named Lenka that sings the song, and here it a YouTube video of Lenka playing my new favorite song on some TV show I don't watch.
It reminds me a lot of a song that used to be my favorite that was played on some commercial over and over. I think it was an Apple commercial or something like that, but I dont really remember. The singer of that song was Faust and I'm sure you all remember it. Watch both videos and see if both songs aren't similar.
Thursday, December 20, 2012
Happy Birthday
In July 2000, my second daughter, Macey, was born near Rockport, Indiana. She was great. She helped keep my first daughter, Murray, young by fighting with her and chasing her all over the place. In December 2000, Macey had been feeling lethargic. A couple days later, she seemed to be fine, back to her old self. While playing with her one day at lunch, I noticed she had what appeared to be a small hole in her stomach. I called the vet and they figured she'd been bitten by something, an abscess had formed making her lethargic, and when the abscess popped open, relieving the pressure, she felt good again. However, since there was a small hole in her stomach, they wanted me to bring her in.
They gave her antibiotics. She had an allergic reaction, died on December 16 and I buried her a couple days later. I still think of her daily and miss her a lot. I never understood why it happened, only concluding that she was such a good girl that God was ready to play with her.
I think God soon realized he took her too soon, because on December 20, 2000 Morgan was born.
Today is Morgan's birthday. She would have been 12.
Morgan had more style than any dog I've had, as evidenced by the picture above. Not that I played favorites, but Morgan was special in her own way. She completely ran our house and if you didn't fall into line, you were forced to deal with her.
I went to look at her in February 2001. Her litter was the third I'd seen and I think she more or less picked me. I wanted a female and a smallish sized dog. Of her litter, she was one of two ladies and by far the smallest. Each time I put her down to play with her sister, Morgan would come over and untie my shoes. This happened three times before I decided she was the one. Murray wasn't too excited about a new sister, but Morgan grew on her (or forced her will onto Murray, I'm not sure which).
A year or so later, Jennifer and I bought a new house and we combined my two dogs with her one dog that had been living with her parents. Early on there was a feeling-out process and Morgan was the smallest by far of the three. However, it didn't take long to see who the alpha dog was at our house.
One of the first instances took place when we'd let the dogs out in the backyard. Murray and Morgan would immediately take a leak, only to have Jennifer's dog walk over and piss right on top of where one of the dogs had just pissed. Over the next few days this behavior continued. It ended one day with me laughing hysterically as Morgan showed the two larger dog whose house they were living in. Murray was the first to take a piss in the yard (Murray was so sweet, never wanted to hurt a flea, never considered herself a dog and usually didn't play in these stupid dog games). Morgan went right over to where Murray peed and took a whiz right on top. Jennifer's dog followed suit, and that seemed to be the end of it. Wrong. Morgan went right over to where the three dogs had just pissed, made sure the two other dogs were watching, and dropped a huge deuce on top, effectively setting the chain off command. In looking at her as she pranced off, her glare to the two other dogs said, "Top that, bitches."
We were treated to this kind of behavior for another 9 or so years. She only lived slightly more than 10 years as congestive heart failure eventually took her down. But, those years were such a joy, and Morgan was such an amazing girl that I still haven't fully accepted that she's gone. Not a day goes by that I don't think of her or talk to her. I've got a fourth daughter at home now, Memphis, and half the time when I'm yelling at her for being bad, I call her Morgan. I never call her Murray or Macey, always Morgan.
Several times a week, Jennifer, Hayden or I will talk about Morgan. I pity poor God for having to deal with her for the last couple years. I wonder how many times each day He utters the phrase, "MORGAN!!! Really?"
Happy Birthday, Girl.
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