family « Read My Blog … Or I’ll Kill Your Dog

The Appointment

September 8, 2008 at 9:09 am (death of a pet, family, loss of a pet, love, pets, pets as family members) (aging dogs, author jody l. campbell, dogs, german shepherd, hip dysplasia, pet deaths, pets, the loss of a pet, the unconditional love of a pet)

I think it was in the year 2005 … summertime … we were at my brother-in-law’s house and were taking advantage of his pool in spite of the hot weather. Everyone, including my mother-in-law had jumped in. Brando, our German shepherd sat at the bottom of the steep stairs of the new pool deck my brother-in-law and his brother had recently built together. Brando always wanted to be involved in everything we did. He always had to be around us. Even if it meant he was getting in the way and was risking injury to himself. As a result, he would indeed sometimes get injured because no matter how we tried to divert him or keep him in the house or lock him on the deck, he would find a way to escape and get into the mix. That day, after repeatedly being told to “STAY!” Brando could no longer maintain his good behavior and when the last person, my mother-in-law, climbed the deck to go into the pool, he was not far behind her. The stairs were open-faced, steep, and narrow. Not designed for a top heavy dog like a German shepherd. Not sure if he wanted to continue to climb to the top or not and surely knowing he was going to get into trouble if he did, he stopped in mid flight and waited for my response … when I finally noticed him. My brother-in-law noticed him first. He brought the trespassing misbehaving dog to my attention.

“Brando,” I said in a ‘caught-your-hand-in-the-cookie-jar’ tone of voice and he turned to go back down the stairs. Inside the pool, I couldn’t see him go down and suddenly I heard my wife say …

“What’s the matter with Brando?”

That was all I needed to hear. I jumped out of the pool expecting the worst and discovering I wasn’t too far off. If he had broken his leg, at his age of almost ten-years-old, it would have been a better outlook for him. Instead, he tore the ligaments of his right front forepaw completely in half. I braced his leg and picked him up and we went home to make emergency vet calls to desperately find one open for the weekend. Not an easy task. The closest vet to us in any direction was an hour away. The ones with a better reputations were well over an hour. We received a call back from the closest one and drove him right away. She was admittedly over her head with the injury and referred us to a place in Norway, Maine, some two hours plus away. Unfortunately, we couldn’t get there until the beginning of the new week. That summer was dedicated to getting our dog back to a level of comfort or making the ultimate decision not to let him suffer too greatly. The vets in Norway, Maine were fantastic, but surgery was out of the question. It was not financially viable, and even if it were, the vet openly admitted that because of the dog’s age, he sincerely doubted that it would result in success. Instead I was referred to a man that made prosthetics for people and he eagerly jumped at the opportunity to try to help Brando and start a home-based business on the side. He was also in Maine and also a couple hours away. A couple visits to him and he had made a custom-made molding of Brando’s leg and in the interim, I had built a wide ramp going down our backyard steps for him to climb and descend. I carpeted it with that fake green grass like carpeting and it was a great success. But because of Brando’s age, other injuries of his past started to haunt him, He had a fractured pelvis (not sure how that happened but he did jump into my tackling my nephew in the back yard once and we kind of landed on him … yet another time when we had to keep telling him to stay or lay down, but he wanted to play football, too … or basketball … or volleyball … and if you tried to put him in the house, he would stand by the door and bark his fool head off and the second someone went in or out, he’d beeline straight for the action … or he could have simply also injured his pelvis on the pool deck stairs) his hip dysplasia was becoming an issue and trying to walk with the man-made prosthetic splint was wreaking havoc on other parts of his body to compensate for the awkwardness of getting around with it on. It ended up that after all that, we just medicated him on Rimadyl and some arthritis joint medicine and let him lumber around on the broken leg without anything at all. After a while, even though it looked like hell to see him walking, it stopped hurting him so much. So with a level of comfort achieved, our little loving buddy beat the system and found a way to still be somewhat (lovingly) annoying and get by on his own. There were a few setbacks. He must have splayed once when we were away from home … most likely on the linoleum kitchen floor and re-injured his hip, but after a while, he responded to the meds again and got better relatively quickly.

Then came the summer of 2006. The thing I never thought would happen did. Our cat of 16 years suddenly passed away. He went so fast. He was playing with a toy he had rediscovered under our bed and I was laughing at him because I hadn’t seen him with that toy in years … and within two weeks of that incident, he died. Within five days, his kidneys shut down and he went into a catatonic shock. On the way to be euthanized, he died on his own terms. We had him cremated and his ashes, his cremains, are on our makeshift mantle. I was so devastated and after Brando’s injuries of the previous year, I never saw it coming. I was floored. Six weeks after the passing of our cat, my grandfather passed away. Again, although he was 92, he had just been driving a year or two before he went into the nursing home. But when he went in, it was like he had given up all hope and went downhill so fast. It didn’t give me enough time to absorb the data. I was again, devastated.

With my grandmother smothered in a deep recess of dementia, my mother still in the throes of suicide by inhalation … she was life-long smoker who just could not kick the habit … on a Nebulizer and on Oxygen, but continued to smoke … and the inevitable age of our dog and his obvious complications, I knew it wouldn’t be too long before my wife, my daughter, and I endured even more death.

That started at the end of July this year. My grandmother had suffered a stroke and was placed in hospice. At or about the same time, my mother was also placed in hospice and we all waited to see who was going to go first. My grandmother did and we drove down for the service which they had at the manor so my mother would be able to attend. We fixed her a plate of food after the service, which she didn’t eat. She was wheeled back to her room and asked that we come see her before we go. We did and we got to kiss her and tell her we love her and my mother let her life go that very night. She died on the same day as her mother’s funeral. A week later we attended hers.

Despite the inevitableness of it all, it’s still a hard pill to swallow. I must admit, in an odd sense to myself that I had already come to terms with the passing of my grandmother and mother long before they actually had died. My grandmother didn’t even know who we were anymore when we’d visit her so I felt I lost my grandmother a long time ago. As for my mother … well, she was my mother and I loved her for that, but it’s hard to sympathize with someone who refuses to change their habit knowing its killing them. It put a tremendous amount of stress on this family every time she went to the hospital via ambulance and after a while, we all became somewhat desensitized by it all. Like we surmised one of the trips would be the final one. My mother had decided on giving up on her own life a long time before she died.

So after enduring two funerals within a seven day period, we were faced with the cumbersome task of trying to have Brando watched while we drove the three hours south and three hours back north. He refused to get up and go out for my mother-in-law. As a matter of fact, he barely lets my wife take him out anymore. We have hip sling that we brace under his belly and assist him along the linoleum floor and down the backyard ramp and then let him walk on his own terms to do his business. I think he’s not comfortable doing that anymore. He barely gets up now and only goes out about twice a day. That’s highly unusual for him. We knew we didn’t want him to endure another winter … which up here in the North Country can be extremely brutal. It’s heart wrenching to watch him with all his injuries trying to lift his paws out of the snow because they’re so cold. That’s only on the extremely cold days, but it happens and I didn’t want him to have to suffer through that this winter.

Well … it seems that Brando … although when he lays down he perks his ears up high in a coherent state of mind which contradicts the inevitable task … has made us come to terms with what and when to do with him. We called the vet and made the appointment. The last appointment. Is it the right decision? How can we tell? We have to base it on his level of comfort. Our beloved dog has suffered for so long with such pain and never once complained, still happy to spend what time he can with us in any capacity. That’s what makes this so hard. But if he’s not getting up regularly to be taken outside … even assisted in being taken outside … then he’s holding his bladder and bowels so that he doesn’t disperse pain from dispelling them in the back yard. It’s the only conclusion I can come up with to validate the appointment that we have made.

To know the date that your beloved pet is going to die and scratch him on the head and behind the ear and tell him you love him feels like such a betrayal. You’re making the decision for him, based on his behavioral patterns, but if he were given the chance to choose, would he choose differently? We can punish ourselves thinking all kinds of scenarios and most likely we will. Until it’s over. We’ll mourn his loss in our lives, somehow try to fill the void his absence has left us with, take a side order of guilt pondering our choice every now and then, and inevitably move forward.

I think the hardest part of this appointment we’ve made is going to be the drive there. He’s going to be so excited and probably a little nervous … he’s never traveled well in a vehicle … about being with us for a ride. I don’t know how I’m going to be able to make that ride bearable knowing I’m going to be losing my best friend, my little enema as I would often call him because he was always right up my ass every time I moved … all the endearing names and nicknames we’ve come up with to call him … all the memories, the good, the bad, the scary ones when he hurt himself … everything racing through my head. The arrival at the vets, picking him up and helping him out of the truck. Carefully lumbering him into the office, we’ll be somewhat embarrassed and inconsolable I’m sure. Taking him into the room and waiting for the injection, all the while his trusting soul and expression of joy and expectation that after he gets a shot we’re going back home again. Not quite my little man. Not that day. You’ll come back to our home later … in an urn … and have your spot on the makeshift mantle next to the cat … waiting for my urn to join both of yours. That will be the one day I will no longer mourn my surrogate family. My beloved pets.

I don’t want to sound as if I’m more devastated by the loss of a pet over a family member. That is quite far from the truth. I think what makes my pets harder for me to come to terms with the loss of them is that I acquired them on my own when I was single. They were my responsibility and I was always the father-figure that did all the things with and for them. They moved with me when I moved, they endured the changes of my lifestyle and adapted to it on their own terms, never once complaining, always just happy to be with me. It makes losing them quite personal. Some people do not consider losing a pet as significant as a family member. Personally, I don’t think it’s any worse, but I don’t think it’s any better either. The loss of the loved one is one and the same whether they walk on two legs or four.

Next Thursday we are going to endure the third death of this summer of 2008. We’re going to mourn the loss of another loved one in our family … and what makes this the hardest one of the summer for me to deal with is he’s sitting in the living room right now with his ears perked up undoubtedly hearing me type and waiting next to Mommy for me to come out and coerce him into going outside to relieve himself. That’s been our morning routine for a while. When he was a puppy, he’d get up with me and I’d take him right out on his own. Or he’d wake me up to be taken out. Now, I have to prod him along. It’s time for Brando to be comfortable again. To be able to run again in the meadows of his dreams. To catch the Frisbee again or tug on his Jolly Ball … he used to be so obnoxious with that slimy thing … challenging everyone … anyone to tug it from him … all sticky and slimy with his spit and drool. No one wanted to touch it … but he just kept wiping you with it … challenging you until you reached down to get it and he’d turn his head away playing “Keep-Away” with you. He’s been a wonderful dog. The best dog in the world. He’ll be sorely missed, but like my grandmother, we lost the real Brando a few years ago. We’ve been hanging onto him and evaluating his level of comfort and waiting for the day to make the appointment. That day is next Thursday. Somewhat appropriate considering the date. It’s not the first time I’ve bawled my eyes out on September 11^th.

Jody L. Campbell

R.I.P. little buddy.

Permalink Leave a Comment

The Ninja Bug Assassin

August 10, 2008 at 11:12 am (authors, blogs, bugs, family, humor, insects, love, marriage, writing) (assassin, author jody l. campbell, bugs, dragonflies, family, grasshoppers, humor, lady bugs, marriage, ninja, spiders)

The other morning, I was making my infamous cup of gourmet coffee, still somewhat puffy eyed, and I was suddenly surprised to see a grasshopper in the inside sill of the kitchen window. It’s an early October morning, so I was thinking he must have hopped on one of us yesterday … perhaps the dog, to get inside out of the cold. I’m wasn’t sure really why, since it’s a relatively harmless little critter, the immediate sight of it somewhat shocked me. I am not afraid of bugs and I’m the hero of the household when it comes to “killing the infiltrating hornet” or “smashing the trespassing spider” or whatever quest assigned to me from my wife … who for all accounts and purposes is utterly terrified of insects. For the most part, I try to gather up the little breaching bugs and bring them outdoors where they are set free to potentially wreak havoc in someone else’s household … a last chance for them, if you will. That particular morning, I realized that the life of that grasshopper was in dire jeopardy. I remember considering trying to scoop it up with my hand and get him outside, but I was still half awake and if I missed, this guy was going to be jumping all over the place and I was going to make a ruckus in a quiet, peaceful and still sleeping household that would surely wake the other occupants. My wife, daughter, and dog were all sleeping soundly and that’s the way I wanted to keep it. On the other hand, if this critter wandered off … or I simply forgot about him … (you reach a certain age and your mind can start to … I forgot what I was going to say) … his fate was certainly doomed. You see … there is an assassin among us in this house. She is silent and does not scream or announce her swat of death. She is covert with lethal precision. And if she saw this poor little insect inside the walls of her home, she would smash this bug without provocation, without remorse, without a glancing thought, and then I will be the one that has to remove the carnage.

My wife is a gentle, loving, and nurturing woman. She is a wonderful mother and a loving wife. She is tender, beautiful, and passive. Except there is a dark side to my wife. She is a super hero to some … to others … mostly in the insect world … she is an evil villain. My wife has an alternate lifestyle. She has been trained in the ancient arts of the Ninja. She knows hundreds of ways to assassinate insects without cause, without provocation, without an ounce of consideration, and without a thought. It must have taken years of training and conditioning for this woman to be as effective as she is. She can assassinate a bug coming near her … not even really going in her direction … just near her and not even really notice that she just killed it … going on about her business as usual, while the dying bug writhes in the throes of death at her feet.

One day … not too long ago, my daughter, my wife, and I were in the back yard playing with our daughter’s toy golf set and I was trying to teach her the all important lessons of pars and teeing off and which club to use for which par. I don’t even like golf, but it seemed important for me to teach her what I know about it. My wife stood in the background and watched admirably as I fought to maintain the focus of the five-year-old with such stimulating techniques. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a small, harmless dragonfly flew near my wife. I’m not talking about the three to four inch variety of dragonfly that makes us all a little bit nervous when it invades our space with loud flapping wings and hovering to and fro in front of our face and over our heads annoyingly, I’m talking small. Like maybe just over an inch … maybe an inch and a half. He was just a little guy. And he wasn’t flying at her. He was flying by her. But he made a mistake. He flew into the international “Non-Fly Zone of The Ninja Bug Assassin.” Also known as INFZNBA. Without flinching … without even really looking, her arm extended out, swatted the crap out of the poor unsuspecting dragonfly… who for all we know was on his way home with a toy for his or her tots as he promised he would be … but as it ended up … not this day … not ever. He fell to the ground immediately dazed and confused. His wings were badly broken and his spine cracked in half. He would never fly again. But that didn’t matter because the assassin wasn’t finished yet. The bug was still alive. Without consideration of this bug or his loved ones, my wife, the Ninja Bug Assassin, lifted a foot and stomped on the poor bug. I would love to say he was dead instantly and felt no pain … that his pain was brief and he died immedietely. However, surprised as I was, my facial expression surely conveying that fact that I did not approve of the unnecessary slaughter I had just witnessed, I watched the long tail section of this bug curl and uncurl as it writhed in painful convulsions which led me to take my larger booted foot and disintegrate the insect to put us both out of our current miseries.

I looked at my wife. I said nothing, but my expression surely spoke volumes.
“What?” she asked in defense of her action. “It was coming at me.”

“No … it wasn’t,” I said shaking my head and reciting a brief eulogy for the deceased.

“It might have,” she tried to convince me.

The most horrific aspect of the whole assassination was the child seeing the entire ordeal. A future Ninja Bug Assassin already in training and not even realizing it. I could see the sparkle in the young girl’s eyes looking at her mother with awe and admiration.

I try to show my daughter which bugs you can pick up and which ones you can’t. Sometimes, I have learned new things about bugs myself. Like ladybugs can actually bite you. Don’t tell me otherwise because one of them little creeps did so once and I winced and said “OW!” to the utter shock and horror of my daughter. She hasn’t picked up a ladybug since that day … and neither have I for that matter. Probably another reason why she will become a skilled assassin like her mother.

The Ninja Bug Assassin style of killing does not exhibit the most choreographic executions to their intended target. It’s not always the most graceful or pretty sights to witness. Sometimes it can even be downright awkward. It can involve hopping around on one leg, while screaming … or running around in circles ducking and rising repeatedly like a chicken … or swaying to and fro with both arms flailing in the air or repeatedly circling around the hair and head of the assassin … as if trying not to drown … with no body of water nearby. Even a variety of these techniques can and will be used in many of the assassinations. The results are always the same. No matter what the poor bug does to escape the Ninja Bug Assassin, it winds up dead. It cannot escape from the lethal clutches of the NBA.

After the assassination, my wife returns to her lifestyle as if nothing happened without conscience. Almost as if humming a lullaby to herself it would seem. The body of the unsuspecting target will be dead or dying at her feet, a mere afterthought before she decides what to make for dinner … or perhaps what she’ll wear to work tomorrow … or ponders whether to fold laundry or do the dishes first. Something of that nature.

That morning, I’m looked at that grasshopper and told it in a whisper trying not to be heard, to stay still. I knew that I was going to forget to all about him when I was more awake and would have the speed needed to catch it and release it. If I tried to before I was fully awake, I would certainly miss and be running and crashing and stomping all over the house to try to catch it before … it’s too late. She would awaken, come out to see what the ruckus was all about … the grasshopper would mistakenly hop near her direction, and without a moment’s notice, even in her foggy state of emerging awakeness, she would strike with deadly results and the carcass of the grasshopper wouldbe squished against the fibers of the carpet and left for the “removal system” AKA … me to clean up the mess.

A happy ending that day, however, I’m glad to announce to all of you bug lovers out there. I didn’t forget about the little guy. Actually, okay … I forgot at first and I was in the office on the computer and heard my wife in the kitchen starting her cup of coffee and a bright amber warning light of memory flashed across the screen of my brain. Oh my God, the grasshopper! I must save his life! I leapt up and without trying to raise too much suspicion went into the kitchen as if to kiss my wife good morning. But the skills of the Ninja Bug Assassin go far beyond the actual executions to the unsuspecting targets. She was dubious of my intent and anyone could tell her sonar, radar, and any other ar she uses was on immediate high alert.

“I have to get rid of a bug,” I confessed. Honesty is the best policy, they say.

Ninja Bug Assassin Mode went into automatic overdrive. She walked across the kitchen like Keanu Reeves in special effects of another Matrix film. Slow motion, yet ready, willing, and able to strike the “blow of death” at any second.

“Where is it?” she challenged in a demonic voice not her own.

“I’ll take care of it,” I promised. Her eyes scoped the entire perimeter of the kitchen and I knew then, this grasshopper’s time on this good green earth was limited.

“Please, Honey,” I pleaded for the innocent bug’s life. “I’ll take care of it. Get me a net from Jadyn’s bedroom.” She did without complaint. I had to be on high alert.

After handing me the net, she retreated back to the safety of the dining room where she watched in silence and … almost what I think may have been a slight degree of melancholy that she was not going to have the opportunity to kill. I scooped up the grasshopper and ran him outside before anything else could happen to him. He must have felt the tension. It was so thick inside, you could have cut it with a knife.

I tipped the net upside down and as he fell to the grass I could have sworn I heard him say … “Bless you, dear sir.” I stuck a finger in my ear and wriggled it all around and went back inside. But first I said, “You’re welcome, friend.” It must have just been my imagination.

All in a day’s work when you live among the Ninja Bug Assassin Association of America, or NBAAA … something our daughter is destined to join the ranks of.

Jody L. Campbell

Permalink Leave a Comment

Two Girls in My Bed … Not Exactly a Fantasy

August 7, 2008 at 10:16 am (authors, blogs, children, computers, family, humor, kids, love, marriage, writing) (acorn, author jody l. campbell, blogs, cartoons, children, early morning, family, humor, kids, writing)

I woke up the other morning around 4 AM and there was this beautiful young girl in our bed between me and my wife. She was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and she smiled when I opened my eyes and she said … “Hi daddy!” Hmmm …

“What are you doin’ in my swamp?” I asked her in my best Shrek impersonation. This, as always, produced a smile.

“Sleeping,” she said.

“You don’t look like you’re sleeping to me,” said I.

Mommy, who was now awake, decided to try and return her to her own bedroom and that seemed to work, but I never got back to sleep. So, I tossed and turned for about an hour and finally relented at about 5 AM and got up. I crank started the dial-up connection and went to the kitchen to start a cup of coffee. In my mind, I was imagining the two tasks competing in a head to head race to see which would get accomplished first: the finished product of a cup of coffee or finally getting online through the archaic dialup and low KBs connection. To my astonishment, the computer won hands down. Adding the necessary ingredients into my coffee, I made my way towards the office, set the coffee on the desk, positioned the chair to a comfortable setting, and placed my hands on the keyboard. Ah yes, I can write … I thought, anyway.

Had I just heard something? A door creaking, maybe? I turned my back to see a fleeting glimpse from the corner of my eye speedily making its way towards our bedroom where I hoped my wife had not suffered the same fate as I had that morning trying to get back to sleep.

“Hey!” I hollered out. The figure’s pitter-pattering feeties stopped dead in their tracks, turned 180 degrees and bee-lined for the office.

“I can’t sleep,” she said.

“Join the club,” I said. She tried in vain to tell me she was scared, but I could tell otherwise with her gorgeous, but lying eyes. She’s not a very accomplished fibber yet. It’s a work in progress.

“Why not lay on your bed with the door open for a while and I’ll protect you since you’re right next door to the office,” I offered.

“Okay,” she said excitedly. Too excitedly for me to think this was going to have any semblance of endurance. Sure enough … a few moments later, she emerged back into the office to tell daddy a really cool story. Of course it was gibberish and she was making it up as she went along. Gotta love her 5 year old imagination. I have no idea where she gets it. <whistles>

Now, if I was Mommy, I’d be making her get back into bed and saying … you need your sleep because I do not want you to be a cranky girl at Nanny’s today and high maintenance when you finally get home tonight. This would produce wailing and crying in protest, and that she was scared and that she wasn’t tired. But I’m not Mommy. And I didn’t want to hear either wailing or crying at this time of the morning. I don’t want to hear wailing or crying any time of the day. I simply do not have the fortitude my wife inhibits when it comes to such matters.

“Look Daddy!” she exclaimed referring to the predawn light coming through the edges of the mini-blinds, “it’s already morning time!”

“Uhuh,” I said, “but it’s still early honey and I want your mommy to be able to sleep.”

“Can I stay up?” she asked knowing I would let her. How does she do that?

“If you stay in your room and occupy yourself without waking up your Mommy.”

Off she went happily and I didn’t really think Mommy was going to get back to sleep in all honesty. She has an uncanny ability to lay there for hours trying, though. And, I used to get up early when I was young. And look at me … I turned out just … fine? … Hmmm … wait a minute!

“Jadyn! Go back to bed!”

“Waaaaaaaaahhhhhhh!” Now … even the dog was wide awake. I clicked the red X on the upper right hand corner of the monitor screen and called it a day on the Internet.

This very morning, while I write … I have gone through the exact same routine as the other day, sans waking up to my wide awake daughter between my wife and me. I got a little bit further along in the routine this morning. I was already getting my stats on the preseason football games and the final roster cuts when I heard …

“Mommy!” being hollered out from her bedroom. Oy vay! 6:15 AM is what the clock displayed. Wow … she’s sleeping in, I thought to myself sarcastically.

“MOMMY!” She hollered even louder with more enthusiasm while I was deep in thought. One would think I’d be intercepting the hollers before they produced a wide-awake Mommy.

I went to her bedroom and opened the door. “What’s the matter, Honey?” I asked.

“I want my nut.”

“Excuse me?”

“You know, Daddy,” she said with a degree of contempt and a dash of sarcasm. It’s a little early for that, wouldn’t you think?

“Um … NO! I don’t know.”

“The peanut.” I’m still clueless. “I think it’s up on the shelf with my ballerina puppet.” I moved the puppets and saw no peanut. “It’s the one I got out in the woods, Daddy!” Obviously, she finally realized her father still had no idea what he was looking for. “The squirrel nut! Hello!” Yeah, full blown sarcasm. I hate to admit she gets that from me.

Now I finally understood what she was looking for. She had found an acorn in the woods one time while she was hiking with her preschool class. I have not, in all honesty, seen this crazy acorn in several months and why I’m looking for this damn nut at 6:15 this morning when I could be writing a blog entry is quite beyond my realm of reasoning.

“There’s no acorn up here, Jadyn,” I said.

“Oh … okay. I thought it was.” Uhuh … sure you did. Conniving little … Man, I love her though.

As I tried to exit her bedroom and shut the door, I got the “I gotta go potty” routine, so I just knew she wasn’t going back to bed. I used to get up early when I was a kid. And look at me. I turned out just fine. Hmmm … wait a minute. Nope. I don’t want her wailing this morning. I just got an idea for a blog entry. How about petty bribery?

“Jadyn?”

“Yes, Daddy?”

“How about I put Tak and the Power of Ju-ju on for you and you stay real quiet and not wake up Mommy.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah!” she practically screamed. So much for keeping the house quiet, I thought as the dog emerged from our bedroom.

Anyway … Mommy’s still in bed (wide awake, I’m sure) and my daughter is laying on the sofa watching her TiVo’d television show. And that gave me the opportunity to write this blog writing exercise. Thank goodness!

Jody L. Campbell

Permalink Leave a Comment

The Flower

August 6, 2008 at 9:14 pm (authors, blogs, children, family, humor, learning, love, writing) (author jody l. campbell, daughter, family, flowers, flowers of fortune, free flowers, gifts, humor, lilies, tiger lilies)

I don’t try to over-think things. Maybe that’s my problem. I don’t know what my problem is actually. Here is a true-to-life scenario, my reaction to it, and the inevitable outcome. The common denominator is that I’m a shmuck, but at least I admit it.

“Daddy! Look! Flowers! Can I pick one for momma?” She was so excited about the silly flowers.

They were the same stupid tiger lilies that grew in the back yard every summer. I looked at them and saw that at least ten unopened petals were attached to the same stem formation that had a completely sprouted blossom of brilliant orange. If we picked it now, thought my dense incapacitated mind, the rest of the petals will surely die and we will lose all those flowers. Does it make a difference, really? In the long run? Does it? What do I do with these flowers and the large jungle grass plant part of it after the lilies have passed? I mow it down. And what happens the following year whether I do anything about it or not? They grow back. Without effort. They’re there every year. Let her pick them my mind said.

“If you pick a flower,” instead my stupid mouth butted in, “we will lose ten others.” Is that something that seems personal to me? No. So what’s the big deal? Just looking to ruin a six-year-old’s fascination with flowers. A seemingly perfect opportunity to give her mother something thoughtful that cost me … what exactly? Ten other blossoms? What did those cost me? Nothing. They came with the stupid house.

To defend my pathetic character … let me rephrase that. To … defend my … oh to hell with it. I can’t defend anything about it. It’s stupid. Let her pick the damn flower. Why didn’t I just say yes? Well … I did, so get off my back. But getting back to defending myself … or at least why I wanted to try to pathetically. I wrote this stupid story a couple years back. It was called Flowers of Fortune and it was about orange tiger lilies and for some reason after I wrote this stupid story, the tiger lilies in the back yard became … sacred ground, I guess. I wanted to count them and see if perhaps my story would inevitably become prophetic. Do you want to know what happened to the protagonist of the story? He died. So why in the hell would I want to see if my story would become prophetic? Do I want to die? Not really. The flowers would grow a new amount of blossoms each day and the main character would dream about the new number of them and decided to play the lottery and won. Except he never got to enjoy the money … or even the knowledge that he won, because he was dead long before the lottery drawing. Now that I blew the ending for you … in the event you haven’t already read this tale of mine, does that make sense to you that for some reason, these stupid flowers became some sacred ritual for me to watch grow and count annually? No. It doesn’t make sense to me either. I should have said … “Absolutely, honey. Let’s pick a bunch of them,” but there was something else niggling me. It said inside the narrow minded container of the interior of my brain that we would be wasting precious flower life if we picked it prematurely and teaching my daughter the importance of wasting and not wasting … seemed … pathetically important? I’m trying. It’s weak, I know. But picking and getting to see one blossom for one day before it died and losing ten other potential blossoms seemed wasteful to me at the time.

At least she won. She had that same injured look she gets from her mother. It’s both adorable and irresistible at the same time. Damn that curse on her side of the family!

“Alright,” I gave in. I watched her try to yank one out and I cringed as she almost pulled three square feet of earth and roots up from the ground with her petite but determined hands. “Go get the scissors for daddy,” I suggested. “But don’t run with them!”

“Okay,” she exclaimed excitedly and I worried thinking maybe I should have just gone in and got them myself. Do I worry too much, maybe?

She came back out and I grabbed the scissors and thanked her for the chore she completed. I aimed them strategically at the very stem she had tried to excavate on her own behalf a minute or so ago and cut it on an angle. One opened, brilliant, orange blossom, and ten other wasted sprouts never to open I thought. How dense am I?

Pretty dense I found out. Some people that have green thumbs and have picked tiger lilies before can probably already assume the purpose of this writing of mine. I had no idea. We did not indeed waste any flowers at all. As a matter of fact, we picked that flower about four days ago and have enjoyed three different blossoms sprouted and there’s another one on the way … most likely to sprout and enjoy for tomorrow. They are the flower that keeps on giving … as long as they’re in water, I guess. One blossom opens and the next day, it closes for good and begins to wither away. With the death of that blossom, it seems to send life to another sprout and begin a life cycle anew. We’ll undoubtedly have this one particular stem in our house for well over ten days and have exactly that many days to enjoy that many blossoms.

Today, I have learned an important lesson from my six-year-old. Actually, I’ve learned a lot of lessons from my six-year-old today. I’m glad she’s going to be around to teach her ignorant old man that it’s okay to pick the flowers sometimes. It’s okay to waste a little bit from time to time … especially if it was free to begin with. It’s okay to experiment. It’s okay to be six-years-old … at heart … and want to discover new things.

Thanks darling. I have an idea. Let’s go pick some more of those flowers before they pass their lifespan in the ground out back. Let’s fill our house with the blossoms everywhere. Then I can mow the jungle grass down that much quicker and we can still have some beautiful looking flowers in the house. She may only be six-years-old, but she’s a great teacher and my favorite flower.

Jody L. Campbell

Permalink Leave a Comment

The Not So Fast-Food Luncheon

August 6, 2008 at 11:46 am (blogs, customer service, family, fast-food, humor, luncheon) (Burger King, credit cards, customer service, daddy/daughter outing, debit cards, family, fast-food, humor, lunch, McDonalds)

It started out like any ordinary Daddy/Daughter Day. Honestly, I don’t know why we bother to call it that anymore since Mommy comes to lunch with us now. She used to work days and now she works from mid afternoon into early evening. But the name stuck and every day off from work I have that my daughter doesn’t attend her preschool, we call Daddy/Daughter Day and celebrate by having lunch out somewhere together. On that particular Daddy/Daughter Day, things were already taking a strange turn of events. We usually pick between two restaurants, one a sit-down, full-menu, pizza joint and the other, a fast food burger joint… that flame broils. When asked where she wanted to go that day, she opted for the other fast food burger joint that doesn’t flame broil. I immediately grimaced.

“No, Honey,” I said. “Daddy doesn’t want to go there.”

Her four-year-old eyes looked up at me and made the saddest most pleading expression a father could ever stand to see on the face of his children. “Please, please, oh please, Daddy!” she begged.

Who could argue? I’m putty in her hands and the terrible truth is she already knows how to control this.

Now between the two more popular fast food burger joints, I’m not really a fan of either one. I generally opt for the sit down pizza joint with no playzone/playground that distracts my impressionable daughter’s attention away from eating her lunch. This way, I can even have a beer with lunch and coerce her into eating using petty bribery. For example, “I’ll get you a balloon if you’re a good girl and eat all your lunch,” or “We’ll stop and buy a new movie on the way home if you’re a good…” you get the idea. However, because of our geographical situation, we have to travel two towns south to any restaurants, and in that town, one of these burger joints just runs better than the other. Not to mention the quality of the food is a little better… not much, but a little.

The second odd thing that occurred that day was my wife claiming she didn’t think she was going to join us. Sure, I thought to myself. Who could blame her? I gave her an indignant look for her obvious treachery and cowardice. She smiled in return. Uhuh. It’s not hard to distinguish where my daughter gets her intelligence and savvy from. However, by the time I had starting the truck up on that cold winter day, my wife decided… either she felt guilty enough about her abandonment or she was genuinely hungry. I thought she must have been really hungry, on the verge of starvation, considering the option of our destination. Or… really guilty for that matter. So, she went out and started her vehicle. We drive in separate vehicles and she’s already close to her work and can head straight there after lunch, then my daughter and I continue on with the remainder of our ritualistic day together.

Upon arrival, I’m still not coveting the fact we’re where we are, but I browsed my numbered options across the menu board while watching the sole male cashier taking the one person’s order ahead of us. It’s extremely obvious this kid was very uncomfortable doing what he was doing and the fact that he hadn’t been doing it very long is equally apparent. A rotund man standing in what I would consider management garb was standing behind the cashier and making himself look busy in an attempt to ignore the growing line of hard-up lunch incumbents beginning to form behind us. I guess we had actually arrived someplace “on time” for once, but the cashier was still over his head getting the order of the one person in front of us. And for the record, I don’t think that person was ordering for more then himself. Anxiety drained the already pallid color from the poor kid’s face. Now instead of finding the location of the numbered lunch the guy in front of us ordered on the computer keyboard, all he could focus on is how long clearing the line is going to take because everyone behind him is ignoring him. Sad. Finally, the rotund manager turned around without looking at any of us customers about to spend our hard earned dollars in the establishment that he controls, and instead of showing the kid where the button is, just pressed it himself and resumed putting a precarious bag of fries in a take-out bag and handing it to the drive-thru window clerk who appeared just as lost as the cashier. This was not a good choice, I thought to myself, but my daughter is ecstatic looking at the options of cheap and ineffective toys to have placed in her kid’s meal. Some of the simplest forms of entertainment seem to thrill the young and innocent more than any technical toy… that is, until they reach a certain age. So, I should be thankful that she’s not asking me for the more expensive ones at this point and relish the time I have left.

After a couple of minutes, my daughter was getting antsy and the line was still growing and I considered hopping over the counter and finding the button for a medium soft drink for the cashier. My wife whispered into my ear what her choice for lunch was and what to order our daughter and I realized that I was being abandoned once again to face the challenges of ordering fast food all by myself. I looked at her with a degree of my own anxiety and she raised her eyebrows apologetically and said, “She has to go to the bathroom.” Uhuh. Being a woman, she knows full well that the lesser of two evils for a guy is to remain alone in the lunch line and become the next victim of the cashier’s ignorance than it is to take my daughter to the… I can barely even say it… men’s room. I watched them pull away as if I just fell off a cliff and even though they’re the ones that are moving, I felt like I was the one heading for imminent danger.

“Next.” I heard announced. I looked at the kid and he was looking at me, wide-eyed, like I was Ghengis Kahn. I guess I can come off looking a bit intimidating sometimes. I just can’t help it. I ordered my two numbered choices and I’m not so sure it wasn’t the fear of God this kid had over me that seemed to motivate him a little more, but he found them on the keyboard relatively quick. I ordered the kid’s meal with the chocolate milk and while I’m waiting for him to find those buttons, I realized he was already looking at me with confidence building waiting for the next selection. Was he thinking I was easy? Oh yeah, Punk, I thought to myself… how about a fish sandwich on the side? Can you find that? He did.

“Is that all?” he asked with more confidence.

How about I hit you so hard the manager gets a bloody nose? That thought, those words had already formed in my head and were right on the tip of my tongue, but I successfully suppressed them back. The kid had done well. “Yes,” I simply said instead.

“That’ll be blah, blah, blah.” I didn’t listen to the total. I was holding the handy ATM card and waiting for the calculator sized pad to tell me when to swipe my card. When it did, I swiped.