Back in Action

Marc and I knew our Christmas vacation was finally over when we stopped by the Downtown Vet yesterday after work to pick up our wacky fur-baby, Barkley, from "camp." The system is that you go in the front door to pay and then you go back outside to the side "kennel door" to pick up the beast. We've got it down. So we went outside, carefully arranged the blanket in the back seat to protect it from the impending dog slobber, and waited patiently for the kennel door to open. Suddenly, the door flew open and there appeared Barkley, straining against his leash like a wild boar (if wild boars wore leashes, that is) and nearly dragging the technician behind him. This is how it usually goes with Barkley. He's not the most refined dog, and he has a little trouble containing his excitement...the only problem being that, well, just about everything excites Barkley. I sometimes wonder what it would be like to go through life with such enthusiasm, but even thinking about it makes me tired.

Anyone who meets Barkley typically says, "He's a great looking dog." And he is. But what I've come to learn is that it's a little like the times when a friend tried to set you up on a date and can say only about the prospect that he or she "has a good personality." Barkley is not a gentleman; in fact, he is the bull in the proverbial China Shop that is our home. In the world of manual transmissions, Barkley would be stuck in fifth gear...on an Indy car. But I don't want to give him a bad reputation, at least not one that he hasn't already earned by jumping on our friends' children or eating Marc's Burberry scarf a couple of years ago. Truly, it is Marc and me who are to blame--because when it comes down to it, Barkley really is a smart dog. He has selective hearing and chooses to acknowledge only his favorites words, like "treats," "goodies," or "go do business [aka go potty]." He even drops what he's doing to check the front and back doors when you ask him if Daddy's home. Commands such as, "No!," "Down!," and "Drop It!" fall on deaf ears.

Marc and I thought that we would give training a try. We even enrolled Barkley in the Humane Society's "Puppy Kindergarten." After four weeks (one day a week), Barkley graduated, only to eat his diploma in the car on the way home. We should have known then that Barkley was a renegade...a dog not bound by the conventions of dog training. The James Dean of the canine world. But he was cute, and we loved him, and after all...he was part of the family.

In my mind, I've often revisited the telltale signs that might have quietly whispered, "Turn back now..." We purchased Barkley from Tornado Kennels in Galva, Illinois (about a four hour trek from Indianapolis). When we were literally five minutes from the kennel, I made Marc stop the car at a gas station, because I was so nervous that my stomach actually felt sick [sign #1]. After we arrived, Lisa and Mark--the puppies' human parents--asked if we wanted to see Barkley's dad, Taos. We complied and headed out to the fenced in area just outside of the individual dog runs. The area was divided into two sections: one with all of the bitc...excuse me, Girl Dogs, and the other where the studs could strut their stuff. When they opened Taos' run, he bolted across the yard and up to the fence where all of the "ladies" were oogling him with ga-ga eyes and wagging tails. He put on quite a show for awhile until he turned, and as if guided by some crazy cosmic dog spirit, locked eyes with us. If you've seen footage of the Running of the Bulls in Spain, then you might be able to grasp what came next as Taos took off mad-hell towards us with a full thirty yards or so to build up speed. I saw my life pass before my eyes as all 105-pounds of this massive dog came bearing down on us. I might have even closed my eyes, half expecting to be pummeled. At the last minute, he playfully broke to the side...as if he knew exactly what he was doing the whole time [sign #2]. While we were there, Barkley made another dog cry [sign #3], peed on the floor [sign #4], and refused to get in his crate [sign #5]. Once in the van, he barked the whole way home [sign #6], and then repudiated our attempts to get him to go potty at the rest stops [sign #7].

With all of that said, though, the last three years with Barkley have been fun. Sure, there are moments when he entirely lives up to the Tornado part of his heritage...days when he sneaks upstairs and raids the kitty box, or takes it upon himself to make sure the garbage is up to code. But he also has his moments, like the times he rests his head on the the arm rest between the two car seats and raises his eyebrows in a certain way...or when he jumps up onto the window seat in the dining room to "get lovin's." I'll be the first to admit that Barkley is not a dog for the faint hearted; you cannot be stuffy with a dog like him. But if you're looking for Bluto Blutarsky from Animal House...he's your boy.

Spit Happens

Okay...forgive the dorky title, but it seems to appropriately sum up a disturbing trend in which I've recently noticed a huge increase--public spitting. I'm not sure why this gags me out so much, but it does. It seems that everywhere I go anymore, there are dots of spit [and that is politely speaking] mucking up the sidewalks, parking lots, etc. And it's a disgusting habit that crosses all demographics. In fact, when Marc and I were at the Starbucks on the Circle the other day, I looked out just in time to see a businessman clad in a classy suit walk by and hock a big one right onto the sidewalk. Don't these people know better? I mean, I'm certain that my mother would be quite mortified if she saw me pull something like that. But it doesn't seem to stop anyone.

One time, Marc was minding his own business walking back to his office after lunch. As he passed a woman on the sidewalk, she decided to spit on the ground and missed--instead it landed on Marc's arm. I can't remember what she said to him, but I do remember that it wasn't, "I'm sorry." Due to complete mortification, I don't think that he gave much of a response, which makes him a much better person than I. I'm not sure how the law is written in Indiana, but in most states, spitting on someone is actually considered assault or battery. In Terre Haute, Indiana, it is illegal to spit on the sidewalk. Maybe I'll start lobbying for that here.

If you are a sidewalk spitter, I apologize if I've offended you--but it's gross, so stop it.

The Scream Machine

Growing up, my family always had pets. The first one I remember was Socks, a white and buff Cocker Spaniel that came home in a Christmas stocking. Then I somehow bargained for a white, long-haired kitten from the pet shop by my elementary school. My mom used to pick me up from school now and again to go out to lunch, and we would always make a couple of side trips after we ate--one to buy candy and the second to the pet shop. One day I fell for the little guy, and as I recall, the deal went something like "place in the top three at your gymnastics meet this weekend, and the kitty is yours." Well, I placed fourth (or maybe 6th...7th?)...who knows, it's irrelevant. Let's just say, I was crushed and probably cried the whole way home. Now, I'm not a parent, but I can imagine that dissappointment like that is hard to watch. And it must have been for my mom, because the kitty came home with us anyway--despite my failed attempt at gold, silver, or bronze. I named him Snowball, but many years later, he became George (a name my dad felt was much more appropriate). I got him when I was in third grade...he didn't cross the rainbow bridge until after I graduated from college.

When my younger sister, Kimmy, was at the begging-for-pets age (about 4th Grade), we ended up with a Golden Retriever named Goldie--by far one of the world's best pets. I remember Kimmy lugging the poor puppy around under one arm, feet dangling below...without complaint from the dog. We used to create a trail of popcorn throughout the entire house and then watch her, nose to the ground, follow the path until the last bit of popcorn was snarfed up. Ashamedly, we even used to put the area rug at the bottom of the stairs, cart the dog to the top of the stairs, and then throw a toy down the steps just to watch her slide across the hard wood floor when she hit the rug at the bottom. Goldie loved to be loved and was always such a good girl. She had a favorite step (#4 I think) on my parents' stairwell where she would spend most of her time lounging. Mutter a polite "excuse me" on your way up or down the steps, and she would move just long enough to let you by. Now my folks have Barnum & Bailey, two Maltese pups, who are basically little people dressed in white fur coats.

So, when it came time for me to be out on my own, the need for a pet ran deeply. I couldn't imagine not having one, and since I was finally beyond the restrictions of college dorm/sorority house/rental house living, the possibility of taking on a new furry friend became reality. I went to the Humane Society and picked a four-year old Black Lab mix named Ilsa. My roommate, already hesitant about adding a new live-in, insisted the dog go back after she shredded the carpet and the front door...all within the first two days in her new abode. I was devastated and embarrassed that I had taken on more than I could handle and spent the whole weekend looking for a rescue facility to take her in. One finally called me back--the afternoon after I reluctantly returned her to the shelter.

From the beginning, the plan had always been that I would take Snowball/George in as soon as I had my own place. My mother always feigned hatred for the cat, yet when the time came for me to take him in, she protested with reason after reason why he should stay at her house instead of making the move. And although I teased her about it, I knew that she was right. Snowball had spent almost his entire life in the same place...there was no need to uproot him now. So my mom took me to the Humane Society in Kokomo, and we picked out a perfect little kitten for me to call my own. I named him (I forget now what it was) and brought him back to Indianapolis to start his new life in the big city. Two days later, he died in my closet on top of a pile of my shoes. After poking him with a hanger to confirm his demise, I called my parents in hysterics. Thankfully, they were in Indy for a play and offered to come retrieve said dead animal from the closet and return him to the shelter. That was it...the pet thing was out of my system.

Then came Thanksgiving of 2000. I came home the day before, dirty laundry in tow, and started to head to the garage to unload my basket. I stopped as everyone jumped from their chairs like a bunch of hooligans screaming, "DON'T OPEN THAT DOOR!" When I gave them a much-deserved "you're crazy" look, my mom came over and opened the door to the garage--revealing a relatively scrawny little tiger kitty. My step-nephews had rescued the poor little guy and wanted to keep him, but their household had already reached it's domesticated animal limit. So they dismissively told me, "If you don't want him, we can put him back out in the cold." Admittedly, I was a little skeptical about taking on a new pet with my track record thus far. But he was especially cute and had the greenest eyes I've ever seen on a cat. I decided to take him in but refused to name him until after he had been checked out by the vet and made it through his neutering. Finally, sometime after the new year, he began going by Kelso.

Kelso has come a long way since his paltry days as a half-dead stray. For starters, he made up for those days without food or shelter by packing on the pounds--at his heaviest he weighed a whopping 16.5 pounds--before slimming down to a svelte 12 pounds on his vet-recommended, low-cal kitty diet. He has loved, and lost, his best and dearest friend Lizard* to the massive and indiscriminate jaws of our Labrador Retriever. Then there are the four relocations he survived, though he's down to eight lives after one of the moves. And now, he basically runs the household. One behavior, in particular, has grown a bit cumbersome. It's a little trick he does, which I've dubbed The Scream Machine. Going on his highly tuned and mysterious inner clock alone, Kelso sneaks up to the ears of unsuspecting sleepers [Marc & me] and lets out the loudest meow he can muster. This generally sounds something like a banshee crying out in the night and takes place anywhere from 3:00 - 5:00 AM. It's a big ol' giant MRRWAAAAH that resonates through the dark room like the remnants of the cymbal whacked on The Gong Show. The only difference is that it is repetitive....over and over he MRWAHs at a tone and pitch that is guaranteed to grate even nerves of steel. Every morning, Marc grudgingly drags himself from the warmth of the covers, scoops up the offender, takes him to our spare bedroom [which has come to be known as Kelso's bedroom], and closes the door.

We realize that Kelso's war cry is in fact his way of informing us that he is ready for breakfast, despite the fact that it's much too early. But Marc has his theories. He explains to me that cats have brains the size of a golf ball and that if they use the same percentage of their brains as humans do, well then...the usable part of a cat's brain is about the size of a pencil eraser. Marc is convinced that it's the only way to account for why our finicky feline is so persistent even when his belligerent behavior produces the same results each morning. Personally, I would like to think that it's just his small, albeit misguided, attempt to say, "Thanks, you guys...what a life!"

*Note: No animals were harmed in the making of this blog. Lizard was a rubber, suction-cup clad toy.

C is for Cookie

One of the things I admire most about our friends John and Troy is their ability to throw a good get-together. And one of the best parts is that there is often some underlying theme or mission for the gathering. Take, for example, “Fry Day,” which, incidentally, takes place on a Saturday during the summer. Fry Day is a celebration of all things fried, be it sweet, savory, or otherwise. Then there is Booze & Cookies, and, yes, the title just about sums it up. Last year, I was sick on the big day, so I didn’t get the chance to join in on the festivities; but, this year, I was ready to go. So we put on our baking shoes, called up our friend Joe, and headed to Chateau Smythe-Moore for the infamous cookie bake.

Although I wasn't quite sure what to do when we got there, I was ready to jump in wherever needed. My first task involved unwrapping Hershey's Kisses for the Cherry Chocolate Kiss cookies. Marc and I were completely surprised when Joe showed up at our house with supplies in hand to make his favorite cookies. The Chocolate Cherry Kiss cookies, which quickly and fondly became known as "Joe Cookies," were definitely a crowd favorite. Imagine a cookie that tastes just like a cherry cordial, and you've got a Joe Cookie.

It was amazing to watch the show run so smoothly when I considered the kind of output that was going on around me. The best was when John would yell out, "Hot Cookies...Coming Through...Get the Door!" Everyone seemed to fall perfectly into their specific roles...John's friend from work, Jennifer, and her husband Denny took over on spatula patrol, scooping cookies from the sheets onto the grocery bag-lined table.


Dave, Kathy, Eric and Duane fought off hypothermia while taking one for Team Kiefle.


Marc and Joe kept tabs on the Colts' Game in order to keep the crowd apprised of the score [even though the home team ultimately bit the big one after a 60-yard field goal].


Todd helped Mari and Daniel make cool magnetic toy cars. And even Claire played her part by supervising the general goings on of the day. She looked especially cute in her ever-so-appropriate holiday sweater!


One of my favorite photos from B&C is this one of the countertop filled with all the supplies necessary for a real humdinger of a cookie bake. I was completely impressed by Connor's knack for whipping up a variety of delicious cookie doughs. Be it Cowboy Cookies or some of the best ginger cookies I've ever eaten, he was on the ball. That boy truly knows his way around a stand mixer!

By the end of the afternoon, I told Marc that I was in desperate need of some protein, so we packed it in and headed out for a sandwich. We've slowly been weaning ourselves off of the cookies by having one or two per day over the last couple of evenings to avoid going through cookie withdrawal. Hats off to John and Troy for yet another fun gathering!

Giving the Gift of Community

If you get a chance, check out the Indianapolis Neighborhood Resource Center's December 2006 Newsletter. It features an article on an organization called The Zawadi Exchange, which was started by none other than my dear hubby, Marc, and his comrade, De'Amon Harges. I'm glad that they are starting to get some press, because they're doing great and innovative work. Way to go guys!