Quit doggin' me, man!

It's kind of ironic that it's the "Dog Days" issue of our dear local paper, The Current, because here I sit at the playground in Arnegard, North Dakota, in trouble with my outlaw dog, Laddy, again.

Laddy is like a hairy stinky family member. He eats just as much as the kids and needs just as much exercise, or maybe more. We take him everywhere we go, without really thinking about it. He just does what we do.....except sleep inside on a pillow.

I was told already once, by the grounds keeper of the playground, that dogs are off limits. He was really nice about it, but for obvious (poopy) reasons, dogs need to stay home. But, for some reason, I always forget that when we leave the camper and head out on our neighborhood walks. Maybe it's because he was faithfully sitting beside us all afternoon waiting for a break, too. Maybe it's because I forget he's even there. But, really and truly, I don't mean to break the rules.

If only the lawn mowing sprinkler guy knew that Laddy had already deposited his prize in that vacant lot on main street, while we purposely looked the other way, maybe he wouldn't be giving me that look out of the corner of his eye, that I am trying to ignore.

It's a good thing it's cloudy and breezy because here Laddy lays, next to my park bench, panting with his lolling drooling huge tongue, covered in mass amounts of Border Collie hair. He looks like a cross between a sheep and a lion. He smells like a cross between a pig and goat. (Oh, I so miss the bathing rituals at the Salmon River: Throw the stick. Fetch the stick. Drop the stick. Quick, Grab him! Soap him up with Bronner's Peppermint soap. Throw the stick. Fetch the stick. Lather, rinse, repeat.)

I am grounded to this park bench in an effort to make Lad blend into the bushes and become less obvious. But, it's a great excuse for a lazy summer Mama to write in her journal and make the big sisters push the 2 year old in the swing.

I gave little Tenesee an "underdog" the first time we came to this playground, two months ago. That was all it took. She's an adrenaline junky, for sure. But, somewhere between afternoon outings, she forgot the proper term and is now sitting in the swing demanding, in her high pitched voice, "GIVE ME A PUSHY DOG!!"

I'm assuming that this alone will scare the playground nazi man away so that I can let Laddy loose, to run a muck between picnic tables and sniff the scent left behind from all of the other rogue dogs in the neighborhood. (You KNOW they all come here to pee.)

In an effort to change the subject, I must say, I have never known what "Dog Days" really meant. I figured it was just the hot time where we all wanted to lay around our yards like our pets do. I'm not totally wrong, as it does refer to the hottest days of the year. But it also means the Dog Star, Sirius, is rising. I don't know much about stars and I don't know the actual dates, and yes, I Googled this information. And, when I read up on something that I'm not 100% interested in, only the most shocking highlights stick with me as I scan the page. I'm sure that in this same issue you will receive the informational side of this historical summer season and all of it's dogma, so I will stick to my opinion. It's what I do best. No one can prove my opinion wrong, because it's mine.

Here it is: Did you know that the Romans actually SACRIFICED a brown dog at the beginning of the season of the Sirius star? Gross. What was with all the sacrifice, anyway? How does killing something really stop evil? Kind of an oxymoron. Now if the dog walked up and barked out his desire to sacrifice his hairy life for the greater good of society, I suppose it would be noble. But to demand a life. That's just weird. No wonder Rome fell. They were mean to their pets.

I've decided that in North Dakota this season should be called the "Raining like Cats and Dog Days." The other night, when the tornado warning was issued and my camper got pounded with buckets of rain, wind, and heavenly chaos, Laddy was probably wishing that Dog Days meant that I would let him inside. He was praying that it meant he could come and lay in my bed with me, and the three girls that jumped in at the first crack of monstrous thunder and flash of mad lightning, while we sang, "Raindrops on roses, and whiskers on kittens, bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens..." Hey, he's just lucky I'm not a Roman and he's black and white, instead of brown. Life is good, and he has no idea!

Well, finally! The lawn man is getting into his truck to leave. With one last glance at me and my fugitive animal, he is pulling away, knowing that I am about to break the law. What he won't see won't hurt him.

"Okay, Laddy, you good boy, get ahead! Go chase the girls and please don't pee on anything. Find a puddle to lay in, go on! I won't tell on you."

I think his new middle name will be Sirius. It's a good name. And, no worries. No animals were harmed in the making of this article. Rest easy. As for me, I'm going to go lay in the grass and enjoy the muggy weather, while I swat skeeters. I love summer!

Count Dracula

I'm a counter. I like to count things. When I make lasagna, I count the noodles, because the batches must be even. When I make bacon, I count the strips, so it'll all work out perfect in the end.

I also count time. Major time counter, here. How long it's been since the two year old went potty. The hours until Travis gets home. The days left on this week's hitch. The hours until the post office closes. The hours until I have to get up. The minutes until my exercise is over. (Not that I don't love it!) I count the days until birthdays and holidays. And I really counted days when I was pregnant. This was especially important at the beginning, middle, and end of the term. Yeah, pretty much the whole time! There is always something to count. "Oh, the baby is supposed to grow it's fingernails this week!.....Aw, another 10 days and little Jr. will be able to hear us! How cute is that?!"

I spend a lot of time counting money. Bills are so fun that way. So are groceries, gas, and outings.
I really don't know why I'm so addicted to all of this counting, because I tend to exaggerate it all in the end anyway.

"You girls have eaten, like, a hundred of those oranges! Leave some for my juice in the morning!" Of course they haven't eaten a hundred. But they get my point.

I especially like the counting game for past offenses from a spouse. Travis does not think this is nearly as effective as I do. I use it because it would work on me.

"No, I do not feel bad for saying what I said, because three months and four days ago, you told me the same thing! I remember because I thought to myself, when you said it, that I was going to remember it, so that you would know how it feels, when I said it to you!" This really doesn't work at all, because I'm not in court. There is no Judge Judy. I'm in my camper, flinging my hands around, and arching my eyebrows, and marching to and fro in my little kitchen. My sweet husband just looks at me like, "I can't believe you wrote that down on your mind calender! Let it go, dude!"

Counting keeps me sane. It's a great mind exercise and keeps the girls sharp on their math, all year around. I should apply it to geographical situations, however, and it would help me out in certain circumstances...like the other day when I drove to Williston.

Every time we left the camper, the first week we were in North Dakota, Travis would ask me, "Without looking at the map, which direction are we going?" I chuckled half heartedly, with a shrug of my shoulders...duh, this is so easy!

"East...we're headed East." I'd sip my Americano with confidence, and glance at him out the side of my sunglasses. I have been right every time. He always looked shocked. (I secretly studied the map when he wasn't looking!)

But, when I am in charge of the driving, that's when things turn themselves around. I have ridden to Williston at least 20 times (probably exaggerating again), but I'm always the co-pilot. My job is water bottle patrol, fighting over the stereo, looking for wildlife, potty breaks, and keeping the shouting in the backseat to a minimum.

So, when it came my turn to drive to Williston, I turned left instead of right. (Which would be East instead of West.) I realized I had headed 14 miles in the wrong direction, when I heard my sweet 9 year old, from the backseat, "Mom, this is Watford City. You have to turn right to go to the big city."

Oh, yeah. I knew that!

I finally made it to town and we had a jolly time doing laundry and grocery shopping. I counted quarters. I counted minutes on the washer, the dryer, and the truck clock, just so we didn't get home late for Travis to take the pick up to his night shift on the oil rig. I counted the numbers on the register as the sweet little lady rang up my groceries. I counted to ten so I wouldn't lose it, as Tenesee Rose fought to stand up in the cart and launch herself at the candy display, with a foaming mouth.

I should've started counting miles, instead of minutes, when we finally headed towards home. You must turn south after about 3 miles...but I just kept driving...with no clue. The stereo was turned up and I was feeling tough in my big diesel dually. I was passing rigs like crazy and making great time, considering the road is always jammed up in the afternoon. I mean, this highway is so busy, there is no reason to pass the three dump trucks in front of you because just ahead of them there are five semi-trucks and an over sized transport caravan slinging mud all over the road! But...as for me....I was having no problem cruising. That horizon was wide open.

Pretty soon I saw a little Casino on the side of the road. That doesn't look familiar! The sign on it read, "State line Casino." Uh oh!! State line?? Just as the question was forming on my lips I saw another sign. It read, "Welcome to Montana." No way!

Sometimes it pays to pay attention. Of course, as I started to get angry with myself and feel totally girly and stupid about driving to Montana....I took a deep breath and counted to 10 for the 100th time. I decided right then and there to pretend that I had meant to take a little scenic drive to the western border. I mean, it's not like we wouldn't just cruise out that way for fun...sometime other than when I was trying to beat the clock home. But still, it worked out. It always does.

I got home and related my story to Travis, after the girls burst in the door and started telling on me. He put his hand over his eyes and slowly shook his head and said, "Did you really?" Oh, yes, I did! But, he smiled at me. And he laughed at me...and with me. And then he said, "I know the feeling. I hate it when I do stuff like that." Aaaahhh, the misery-loves-company feeling. It is so nice to know you are not the only one that gets side tracked. Counting cars you are passing is great on a video game, but it can cost you some time in real life.

I really do count myself lucky. I have kids that are patient and know to, "BUTTON IT!!" when Mommy starts mumbling to herself and flipping the truck around on dusty shoulders of the highway. I have a husband who doesn't call me an idiot (even if he thinks it) and tells me, instead, "You are awesome, Shosh." Even when I'm counting things like mortgages and truck payments, I think about what a lucky girl I am to be driving a rig that won't break down on my long journeys to the "State line Casino"...or other random places that I may choose to venture.

If it were up to me, I'd still be trying to get my stupid yellow van running. But, I have a friend (that just so happens to be my husband) and he likes new vehicles. He likes rigs that are dependable and shiny. And, I've got to admit...even though the Westphalia VW van has all sorts of character...mine had no sorts of heater or AC or Sirius XM or even the ability to make it down the road and back again without requiring new spark plugs.

I should, at any given time, be able to count one great thing about my life, for each finger I have.

1. Healthy, beautiful family that loves me.
2. Healthy, beautiful me, that loves my family.
3. Great place to live and play.
4. Friends that I miss, and that miss me, when I leave home.
5. Food to eat.
6. Sunshine, sunshine, and then rain, right when we need it.
7. Books and music.
8. Movies and the internet.
9. A generator, when the power goes out...for the 5th time.
10. Brand new days, every day, to start it all over again!

And, yes, the list changes. Some days there are twenty great things. Sometimes, I stop at 5...and go, "hmmmm?" Not because the friends or family have stopped loving me, but because sometimes the love is hard to feel and hard to put out there. I know it's in me and around me, but it's disguised as spilled coffee, empty toilet paper rolls, gum in little girl hair, or a pile of nasty dirty dishes that I don't want to look at, let alone scrub on.

Sometimes the couch wants to adopt me and the only things that wants to crawl out of my mouth is, "I don't care, kids....do whatever you want. Yeah, put on that movie for the 20th time and eat some jelly beans." But, instead, I roll off of the couch and start my "great-things" list.

1. I have a couch.
2. It's comfortable.
3. It fits 5 people, almost comfortably.
4. I'm not sleep deprived.....

See how easy it is to count up the good things, even on a bad day? And after a little list counting, I head over and count the dirty dishes, and the white socks that need bleached, and the rugs that need shaking, and then....I'm feeling right perky again! Because, the things that count, can always be counted on, to remind me that they are the only things worth being counted anyway!