Pic of the week: Cozy Callie
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Temps at my place this past week have been downright frigid. “Below freezing” doesn’t begin to describe it, with many mornings registering a …
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Goodnight, sweet boy
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Goodnight sweet boy
Thank you to everyone who left kind and caring comments regarding my dog Mickey on last week’s GRAND Social post as well as on social media. Unfortunately pancreatitis proved to be too much for my 15-year-old baby. Mickey passed away on Wednesday, January 29, 2020.
Read MoreSick old man
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Sick old man
My old man Mickey has been quite sick since Friday morning. To say he feels under the weather is an egregious understatement.
After a long day of no appetite and atrocious symptoms Friday, I called the vet late that afternoon and secured an early Saturday appointment. Blood work, x-rays and a bloody (literally) exam confirmed pancreatitis.
Read More9 things that petrify my pit bull
/Folks who have never owned a pit bull nor had much experience with the breed often consider the dogs — and any mix that includes the breed — ferocious forces to avoid at all costs.
I own a pit bull. Well, a pointer-pit bull mix. One of my earliest posts here related the story of how/when/why we adopted the injured babe twelve or so years ago.
Mickey, soon after we adopted the fella.My husband and I weren't positive what we were in for at the time, but in the years since, we've learned our Mickey and others of his kind are far from ferocious — unless owners teach the animals to be that way, as is the case with any breed.
In fact, despite his maniacal barking that makes him seem tough and terrifying when he notices bicyclists, motorcycles, dogs, rabbits, and plastic grocery bags caught in the wind scooting down our street, Mickey is anything but ferocious. He's a chicken of the chickenest sort.
Mickey quakes, shakes, and shivers at...
Seeking practical, finding poignant
/The latch on the door to the cabinet where I keep my kitchen garbage needs repair. It won't stay closed. And though I know it won't stay closed without me fiddling and finagling the broken latch to keep it shut, I open the darn thing each time I need to throw something away.
With Jim still as broken as the door — hobbling about on crutches and currently unable to help with even the smallest home repair — I'm determined to fix the thing myself.
"Why don't you just switch the garbage to the other side?" one of my daughters asked... after she'd opened it when I warned her not to as I had just finagled the thing shut... again.
It doesn't work that way, I told her. I've opened that door a billion times to throw something away. Moving the garbage can to the other side won't change my habit of opening the current side. I have no doubt I would still open the darn broken door out of habit, still have to fiddle and finagle the door to stay shut.
The other night I told Jim I was going to run to Lowe's to get a new latch. "Don't!" he said. "I'm pretty sure I have another in the garage, in one of those drawers."
Unable to go through any of "those drawers" himself, I headed out to the garage yesterday morning to look for the spare cabinet latch.
After an hour or so, I came back with this...
Rest in peace, Lyla girl
/In 2009, our youngest daughter, Andrea, adopted a frightened little stray from The Denver Dumb Friends League. The little girl — about two years old, they guessed — had roamed the city streets on her own most of her life, it seemed.
Andie took in the black lab/shepherd mix, fittingly named her Lyla — which means "black as night" in Persian — and gave her a happy home and lots of love.
Then Andrea gave her to us, months later, when it was clear Lyla needed a yard to run in and Andie's apartment didn't provide that.
Lyla had issues, to say the least. Psychological ones, likely...
