Gater

Jake the Three-Legged Wonder Wiener, 2002 to 2011

Jake the Three-Legged Wonder Wiener died this morning. He’d stopped eating some time ago, but fought the good fight as long as he could. We think he was 9 1/2.

I told Jake’s story a few years ago, but I’m going to repost it here. He was a special dog who danced with death more than once and walked (hopped?) away, but it was his time. We gave him the best life we could, and his memory will always be with us. I added some pictures at the end.

So here’s the story of Jake, and just remember that all dogs go to heaven. I know he’s there now. Maybe with all four of his legs back, who knows.

The Three-Legged Wonder Wiener

So, I gathered from everyone’s responses last week that the How I Met My Hubby story went over real well. Darn it all, I hate it when my sister Leah is so right all the time.

But I thought I’d keep the quirky story thing going this week by talking about my dog, Jake.

Jake the Three Legged Wonder Wiener.

That’s right. Three legs.

This is Jake’s story. Everyone has one, even the dog.

So Jason and I had gotten married and bought a house. And you know what that means for young professionals on the fence about starting a family right away – yup. A dog.

I grew up with wiener dogs and wanted to get one. Jason didn’t care a whole lot one way or the other, but he wanted veto power. My mom’s wieners were a handful back in the day (known as the terrorists from the family we adopted them from) and Jason didn’t want to be sued by people who’d had their ankles broken by a tiny dog with an size complex. And being a frugal bleeding heart liberal, I didn’t want to pay $500 for a purebred when there were plenty of perfectly good dogs in shelters.

Thus, the quest for a dog began. We lived in Chicago, which had a dedicated dachshund rescue organization. But for every wiener profile I brought home, Jason found problems. Not good with kids (pretty common for wieners). Antisocial. Kills bunnies in the yard. (Although, Jason fondly thinks of Red Fred, the dog who killed bunnies, when Jake sits 10 feet from a bunny and has no idea it’s even there. What he wouldn’t give for a bunny hunter these days.) Every dog was not right for our family.

So I broadened the scope of the search. Wisconsin wiener dogs. Indiana wiener dogs. Missouri wiener dogs. And Jason found problems with each and every one.

I kept searching. I enlisted the help of my sister Hannah. Hannah has the unique gift to find the most pitiful animal available and fall in love. So she started trolling Petfinder.com, where she’d gotten her high-strung cat, Dulcie (Love you, Dulc!). And I got an email from her. “He’s so cute!” she gushed. So I clicked on the link, and saw a cute little red wiener dog.

With no left front leg.

“He’s missing a leg!” I wrote back.

“But he’s so cute!” she repeated.

So I printed Jake off and took him home to show Jason. And the man went, (and I quote), “Awww.”

Problem was, Jake was in Tennessee, and this was December. So I contacted Jake’s keepers, Jerry’s Rescues, and they agreed to hold him until April (our vacation) if we paid $125 to cover the two for one cost of leg amputation and neutering. Oh, and we had to have a home visit to make sure we were appropriate people for a wiener dog.

Jason still rolls his eyes at that. We had to be interviewed by other wiener dog lovers to make sure we we’re some sort of deviant wiener dog fanatics. Although he did make them cookies. . . I love that man.

Anyway.

Vacation time approached. We planned our vacation around a trip to Tennessee. A few days in Nashville, then on to Lewisburg where Jake was at. We ate pralines and saw Little Jimmy Dickens do his thing at the Grand Ole Opry. And then we left the touristy parts behind and headed for the hills.

Literally. Lewisburg is a small burg, famous only for the Tennessee Walking Horse Hall of Fame, which is an actual Hall between the lobby of the National Tennessee Walking Horse Association building and the secretary’s office. A hallway with pictures.

And we had a few more hours to kill. We spent them in the Piggly Wiggly. And then we drove out to The Middle of Nowhere.

Cue freaky banjos playing ominously in the background.

Jerry’s house was way out in the hills, several miles from paved roads. No one but about 100 dogs were home when we got there, and they were all barking. Jerry apparently subscribes to the never-throw-stuff-away philosophy, popularized during the Great Depression, because there was stuff everywhere.

The banjos got a little louder.

We waited for an hour in our little car, rain pouring (of course rain was pouring). Finally, Jerry showed up. Picture Grizzly Adams holding a chihuahua, because that’s what he was.

“I’ll go get that Jake for you,” he said after we exchanged nervous pleasantries. “You don’t wanna come in the house . . .”

Somehow, I figured. I didn’t even want to imagine the carpet stains.

So he directed us to what looked like an outhouse with a shower curtain. “You stay here, out of the rain.”

I swear to all that is holy, there was a chainsaw in there. I knew we were agonna die, all for a three legged wiener dog.

But we didn’t. Jerry came out with a mildly nervous 12 pound wiener dog and told us the story.

A church secretary had found him tearing into the garbage behind the church, his leg dangling useless. He was on the verge of starving. She kept him for the day, but then took him to the city pound. Now, I’m not saying the pound people are heartless, but they have a job to do, and a mangled, half-starved wiener is not high on that to-do list. He was going to be put down that night because he was in bad shape.

Enter Jerry. “I stop by the pound every night to see if there’s someone who needs savin'” he explained as I only mildly quaked in terror in the shed with the chainsaw. “And, boy, did this one need savin’. Figure he only had another 15 minutes on that clock.” As you might have gathered, Jerry is one big softy beneath that Grizzly exterior.

Yup. 15 minutes. That close.

Jerry’s vet took off the leg – “jes’ a dangling by a tendon,” Jerry explained as my stomach turned – and tossed in the neutering, and three days later, put Jake’s picture on the web. Hannah found him two days after that.

It seems that Jerry had found Jake’s original people, but they didn’t want him back. I’m not sure if they dumped him at the side of the road, or if he ran off after the UPS truck (because let me tell you, he’s got it out for the UPS guy, bigtime), but he’d been hit by a car.

I like to tell the kids who say, “Hey! Did you know your dog’s missing a leg?” that he forgot to look both ways before he crossed the street. For the younger ones, I toss in how he forgot to hold his mommy’s hand.

Jason likes to respond by gasping dramatically and saying, “He is?? OH NO! Where’d it GO!” But he’s funny like that.

Every year, we send Jerry’s Rescues a Christmas Card and a check for saving our dog. They’re good people doing good work.

Now some of you might think I have a predilection for those who might be termed “special.” But it’s not just me. My sisters have dogs (and a cat) that all belong on a far shorter bus than Jake does, but we love them anyway. And just because he’s special doesn’t mean he doesn’t get tortured. Just look at the things I have done to my poor dog.

He drives.

I love his ears. The toddler does, too.

His ears get cold in the winter. I tried to keep them warmer. He hates it.

And this is my favorite picture of my dog. 12 inches of snow can be pretty daunting for a pup who’s only 8 inches tall.

We love Jake. My son calls him “Jakey Wiener Dog” and will stop mid-stride to hug and kiss him. Jake’s pretty okay with the kid, too, if only as a primary food source.

But there was one time he almost didn’t make it. And this just drove home the fact that Jake was lucky to have us.

Being purebreds, wiener dogs are suseptible to a variety of genetic flaws. They have a lot of back problems, what with being long and low. And we accepted that Jake’s problems might be worse after the accident and missing leg thing.

And true to form, he slipped two disks. Couldn’t walk, couldn’t stand, couldn’t even pee. I was 3 months pregnant and not exactly rational, but I refused to let them kill my dog. He’d come so far, I just couldn’t do it.

So we plunked down the $3,000+ smackers to have that dog fixed. So much for vacation that year. And you know you’re screwed when the surgical center has a 10,000 aquarium tank and marble countertops.

But they fixed my dog. And left him with another scar.

Jake’s probably about six, maybe seven now. He’s mellowed as he’s aged, unless someone rings the doorbell or the UPS guy drives by. (Nothing beats the UPS guy ringing the doorbell, in Jake’s opinion.) I don’t know how much time he’s got left. Maybe he’ll live to be 10, maybe 13. But I knew that going in – his time was shorter than a puppy’s might have been.

But that’s okay. Because he will have spent that time with us.

First Place, Wiener Dog Races, 2010
The Yin and Yang of Dogs with his buddy, Gater.
His supermodel pose.

Jake the Three-Legged Wonder Wiener
2002 to 2011

A Preview of 2011

Hi! How was your break? Crazy? Mine, too! It’s been a while, so let’s do a super-fast recap of 2010 so you, loyal reader(s), are all caught up.

1. I sold my novel, Indian Princess, to Stacy Boyd at Harlequin. It’ll be out sometime in 2012.
2. She’d like me to do three or four books a year.
3. I’m going to be busy.

Yes, it was a wild n’ wacky Authorial year around here. In other Mom news:

4. The Kid started kindergarten and lost three teeth two weeks before Christmas. I think he grew about four inches, developed a serious fascination with art (and an artistic flair for drama), and discovered superheroes in a big, bad way.
5. My sister Leah got pregnant and is due in three months; my sister Hannah got her adoption paperwork approved. The Kid is ecstatic about forthcoming babies he can play with.
6. My husband’s company relocated ‘global headquarters’ to Philadelphia. We spent about a month wondering if that meant we would have to relocate, too. The answer appears to be no. For now.
7. Jake the Three Legged Wonder Weiner got older. He’s now on regular medications to keep his poor little three legs working. Beat the alternative, though.
8. Gater the Four Legged Mutt got mellow(er). Things get chewed in our house at a significantly reduced rate.

Yes, 2010 was a special kind of crazy. Will 2011 be any different? A Preview:

1. The Kid will struggle and resist learning to read and write. And after the hysterics have passed, he’ll demand I read him a story. He will also refuse to learn to tie his shoes or ride a bike without training wheels. No word on if he’ll figure out how to use his inside voice while actually inside. He will, however, master memorization and the use of gauche as a medium. He’s weird like that.
2. I’ll go to lots of baby showers and hopefully meet multiple babies. My sister Leah will also get married to a swell guy. The family parties will be loud and fun, and Thanksgiving next year will be a whole new world.
3. The whole family will load up in the car for a road-trip to New York City for a family vacation/RWA Conference. I hope, hope, hope to be a finalist in the Golden Heart Contest, which will give me the chance to wear my bridesmaid dress a second time (see #2 above).
4. I’ll write at least two more books for Stacy Boyd. Maybe three.

So, as you can see, 2011 will be its own special kind of crazy. Part of what makes it fun is people like you. I hope you’ll keep making this journey with me!

The Call

I got The Call! Here’s how it went down:

Thursday, approximately 1 p.m.: Laurie McLean emailed me to say that she had a phone appointment with Stacy Boyd, Senior Editor at Harlequin Desire, scheduled for Friday, and when would be a good time for Laurie to call me?

Thursday, approximately 1:15 p.m.: Screaming and dancing occurs. Gater participates with barking.

Approximately 1:17: I suddenly become paranoid that I’m counting my chickens before they hatch, and therefore jinxing the whole thing. Maybe Stacy just wants to say ‘hi’ to Laurie, check on the weather in San Fran.

1:19: I start emailing people. I call my mother. Various levels of screaming and dancing occur with me in the background yelling, “don’t jinx it!”

1:27: I email Laurie back that I’ll be home from work and picking up my son at 3:15.

Thursday Evening: I spend the rest of the night not counting my chickens, fighting a massive sinus infection, and trying not to panic.

Friday morning: Wake up going “Today’s the DAY!” Sing loudly until my head tries to explode. Spend rest of morning trying to get The Kid to STOP singing loudly. Fail.

Side Note: Sinus infections are a mixed blessing for those of us who are a little OCD. I spend the day getting really excited, really nervous–then getting really tired and puny for half an hour or so. Once I rest up a little bit, I get really excited, really nervous–and then puny again. This semi-vicious cycle goes on all day long.

Friday, 2:57 p.m.: Leave work, race to get The Kid from school.

3:02: Inform any mom within listening distance that Today’s the Day! The mother of one of my Kindergarten Mom friends goes home and tells her daughter (that would be my mom friend) that I’m “cute.”

3:07: Inform the kindergarten teacher that while I’d love to chat, I have to get home to get a call from my agent about one of my books. The lovely woman latches onto my arm, demands to know what I write, and when I tell her I’ve GOT to go for a call–The Call–she hugs me. That woman is getting a hell of a Christmas present.

3:09: Buckle in The Kid. Just as I get in the car, my cell phone rings. The Kid blithely informs me my phone is ringing. (You may well wonder why this matters–well, I’m a luddite who rarely uses my cell for anything. I don’t even text. The fact that it rang and scared the heck out of me was entertainment for a good five minutes for The Kid.)

It’s Laurie–but I’m driving. Here’s a ‘fun fact’ about me (and by ‘fun,’ I mean ‘weird’)–if I’m nervous and I have to talk on the phone, I simply must pace. Not operate a several-ton vehicle with my son in the backseat and a audio book blaring on the radio. I tell Laurie I must go home and will call her back.

3:11: Arrive home. Of course, I now have to let the jumpy dogs out, get The Kid a snack and get the heat going in his toy room so that he will leave me be for 20 minutes, and–this is important–change my shoes. I was still in my cowboy boots. No sane person paces on hardwood in cowboy boots. It’s just not done, darling.

3:14: Call Laurie back. Commence pacing.

Laurie has great news! Stacy Boyd is going to buy The Indian Princess! Plus, she’d like to build a career for me. She wants me to write four books a year–two for her in the Desire line, and maybe two for the Special Edition line.

I have to be honest–Laurie said a lot of stuff, but my brain and my mouth completely disconnected–I’m not sure what my ears were doing. All I said for maybe 15 minutes was, “O-okay. Um, o-okay. O-okay.” At some point, Laurie realized I’d apparently checked out and asked if I’d like her send a sum-up message. To which, of course, I said, “O-okay.”

3:27: Stand in stunned silence for a moment, until The Kid demands more pretzel sticks. Realize I need to do a load of laundry, and that the dishwasher is full. Do two minutes of mom stuff.

3:29: Commence calling people. My mom (Hi, Mom!) starts crying; I’m still in a stunned, non-functional moment. Pacing re-commences. Alternate between cell phone and land line. Drop land line when cell phone rings again. The Kid laughs. Again.

At some point, I start crying. I think I was on the phone with my husband at the moment.

7:00: The Kid’s first Slumber Party (see last week’s blog) begins. Thankfully, The Kid’s guest, The Friend, his mom Leah and I go way back. Thankfully, I say, because this is the kind of emotional sort of day that can often overwhelm humans from Mars but that humans from Venus love. Spend the rest of the evening babbling at top speed (another side-effect of excitement).

8:40: Remember all that puny sinus stuff from earlier? It finally catches up to me, and I almost fall asleep standing up. Plug in a movie for The Kids and collapse.

So that’s it. That’s the whole story. The sinus infection has dampened my ability to celebrate, and, like all newly famous authors, I spent the whole weekend scrubbing very old, very stinky goo off of our bedroom floor so that we could walk around barefoot again.

But never fear, I’m going to celebrate today! A la Heather Snow, I’m going to go get a celebratory manicure and pedicure!

And then? Then I’m going to get to writing.

Double-Finalist

So, a while back, I decided that, in addition to entering The Indian Princess into a couple of contests, I was going to trot out the latest book I’d finished, The Wannabe Cowboy. It had only been through my mom (Hi, Mom!), Mary the Grammar Goddess, and my critique partner, the Lovely Laurel–no one else had read it. But hey, it’s contest season, and I wanted to see if it got enough positive feedback that I could feel good about entering it into the granddaddy of all contests, the Golden Heart (more on that later).

When I first started this crazy journey, I entered a whole bunch of contests without a whole lot of thought. (This, if you’re just joining this career in process, is how I pretty much went about everything back at the beginning–the throw a bunch of stuff against a wall and see if it sticks method.) And I got a whole lot of helpful comments–and a whole lot of really bad scores. But those contests were good for me–all those judges who suffered through that first book of mine really helped me see where the (major) holes in my work were.

I didn’t enter another contest for a year, and when I did, I took second in the Chicago-North RWA’s Fire and Ice contest for a book no one actually liked, Warrior, Lawyer. (It’s on a shelf somewhere, gathering serious dust.) They were so nice to me that I wound up joining their chapter.

I then got it into my head that I was going to sell a book VERY SOON–and stopped entering contests for another year and a half. I also didn’t sell a book in that year and a half.

Which brings us back to the present. I decided I needed some independent readers, and hey–being able to say “Finalist” wouldn’t hurt, either. This time, however, there was a method to my madness. This time, I’ve learned the secret to entering contests. It’s not the contest so much, but who’s judging it.

As you may (or may not) remember, The Indian Princess was a finalist in the Golden Rose contest a few weeks back. I entered the Golden Rose because the judge is an editor for Special Edition–one of possibly four lines where my books would fit at Harlequin. I’ve already entered Princess in the Golden Heart–and had an editor express interest in it.

I picked the Hot Prospect contest from the Valley of the Sun RWA chapter because the judge is an editor for Harlequin American, which specializes in American-set stories–and features a lot of good-looking men in cowboy hats on the covers. So when Linda Andrews from Valley of the Sun called and told me I’d finalled, I assumed she meant Princess.

But I was wrong. She meant both.

So, if you’ll excuse me, I must now go forth and dance around the house with The Kid and the dogs (Gater loves to dance!) and then do a little bit of revision before I send Wannabe back for the finalist judges–and off to the Golden Heart.

I’m feeling lucky.

Hodge-Podge

Doing a little cleaning, a (very) little organizing around the ol’ computer, and discovered a crazy collection of photos of stuff the Authorial Family did this summer. I got nothing else but insane workloads going on right now, so bring on the photos!

We explored sidewalk art (which, clearly, is also wearable art):

We got new windows in the kitchen–after the old ones literally fell off the house. Whoops!

And discovered, in the process, that the kitchen used to have really* ugly wallpaper:

We hit a County Fair:

Does anyone else find the name of this kiddie ride hilarious? Just me? Nevermind. Carry on.

We explored tanks:

had a front-row seat for a demolition derby:

and ate funnel cakes:

Oh, yeah. That’s the good stuff.

We played hard-core family mini-golf:

‘Hard-core’ meaning, of course, nearly beaten by a five-year-old boy who kept getting distracted by traffic:

I edged him out by six points. HA!

We toured Lincoln’s home, and saw dioramas with squash plants that were about a quarter the size of my pinkie finger nail:

And I debated making incredibly small, accurate miniatures when I grow up. Then I decided to stick with cowboys. (Seriously, the trees are smaller than my hand.)

We saw this sign as part of a display:

And spent the next half hour cracking E-Harmony jokes.

Yes.

I wore the hat in Lincoln’s home. So there.

But:

Not in his Presidential Museum.

Gater is . . .

weird.

I mean, really.

How is he even doing that?

We battled ants:

and fleas, mosquitoes, and fruit flies.

And then, when summer ended?

The Kid–my baby–grew up and went to kindergarten.

The end.

*really

New Week, Same …

Stuff. I was going to say stuff–really!

Last week was not good here. As you might have gathered from last Thursday’s post, The Kid got the stomach flu, and just for good measure, Jake threw up some too. And don’t get me started on the fleas. Our yard is infested–which means Gater is infested, which means our house is infested. I try to be an organic, all-natural kind of girl, but after two weeks of fleas? Bring on the chemicals–all of them.

A sick kid plus fleas is a bad, bad thing. I was ready to put last week behind me and get on with some prime-time summer fun–county fair style.

Remember Charlotte’s Web, the book everyone has to read or you go to middle school jail? Sure, the messages of life and death were touching and all that, but what I always remember is Fern going off with Henry Fussy to ride rides and fall into serious like. Yes, that’s right. I consider county fairs to be a place of innocent romance.

I had several great blogs lined up for today about all the fun at the fair. Our local Adams County Fair is going on, and we were going. First up, we were going to the bull riding, which was last Friday night. Oh, I was ready. I got my hat out, broke out the boots, and had the camera in my hip pocket for easy access so that I could get some great shots of bulls–and bull riders. After sick kids and fleas, were a few cowboys too much to ask?

Yes. It rained for several hours, starting in the afternoon and going well into the evening. True, bull riding is just about the most dangerous sport out there–but bull riding in knee-deep mud? Too dangerous. After all, the bulls could get hurt, and no one wants that.

Okay, so the cowboys were a bust. No worries, though, faithful blog reader(s). I had another blog lined up for you. The demolition derby was Wednesday night. So demolition derbies are just not as fun as bull riding. No cowboys are involved, after all. But it’s still a testosterone-ladened event, full of men grunting in a deep, manly voices as the best cars Detroit had to offer in 1972 crash into each other in slo-mo. Mud? Ha! Demolition derbies laugh in the face of mud! Ha! HaHa! It was going to be 97 degrees? No problem–that’s what lemon shake-ups are for! I was so ready for a little fun that I was willing to sweat in public. Bring on the destruction!!

Or not. You know what’s almost as much fun as a demolition derby? Strep throat. Yes. With 103 degree fevers. Really. You know your child is sick when he doesn’t want to spend his sick day watching movies. “Turn it off,” he mumbled–and then stared into space for an hour. That’s when I called the doctor’s office.

And, of course, you know what the perfect complement to strep throat is–fleas. I feel like a chimpanzee right now, spending my day picking fleas off of my poor puppies. Jake’s fur is so short that I can see the little suckers running up and down his back. We had to get a comb for Gater, which turned up way more parasites than I wanted in my entire house, much less on one dog. Oh, and Jake threw up again.

So I’m trapped in my own personal Groundhog Day from Hell, with a sick child; sick, flea-ridden dogs; and oppressive weather.

But lo! Hope is on the horizon, in the form of my wonderful in-laws. Assuming The Kid can keep those internal body temperatures at a nice and regulated 98 degrees, he’s going to spend five fun-filled days with Grandma and Grandpa. While he’s gone, we’re going to flea-bomb the entire house. The Kid is mildly concerned that we’re going to blow the house up, but we promised him it’d still be here when he got back.

So, please, cross your fingers for me. Or get Bill Murray on the phone.

Done Enough

I pronounce this project “done enough.” Experienced remodelers know what I’m talking about. It’s not done. No home improvement project is ever really, truly done. The touch-ups alone will probably take another 2 days, and we still need to put a new coat of poly on the interior of the windows, which could easily take weeks–if we get to it at all. But functionally, that room is done enough for The Kid to move in and set up camp. See?

Before:

After:

Before:
After:
Before:
(This is but a small selection of the toys in our living room.)
After:


My Gram is coming to look at the new, improved sun/toy room this weekend. She thinks it’s going to be pretty. She doesn’t realize a five-year-old boy has already moved 85% of his stuff into it, or that Gater has already permanently wounded that cute little chair by eating part of the dust ruffle off of it.

But it’s done enough. And that’s good enough for me.

Designing Dog

This is Gater, the four-legged mutt.

He thinks he’s being helpful. Look at that face as he surveys the work-in-progress sun room. I can almost see his little mutt brain thinking, “Yup. Looking good. Keep working, though. You all ain’t done yet.” I’m tempted to call him Suzanne Sugerbaker, but I doubt he’d get the reference.

Side note: What’s with all the ‘designer’ dog names that merely make the age old breed of ‘mutt’ somehow sound ‘expensive’? I saw an ad for “Shweenies” in the paper the other day–part wiener dog, part shiz tsu. Shweeines. For $125. When I was a kid, you could find dogs like that in the classified, usually under the header ‘FREE TO A GOOD HOME.’

Which got me thinking–what would you ‘market’ Gater as? He’s part beagle, part terrier–although we’re not sure what kind of terrier. The Boston terrier people make a good argument, but the rat terrier people have their points too. Berrier? Gater the Berrier? Or Teagle? Gater the Teagle? Thoughts?

Anyway, back to the main point, which, if you recall (or, more likely, have already put far from your mind), was that Gater thinks he’s ‘helping.’

I have to say that, in fact, this particular brand of paint really sucked. But Gater didn’t help.

As you can see by the paint on his hindquarters there, he was ‘helping,’ all right. He was ‘texturizing’ the wall for us, adding visual interest and contrast in the form of what the professionals call ‘dog hair.’

It’s okay, though. That part of the wall is going to be behind window boxes. Yes, that’s right. We painted a wall that will be permanently covered up. We’re weird like that. We never would have made it in the Great Depression.

What’s that? You want to know where Jake is? Jake–my old man, my three-legged wonder wiener, my boy–is sound asleep in his chair. You know what I say to that?

Good dog.

Dogs at the Dogwood Parade

Recall how Jake the Three-Legged Wonder Wiener won his very first wiener dog race at the Mardi Pals event, held by Paw Pals?

You should. It’s been practically the only thing I’ve talked about for the last month.

Anyway, Jake made quite an impression on the Paw Pals people. A week after our stunning upset victory (and subsequent unstunning loss), Jan from Paw Pals emailed me and asked if I’d like to walk with the Paw Pals people in the annual Dogwood Parade.

I thought long and hard about it. Actually, I just checked the weather. But after I thought long and hard about the weather, I emailed her back and said “Sure!” As long as I could bring Gater and it wasn’t raining, we’d be there.

Note: Jake, in case you’ve missed the four thousand other references, only has three legs. The parade route is three miles long. Our starting position was a mile behind the official starting point. I spent a lot of time wondering if people would be able to see Jake’s legs if I carried him the whole way.

Parade day arrived–overcast, humid, and temps in the low 60s. Perfect wiener dog walking weather!

First we met up with the other walkers and dogs.

There was a lot of sniffing. Most of it was inappropriate for a family parade.

The Royal Court from Mardi Pals got to ride:

(Once upon a time, I knew the names of all these dogs and their people. Those brain cells have since died in a flood of sinus-based snot. My apologies.)

We waited to begin.

The people behind us waited even longer.

Finally, we were off!

From the spot where we normally watch parades (see last week’s Presidential Parade post for the locale), there aren’t that many people in the crowd of parade watchers. It turns out that our block is an anomaly–the route is PACKED the rest of the way.

It turns out that it’s somewhat hard to hang on to two over-excited dogs, walk, and take pictures at the same time, so when I saw my husband, I handed over the camera.

He only took one other picture:

because he knew I’d be sorry I missed them. What a guy!

Funny story:

My senior boss lives along the parade route. He, his lovely wife, and their son (the junior boss) and his family were all watching the parade. I went over to say hi, we chit-chatted, and then the junior boss looked down and saw . . . .

Gater peeing on his shoe.

Really.

I’m sure you’ll be happy to know that I remain gainfully employed. I know I’m happy to know that. I almost killed Gater right then and there, though, but that seemed to be in poor taste, given we were walking an animal rescue organization.

All in all, we had a good time (peeing notwithstanding). Jake managed to walk all but about 15 minutes of the parade, and the kids (who had a good angle to see the missing leg) loved him. Gater was a little uncomfortable with all the extra attention (see above mention of peeing incident) but Jake was living it up.

He slept for the next 20 hours, though.

Fame can do that to a fellow.

The Presidential Parade

So, Mr. President himself came to my quiet little hometown last week. He flew into our airport, took a helicopter to Iowa, spent the night, helicoptered back to our airport, hopped in a SUV and drove to Missouri (Macon, hello!) and then finally came back to Quincy . . .  for a 40 minute speech. Then it was back to running the country!

In other words, he was in Quincy for a net total of an hour and a half. And for this, our whole town was in a serious state of lather for almost two weeks. The last time Mr. President was here, he was still running to be Mr. President, and we were in the middle of a rather nasty flood. He filled a few sandbags, shook some hands, and posed for some photos. He was the only candidate to come, and our Mayor asked him to come back if he was elected. (Heck, he might have asked him to come back anyway. I don’t know.)

So he came back.

Tickets to see him speak went like hotcakes, and the lines to get into the convention center where he was speaking were long. He was to speak at 4, you really sort of needed to be in the building by 2, and it was standing room only. And I’m paid by the hour, and someone’s got to get the kid from daycare. So I didn’t go see him speak.

But then the rumors started that he would be exiting our fair city down Maine Street, less than three blocks from where I live. Around 4:45 in the afternoon.

I decided that I’d get the kid right after work and we’d go wave at the motorcade. About 75 other people had the same idea. There was quite a crowd on our corner!

I took the Kid, the Girl Next Door, Gater, and some flags left over from the 4th of July parade last year.

We waited.

We waited for a long time before this police vehicle went by:

Followed by these police motorcycles:

The Kid began to get excited. But we waited some more before, finally, off in the distance:

See the kid holding the dog? He got yelled at for standing in the street. Standing in the street–even by a foot–is not allowed!


This was about the point that we all realized that the motorcade was traveling at about 40+ miles an hour (in a 30 mph zone, no less!).


40 miles an hour is really too fast to both take pictures AND actually look inside the vehicles to see Mr. President. But for our purposes here, I think he’s in that first SUV. Someone to my right said she thought she saw him!

There were quite a lot of vehicles traveling in the world’s fastest parade.

Close to 30 total, I think. All zipping down the cleared street at top speed.

And then it was over.

And The Kid looked at me with the greatest sense of disappointment on his face. The world’s fastest parade had blown right by him with no waving, no dogs in silly outfits, and, most importantly, no candy being thrown out the window.

Something tells me this won’t be a memory he treasures forever.