The blog itself should have no bearing on how I feel about that little psychotic head case of a dog.  Let me assure you that she’s gotten us through a lot of tough times when spirits were down here around the compound.

That being said, it rained today.  The key indication is that thunder was involved too.

Remember earlier this week when I wished for rain during the waking hours?  What I meant was that I wished for rain during the waking hours when someone is home to keep the psychotic little head case in check.

Just thought I’d clarify that, because the opportunity for Faith to escape the castle and cross the moat to freedom presented itself twice today while we weren’t there.  On both occasions, Faith seized on the opportunity and bolted.

Even still, Faith was gracious enough between escape attempts to pose for a portrait while wearing her Thundershirt.  I was quite happy about it, because pictures of her never turn out right, what with her inability to sit still or her dark brown eyes getting hidden in her jet black hair.

I think I may even submit the picture with the success story I submit to Cubeville in support of the San Antonio Humane Society.

I’m pretty sure I did.  It’s not like I would make that stuff up.

Today I got my wish when the thunder, lightning, and rain arrived mid-morning and carried on for an hour or two at least.  Strangely enough, I was awake.

“Would you consider going home for lunch to check up on Faith?”  Wifey asked me that this morning.

Translation:  “Regardless of what we do, Faith is going to go ape shit when the thunder comes.  I need you to go home during lunch, straighten up whatever furniture she’s been bouncing off for the last few hours, and pick up the expelled contents of her colon off of what I’m guessing will be the kitchen floor.  But before you do so, it wouldn’t hurt to take a picture of the destruction and text it to me.  Who knows?  It may make good blog material.”

Shows how much she knows.  The expelled contents of Faith’s colon were in the foyer, not the kitchen.

Beyond that, I followed the implied instructions, and almost in the correct order.  The picture came after I picked up a potato masher and the can it gets stored in.

But wait.  There’s more.

One of the admirable things about the people who run Cubeville is their charitable spirit.  Every year, the company picks a specific local charity to support for the year.  Over that time, various events are held both at work and off site to raise cash and awareness for the charity.  This year, the charity we selected was the San Antonio Humane Society.

Background has been set.  Stay with me here.

Upon returning to work from a disappointing lunch time visit to my beloved dogs, an email lay there in the ole inbox.  It said:

We want your adoption success story!

 Did you adopt your best friend from the San Antonio Humane Society?

We want to know about your experience, and your furry friend!

Ladies and gentlemen, have I ever told you about the origin of the species as it applies to Faith?  I know I’ve told you how we came about our pit bull Hope, but I’m pretty sure I haven’t told you where we got Faith.

During the Christmas of 2006, we wandered into the San Antonio Humane Society one night and fell in love with an 8 week old black lab mix named Buddy.  We had gotten there too late that night to adopt him, so the kids and I went back the next morning to bring the little guy home.

Unfortunately, someone else had fallen in love with Buddy the night before and arrived at the same time that next morning to adopt him.  Had I not been polite and held the door for them upon arriving at the Human Society, we would have gotten Buddy.

We didn’t get Buddy.  Even worse, I apparently didn’t learn my lesson.  I still hold doors for people.

As we wandered around, we happened across a couple of Buddy’s littermates in one kennel.  They had been named Blossom and Buttercup.

We took Blossom.

She was renamed later that day and the rest is history and a series of blogs.

At this point, I’m pondering what kind of “success story” to write about that psychotic head case of a little dog of mine that hasn’t been said before.

Perhaps I don’t have to write anything.  After all, a picture’s worth a 1000 words; especially a picture of a psychotic head case of a little dog posing in her lavender scented Thundershirt near the crime scene where she perpetuated kitchen utensil homicide coupled with assault and battery on an oven just a few short hours before.

Deep down, I know that if this dog ever had access to a basement, she would have a basket with lotion in it for the captives in the makeshift well.

All things being equal, I think I’ll take the pit bull burping in my face.

What’s the deal with that?

Generally I don’t have a problem with thunderstorms.  The reason for that is because I grew up in Wyoming where I have no conscious memory of being caught up in one powerful enough to entrench itself into my skull as part of either a good or bad memory.

In fact, the only time I can remember it raining with any real consistency out there in the great plains was usually on Mother’s Day when the kids start playing baseball.  Here in Texas and generally nationwide, the Little League season usually starts in mid-March.  The league I participated in up there couldn’t start baseball that early because there was usually still snow on the ground or it was just to cold.

Back to the rain.

For whatever reason, I like to sit and watch it if it’s really coming down.  The effects of the gamma radiation subside and I become calm just watching it.

Wifey is a different story, and generally hates it.  There was an event in her past where she was caught up in a nasty storm while sitting in a travel trailer.

As for Faith, the TharpSter TreadMill, she hates it.  She generally tries to find the tightest little corner to hide from the noise.  As a result, laundry baskets get dumped over, shampoo bottles get knocked off the side of the tub, and on at least one occasion, the seal between the tank and the bowl on the toilet gets misadjusted from her trying to hide under the thing.

Did I mention that I don’t mind thunderstorms?  I generally don’t.

Did I mention that I don’t mind loud-ass cracks of lightening and thunder which jolt me from a deep REM state where the recesses of my subconscious has put me in a world free of roving mariachis and beanless nachos?

Yeah I know I didn’t, because I do mind those things.

I do mind the fact that cracks of thunder and lightning go off at 3:30 in the morning and my legs start running before my brain can engage and tell them to stop.

I do mind the fact that Faith jumps in bed and cuddles close enough to become my conjoined twin when the thunder and lightning work their magic on the contents of her little skull.

I do mind the fact that Faith is usually shaking so hard that my bed becomes it’s own shiatsu massager, yet not the good kind.

Pardon me for being grumpy, but those little worlds generated in my dreams where the life of an innocent bean is not sacrificed for the benefit of my palate or anyone else’s are quite enjoyable.

The way I see it, one of two things need to happen.

1. Beans and roving mariachis go away.

2. Thunderstorms need to be rescheduled to take place in the waking hours when I can enjoy them for all of their splendor.

Who do I talk to about that?

Yeah, I didn’t write that one.  If you don’t know who did, then you and I appear to have different tastes in music.

No big deal though.  To each his own.

For Cinco de Mayo, I dragged my lazy one out of the bed, put on those blasted bifocals, packed up Junior and went off to Home Depot.

You know why I went there don’t you?

Because it’s Saturday and that’s what you’re supposed to do on a day off.

The way I figure it, the next few Saturdays are going to be pretty busy between an event in Cubeville and the pending graduation of Junior from high school.  What better way to spend the day than to go to your toy store, spend more than you originally planned, and then cap the whole fiesta infused day off by changing out the trim on the door which leads into the garage?

Actually I can think of plenty of things which would top that, but I’m trying to take on an optimistic, “glass is a quarter full” type of attitude here.

The door generally looks like crap, but it’s at least functional.  It’s basically been Faith’s bitch over the years as she has spent several quality hours tearing up the door knob and the trim.  Now that she’s been persuaded (threatened) not to scratch at it anymore, I feel it’s safe to replace the trim now without the risk of have having to do it again anytime soon.  That’s of course based on the fact that I do it right the first time.

*pauses to consider whether it will be done right the first time*

In the process of putting the fix in place, I learned something on that momentous day.  Sometimes you just gotta throw caution to the wind and strip the screw.

Remember that when you have an especially stubborn screw or two when removing a door hinge.  You don’t really want to half ass it on these things.  Otherwise, you’re just puttin’ up ugly.

The color itself made a prominent entrance Into my life about 10 years ago when the perils of life in cubeville landed me in a position of cleaning up the boo-boos (ranging from minor to colossal) of others.

Given that I have a propensity for seeking out problems to solve (or cause), this particular role was right up my alley.

“Right up my alley”.

Alright people, let’s get this out and in the open right now.  That phrase is a common place cliché.  I have nothing against them, but at the same time, I don’t like to use them in my writing.

Give me a minute and I might think of another metaphor for how problem solving (causing) is my forte.

In the meantime, let’s get back to the girly lavender.

While in the process of fixing the messes of others, two of my cohorts on the same team were involved with suggesting system enhancements which could potentially make our collective lives a little bit easier.  All of their documentation and spreadsheets which typically justified their cause always carried a lavender colored theme.

It was pretty.

Fast forward a decade and let’s move onto another sensory input, that being the nose.  Around here at the TharpSter compound, it’s a common one.

Did you know that the scent of lavender can have a calming effect?  At least I understand it works that way on dogs.  Since the TharpSter TreadMill has been known to be high strung and generally nervous, we’ve been known to use a scented spray on her pillow and harness just to get her to chill during bad weather.  To some extent it works, but I’ve got to wonder if it’s effects are complimentary to the miracle of veterinary pharmaceuticals which help her forget all about the loud thunder and the rumbling garbage trucks.

Of course, calming the dog down isn’t the only reason we use lavender scents around the compound here.

I won’t go into a whole lot of detail, except for the fact that the odoriferous emanations produced by a different sort of spray help us all to relieve other stresses.

For some of you, the title pretty much sums it up. For others, not so much.

I could go into an awe inspiring bit on how I’m of the belief that one of the most poignant, hard hitting sermons ever, was delivered by a rooster.

But I won’t. It’s not my own material, and Lord knows I’m not interested in participating in too much piracy here on the Internet

Instead, I’ll just babble a bit about a dog and a ringtone if you don’t mind.

Have you ever heard of “Chicken Impossible”?

Of course you have.

For those of you who haven’t heard of “Chicken Impossible”, it’s pretty much what you would expect it to be. Chickens clucking out the theme to “Mission Impossible”.

For whatever reason I can’t remember, I possess a copy of that ringtone within my iTunes library. It’s subsequently made it’s way on to Juniorette’s phone.

And it’s that little tidbit, ladies and gentlemen, which brings you here today.

With the recent arrival of the TharpSter 4S and subsequent passing along of the TharpSter 3GS to my daughter, a new dynamic has made itself known in the compound in the last week or so.

Somewhere between 5:30 am and 6:00 am on any given school day, Juniorette has set the alarm on her iPhone to go off. The tune she uses is “Chicken Impossible”.

Juniorette is either a hard sleeper or very stubborn, because it’s very rare that the alarm gets turned off within a matter of seconds. She lets it go for awhile.

The first time it happened, the noise from down the hall sent our high strung lab-jack Faith into a nervous tizzy which resulted in obsessive pacing, clinging, and shaking. All of those pieces, of course were just complementary to the WTF look on her face when it happened. It’s happened a few more times since then with the same result.

Faith already has a veritable medicine cabinet of things which torment her out in the backyard between the stray cats (they reunited) and the taunting squirrels. Judging by her bark when it happens, it probably doesn’t help that Junior and I tend to ambush each other with Nerf Guns.

But now, that poor dog has the featured star from tomorrow night’s dinner messing with her under delusions of grandeur that it’s poultry born espionage has a noble cause.

Looking back on it all, maybe it would have been better to discuss Matthew 26:74-75 instead.

As I reported to you last week, the TharpSter Pit Bull has been holed up in veterinary hell in order to extricate a whole load of pillow stuffing from her stomach and bowel.

Now, after several days of recuperating, Hope is ready to come home.  We plan to pick her up later after work.

Meanwhile, Faith the TharpSter Treadmill has been as happy as she can be in her role as the HBIC.

Suffice to say, Faith and Hope haven’t really gotten along in the last year.

This afternoon, I went home for lunch just to make sure Faith was doing alright.  While I was there, Faith opted to stay outside and take in some sun.

No problem there.

Fortunately, the evil squirrels and cats which frequent the compound had chosen to meet for a group luncheon at Chili’s, so Faith had the yard to herself.

But then, it came time for me to leave.

As expected, I had to coax Faith back into the house.  She begrudgingly came inside and followed me to the door.  It was almost like she knew what was going to happen in a matter of hours.

As I opened the front door and cautioned her to stay back, she just looked at me soberly and found her voice.

That’s right, people.

Faith spoke.

She’s been with us for five and half years, and only now she’s opted to communicate with us in a language we could understand.

In clear, perfect English, Faith asked me a question.

“You’re not going to bring that bitch back home, are you?”

It’s not like I would ever use cash in those places.  That would imply that I’m adhering to spending limits set by the number of dead presidents and statesmen in my wallet.  In all reality, I should clarify that it’s usually dead presidents who occupy my wallet.  Pictures of the first and sixteenth come to mind.

Back in the 70′s error (I did that on purpose) when my age wasn’t weighted down by more than one digit,  the TharpSter Dad would drag me and my little brother off to Pay & Pak on occasion with the mission of obtaining some sort of gadget to complete whatever project he had going at the time which would further entrench him into the status of “Weekend Warrior”.

I hated it and so did my brother.

Just as a side note, you may have noticed my assault on good manners in my grammar when I made reference to my little brother.  Specifically, the offense was listing myself first.  About that, I will say this.

I was born first, and as such I’m the older brother.  That’s the way it is.

He won’t take too much offense to it, as he will be the first to tell you that he doesn’t read my blog or anything else.  It’s not that he can’t; he just chooses not to.  It’s such a passionate stand on his part that if this great country of ours ever undertakes an anti-literacy campaign, he’ll be the one holding the banner littered with subject verb disagreements, malaprops, and comma splices.

Pay & Pak was the one home improvement store we had access to in Casper, Wyoming during my formative years.  By the time Dad started patronizing them, they had taken up occupation in the old Woolco building.  Back then, we didn’t have places like Home Depot or Lowe’s.  The Casper economy was just not sufficient to support places like that.  Even if it had been, I doubt they would have survived back then.  I’ve got to think that hardware stores and the like were designed for those who knew what the hell they were doing in those days.

Nowadays, any idiot (such as myself) can watch something on cable or find a YouTube video to generate that wild hair of do-it-yourself confidence to build or fix just about anything.  Today’s home improvement centers exist in order to enable such short sighted behavior.  If a buck can be saved by refusing the training and experience of a professional, doing it yourself appears to be the way to go.  Home Depot and Lowe’s are there to nudge you further in your ignorance, and continue to exploit your Peter Principle as it applies to home improvement.

Of this, I speak with experience.  When I replaced my water heater two years ago, I made no less than 10 different trips to two different Home Depot stores over a two day period in order to procure the right tubing and fittings to insure the supply of hot water here in the compound wasn’t leaking into my bedroom.

Don’t laugh.  I did it for a third of the cost and I have hot water.  The only smell of gas outside of the closet where the heater is stored is typically emitted by my son or one of the dogs.

As much as I hated when Dad hauled me and my brother off to Pay & Pak when I was young, I now refer to those places as the Toy Store.  It was boring back then.  Tubing, fittings, joint compound, primer, horse power, grit and gauge were worthless terms to us which had nothing to do with more important matters like laying assault on the family’s border collie with our Evil Knievel toys.

Things have changed since then.  Namely, Evil Knievel and our border collie are no longer with us.  All of those little doo-dads, gizzies, and gadgets which used to drive me nuts with boredom make sense to me now.  At the same time, my own kids hate to go with me whenever I have a mission to fulfill.

“Boy?”

“Yeah, Dad?”

“I’m going to the Toy Store.  Do you want to go?”

“Not this time Dad.  Ask me later on today when you have to go back.”

Here at TharpSter.Org, a trip to the home improvement center isn’t successful until you have to go back.

Speaking of going back, it looks like I’ll need to do exactly that.

As you can see in the picture, the windows here at TharpSter.Org are littered with blinds.  I hate them.  Most necessary evils are meant to be hated.

Based on what I’ve been able to gather from Faith, the TharpSter TreadMill, the blinds provide no real appeal (aesthetic or palatable) to high strung Labrador-Jack Russell mixes who thrive on separation anxiety.

Look a little closer at one of those sets of blinds.  Notice how the strings just hang off of it and it has no bottom liner?

I had to cut the bottom portion off because it no longer maintained a parallel mentality with the rest of the blinds.

Such an assault to geometry can be attributed to Faith this last week for no apparent reason outside of the fact that when we left the house, we let her roam outside of her kennel.  She had free reign of the house that day to where she could have played Guitar Hero, or just kicked it on the couch.

Instead, she chose to jack with our “window treatments”.  She’s done it before, she’ll do it again.

It’s not like she was beset with a siege of Evil Knievel toys.

Now, I get to go back to the Toy Store in order to procure a replacement set.  The one benefit is that they have a wide variety of brands which range in price from “cheap enough to pay out of my wallet” to “There’s no way I’m going to pay that much for that thing, only to have the dog destroy it.”  Naturally I go with the ugly, low end blinds.

Even still, I pay with the debit card.

The plans on board for today were relatively simple.  Church and then an anniversary lunch were scheduled to take up a better part of the itinerary on this second week of the 2011 NFL season.  Holding true to our plans, we got up this morning and prepared to leave.

As such, we put a muzzled and medicated TharpSter TreadMill in her kennel right next to the kenneled TharpSter Pit.  We subsequently pushed the soon-to-be coffee table (aka:  TharpSter’s unfinished project) up against the TreadMill’s kennel.

I’d like to think I don’t need to explain why we locked Faith up in her kennel and then blocked the entrance (Faith would rather refer to it as the exit).

I’d like to think by now that you’ve read enough stories here about our stubborn and tenacious lab-jack mix of a dog, that you are aware such measures to keep her in check are necessary.

For those of you who may be new to the wonders of life with my dogs, please refer to the picture of the Faith’s kennel at the side.  Notice how the bottom portion of it is bent “in”.  That’s right people.  Faith has taken to pulling at the bars on her kennel in an effort to channel the spirit of Harry Houdini with the goal of escaping her bondage.

The coffee table was put in front of her cage to further inhibit her “can-do” attitude.

Let’s summarize.

Faith, the poster child for separation anxiety in canines was medicated with a doggie sized dosage of Xanax, was left in her kennel this morning while wearing a muzzle along with her standard harness and collar.  She wasn’t wearing the collar which is tied to the invisible fence that surrounds the compound.  The door to her kennel was locked and blocked.  Hope the pit bull was in her own kennel enjoying her new pillow.

We went to church.

Afterward, we went out for a nice lunch.  At this point, I’m still trying to figure out why they asked me how I wanted my prime rib cooked.  One would tend to think it’s part of some meat inspired law that prime rib is only to be cooked somewhere between rare and medium rare.  Beyond that, the only other issue we had was treating an allergic reaction to strawberry sauce on the cheesecake.  Everything turned out fine though.  Happy Anniversary Honey!

Once we got home from lunch, we found everything just about where we left it.

Hope was in her kennel on her new pillow.

The *ahem* coffee table was still in front of Faith’s kennel.  Her muzzle and body harness were on the floor of said kennel.  The floor was wet, by the way.  She had unsurprisingly dumped her water bowl.

As for Faith, that was somewhat of a different story.   Wearing only her collar, the silly little dog saw it fitting enough to greet us at the door in order to expound in her own way the necessity of proper pet containment.

Such a meteorological event has become a rare occurrence here in my neck of the woods as of late. As such, I can think of a couple of good reasons why we’ve been in a drought throughout this year. Both of those reasons carry about the same amount of weight, and are evenly matched in their respective abilities to affect the weather around here.

The reasons are:

1. Global warming
2. The fact that I turned 43 this year

Rather than bore you with the dead on, wild ass guesses which connect the dots in a Rorschach-like level of pinpoint accuracy and explain in extreme detail why it’s raining here in San Antonio, I’ll dispense with discussion of the cause and move right to the effects.

First of all, it’s wet outside.

No duh.

The skies are overcast, and the 100 degree days have made like Ben Franklins fish and relatives and have left for the time being.

As I sit here at the kitchen table typing away on the portable version of TharpSter.Org, I can ‘t help but feel a certain level of physical discomfort as I pen my next dispatch to the web.

Far be it for me to yammer ad nauseam (bitchin’ Latin phrase produced in italics) about the importance of ergonomics when working on a computer. I should, however point out the fact that it’s important to pull your seat up to the table and exercise a modicum of posture when you’re typing.

As much as I would like to practice what I preach, my happy space for creating verbal brilliance has been compromised by the rain.

How, you may ask?

It’s quite simple really. I’ve got a dog who has been afraid of rain all of her life. It’s gotten to a point where I don’t need to rely on the pinheaded meteorologists who litter the local airwaves with color coded maps and stupid senses of humor. I don’t need to use the wonders of the internet or smart phone apps to figure out if it’s going to rain. All I have to do is realize the heavy panting and excessive clinging displayed by Faith at any given time is a sign that I’d better make sure my windows are rolled up in the truck. Be it a sprinkle or a storm, moisture from the sky is coming.

As a result of her fear, Faith has currently taken up a station under the kitchen table here right by my leg. Even more, she’s panting nervously in an irregular fashion against the aforementioned leg. For whatever reason, the process is throwing all of my rhythms out of kilter.

I could go into a long discussion about the different rhythms I use when writing, but that would reveal just a piece of my solipsism which I just don’t want to pass on yet.

I don’t really understand why our dog Faith (aka: The TharpSter TreadMill) is afraid of rain. We initially brought her home from the San Antonio Humane Society (I’ve provided the link in hopes that you will be inspired to do something charitable) during the Christmas of 2006 when she was 8 weeks old and previously named ‘Blossom’. There were a couple of times in that first week or so where I took her out front to do her colonic bidness behind the hedge. The rain was heavy at the time, but not up against the house where she was adding dynamic obstacles to the terrain.

None the less, she’s maintained the fear of rain throughout her whole life. A couple of years ago when she was still the only dog in the organization, we packed up and went out for dinner at Chili’s. I think I had the quesadillas that night. While we were there, a flash thunderstorm hit and dumped an inch or two of rain on us in what seemed like a matter of minutes. At the time, Faith was here at home, probably looking up dirty pictures on the internet when the storm hit. By the time we got home, Faith had broken out of the house in a pure full blown panic and ended up at a family barbeque a few miles away. Fortunately, said grilling family used the information on her tags and contacted the vet to get Faith safely returned back to us the next day.

Here we are a few years later, and we still find ourselves catering to the her fears. Life goes on.

Nowadays, we have a small measure in place which seems to take the edge off.

That’s right people. We’re doping The TharpSter TreadMill. We mentioned the issue to the vet a year or so ago, and he prescribed Alprazolam.

Alpra-what?

Certainly you may not know of this little wonder by it’s clinical name. Much like all of the popular drugs nowadays, it’s a little blue pill that’s either capable of putting the edge on, taking the edge off, or leaving one blissfully ignorant of the goings on within The Matrix.

Alprazolam is generally known by it’s brand name of Xanax.

This little gem can be jammed down the throat of a less than willing dog who would rather not throw it back with a glass of water or a slurp from the toilet.

Granted, the easier way to administer a pharmaceutically induced sense of nirvana is to just shove it into a hot dog and let nature take it’s course.

Either way works.

Naturally, I opt for the ole ”Xanax in the hot dog” trick. She never sees it coming and subsequently survives the rain.