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.

From:  TharpSter

Date:  October 4, 2010

RE:  I’m back

That’s right people I’ve returned to the fabric covered land of Cubeville in favor of continued gainful employment.  Between now and the last week of the year, you can count on seeing my hiney and the rest of me ensconced in dark solids and planted firmly in front of some strategically mapped out spreadsheet on one monitor, and the dreaded new version of Lotus Notes on the other.  I’ve disabled the auto reply on my notes announcing that I’m out of office.  I’ll change the outgoing message on my voicemail in a few minutes.

Did you miss me? Has Office Services provided my new battery operated desk fan yet?

Naturally, I expect a few of you to approach me on my return and ask the dreaded question: “Hey how was your vacation?”

To be absolutely honest, I hate that question.  I came to the conclusion many years ago that there’s no creative answer I can give you.  You should know by now that short of the two weeks I took this last March (part of which was building a nasty ear infection on Pike’s Peak), that I don’t do anything on my extended time off.  That’s why I call them ‘Staycations’ instead.

However if you must know, I’ll give you a rundown of what I did. 

First of all, I trimmed the hedge and mowed the lawn.  My lawnmower hasn’t worked correctly all season so I borrowed my brother—in-law’s.  No worries on that one though.  His wasn’t working that well last year, so he borrowed mine all last summer.  We’ve come to the conclusion that among the CFO’s siblings and her mother, it’s rare that all five households ever have a properly working lawnmower at any given time. 

According to the app I’m using to aid in the TharpSter PounDown event, I burned 549 calories in an effort to remove the façade of ‘Redneck Chic’ from the compound.  For those of you playing the home game, I’m down about twelve from the point in August when the surgeon gave me a shot of whiskey and a bullet to bite on while he took the machete-like scalpel to that thing on my chest (pictures available on request).  The cyst, by the way, is clearing up nicely and the hair is starting to grow back.

Pretty exciting, don’t you think?

Doing the lawn wasn’t the only thing I did though.  I also fixed the door into the garage. 

It would seem sometime this last spring, the TharpSter TreadMill let her psychotic separation anxiety copulate with her irrational fear of rain and thunder in order to put a laser like focus on tearing up one of my own doors.  Just a matter of days before, the door knob on said door had been rendered useless.  Yeah, it was me.  I broke it.  It’s a long story that’s not very blog-worthy. 

None the less, I had removed the knob with the intention of replacing it.  In the midst of the TharpSter tragic flaw known as my procrastination, the compound was beset with rain and thunder sufficient enough to throw the Lab-Jack into a froth filled tizzy large enough to make Cesar Millan give up his calm assertive behavior in favor of a good choke chain.

When all was said and done, Faith had torn up the existing hole in the door in an effort to find some semblance of refuge in the garage.  The dog is definitely about the latter half of fight or flight when it comes to the rain.

Several weekends, many months, and two vacations later, the TharpSter Dad appeared in town on vacation from his duties at the western branch and made a suggestion or two about the door involving copious amounts of wood putty.  I’m sure the likes of Hank Hill and Norm Abrams wouldn’t be very proud for what we did, however the door now has a functioning handle on it.  I’ll eventually get around to painting it.

While we’re somewhat on the subject of the dogs, I’m glad to announce that our Pit Bull Hope will finish her basic obedience training next week, provided she doesn’t break wind during her loose leash walking exam.  It’s amazing what that dog will do for a small piece of hot dog or cheese.  We’re quite proud and will probably look to continue her training.

Speaking of flatulence, we’re still looking for a place here at the compound to put the fan which I had to unceremoniously remove from my cubicle at the auxiliary office.

So those are probably the most productive activities I participated in this last week.  In the same time period, two of you fellow cubicle dwellers now grace my friends listing on Facebook.  I attended two baseball games where my son’s team won by ten-run rule.  Fall ball this season should be a good one.  I watched some DVDs on the new 42”; including The Runaways (good), Crazy on the Outside (predictable and boring), and an unaired episode of Family Guy which serves to trample both sides of the abortion debate (hilarious).

In order to expedite the loss of my hearing, I’ve added some tunes to my library which help keep me rocking.  The entire new Linkin Park offering (A Thousand Suns) is pretty good, as well as the song Born Free by Kid Rock.  Check them out.

Out in the blog world, I banged out three articles which touched on my impending vacation, my colorful assault on the 9/11 truther movement, and an update on the activities of our Pit Bull.  In addition, I’ve started what promises to be a spirited discussion over the premise of progressive taxation.  My prediction is that the blogger will become so infuriated with my persistence that he’ll either delete my commentary or moderate them into oblivion in the same manner I kill off stupid comments which land here.

Yes.  I’m back from a week of staycation.  The term alone should tell you that I completed a whole lotta nada.

Aren’t you glad you asked?

It’s 7 am on a Saturday morning at the end of August. The neighbors aren’t up. I know this because I have an opportunity to read their newspaper. I’m out in the backyard watching the dogs apply just enough canine urine (female) to the lawn in order to keep it qualified for hospice care. The 68 degree temperature is uncharacteristic for south central Texas during this time of year.

I wrote the first two paragraphs of this article on my iPhone this morning in the notes application. At the point I finished the second paragraph; the dogs approached me in their attention whore-like behavior. In one way or another, I must have shaken the iPhone enough to activate the undo feature. The only part which survived the shaking was the first sentence. Needless to say, I was a little ticked off to find that all of the efforts I executed to fat finger yet another piece of verbal brilliance without hitting the ‘M’ key instead of the space key had been rendered moot. Not wanting to lose such art again to a mere shake, I’ve decided to continue my Saturday morning soliloquy on the computer.

To me, it’s the strangest thing in which I come by the inspiration to compose these dispatches to the worldwide web. Ninety percent of the material I manage to publish comes by way of some sort of waking epiphany which presents itself when my slumber ends and my consciousness takes hold. On some of those mornings as I sit on the edge of the bed in a desperate attempt to conjure a really good excuse for avoiding the day’s agenda, the monologue between my ears kicks into high gear and I’m suddenly in possession of the next collection of a thousand words which will make its way onto my computer. Sadly, my computer and ability to publish aren’t as fast as all of the colorful metaphors which sprout up during my brain’s process of assembling my next masterpiece.

I had one of those mornings this morning. Probably one of the most memorable terms which came to mind this morning was “nipple laden corpulence”. Sure it’s a phrase which may get your attention for a moment or two, however unless there are pictures, I don’t believe it’s anything to keep a readers attention.

As much as I had wanted to fire up the pc at that exact moment in order to capture on hard drive that which was going through my head, I couldn’t. Without saying a word, I had conveyed a non-verbal energy to TreadMill & the Pit that I would take them for a walk. Canine impatience was edging out my creativity in an effort to reign supreme.

It had actually been quite some time since I had taken Faith on an early morning walk. By getting away from that ritual, there have been consequences. She’s lost the discipline of being a good doggy on a leash. At the same time, I had lost any semblance of exercise that I bother to participate in. Last night I had gotten the gumption to take her and her alone for a walk. For whatever reason, I not only had the gumption to take her again just 12 short hours later, but I also felt compelled to include our pit bull Hope.

That’s right people. Walking these two gives me 35 pounds of resistance on one arm and 55 pounds on the other. The saving grace is that Hope is pretty good with walking on a loose leash. That’s except for when Faith is present, then she follows suit with the Faith’s bad habits.

For the most part, the morning walk was uneventful. The odoriferous emanations of the morning conveyed the message to the three of us that there were skunks nearby, and they were probably in the midst of bumpin’ uglies.

As I worked to clear such imagery from my mind, I continued to focus on being the calm, assertive pack leader to the dogs. At the same time, I couldn’t help but ponder the possible danger we could be in on those occasions where we take our walk in the dark. As a perpetual purveyor of the arts which involves wearing dark solids, I couldn’t help but to think that vehicles passing by may not see the three of us humping it up and down the street. I should probably consider wearing lighter colors when I go out. The alternative would be to put some reflective tape on my shirt. Perhaps the words “In Tow” plastered across my back would do the trick.

I should probably take this moment to explain my gumption to get back into the habit of walking the dogs more regularly. Obviously, the answer to that one is easy. It’s good for the dogs and it exercises my control over them. Hope is currently going through obedience training, so such activity will reinforce the lessons and commands which she’s taking in.

Granted, there is a selfish element involved which presented itself in the form of a sebaceous cyst. Last week, I had an infected one on my sternum. Without going into a lot of detail, let me assure you that it hurt to have it removed. I’m pretty sure the term “nipple laden corpulence” came from my thoughts on discussing the cyst. Prior to the surgeon making the thing look like a coin slot, the infected red bump had a nipple-like façade.

In the process of having the cyst taken care of, I found myself on the scales both at the regular doctor’s office as well as that of the surgeon.

Geez, I’ve let myself go.

It wasn’t much of a surprise though. The spring of 2010 had been pretty stressful, what with activities I had taken on in my personal life combined with an assignment at the auxiliary offices. I don’t need to go see a shrink to understand that gluttony is probably one of my favorite defense and coping mechanisms.

I’ve gotten off lucky with it though, as I don’t have any problems like high blood pressure, diabetes, or even the cholesterol issues which one would normally associate with such bad eating habits.

Regardless, the number which showed up on the scale was way beyond what I have always considered unacceptable. I need to do something about it.

There’s a lady at the auxiliary office that has been in the process of losing weight. She does a lot of walking and she’s adjusted her diet. Based on what she’s done, I can at least start off by doing the same thing. I’ve set my goals, my timeline, and my game plan. I’m also tracking things through an app on my phone. When all is said and done, the TharpSter PounDown Event of 2010 / 2011 will have me feeling a lot better about things within the next 12 months.

That’s all I’ll let you know. I may follow up with the occasional update, depending on what creative word combinations my brain can generate on any given morning. For now though, I’ve got to wrap it up here. I’ve got to go find some reflective tape.

Yup.  So have I.

I really won’t go into a great deal of detail to explain or justify my absence, as it’s immaterial.  Just know that the absence has been widespread.  The absence has been so ubiquitous that I’ve even locked people out on Lotus Notes Sametime at the auxiliary offices.

In the last few weeks, among other events not worth a mention, I’ve fended off idiotic attacks on this very website in which spammers would copy previously posted comments into what would serve as their own comment.  Outside of providing a link to their own blog or website, I can only fathom what these “headspace for rent” idgits had in mind when they put their lack of creativity on display for the whole world to see.  At the very least, I became motivated to teach the dogs a new trick after this group of malcontents hit the organization repeatedly one day last week.

So what’s happening?

I’ll tell you what’s happening.  Things around the organization here had gotten a little depressing.  The Board of Directors had practically given up all faith and hope that Faith and Hope (aka TreadMill & the Pit) would ever achieve a state of nirvana with being left here at the compound alone.  To be completely honest with you, I’m still pretty sure they were planning a dog slobber laden coup.

Naturally, you may be wondering how I knew they had something in the works.  As the father of a couple teenagers, I can tell you that I’ve developed an ability to read certain behavior and figure out what’s going on.  The dogs had been exhibiting similar behavior as of late.  My first real clue revealed itself when I witnessed the two divas synchronizing their activities out in the back yard.  Once I realized what was going on, it didn’t take a whole lot of rocket science to smack my spacious forehead with an open palm.

Once the sting went away, I assembled the puzzle pieces the dogs had been throwing around.  Couch cushions were indiscriminately left lying around showing visible signs of physical torture.  An assault on the TharpSter economy was levied against no less than four AT&T U-verse remotes which were unable to withstand the stress and strain of the Pit Bull bite strength.  Baked goods had been pulled off of countertops.  The external perimeter of the compound had been breached so as to provide no viable containment.  Recent thunderstorms inspired them to make Headquarters resemble that of a bloody crime scene thanks to the aid of aluminum blinds.  One morning, we woke to find what had obviously been a high stakes poker game on the floor of the master suite.  Following their standard paradigm, the divas left their cards and poker chips lying around without bothering to put them away.  I’m not sure which one won, however she managed to bluff her opponent’s aces over eights with a lousy pair of twos.

With the signs screaming imminent threat, the Board of Directors convened an emergency meeting in order to prepare a defense for whatever battle plans lay ahead.  The first move was an obvious one; get the Pit Bull into obedience training.  This was probably something we should have done in January when she joined the organization.  Four weeks into class, I’m proud to say that she will sit, and lay down based on a hand signal.  She will also walk on a leash with you without the benefit of dislocating your arm.  Her co-conspirator is a little more stubborn in taking on some of the lessons which have been taught, however the guy on the other end of the leash is more stubborn and intent on getting his own way.

Step two came by way of stopping the brindle diva from chewing on things like my day planner, our remote controls, my headphones, the couch, the kitchen chairs, and TharpSter footwear.  That one came easier than expected with one simple word.  “Yuck.”

All together,now.

“Yuck.”

NaturVet Bitter Yuck! is a spray which can be applied to about anything to keep the household varmints from chewing on your stuff.  It was recommended to us by the dog trainer who had no shame in telling us that she had tried the product herself.

It works.

We sprayed it on the couch, the throw pillows, assorted stuffed animals, base boards around the doors, and even as you guessed it, the remote control.  As a result, none of the listed items have been subjected to the TharpSter.Org Pit Bull Bite Strength.  Keep in mind here that the owner of said bite strength has been known to take part in coprophagia.  Just sayin’.

Perhaps the real coup de gras on the part of the Board of Directors in putting down a perceived rebellion was the decision to enhance containment.  Concrete under the fence?  No way.  Razor wire on top of the fence?  Perish the thought.  Virtual moat?  You betcha.

Divas at the front door

That’s right people.  We put in an invisible fence around the perimeter of the compound.  By doing so, the divas are forbidden to get within a foot of the fence in back without getting a static correction from their collars.  If they get out the front door, they can only get half way into the front yard before encountering the same consequence.  The real thing we have to make sure of now is that the crasher squirrel doesn’t figure out the frequency of the collars and mess with the dogs with its own little device.   I wouldn’t put it past him.

So look at that.  The four legged creatures around here are starting to follow instructions.  The couch is recovering, yucky as it may taste.  My membership in the “Remote of the Week” club has been cancelled.  We’ve got a couple of dogs who don’t feel compelled to run off at the first site of an escape route.  At this point, I’m left to other doggy related hobbies which don’t involve the replacement of fence slats and the pouring of concrete.

I’m thinking about photography.

So far, a better part of my day has been spent at the ballpark.  Opening day ceremonies which were originally scheduled for last week were moved to today because of rain.  TharpSter Jr. and I went over there early this morning to help people park their trucks, SUVs, and even their cars (scoff) in a temporarily dry creek bed which has been known in the past to wreck havoc on those baseball diamonds during the rainy season.  Naturally, before we left the house this morning to go wave people into the tightest of spots possible, we took part in a few muffins for breakfast.

They weren’t any old muffins, mind you.  They were Malt-O-Meal muffins.  The TharpSter Executive Chef made them this morning just for the heck of it.

That will be enough about our breakfast habits.  It’s of no real consequence at this point.

A little later on in the day, we packed it all up in the TharpSter Truck to go back to the baseball fields.  It should probably be stated at this point that with the return of our Pit Bull Hope, we are still a little befuddled as to how she got out of our yard a few weeks ago.  As such, we still leave both dogs inside when we leave.  Leaving the dogs inside has become a science in and of itself for that matter.  We make sure to pick up the remote controls, the day planners, and anything else that can’t withstand the average bite strength of a Pit Bull.  At the same time, we also took the steps to get the remaining Malt-O-Meal muffins in a storage bag.  The storage bag containing a dozen or so muffins was subsequently placed at the back of the kitchen counter up against a wall and behind the mixer.  Such positioning was done on purpose, as I wasn’t really interested in eating only muffin stumps in the coming days.  The TharpSter TreadMill has already made it known to all of us under no uncertain terms that she appreciates the vitamin packed goodness of a Malt-O-Meal muffin, specifically the tops.

With headquarters sufficiently doggy proofed, we made our way back to the ball fields to watch our young nephews play their very first game of tee-ball.  I played it sometime in the 70’s, TharpSter Jr. and the TharpSter Girl also played it during the turn of the century.  Over the years, and even in the last ten, tee ball has changed a little bit.  Way back when, we had 9 players on the field and all extras riding the pine.  We had the umpires and kept score.  A batter could strike out if they kept hitting the tee instead of the ball.

That doesn’t appear to be the case now, and I’m pretty sure it’s a result of today’s touchy, feely mentality that equal outcomes reign supreme.  Nowadays, they don’t keep score.  The only umpires are the coaches on the field.  As far as the tee is concerned, a pint sized player can go up there and hit that tee all they want to until they make contact with the ball.

Even more amusing is the number of defensive players which go on the field.  There’s a standard minimum these days, and that minimum is all of them.  Add to that the fact that they all play infield.  Notice in the picture that there is one runner bolting for 2^nd base.  The remaining 11 kids along with the catcher (out of frame) are all on defense.  Regardless of such, it was still a good game to watch.  I would bet that over 90% of the kids that played today were signed up by their parents, whether they expressed an interest or not.  Even still, it was obvious they had fun.  I had fun too.  Even though TharpSter Jr. has been playing for 10 years and now plays on a standard diamond with a 90 foot base path, I still flash back to his first season playing tee ball as one of my favorite years of his baseball career.

Upon returning home from the game, we found that everything for the most part was okay.  There were no electronics or parts thereof spread out all over the floor.  No literature had been selected from the bookshelves and subsequently reviewed and chewed.  The mixer on the counter was still intact.

Sadly the muffins were gone.

If the litter bugs had just thrown the storage bag away instead of leaving it lying around, I’m sure we would have never noticed such an illicit transgression.

Speaking of our dog, Faith has been like an old Phil Collins song since last night.  If you’ve ever heard the song “In The Air Tonight”, you could pretty much apply that tune to her behavior since the thunder came last night.  The only problem is that the cool drum solo that everyone waits for never seems to come.  As much as I would like to know what’s got her a little spooked, I have no way finding out.  Just like other animals, she’s known to have the ability to sense things are about to happen.

You’re probably wondering what’s so successful about this particular week.  Getting some laundry done and taking pictures of a dog on a fence which look a little doctored up doesn’t necessarily hit the high water mark of great achievements on a staycation.  One action that does hit that mark is a step I took on Monday.

For those of you who are new to the site, and even those who have followed my ramblings since our launch, Hope, the TharpSter Pit Bull has been missing since March 5^th.  In the days and weeks following her disappearance, we had taken all of the necessary steps to recover her.  We placed ads, hung flyers, wandered throughout the neighborhood, and kept constant contact with Animal Control here in San Antonio.  This last Monday, I placed an ad with Craigslist.  They were the one site I hadn’t thought of before.  I didn’t really expect anything to come of it, however I wanted to make sure I had put in my due diligence.

To date, Hope has been gone for 20 days.  In those days, we’ve wondered of her whereabouts.  We’ve hoped for her well being and her safe return.  At the same time, we have come to the resolution that maybe she’s gone.

Hope isn’t the first dog we’ve ever lost.  Over the years, Dodger, Chowsky, Ginger, Sunny, and Plucky all disappeared at one point or another between the 70’s and 90’s.  Dodger and Sunny were the only dogs that every found their way back to us.  All these years later, we still find ourselves wondering whatever happened to Chowsky, Ginger, and Plucky.

In the past few days, discussions among the board of directors here at TharpSter.Org have centered around the possibility of adopting another dog.  With the subject matter tabled for awhile in order to give the organization enough time to ponder the move, we have continued to keep up our search for Hope.

This morning, I received the following note through Craigslist:

I have to admit I was a little dubious of the news, as Hope had been gone for some time now.  I made the call anyway.  The person I spoke to indicated that her son had found Hope off a main artery which passes by pretty close to headquarters.  I asked her about some distinguishing markings, however she was not at home with the dog at the time.  It was agreed she would call me later.

Ten minutes later, my vet called me.  Faith has an appointment tomorrow, so I figured it was just an appointment confirmation.

It wasn’t.  Hope had been found.  The son of the person I had spoken to had contacted the vet based on information on her vaccination tag.  Since the TharpSter Wife has the TharpSter Truck with her at work, I gladly made the mile long walk to the vet with leash in hand to pick her up.

That’s right people.  Hope is home.  She’s no worse for the wear.  She’s been fed, watered, and bathed.  She’s also left a little care package out in the backyard.  As such, the Pit Bull Diaries will resume very soon.

Welcome home Hope!