The Nine Inch Baskerville Hound

…and Thanksgiving week scatter.

Shaun’s alarm clock went off at 5 am this morning.  In the bedroom.  It woke me up on the couch. In the living room.  Christmas tucked behind my knees.

What?!  Why am I on the couch?

Shaun appeared above me, looking concerned.

“Honey?” Shaun asks, “Why are you sleeping on the couch?”  Pause.  “Do you think this matches?”  She holds up a sweater to her shirt and pants.

“I don’t know?” I say.  I am discombobulated by waking up in the wrong place. How did I get here?  Isn’t there a Talking Head’s song about this?

“Match?” Shaun says.

“Match”, I say.

She waits. Why am I on the couch.  Oh.  I remember now.   I stare evilly at Christmas, who is curled up behind my knees trying to be adorably cute and sound asleep at the same time.

“The dog”, I say.

This is shorthand for: the stupid dog woke me up in the middle of the night to go out and I feel asleep on the couch waiting for him. I fell asleep in my bed last night at 11:00.  Midnight, the dog claims he has a bladder problem.  He expresses this by sitting smack in the middle of my chest and staring at me intently  until I wake up: emergency here! Once my eyes open, he gives me a friendly wag of the tail, but doesn’t budge until I make some sort of getting up movement.

I weave my way sleepily to the door, and let him out.  Weave over to the couch to wait for him to be finished.

For a 9 inch tall dog, he has a Hound of the Baskervilles bark.  His bladder was fine.  He heard a cat tiptoe on the sidewalk across the street.  Great.  I stumble rapidly out of the house, pick him up, clamp a hand on his muzzle to muffle him, and haul him, struggling mightily, back into the house.  Set him on the floor.

He wags his tail.  Walks over to the door, and swipes a paw politely near it, looking questioningly at me over his shoulder.  But mom, I gotta GO.  Cat just happened to be there.  Pleeeeeease…?

That would be no.  Not any time in the next five minutes.  Cat has to disappear first.  I sit on the couch, gradually slump down to wait the five minutes.  Five hours later…

He didn’t wake me up again.  Clearly not a bladder problem.

I’m making doggie alphabet cards.  I want him to be able to read the nicely worded notes the neighbors leave in our mailbox asking if we happen to know WHICH dog is barking like a maniac at midnight.  I’m also going to make him get a job to pay for my chiropractic treatments.

There are more Mr. Chips episodes in the works (he was with me for a LONG time, and was prolifically episodic.) but little time to do much but stomp around crankily mumbling about sleep deprivation, and getting stuff ready for The Mamba Samba Food Day of All Food Days.

Bella and Hudson gave me a new helmet for my birthday (came yesterday!) and once I’m done hiring bodyguards and paparazzi for it, I may take it off long enough to shower.  Right now it’s a fashion statement as well as a safety statement.

Shaun looked at me last night.  “Um.  Hon.  I’m not sure it goes with pajamas?”

I’d read about Charles Owen helmets having the highest safety rating, but figured from the price tag it was probably more fashion accessory than higher safety rating or comfort factor.  Wrong.   I saw a ton of them being worn at a couple of big Hunter/Jumper show barns. (My motto: always check out the protective gear of riders who do more dangerous stuff than you.)  I tried one on in the store, to see what the hoopla was about.  Big mistake.  If you do not want to buy a new helmet, do NOT try on a Charles Owen.

I never wanted to take it off. Would they notice if I walked out of the store with it on?  Maybe not, but I would.  Take. The. Helmet. Off.  Put. Back. On. Shelf.  Try to lose glazed look of sheer bliss. Repeat don’t-even-think-about-spending-money-on-self mantra: kids college college funds…

Bella loaned me hers to try, to make sure I really liked it for riding.  Just in case I decided to buy one some day.  (So she said.  She was getting a size.)

I will never own another brand of helmet again.  Ever.  It’s getting it’s own bag, and it’s own hard box.  Box may get it’s own name plate.  Alter.  Flowers.  Chocolates.  It is THE most comfortable helmet I’ve ever had on: light weight, doesn’t shift at all, yet isn’t squeezy.  It molds to my head!  No ventilation, yet still cooler than my vented higher-end Troxel.  Go figure.

And I look like an heiress, very elegant looking: this works for my inner Diva.

Thank you Bella!!

I get to pick up my saddle today. (yay!)  It’s in the same town as the Zodiac Dog Park, so I’ll take Christmas there again.  But this time, I’m going to tell anyone who asks, that his name is Tommy.

Happy Thanksgiving to those of you in the US, and happy thankfulness to those outside the US!

Things I’m thankful for: you, this blog, and all my friends and family; known and unknown.

Thanks, you guys.

7 thoughts on “The Nine Inch Baskerville Hound

  1. Dang it, I also thought that the higher priced helmets were just fashion accessories. I sure hate to hear the Owens is extra comfortable… At least Christmas is coming!

    1. I think some are? I know Daisy bought a very expensive one (more than the CO) that ended up being torture to wear (perhaps I’m exaggerating a teensy bit).

      Then she asked Bella’s opinion, whose lifetime experience in the horse supply business has given her a PHD in what is worth the bucks and what is pricey but no better than the $20 item.

      Daisy got herself a Charles Owen to replace it.

      (I didn’t know any of this until after I fell in love with the one attached to my head in the store.)

    1. You GOT me! Totally rolling now. I could just see how that would go over. This being CA, it would be both politically correct (lots of Jesus’ in CA, due to the proximity of Mexico) and politically incorrect if I was not giving him a Mexican name.

      Dang. Why didn’t I think of that? I actually did see the pencil/paper woman who was trying mightily to remember who Christmas was and wading through sheafs of itty bitty paper. I stole your horse’s name. I told her his name was “Tucker”.

      Next time of course, it will be Tucker Jesus Buddha Mohammed Ishmael. Um just because I’ve always want to say “call him Ismael”?

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