Fealty Part Two: Phil the Pheasant

 Phil is—quite literally—the cock of the walk. Or block, if we had one. He struts and strums and flaps around the neighborhood, minding all the business. When the neighbor was unceremoniously returning a couple of this season’s renegade hens to the coop Phil came rushing up to voice his displeasure. In some ways, he functions as a free-range rooster for his penned harem.

Sir Phil, shaking off after His Royal dirt bath

Having spent three summers in the near proximity of peasants, Phil has grown accustomed to our ways. The lawnmower is something to be tolerated, not feared. The dogs of the neighborhood mostly ignore him and I worried that he might not be situationally aware of the hazard visiting dogs bring.

Millie, hugging Devin

When I was dog-sitting my grand-dog Millie—a beautiful golden retriever—she found Phil’s presence in my yard intrusive and flushed him and his fancy tail feathers to the nearest tree. Fortunately for Phil, Millie is a lover, not a fighter. My hope is he learned something from their encounter, but I worry.

Phil is very pretty. When the sunlight illuminates his breast feathers they glow an iridescent copper. He has an interesting pattern of dotted and striped feathers, and a bright red head. He’s also very “pretty.” He gets confounded by new experiences. For example: Phil loves corn on the cob. Last year when dining al fresco, I tossed my corn cobs out to the edge of the lawn where Phil was keeping watch. He enjoyed them so much that I started giving him his own ear to enjoy. Last week I found fresh corn on sale, four ears for a dollar. They were heavily picked over, with only a couple of sorry, naked ears is the bin. Perfect for Phil, I thought and tossed them in my cart.

I soon discover though, that when tossing a fresh ear of corn to Phil I had to make sure that the new ear landed between him and the old cob—otherwise he’d run straight to the old cob, discover it was picked clean and give me a look of total disdain and a scolding wing-flap.  Apparently, it’s not nice to “fool” Sir Phil. There is a particular standard of service he’s become accustomed to and nothing less will do. 

I shall endeavor to perfect my aim, Good Sir.

Adventures In Sugar Land

     The other day I got to babysit my newest grandson, Baby Aiden, while his parents had to do Grown Up Stuff. I call him “baby” Aiden because I’m in denial about how BIG he’s gotten—five-almost-six- months old, 17 very solid pounds, and a little man hairdo; a serious hair do that makes him look like he’s ready for Baby’s First Briefcase.

   

Aiden and Millie, best of friends.

Aiden's parents went out to be Grownups, Aiden and I stayed home to hang out and play with his toys, and his doggie, and tell each other all kinds of nonsense-- it was great. I even got to feed him mangos and avocado baby food—because why even have a baby if you don’t get to put delicious stuff in his face? For the record, he thought the combination was delightful. I managed to refrain from licking the lid to the jar of baby food—something I always did when my kids were little, because I need to know if it tastes good before I expect them to eat it, right?

    There is a darker side to feeding a baby that time had mercifully blurred in my memory: in a bite of mango-avocado, out a diaperful of something more nefarious.

    Diaper changing is just like riding a bike—you might be a bit wobbly at first, but you get the job done. And diaper technology is light years a head of where it was 25 years ago, so that’s nice. Restickable Velcro-like tabs mean if you don’t get it right the first time you can try, try (try) again. And his parents even have a wipe-warmer, so that the wet wipes aren’t cold on his little tushie.

   Mission accomplished, Baby A and I went out to look at the Zoo. Ok, so maybe it’s not really a

Petting Zoo

zoo, maybe it’s an enclosed cat-patio his parents made for their two giant cats, but Aiden is young and impressionable and I like him thinking of Nana Sugar as Zoo Nana. “Oh, yes,” I’ll say to him, “when you were a baby I took you to the zoo all the time.”

  While we were watching the Big Cats, I became aware of something warm and squishy making its way up Aiden’s back...

To be continued

Sue’s Guide to Gift Giving

If gift giving was a relationship status mine would undoubtedly be “It’s Complicated.”

Sometimes I get carried away with wrapping.
Annie is not amused.

I love gifts. I love giving them, I love wrapping them, I love receiving them.

I love it when I think of The Perfect Gift for someone, I love seeing their pleasure. I love finding The Perfect Present so much that for the next three or four years I feel like I’m off the gift giving hook, that I should just be able to rest on my gift giving laurels. “Remember that Perfect Present I gave you in 1996? Wasn’t it perfect? Weren’t you surprised? Good times, good times...”

I hate shopping for gifts. I hate not having any idea of what to buy for someone. I hate it when I feel like I’m just saying “Here. I got you some STUFF. That you now must dust. You’re welcome.”

The Perfect Gift, 2019 Edition.

Some people are easy to find The Perfect Gift for. Baby John Shane is easy to give to. Right now, as I write this, he’s having The Best Time Ever with a paper towel. He can dust with it, pretend to blow his nose in it, or turn it into confetti. As a matter of fact, he can do all three of those things with a single paper towel. Imagine how much fun he could have with an entire roll!

My Grand dog Millie is equally easy to give to. She, too, loves to make confetti. Perhaps her own roll of paper towels would be The Perfect Gift for her as well.

Come to think of it—who doesn’t like paper towels? They’re very useful and come conveniently packaged for gift giving. I think Gifting Giving 2019 is SOLVED!

Millie is a VERY GOOD DOG.

Bonus Christmas Tree picture. Enjoy!

Hack Proof Perhaps, Not Puppy Proof

There seems to be a lot of people getting hacked on Facebook recently. And while I can sympathize with their plight, there is a small part of me that feels kind of smug about my unhackable password. After all, I know better than to use “Password” as my password—at least since 2005. That smugness lasted until I got an e-mail notification from Microsoft saying that they had detected something “unusual” about a recent sign-in—suggesting that I verify that I had, in fact, been attempting to sign in from a new location. Specifically, trying to buy certain goods and services in Copenhagen. Which, Gentle Reader, I assure you I had NOT.

So, I went to my Microsoft account and went through the multiple verification steps to verify that I was me, continue to be me, and would like to change my password. I thought long and hard about what I would like my new password to be...Password123? PasswordXYZ? Something unhackable, something cool, something123XYZ...I spent a lot of time on my selection and I’m proud to tell you I came up with a hack proof password. Nobody is signing into my account!

Not even me, as I have spent the last 20 minutes trying to remember what my unhackable password IS. Which is a real bummer, as I met this totally cool Nigerian Prince on line and we seemed to really hit it off...

I am a RETRIEVER. Also a confetti maker.
I am a VERY GOOD GIRL.

In other news, Mexico is lovely this time of year. At least that’s what my kids tell me. I wouldn’t know, as I’m home puppy sitting my grand dog Millie. Millie is now a year old and as sweet as she can be. She’s very helpful and brings me all kinds of things I didn’t even know I had lost. And if I feel bad about all the used Kleenex she’s retrieved from the trash and turned into confetti, she’s right there to climb into my lap and comfort me.

A Dog Ate My Homework

This is the dog that ate my homework. 

This is Millie. Millie is my grandpuppy. Millie is the same age as my grandson—eight months old for those of you who aren’t doing the math.  Millie is staying with me whilst her parents are on a trip to Italy. 

Millie retrieves things. So far Millie has retrieved one shoe from each pair of shoes in the house, untold number of socks and a very slimy ball that she helpfully drops in my lap so I can throw it—perhaps with disgust, but Millie isn’t picky. 

Millie likes to exercise—she loves romps in the woods and making new friends and can’t understand why I won’t let her hang out with the neighbor’s chickens. 

Millie would like to be friends with my cats, but the cats have taken up residence under my bed and are plotting all the ways that I will pay for foisting this indignity upon them. 

Millie is sighing. She misses her parents and she wishes I would cut out the screen time and snuggle more. Perhaps it would help me write faster if she set on my lap with me? Just a little?