Monday night ~
Jilly calls me Sunday evening and invites me to dinner Monday night, and if the weather holds, we will run the dawgs. We head to Oso Bay around 6:30 p.m.  with wine, cell phones, a flash light and a 4 wheel drive Dodge Ram pickup truck with a Hemi. The City of Corpus Christi is building a new nature walk and the initial infrastructure makes for a great place to walk, and when appropriate, unleash the dawgs. We are 3/4′s of a mile into our walk and I see Remy 50 feet in front of us, rolling, thrashing really. It’s dusk and while we can still see well, shapes on the ground are just that. I shine my flashlight. I think it’s an empty bag of fertilizer. Jilly notices Jaws rolling on the opposite side of the path. Jaws has an interesting way of mimicking Remy, and, thankfully, halfheartedly. It’s another bag. I kick (BIG MISTAKE) the bag Remy rolled in and we see fish carcasses. There are more bags that we can see. Bastards. By now, I am gagging and crossing my legs trying not to pee with each gag reflex. Remy and Jaws are in stink heaven. Did I mention the temp is dropping and the wind is howling and I don’t have gloves or a hat (and thank Gawd, ’cause they would have been stinky, too)? As this is all happening, I notice a car off the trail and suggest we head back. It’s not flashlight time, but getting there. The dawgs are running around us, literally "stinking to high heaven." I’m gagging, which I normally DO NOT do. I can take blood, guts, vomit … whatever. I’m a Mother. I quickly make the decision that Remy will ride home in the back. Jaws is not trained for this and has to load up in the back seat. We roll the windows down. I’m grateful I poured us to-go glasses of wine. I light a cigarette.
We pull in the drive and Remy spots a cat. She minds and waits until I get the leash on and let the tailgate down, but when I do this, she freaks on the cat and I slosh wine all over the left side of my jacket.  Great. Off we go to the greenhouse for baths. I end up bathing Remy three times. We hose the wine off my fleece jacket and throw it in the washing machine.  <I am shaking my head and laughing at the memory> The smell is awful. When we get the two of them bathed, Rogelio pours us more wine and we go to the patio to smoke. I still smell the stink. Jilly thinks it’s in my nose . . . and then I smell my nylon jacket sleeve and almost puke! It’s on my jacket. It comes off and goes in the wash. I’m back on the patio. I still smell dead fish. I smell the leg of my yoga pants – contaminated, those come off very quickly . . . shoes and socks still on. I take off my shoes and socks while Jill gets me pants to put on. Then I smell my socks. Then shoes. All contaminated. By now, I am down to my panties, bra and shirt and we are laughing so hard. I am exhausted with laughter.
We eat dinner, watch a little of the Olympics and Remy comes up to touch base and I smell dead fish. I start sniffing. It’s her collar. And because I did not wash her collar, her neck needs to be washed again, so back out to the greenhouse we go. She is tail tucked and not happy. As I’m washing her and the collar, I realize her leash probably stinks too (it does) and wash it, as well. The last of the wine is poured, most of my clothes and tennis shoes are in the dryer by now and the dawgs are all laying in front of the fireplace . . . being dawgs.
It was one of those excellent drawn out comedies, and while the intent was to simply run the dawgs and have a  meal, which was delicious BTW, we will talk about this dawg run for months to come. Remy is blissfully snoring on the sofa as I type this.
Ahhhhhh . . . it is so rewarding to have a dawg daughter who achieves her ecstasy by thrashing about in ripe death. Bonus is all the clothes I was wearing needed washing and Remy needed a bath.  

Author’s Note: This short story started out as an email to a friend in Iowa who, apparently found it so deliciously funny (especially the part where I’m gagging and trying not to pee) he read it numerous times. His response was, “You have got to put this story somewhere. This is one of the funniest stories I have read in a long long time. I have read it three times and I still laugh when I read it.”

If anything weird should happen, today (7/02/09) I have been having pulsing pain around my right ear. Not like a headache or allergy/sinus. It is intermittent, not constant, and has grown worse as the day has passed. It makes me wince and the area of pain seems to be growing larger, surrounding the right ear area.

I am not trying to be dramatic. I am thinking about Eugene Satani. I did not know him in person and only have second hand knowledge, but I did live, for a time, in the house where he died. My understanding is that Mr. Satani was a violinist for the Houston Symphony Orchestra in the 1980′s. I do not know if he was still performing when he died, but what I do know is the morning after moving in, my grandfather’s fiddle, which was packed in a box in its case, was laying on the dining room table. I questioned everyone involved in the move and no one owned the "joke". My son was old enough for a prank of this magnitude, but he was freaked out. I, on the other hand, was fascinated. Was his ghost lingering? I put the fiddle back in the case and never had anything of the sort happen again in the two years we lived in this home. I did, on occasion, pour an extra glass of wine and leave it for him, more in tribute rather than a serious feeling of him lurking.
So why am I telling you about Mr. Satani? He died alone, in the upstairs bath tub, and was not found for several days. He had a dog. The dog got hungry. Need I say more?
So while this pain in my head is growing worse, I wrote my note and then sat down for a serious conversation with dawg-daughter, Remy. In all seriousness, I asked her to please not eat me if I die in The Flat. We went over how to open her food container and, in this instance only, she has my dying permission to stand at the dining room window and raise holy hell.
I finally ended up taking four Advil and by the time I went to sleep last night, the pain had subsided, but as I sit here typing, I have noticed its return. Very mild, but still a painful pulse that concerns me enough to make note of it should anything occur.
It makes me realize, while there are many advantages, there are certain hazards to living alone and I need a plan.

In defense of my Dawg Daughter, Remy DuBois, she had a tragic beginning. Having made this statement, I am going to reveal one of her disgusting habits. Drum roll, please . . . . . . . . she will eat (almost) anything. She will NOT eat her own, or other dog, poop, and she will NOT eat anything dead unless it reeks to high heaven. Having said this, let us reflect on our Monday morning walk at Cole Park.

One of the things I love about The Flat’s location is its’ proximity to the park. Cole Park is one of the nicest outdoor venues in Corpus Christi hosting an amphitheatre where during the summer we enjoy live music on Thursday nights and movies on Friday’s. There is a skate park, a playground, a fishing pier, picnic tables, bar-be-que pits, wide sidewalks to cycle or roller skate, or walk the dog, and best of all, Corpus Christ Bay. On those rare, crystal, “Sparkling City By The Sea” days, you can see Sandpiper and Seagull Condominiums on Mustang Island. The only danger in this adventure involves crossing Ocean Drive.

Remy and I do not walk there every day and, in her mind, it is a special occasion when she chooses that direction and I relent. During the summer, transients sleep in the park and if it is early, I would rather avoid the opportunity to rouse these non-tax payers and let them know the police are on the way. Officer Ed checks most mornings around 7:30 a.m. But Monday morning, the day after Father’s Day, we headed to the park with a spring in our step and looking forward to starting our day on the bay. Yeah, right. Our walk turned in to a mine field of chicken and rib bones, I kid you not. Everywhere, every foot, every turn, another bone.

Since moving, Remy has become accustom to the leash and when she is about to eat something foul, and if I am paying absolute attention and catch her in time (she is sneaky, sneaky, sneaky), I give her leash a little jerk and try to move her on. This maneuver in not always successful, but more often effective than not. Our walk through the park was miserable. She so desperately wanted to clean up this Father’s Day mess and I knew she, and I, would pay in bowel movements to come if she had her way. Which begs the question, what is wrong with these people that are bringing food to the park and tossing it on the grass? There are trash bins everywhere. Everywhere! As Remy is choking down a chicken bone, I wonder who these citizens are. What do they think will happen to these scattered bones. Are they not aware we have a possum and raccoon problem along the bay and this will only encourage their attendance to the after party.  I am also wondering what I will do if she begins to choke on one of these bones. I am not squeamish and would not have a problem sticking my fingers down her throat in hopes of dislodging the bone, but if I had to pick her up, all 67 lbs. of sinewy muscle, and run to the house, crossing Ocean, to get her to the vet – let us pray this never happens. I will figure out a way to get your salvia from these bones and  . . . . . well, I guess I cannot print what I would want to do.

Bottom line is this: I pick up my dogs’ poop; my dog, my poop, pack out what you pack in. Come on citizens of Corpus Christi – please, stop trashing our park. It feels like you are coming into my backyard and disrespecting me, and you are littering and endangering my beloved family pet.  It will make Remy’s life less stressful, and as she ages, she deserves a stress free environment, and it is the right thing to do.