~1~

Every week, I debate whether I’m going to actually do a Quick Takes post. And usually, whether or not I can think of a theme (which is what my obsessive-organized brain prefers, much like Simcha), I decide that it’s a great holding ground for the odds and ends that are floating through my mind and life.

It’s also a writing exercise of sorts for me. So. There you go. You’re probably stuck with them from me (but you can ignore them, right?).

~2~

I’m hosting an online Tupperware party. Next week, I’m going to share my favorite Tupperware products (I just wasn’t organized enough to pull it off this week). My Tupperware consultant is a fabulous Catholic mom who sent out an email recently asking customers to host a party, which came right at the time that I was trying to figure out where in the world all my straw cups were. They seem to evaporate. (Yes, I’ve checked under the seats in every vehicle, under every piece of furniture in everyone’s house I know, and in most of the garbage cans.)

In the event that you’re interested in getting some holiday shopping done (Tupperware makes a great gift and there are some amazing deals right now), stocking up on kitchen essentials before the holiday baking season, or just need a few things (straw cups anyone?), jump on in! (That link is the one that connects with my party, the way I understand it.)

I plan to use any free products I earn for either giveaways here on the blog or at CatholicMom.com. So you will be supporting three great habits of mine causes.

~3~

In case you missed it yesterday, we have a Dog Drama Addendum:

Yes, that’s right: Pita the Cattle Dog BIT THROUGH MY TIRE. My very expensive (highly cool) run-flat tire. I may be laughing about it, but I will admit that I was considering taking the old tire home with me from the dealer and smashing her with it.

Since the facts speak for themselves in this, let’s move on and talk about something more pleasant and less stressful…

~4~

…like the GREAT, WONDERFUL, PHENOMENAL giveaway that’s going on at CatholicMom.com this month. We pulled together 53 different titles (and an amazing 62 books total to give away!) for the Back to School with Catholic Nonfiction Giveaway.

The thing is, you can only win one of these fabulous titles if you enter. So get over there. Enter. (Only once per person, please.)

~5~

I have been mulling over senescence ever since I heard it described in glorious detail on a recent episode of Distillations. In fact, I want to write about it. I can’t explain this, except that the air’s getting cooler, the leaves are changing (in full senescence, as it were), and my mind has moments of racing along when I’m in the middle of something else.

~6~

Simcha’s going to start a bloggy-linky thing with search terms. I usually spend Mondays reflecting on Mary, so why not share some of the hilarious and/or surprising search terms now?

From this week’s stats, things that surprised me, amused me, or touched me:

sarah reinhert

simultexting

dragging my feet

appreciate wife

southern woman

running for the school bus

woman 52 out of sorts

strong fathers strong daughters

catholic kitchens for wives

I’m glad people can find my blog by spelling my name how it sounds…and I leave comment off of the others. Because, well, they sort of speak for themselves, don’tcha think?

~7~

I posted this on Twitter last night, but I want to put it here too for posterity and as a reminder to myself. It’s a prayer that I’m pretty sure I need to engrave on the wall in front of my computer, my coffeepot, and my alarm clock. My sister-in-law read it out as she was looking over her Facebook feed yesterday afternoon, and it has stuck with me. Hope you enjoy it too!

Dear Lord, please keep your arm around my shoulders (and your hand over my mouth).

Visit Jen at the newly redesigned and quite lovely-to-behold Conversion Diary for more in the Quick Takes genre. You’ll find a little bit of everything over there, which is at least part of the reason it’s an addicting read for me.

At the end of July, our infamous Jack Russell Terror died suddenly and unexpectedly, and we found ourselves without a critter dog. Though we have another dog, a cattle dog who shall henceforth be called Pita (and yes, it stands for just what you think it stands for), she has failed miserably in the critter dog department.

After a bit of research, we found Jack Russell pups in central Ohio and we spent a Saturday acquiring them. They were cute and lively and full of spunk.

And then, sadly, the unbloggable happened and they were no more. We mourned, and we had a busyBusyBUSY August.

Two weeks ago, after a bit more research, we found two more Jack Russells. These were year-and-a-half old females, and the owner was prepared to give them to us. (Flag! Flag! Flag!)

We went, met them, and brought them home. No sooner had we gotten them into the back yard, though, when one of them took off. She must have felt slack in the leash and…BOOM! She was gone!

The other dog, while shy and never a proper Jack in the proper “Hi! How! Are! Ya! Happy! To! Meet! Ya!” sense of the breed, that we had gotten very used to with our other Jack, stuck around. Bob spent the evening bribing her with bologna and ham. We figured she would acclimate with Pita and all would be well. We wrote the other dog off.

So, on Sunday that week, we went to the other place, the one that had pups. And there we met a little puffball who we promptly whisked away with us.

What followed was a week of spotting the runaway dog here and there, communicating with the dog warden (who was unsuccessful), trying to avoid the two grown female dogs fighting, and keeping track of the pup. To call it a week of dog drama feels like a gross understatement.

Last Friday, by the grace of God and the dog-love of the former owner, the runaway dog was caught and the unhappy other dog was reunited with her rightful owners. I had gone to get a second puppy, because we had decided to take the adult dog back no matter what (and we had high hopes of catching the runaway, as much as she was being spotted and as hungry as she had to be).

Today finds me with only two Jack Russell pups. And, lemme tell ya, that’s PLENTY.

~ 1 ~

If I’m awake at 3:15 AM, I’m not usually online and blogging. This strikes me as common sense. But since I was WIDE AWAKE this morning (or is it night?), and since I hadn’t scheduled my Quick Takes (did not, in fact, know what all my Quick Takes would be, prior to this session with my laptop), I thought I might as well share with you what it is that brings me to my WIDE AWAKE state today at 3:15 AM.

~ 2 ~

I’m here because of our Cattle Dog*, who has been barking for the last four hours. She’s been outside, on the porch side of the house, barking. And barking. And BARKING.

Our late Jack Russell Terror used to have barking jags too, especially once he became an outside dog. But, the thing is, with him, it was always for a reason, like a coon or a critter of some sort.

Oh, and she’s not barking anymore. I put her in her cage. Why did it take me four hours to reach that point? Well. Good question. I’m asking myself at exactly what point I thought she would just…stop…with her barking. Was I waiting for someone else to take care of it? Maybe it’s safe to say I was just trying to sleep.

*The Cattle Dog needs a catchy name like the former Jack Russell Terror had…any ideas?

~ 3 ~

After I caged the Cattle Dog, I thought I’d check on the pups. (For those of you who didn’t see it on Twitter, Facebook, or my post on Tuesday, we jumped off the deep end last weekend and got not one, but TWO Jack Russell pups.) We’ve been keeping them on the porch, and a niggling little voice in my head was wondering if the reason for Cattle Dog’s barking was something with the pups. She was barking on that side of the house, after all.

I walked onto the enclosed porch, and one of the pups jumped right out of his cozy little bed, ready to play.

But where was the other one?

I called him. I made a kissing noise. I asked the bouncing pup where his brother was.

And then I heard the whining.

From the freezer.

~ 4 ~

The puppy was IN THE FREEZER. We recently redid our porch and it’s still cleared off, because I was expecting to paint the floor. After we got the pups, I decided to wait until we had completely moved them outside before I did the floor.

All that’s on our enclosed porch is two dog beds, a stepladder, the dog dishes of water and food, and a chest freezer.

~ 5 ~

I could hear him on the other side of the little vent thing on the side. Aside from wondering how in the world he got in there (he’s pretty small), I also wondered how I was going to get him out.

This is the sort of thing that falls under my husband’s domain. It involves a screwdriver and solving a spatial puzzle.

I was unable to wedge the vent open (how did he get IN THERE?!?) and also unable to find anything resembling a screwdriver (I’m SURE we have them here somewhere). So I did what the situation warranted: I went upstairs and told my husband.

“Puppy #1 is in the freezer.”

He hadn’t been asleep. Cattle Dog had been barking for FOUR HOURS, remember? Only the kids slept through that, and then only because I took them to the fair last night.

His head never left the pillow.

With one eye open and his head still cradled in his arm, he mumbled, “He CAN’T be in the freezer.”

I didn’t stick around to bug him about it. Someone had to rescue the pup, after all!

~ 6 ~

Was I going to have to go to the barn to find a screwdriver? I was dusting off the area of my mind that ineffectively deals with this and telling myself it was NOT okay to call anyone, rationalizing that the puppy would probably live until morning, when I stepped back onto the porch.

Puppy #1 was romping with his brother. He was out of the freezer.

~ 7 ~

I have NO IDEA how he got in or how he got out of the freezer. I put a full can of paint in front of the vent, and if he gets back in the freezer, he’s going to be there until morning, because I’m going back to bed to salvage some sleep.

My husband is going to be laughing at me for at least a week over this, and I am filing it as the beginning of another decade (at least) of Jack Russell tales. (I have quite a few from our last encounter with this breed.)

Puppy #2 (top) and Puppy #1 (bottom)

We have Jen at Conversion Diary to thank for our weekly dose of Quick Takes. She hosts every week, rain or shine (or incessantly barking dogs), and we are eternally grateful.

This week, our life was inexorably altered when our dog Petie, who I’ve been calling the Jack Russell Terror in this space for years, died unexpectedly. In honor of the years we’ve spent together, and because it makes for good material, I am dedicating today’s 7 Quick Takes to dog tales…about him.

~1~

Terror…not Terrier

My relationship with Petie was, at best, love-hateHateHATE. I didn’t cry when I saw that he was surely going to die. (I did shed some tears later in the evening, though, because, truth be told, I do miss him). There’s a reason that there are so many Jack Russell pups in rescues…these dogs DO. NOT. STOP.

He spent years as an inside dog. When we finally moved him outside, my life improved immeasurably. In fact, any love I had for him grew exponentially in the last two years that he  spent as an outside dog.

So, to those who wondered on Twitter if I was misspelling, no. He was (and remains in our memory) a Jack Russell Terror.

(He chewed that sweater. He was ALWAYS cold in the winter, and would lay in front of the wood stove until his skin turned pink, but would NOT let us “dress” him.)

~2~

Curiosity Killed the Coon (written December 2005)

In thirty years, if we are still living in this old farmhouse on our beautiful patch of property, I have an image of myself. My back will be stooped over from carrying babies and firewood and trying to only make one trip instead of the wiser two.  My hearing will be worse than it is, and so I will have to blast music even louder than I do, and dear Bob will have to be even more patient when I can’t hear him the third time he repeats himself.  I’ll be able to stomach all kinds of horrid you-live-in-the-country-if things, and I hope that I will also be able to cook better than I do now (hey, thirty years is a long time, so there’s hope!).  I’ll use words like “ain’t” and “rassle” without any thought of correctness, because I will have been in the country so long that it just won’t matter.  I also know that in thirty years, I will not be banished to wait by the wheelbarrow while a certain unnamed dog attacks a coon (or was it a cat?) in the underbrush.

Last night when we were making our daily trip out to fill the wheelbarrow with firewood, we stopped in the tin shed (which is sort of like a garage, but made of tin) to put out food for the cat.  Suddenly, there was a baying and a growling and a scuttling of small creatures behind the building. Bob, ever the unimpressed farmer type, shrugged it off as “Petie getting into something again.”  And then the cacophony changed to a higher, more urgent pitch, Bob grabbed the flashlight, and we went out to make it a spectator sport.

The snow was falling in lazy clumps, and the air was cold enough to make it hurt with every breath.  Even so, standing there behind Bob, peering into the dark mess of underbrush and wondering if my legs were safe from the dog and the thing he was harassing, I didn’t notice any of that.  Nope, what I was wondering was whether this would be a Shotgun Incident.

Petie tends to find the little critters in the area (it is, after all, what Jack Russells are bred to do), and to get into a good bloody mess as he corners them and attempts to kill them. Sometimes they get away from him enough to get only injured, and Bob will have to get the shotgun (or sometimes a large heavy object – that was last week with the possum) and do the humane thing and kill them.  Petie will not leave an injured critter alone until it is dead.  He has no compunction about his quarry’s size in relation to his 13 pounds of muscle and willpower.  (Does this make him courageous or stupid?)

Suddenly, in the midst of the scuffles and the growls, there was silence.  Bob had still not been successful at locating them with the flashlight, and in the silence, I looked over at his stoic unimpressed countenance, and asked, “Is this silence normal?” to which he replied, without batting an eye, “Nope.”

Then I asked the question that had been nagging me: “Am I safe standing here?” It turns out that I was right in the path that the critter would probably take if it got out from its corner of safety and made a run for it.  I repositioned myself, and Bob looked up long enough to say, “If I was you, I’d go up by the wheelbarrow.”

Considering that the last thing I wanted was a riled-up critter rushing my way – insert scene from “Christmas Vacation” where the door opens and the squirrel and the dog tear up the neighbor lady – I slouched over to the wheelbarrow where I really couldn’t see what was going on.

After the silence, the two duked it out some more and it got pretty loud.  Finally, the coon (or was it a cat?) made a dash off toward the west side of our property, with Petie in hot pursuit.  It was at this point that Bob began to question whether it was a cat instead of a coon.

Petie didn’t get the coon/cat last night, but he was a happy pup all the same. Nothing gets his juices running like a good rassle and a chase through the cold night with a cheering section calling his name (to the effect of “PETIE!  Get back here RIGHT NOW!”).  Although he had to deal with a bath, he also had his Hero (Bob) call him Good Dog at least four times

~3~

Cute…but Maddening

We happened upon Petie because the family that owned Petie had to get rid of him (an allergic daughter). They knew my mother-in-law was looking for a smaller dog and they called her. She couldn’t resist him and brought him home. My husband, seeing his mother apparently happy wasn’t going to say no either.

He was about five pounds then and cute as could be. That honeymoon period lasted a while. Maybe even as long as 48 hours.

And then the strong will started shining through. My husband, who has always been a natural Pack Leader, met this head-on. For almost ten years. He became Petie’s hero, and when Bob walked through the door at night, Petie

We ended up with Petie when my mother-in-law moved into an apartment and then he just sort of stayed. We joked for years and teased my mother-in-law that she could have her dog back anytime.

~4~

Inventive…with Anything Round

Oh, how he loved to chase a ball…

…or squash (the pumpkins never made it that year, either…he got them ALL)…

…or a shot put…

…or full-sized basketballs…

…or tires (which is what did him in, in the end). He was fast, which was great when he was attacking a rat or a coon or a groundhog or a cat. (Not so great if I was trying to get my kid’s ball back.)

When he was in the house, he used to hide under a buffet and poke his ball out. You were supposed to send it back to him. If you didn’t, he growled at an increasingly higher pitch until he was barking.

Lacking any other amusement, he would hide his toys all over the house, even…

…in the dryer!

~5~

Mr. Protective

Petie claimed us. He also claimed our kids and the people who were “with” us (friends and family who visited, etc.). Though I read that Jacks (or any terriers, for the most part) aren’t recommended for kids, we had a great experience with him, at least in his younger days. (The kids didn’t climb on him or tackle him as much once he became an outside dog.

The day we brought our oldest daughter home from the hospital, my mother-in-law came over. Petie growled at her — a serious, “I will bite you if you take one step closer” growl — when she leaned over to look in the crib.

He also used to curl up on the couch with us, especially with my husband. He didn’t take kindly to anyone waking up the person he was with, especially if it was Bob. He was spanked MANY times for growling at me when I would shake Bob awake at night for bed.

~6~

Life without Petie (written March, 2006)

I have a love-hate relationship with my Jack Russell. On the one hand, he’s the doggie equivalent of my energy, joyfully intelligent, and quite humorous as a source of stories.  On the other, he is insistent, annoying, and never-ending, and often highly annoying (like when he does random bark-screams in the middle of the night).  Lately it seems the pendulum has been hitting the hate end of the relationship more, but then we had a Scary Incident.

I was home alone and the baby was tucked away, snoozing peacefully upstairs.  I was either reading or online (or maybe both), when I saw a white blur streak across the room.  Looking up, I saw Petie run into something.  Now, if his ball had been on the other side of the said object, this would not have been unusual.  However, it was random wheels-not-working movement, and it was weird.  He was whimpering and obviously not happy.  Luckily, Bob came home right about then and I let Petie out, right before discovering some unintentional destruction.

I spent some time pondering what my life would be like without Petie, something that we joke about all the time but which I haven’t really considered in depth at all.  Who would entertain the baby in the mornings?  Who would clean up the kitchen floor after her meals?  Who would alert me to raccoons in the front yard?  Who would hide balls in my laundry hampers and then pull towels through the tiny holes in an attempt to retrieve them?  Who would steal all my blankets at night?  Who would greet Elizabeth in the mornings?  Who would keep me company on Bob’s school nights?  Who would greet me with unadulterated joy whenever I came home, even if I had only been gone for two minutes?  Who would have as much energy as me in the morning?  Who would shed white hair into every single possible imaginable place in our belongings?  Who would scare off the spiders?  Who would fight me for the couch?  Who would play fetch with me?  (no wait, I think I meant…who would play fetch with Elizabeth?)

We weren’t sure what was wrong, and still aren’t.  He seems fine now; back to the full swing of obstinate outdoor exploration while I’m still in my pajamas and calling for him to come in, barking at the slightest provocation to his Dad’s-not-home domain, and curling up in the crook of my legs when I go to bed early.

~7~

Posts from the Past

If you want to read past blog posts inspired by our late JRT, here you go:

• Jack Russell Terror (which is actually one of my favorite posts of all time, whether or not anyone else likes it)
• What’s that gnawing in my closet?
• Playing God
• Life on the Outside

Jen has all the Quick Takes at her place, which is worth stopping by and staying for a while. Visit her and maybe even participate with your own Quick Takes post!

–1–

There’s a giveaway at CatholicMom.com in honor of the Month of the Rosary that’s worth checking out.  Not only are a few of my favorite books included, but there’s a handmade rosary that’s to drool over (and pray with).  Be sure to leave your name in the comments this month for a chance to win!

–2–

This take is for my dad, who emailed me this morning asking why there were no pictures on my blog.  Apparently, not everyone enjoys my writing, huh?  (Just kidding, Dad!)

Yes, that’s a shot put.  Yes, my 15-pound Jack Russell Terror is playing with it.  Yes, it makes us laugh (but no, it doesn’t surprise us).

He wanted pictures of my girls too, but, ahem, the person in charge of photography around here has really been sluffing off.

–3–

The Catholic Writers Conference Online is scheduled for February 26-March 5. I’m registered. Are you?  This will be my third conference, and it’s a great help.  And it’s online!  If you’re just getting started as a writer, or if you want to meet other Catholic writers, or if you’re just curious…well, get on over there and register!  Did I mention it’s also free?  Yeah, lots of reasons to attend.

–4–

I can’t resist sharing this lovely piece of art, courtesy of my four-year-old:

That floating blue oval is Mother Mary, watching over her and I (the pink and orange circles below).  We’re standing in a field of roses and though I can’t remember what the brown crosses represent (trees maybe?), it doesn’t matter.  Mother Mary is watching over us.  Isn’t it great when God sends messengers to remind you of how much he loves you?  :)

–5–

“I find myself, lately, avoiding the area surrounding my house.  I all but close my eyes as I walk around it.” What does this have to do with Mary and her title as Our Lady of Good Remedy?  You can find out in my latest column, Our Lady of Good Remedy, is up over at Today’s Catholic Woman.

–6–

Do you get sick of my plugs for Catholic Moments? If so, too bad!  :)

This week, Lisa interviews a favorite author of mine, Immaculée Ilibagiza, a survivor of the Rwandan genocide and a noted Catholic author and speaker.  On this Deacon Moment: words on an Archbishop… an Irish curmudgeon priest… and the late Holy Father John Paul II. Join Deacon Tom in a tender moment about priests in this, the Year of the Priest.  October is the Month of the Rosary, but it’s also Respect Life Month, and during the Mary Moment, I encourage everyone to pray a rosary — even if you’re no good at it — for human life.

–7–

Starting on Sunday, I’m honored to host Jerry Weber for a series of weekly posts. You might remember Jerry from the wonderful interview he did on Catholic Moments a few months ago.  He’s going to share some insight and wisdom he’s gleaned, especially about depression and anxiety issues.  We’ll begin with an introduction this Sunday.  I hope you’ll stop by next week to welcome him!

Conversion Diary is the headquarters, as usual, of this week’s full collection of Quick Takes.

–1–

To the person who found me by typing “can you pray one decade at a-time” into the search, I reply, YES! YOU CAN! (I hope they found this old post or this article link or even my review of one of my favorite books of all time.  But just in case they didn’t, I’m going to say a little prayer for them when I’m praying my rosary.)

–2–

Tuesday (September 8) is the feast of the nativity of Mary, or, in language I can understand, Mary’s birthday (Marymas?). Who better to host a giveaway, and what better giveaway to get, than Ginny Moyer, author of one of my other favorite books, Mary and Me (which I reviewed here).  Win your own copy by leaving a comment at this post over at Ginny’s place.  Good luck!

–3–

I’m back to work this week, and we’ve started homeschooling (two weeks early!). However, it’s going well this week.  Better than I expected. I never would have thought that typing that first sentence, I would follow it with this one: I’m laughing a lot.  There’s nothing like a pair of four-year-olds punctuating their time with “School RULES!” and “Can we keep doing school?” to motivate the rest of my day.  I mean, work makes school possible, right now, and school makes certain other mentalities possible…so it’s really feeling like God’s plan.  I’m glad I had eight weeks of rest to prepare for this, though.

–4–

I’m still digesting all that I’ve learned in the last eight weeks, from my seven sabbatical lessons to my daily bread. I am pretty sure there’s going to be something about life in the present moment and how multitasking is overrated.  (With links, because these aren’t necessarily my thoughts, just things I learned over the summer.)

–5–

Our Jack Russell Terror has an inborn talent for finding critters. It’s an endearing trait.  Really.  On a farm, you need a critter dog and he’s really good at it.

Except with possums.

It’s the nature of possums to be the kind of critter he should like, to get into the barns, to go after the dog food and any number of other garbage-y stuff.  They are worse than raccoons (which is saying something!), in part because JRT can’t kill them.  They play dead.

It’s pretty interesting to watch, and the girls and I happened to be outside playing and bug hunting the other day, when JRT brought us his possum catch.  I told my four-year-old, she of the Never-ending Curiosity, that even though JRT was carrying the possum around and it looked dead.

“It’s dead!” my four-year-old insisted.

“Well,” I told her, “let’s walk down to the barn and see if the possum is here when we come back.”  (This also gave me a chance to teach her an important farm lesson: if you see a possum or coon during the day, stay away and get an adult.)

When we came back, the possum was on his feet, the dog was long gone (having showed us, been admonished to “KILL! IT!,” accepted that as praise, and moved on to the next critter), and my four-year-old was fascinated.  I called the dog over, and he did what he always does with possums — he gave me a confused look, then noticed the possum moving, pounced on it, looked up at me triumphantly, thinking it dead again.

My husband, the Chief-in-charge of Critter Control around here, didn’t get home until we went into the house and the possum made his escape.  He heard the tale, though, from our excited four-year-old, and I think maybe that took some of the sting out of his late hours.

–6–

Speaking of farm life, it’s breeding season for the sheep. That means we have a ram out with the ewes, and the ewes are sporting colored patches on their back ends.  That’s a good sign; it means the ram is doing his work.  It’s also a chance to explain the natural order of things to that child who is asking all the questions around here.  It also means that Shepherd D will have lambs come January (and, actually, he should have fall lambs soon, so we’re going to have some science time in his barn later this month).  I just love lambs (and the photo opps).

–7–

We went to the library three times this week. My four-year-old found the section of horse books.  Guess what we’ve been reading all week?  (No complaints from me or my husband!)

Jen invented and hosts our Quick Takes fun every week, so go give her a visit at Conversion Diary.

Shut the door to the bathroom, JRT goes nuts and barks his signature wake-the-dead-scare-the-living bark. Close the drawer with onesies, and have a repeat performance. Toddler drops a heavy object in the front room; JRT protests and makes my blood boil.

Toddler-tron, when she was a baby, took no notice of JRT’s barking. “Well of course not,” someone pointed out to me, “she’s been hearing it her entire life, from the time she was in you.” Ahh, I thought, the same should be true for our new baby.

Wrong.

Our Little Mouse, it turns out, does notice JRT’s noisy antics. She might not wake completely, but her sleep is definitely disturbed.

Strike one.

And then there’s the issue of cleanliness. I’m not the best housekeeper, but with a baby and a toddler, there are certain priorities. A clean table, for one thing, and a fairly clean floor, for another. Ever since JRT pulled his jumping-on-the-table-and-defecating stunt a few months back (more than once, I might add), I never trust that the tables are quite clean enough. In fact, finding the dog hair everywhere has led to some hard-to-answer questions (How did the dog get in my underwear drawer?! being just a starter.).

Strike two.

The first two strikes are largely forgivable, though the second has been weighing on me for some time. But then, on Sunday while Hubby was at Mass and we girls were here puttering around and in general getting used to what life will be like when he goes back to work (even as I was wishing it wasn’t staff-and-flu-and-nasty-germ season so I could take my baby out in public without making worrywarts out of every adult in my life, self included). I happened to be walking by the couch, right after growling at JRT to GET OFF THE COUCH (he’s a smart dog – why must he defy me?!?) yet again, when I saw something I had never seen before: a teeny tiny gooey-looking white thing left behind when the dog leapt off the couch. And through the red rage and blue terror, I picked it up on my pinky and…it moved. I put it in a cleaned out jar, so that Hubby could ID it when he got home, and tried not to think about it.

We determined that it was a hook worm. “But haven’t you had him wormed?” my mother-in-law asked incredulously. “Didn’t the vet take care of that the last time you had him in?” (That was when we took care of heartworm and fleas, incidentally, and cost a pretty penny.) Um, no. Somehow, I just can’t bring myself to blame the vet for that (though I’m sorely tempted). I should have known, my mind screeched, even as it conjured images of my toddler in the hospital for having worms, wasting away to nothing.

In the midst of my crying (there was no helping it, really – I’ve been pretty even keel in avoiding the baby blues so far (though it’s still early), but this was too much), I pronounced the third strike.

JRT’s life has changed a bit since Sunday. He’s now an outside dog. The five hours of barking didn’t sway me. I even let him use our inside porch for his kennel, and we’ll probably kennel him there, in his cage, through the day, for the protection of such innocents as the mail lady (who sometimes has to drop larger things off and is nice enough to leave them on our porch) and the UPS delivery guy and the Jehovah’s Witnesses who have taken to leaving flyers around.

So far, I’ve noticed him with one dead mole. Good things might come of his newfound freedom to fully realize his potential as a critter dog. Certainly life on the outside is only going to improve my mental health, since my house has been disinfected and can now be called – though tentatively in some spots – clean.

Then we got The Call. It was a call that I know my husband is always waiting for: one of the Men in the Family needed his help. He had been trapping some pesky coons that have been winning the Human-Critter Battle all summer, and since he lives In Town (population 600, max), he didn’t have a way to dispose of them. Enter Hubby, and his handy-dandy every-farmer-needs-one rifle.

The halfway serious discussion came up again.

“It’s your call.” He had his work coat on, gloves ready on the table, rifle laid out flat and waiting.

“Well.” I admit it: I was tempted. I still am. The dog is whining at the door, knowing Something is up. He can probably smell the coons from here. He’s a good critter dog, and I hate that there’s fondness in my heart for him, because it’s been such a tough day.

I can’t get past, though, the game of playing God. We do it so much in our culture. No, I don’t really think it’s a big deal with my dog, though I have known people who would think it’s a bigger deal with my dog than it is with that unborn baby a few miles away. In fact, I used to be one of those people, though my agricultural roots kept me from swinging too far into PETA’s camp.

How could I consider shooting my pet, who’s part of my family? Would I do that to my daughter? (Some days, it’s probably better not to ask that question!) Would I do that to my husband? (Honestly, no. The man’s a saint. Really – he’s the one who needs a support group, being married to me!) Would I shoot my friends? (Wellllllllll…) So how can I consider shooting my pet?

You might notice a difference between my pet and all the other options on that list. My pet is not human. He might live in the same house, and on a lucky night, sleep in the same bed, as I do. He might eat the same food and he might be willing to die to protect us.

And yes, today, I would play God and shoot him.

See how un-God-like I am? All those years of sinning and committing every last one of the seven deadly sins – some twice – and God forgave me. That long list of failings I have – the things I have done and the things I have failed to do – and God continues to forgive me.

See how badly I play God? My experience with God has been mostly forgiveness and healing repentance, not just rewards for my barking and whining and pooping in hidden corners. I have become a better person (I hope!) by trying to get closer to God through prayer and devotion; I fall short far more often than I hit the mark, yet God accepts the person I am and challenges me to keep trying.

This is how one person plays God with a dog. I can’t help but think about the babies who die every day because people play God, instead of turning to God for help. I can’t help but think about the many times I have “killed” my neighbor – the same one that last week’s Gospel exhorted me to love – through my foul thoughts or mean-spirited intentions. I can’t help but think about the reasons why I don’t deserve to be here, even as I feel grateful for the grace that allows me to keep puttering along.

We’ll have more challenging days with the JRT. And God will have more challenging days with me. Guess it’s the least he can do, and why not? After all, HE is the one who has to play God. I don’t know about you, but I’m glad the responsibility’s off my shoulders!

There’s something else in the closet too.

In the wee hours of the night, Hubby woke up and turned on the closet light. Something stirred me in his moving around, and I sat up and asked, “What’s wrong?”

“There’s something digging in the closet.”

He left the closet light on for most of the night – it was off when I got up this morning, but I’m guessing the Critter didn’t do that. I went back to sleep, disturbed by dreams of Critters in my closet.

Just what could it be? And why does it think that my closet is an ideal place for it to be? How soon will we find it, or how soon will it get through?

I can’t help but look inward, then, and wonder about the Things in my soul, sneaking out of sight when I turn on the light of examination. They’re just under the floorboards, rattling away in the dark. It’s too easy to dismiss them as unimportant, inconsequential, silly little Things. But, like Thing One and Thing Two, the Things in my soul can wreak havoc if they get out into the big room.

As my husband said last night, “That critter doesn’t know we have a dog.” The Jack Russell Terror knows something’s up in our closet, although he doesn’t have it all figured out, because we keep our bedroom door closed much of the time. He hasn’t started his obsessive digging and clawing to rid us of the Critter (and we’re glad for that).

The Things in my soul don’t know about the Protector I keep there, or maybe they just don’t care. I think their sender knows, but doubts whether I keep that Dawg inside all the time. I have to remind myself to nurture my Protector and my Strength. I need to keep a steady diet of Scripture and holy writings, and I must not slack on my prayers. My focus must be heavenward, even as my feet travel along terra firma. With my head in the clouds, closer to my Maker and my Protector, I have to trust that the floorboards are strong enough in the closet of my soul. I have to be ready. I have to remember that my Strength comes from above.

When he pulls clothes through the venting holes of the hamper, tearing delicates and shredding t-shirts, all because he managed to get his ball or toy in the hamper and needs it out NOW, I could strangle him. In the silence of the pre-dawn house, as I cozy up with my mug of coffee and putter around doing my morning chores, his unexpected barks stop my heart and give me a year less to live! And then there is the happy dashing from one end of the five acres to the other, right after he has been standing outside clamoring to get in. He’ll chase cars on the road – he’s smart enough not to go out on the road, though we worry when we see cars swerving away from him (which only encourages him and makes them his victim). He hogs the bed and steals my covers and scratches so hard sometimes in the middle of the night that he wakes me up.

So how must it be for God? I complain because I feel I’m in the spiritual desert, yet I turn away from the oasis of his love and forgiveness by not going often enough to confession. I gripe about the failings of those angelic people around me, all the while poisoning the very air I speak in with my foul attitude. I admire the saints for their humility, but so often to put it in practice for myself. I feel compassion for people, but then do not help the needy in my midst. I am given so much, but all I see is how much I lack.

Do you suppose there’s a support group for God, as he deals with Jack Russell humans?