Things My Dog Ate & Survived

My first house dog would have reached the age of 20 this past St. Patrick's Day. For a dachshund, that would be astounding.

The elongated creatures are a loyal and lovable breed, for who doesn't love the occasional, "Hey, it's a wiener dog!" But these fur kids are prone to back problems and overeating. And eating is something my dog loved to do.

Lexy with my siblings.
Top left with Priscilla, Brenda on the right, and with Elliott, lower left.

All of Lexy's bad habits were my fault. Diving for food, digging in purses, ripping papers, chewing woodwork. Not a pretty thing for a canine who came from a line of pure bred show dogs.

But I will take credit for her friendly, unabashed nature too. She never feared anyone or anything. She had no reason to. I raised her from the time she was a puppy after getting her from Jacquie Girrens in June of 1995.

To honor her memory this year, here's a lighthearted look at some of the things Lexy ate during the 11-plus years of her life.

Corn on the Cob
Lexy grabbed one out of my brother-in-law Rick's hand when he was teasing her with it at my sister Brenda's house. Lexy gagged on it, and I had to reach down her throat and pull it out. I gave Rick a piece of my mind as he did me about keeping her around the table. But Rick's a dog lover, so I don't hold it against him.

Lexy rests as Rick and I play chess.

Butter
She'd jump up on chairs if we didn't push them in. If Priscilla, my other sister who was Rick's wife, had butter on the table, Lexy would eat the entire stick if we didn't stop her in time. Result: loose bowels.

Pizza
Again, we didn't push in the chairs, so at my step-daughter Brittany's 13th birthday party, Lexy joined in and gobbled some pizza. See, I told you. These were all my fault.

Chocolate
Don't worry. We got her to vomit and she was okay. When I found an almost empty bag of chocolate in the hallway at my sister Priscilla's, I knew what had happened. Lexy had been snooping around in a bedroom where Pris was storing wedding supplies for her son's reception. We called a vet, and they told us what to do so she would foam and then expel it. So we waited. And waited. And waited. And just about the time we were going to load her up and take her in, up it all came. PTL!

Mom keeping Lexy out of the junk pail.

Pantyhose
Yes, I used to wear them under my pants. Had to keep warm somehow on cold bus rides during basketball season. Lexy managed to find the nylons and eat the legs. All I found was the waist and butt part. My vet, Doc Mike Herndon, told me how much and how often to give her the goopy black toothpaste-looking stuff that acted as a stool softener. I kept it on hand because of all the stuff she'd get into. Then Doc said, "You need to dig through her poop and puke to piece the pantyhose back together again, so we know all the pieces are out of her." I did that with a big stick. This happened twice. You'd think I'd put them away so she couldn't get to them. Again, all my fault. This is why I do not baby sit.

Lexy & Pepper eye-ball Chris' cereal.

Chewing Gum
My friend and colleague Joyce Foley came for a Longaberger party at my house. I usually took Lexy to my neighbors, Jack and Betty Tracy, when I'd have such events, but Joyce had come later, and I already had the wiener girl back at the house. We went into the kitchen, and when we came back out, Lexy was busy chewing up a wad of Big Red gum from Joyce's purse. She did a similar thing when I stopped for a minute to deliver something to my niece Evelynn. When I came back, Lexy had managed to get into my candy and gum and some Advil. The bugger knew how to unzip bags!

Poop
Yes, her own. It's not as uncommon as you might think. I had to give her special pills so she would quit doing it. It was embarrassing when she'd do it in the front side yard. The behavior is called coprophagy. She liked horse droppings, silage, and trash cans too.

My life with Lexy was full of crazy events like this, and I loved every minute of it. For a more serious read on my time with her, read the post called The Loss of a Pet.


What are your house pet's habits? Have they eaten anything weird?

Artsy Fartsy Girl Teaches First Lesson

Paper plates, cotton balls, glue, and my oldest nephew and niece who served as my students. The lesson: paper plate Santa. I taught Michael and Evelynn the same lesson we did in Mrs. Gilchrist's third grade classroom.

Evelynn and Michael with their Santas and me in 1975

I must have really liked this project if I came home and re-taught it. I am thankful Mom snapped the picture of us three because it signifies my first teaching experience. I grew up playing school, but never dreamed of becoming a teacher. That’s an explanation for another post.

Mrs. Gilchrist was the most etiquette-filled teacher I ever had, and I'm sure she didn't care for our 8-year-old fingers making a mess with glue. Third grade was a turning point. I got glasses, I got in trouble for a fart note to classmate Todd Tollefson, and I figured out what the middle finger meant. Those stories will show up in another blog post too someday.

my paper plate Santa ~ he's 39-years-old this Christmas

  

We did not make a big deal out of Santa Claus in my childhood home. I always knew he wasn't real, and that Christmas was about Christ's birth. But for some reason, I kept the Santa I made in Mrs. Gilchrist's class. See the picture above. Found him in my memory box right beside the “I Like You” notebook cover. Read the post Thankful to be a Child of the 70s to understand my fascination with that icon.

I remembered this art project when I saw a picture of paper plate crafts on my colleague and friend Marilyn Keller's Facebook page earlier this week. She’d posted a link to the Artsy Craftsy Mom.

photo from the artsycraftsymom.com

This woman is incredible: a software analyst by day and craft-mom by night. What a combination. But I have never completely bought into the right-brain or left-brain only philosophy. A Denny Dey workshop focusing on brain research a few summers ago debunked the idea of that anyway. For more on that, click here for an easy-to-read article on the subject. It contains more brain research links inside it.

So it got me thinking, I am crafty. Kind of. 

But when I started listing how and snapping pictures of the evidence, this blog post evolved into a novel, so I cut and pasted the info into other documents to save for other posts.

Hey, cut and paste—isn't that crafty? 

What holiday crafts do you perform each year? Or do you remember a special one from your childhood? I would enjoy interacting with you in the comment section below. And remember, if the kids are getting cabin fever this season, Google the artsy craftsy mom.

 

Hootin' ~n~ Tootin'

I hid in our stairway because my clarinet teacher, Mr. Robert Wiens, showed up at our house one day after school.

No, I did not do anything to get myself in trouble—except turn in my instrument. I quit.

My parents knew it. My piano teacher knew it. But when Mr. Wiens found out, he did not like it. Not one bit. And he drove twelve miles out to our farm to say so.

It wasn't like I didn't have any musical talent, for I could already read music. So how could I make such a decision to quit? I was only in fifth grade. But someone, who shall remain nameless, lead me to believe it was taking time away from my pursuit of piano.

Mr. Wiens, known for producing outstanding marching bands as well as concert performers, respectfully explained to my parents how one instrument would enhance the other.

After Mr. Wiens left and I emerged from my hideout, my parents and I discussed the situation. I decided the lucky rabbit’s foot would go back on the case, and Mom and Dad agreed to purchase the new clarinet for around $150.

A few days later I was at my weekly clarinet lesson with classmate Adele Peterson where Mr. Wiens would sit between us and smoke his cigarette. Yes, the blessed ’70’s. I did not mind, for I knew he cared about me. 

I never did get to march under him though because Mr. Wiens left our school the next year. In fact, for the next seven years, Hitchcock went through three music teachers. Guess he was a tough act to follow.

I played piano much better than I did clarinet, but I enjoyed marching band, pep band, concert band, and particularly our ensembles.

One year at contest, our clarinet quartet experienced a debacle. One of us—probably me, certainly not Debbie Goehring—pulled off the top of the music stand as we prepared to perform. Our music flew all over the floor. We contained our laughter somehow, and I believe we managed a superior.

Whatever happened to the clarinet since it did not go back to the Music Center in Huron ran by the Pepper family? It stayed in the Hofer family. My oldest niece Evelynn used it.

Whatever happened to Mr. Wiens? Ironically, years later he ended up near a family member, my sister Priscilla. He lived in Bridgewater, but I am not sure what he did there. In fact, she gave me some home decor that he made out of wood. Hitchcock people will remember that he was a carpenter of sorts.

Sure would be nice to see Mr. Wiens again. Maybe this post will find him.

Have you ever experienced a teacher like this? One who went out his way for the benefit of your education? If so, share in the comment section below. 

Writer’s Note: for another story about the role of music in my life, read the blog post entitled, Mom’s Pestering Pays Off.