The Bearded Iris

A Recalcitrant Wife and Mother Tells All

Tag: prison movies

Crime and punishment, doggie style.

It’s never good when a police cruiser appears in your driveway. Just sayin’.

So yesterday afternoon, the second day of Spring break, when I was hanging by my last nerve, trying to gather three uncooperative kids to run to the grocery store, the last thing I needed was to deal with the Po-Po.

Frankly, I knew we were living on borrowed time.

But let me back up a bit.

A few weeks ago I became acquainted with a charming new Internet friend, Erin. I commented on her blog, she commented on my blog, yada yada yada, and the next thing I knew, I was devouring information about the all-natural Shaklee cleaning products she sells. The stuff sounded incredible and I just had to have some. An order was placed. A box was shipped.

Enter the courier.

But wait, there’s something else you need to know.

I have a very entertaining and artistic dog named Ike.

Ike is a 6 year old Black Lab.

Black Labs are very loyal dogs.

Very loyal dogs like to protect their people from threatening things like noisy delivery trucks and strangers dressed in brown uniforms carrying large boxes.

For legal reasons, I cannot divulge any details, but long story short, the courier beat Ike in my front yard with a long black stick and Ike allegedly bit the courier.

I do not know what happened first, the biting or the beating.

I only witnessed the beating, not the biting. And it was a horrendous sight and sound to behold, let me tell you.

But it doesn’t matter in the eyes of Animal Control. It doesn’t matter that the courier was inside my invisible fence line. It doesn’t matter that she was beating my dog with a large stick and that he was yelping in agony with every whack.

All that matters to Johnny Law is that Ike (allegedly) bit someone. Period.

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, let the record show that Ike has never bitten anyone before this alleged incident.

The following photo is graphic in nature and intended for mature audiences only. Please look away if you do not have a strong constitution.

This is what it typically looks like when Ike attacks:

Help! Help! A dingo is eating my baby!!!!

Luckily I was there to save that poor child from being licked within an inch of his life.

Here is another example of Ike’s aggressive behavior (with a slightly less appealing angle):

Help! Somebody save me!!!

The courier sought medical treatment due to the alleged dog bite and did not go to work the next day. I know this because I made numerous phone calls to inquire about her well being. My family and I certainly hope that she feels better and are praying for her speedy recovery.

But apparently, anytime someone seeks medical attention for an alleged dog bite, the authorities are summoned.

Hence the unannounced visit from the Sheriff’s department yesterday afternoon.

There was a lengthy interview. I had to write a statement. The deputy took photographs of my yard, the “Invisible Fence” sign by my mailbox, and of Ike.

I was apprised of my rights and of the county laws regarding dog bites. Shockingly, even though Ike’s rabies vaccination is valid until 2013, the law states that he must be quarantined for 10 days, at my expense.

I had until 5:00 PM to surrender him to the authorities.

The kids and I loaded Ike, his dog food, and a favorite blanket into the van and drove him over to our vet’s office where he will be closely supervised in solitary confinement until the end of his quarantine period.

Turning him over to the vet just about broke my heart in two. I haven’t cried that hard in a long time.

I felt like I was walking him down The Green Mile.

Not to condone a dog bite, but there’s something just not right about a good dog doing ten days in the hole for the crime of protecting his family.

And as my kids’ friend Justine informed me a few minutes ago, 10 days to us is really like 70 days to a dog. Damn. That’s a stiff sentence for man or beast.

Please keep Ike in your thoughts and prayers during his time in the pokey. For as much as I complain about that boy, I sure am missing him.

with a heavy heart,

-Iris

© Copyright 2011, The Bearded Iris.

Cornhole

(Please note: the following blog post was originally published in 2008, when I was clearly still on the sauce. Proceed with caution.) 

I love that my 9-year-old son is a Cub Scout… I do. He has a blast and it is always very wholesome, good clean fun, which I suspect is good for growing children. Soap carving, anyone?

But I have two problems with the whole Cub Scout camp-out thing.

1.) They have a very strict rule that no alcoholic beverages are allowed at camp.

2.) The other moms and dads are very nice. I mean VERY nice. Like the nicest people I have ever met.

In other words—I do not fit in there at all.

And being in the balmy, great outdoors around very nice, responsible parents and 30 loud little boys running amok with sharp sticks and pocket knives really makes me want to soothe myself with a cocktail or two.

But I muscled through the pain and managed to really enjoy myself, and there were a few high points that I’d like to share with you.

First, let’s talk about Cornhole.

Cornhole is a bean-bag tossing game that originated in Ohio. The board looks like this:

Seriously. I’m not making this up.

Apparently, people who play this game are very passionate about it. The dimensions of the board are strictly regulated, as are the bean-bags, the distance between the player and the board, the scoring, etc. However, I had never heard of this “game” until Cub Scout Family Camp when one of the dads asked me “if I wanted to play Cornhole” with him and I almost crapped my pants.

“Excuse me?” I stuttered.

At which point he tossed me a bag of dried corn, pointed to the game board on the ground, and taught me how to play. And you know what? It was really, really fun! But I was DYING, y’all. Because I couldn’t control myself and made a snide crack about how I had never heard the term “Cornhole” outside of the prison movies I so enjoy watching and HE TOTALLY DIDN’T GET IT. He cocked his head to the side and made a “Huh?” face and I quickly realized that I should probably not attempt to joke around with Cub Scout Dads about anything remotely related to S-E-X, prison style or otherwise. These dads are very nice. And very straight. And to some of them, Cornhole is no laughing matter.

But thank God for my husband. As soon as I finished my Cornholing session with Mr. Ohio, I ran as fast as my stumps could carry me to tell my man about the game and we giggled until our faces hurt. We don’t do that very often—my husband is actually one of those Nice Cub Scout Dads—but luckily for me, I must have rubbed off on him a bit (wink wink) because he does appreciate a good dirty joke from time to time. Not often enough, I say, but we’re working on it. I’ll keep rubbing.

So one more really funny thing to share, if you don’t mind.

The Scoutmaster organized an “Iron Chef” competition between the campers. The kids were divided up into three teams, given access to a pantry of processed foods, and taught various outdoor camp cooking methods, one of which is the Dutch Oven. Honestly, I should force my son to stay in Scouts just for the material.

After the cooking demonstration, the three teams were each assigned a secret ingredient to incorporate into their dishes. My team’s secret ingredient was popcorn. Now, I was just lurking on the edge of the group, having to follow my 19-month-old son, Bucket Head, around and make sure he didn’t wander off and get eaten by a bear, so I wasn’t really helping the kids choose the menu. But watching these other nice nice moms and dads strategize was fascinating.

The main rule of this contest was that the kids had to do all the cooking—the parents could only supervise and control the cooking fuel. But when I learned that my group was stumped about how to use the popcorn in their dish, I just had to butt-in. They had just settled on a simple trail mix of popcorn and nuts when I sidled up to one of the more assertive moms and asked her if we had access to marshmallows and butter. I then planted the seed in her head that if we made popcorn balls out of the popcorn, it would be a real crowd pleaser and something that the kids would have fun making. Wouldn’t you know it? That nice mom hopped on my idea faster than an Ohioan on a stiff ear of corn.

Now, I’m not used to being listened to by anyone other than my team of well-compensated, highly skilled psychiatrists, so suddenly being thrust into the mix of an Iron Chef competition with a team of eager scouts and parents reporting to me was quite the power trip. Suddenly, Bucket Head was fending for himself and I was melting butter and marshmallows in a Dutch Oven, fixin’ to lead my team to victory. You know that phrase “too many cooks in the kitchen”? Well, imagine the extra chaos of an outdoor camp style kitchen with propane fueled burners and a very enthusiastic team of very competitive nice nice parents and their 6-year-old sons. It was mayhem. But the popcorn balls were my idea and I was not going to let my team down, dammit!

Well we oiled up the hands of these seven little kids, and I gotta tell you, I don’t think their hands were all that clean. But rules are rules and we had an Iron Chef style ticking clock to beat, so we greased ’em up and let them dig into the pot and grab handfulls of gooey popcorn and mold them into balls. It was messy. It was sticky. It was germy. But it was really cool.

Thank GOD it worked.  Just look at my glistening balls. Aren’t they gorgeous?

Fast forward to the judging. My husband, who has a talent for garnishing, helped the boys plate up the other dishes and deliver them to the judges with those germy popcorn balls decorating each plate like something you’d see in a real restaurant—and I’m talkin’ about a classy joint like Cracker Barrel.

You should have heard the “ooohs” and “ahhhhs” from the judges and other campers. The popcorn balls were a HUGE hit. In fact, the lead judge exclaimed that he hadn’t eaten an old-fashioned popcorn ball since he was a child and the nostalgia of it really touched his heart. Yep, those germy sweet and salty balls o’ mine won our team first place! The nice nice scout leaders even recognized me by name in the award ceremony; it may be one of my proudest moments. (Note to self: never underestimate the power of balls, and also, I really need to get out more.)

© 2008 The Bearded Iris

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