A Wednesday Confession: Dog Magic

I think my Springer Spaniel’s crate is magical. He is a dog of many obsessions and extra-long hair, and, as such, he tends to get muddy. Especially when it rains, and my yard becomes a giant mud pit. Wet, squishy mud on a long-haired dog is not fun. It gets everywhere, particularly when said dog comes inside and immediately shakes to rid himself of whatever icky stuff might be clinging to his fur.

Today, my yard is muddy and gross. And I made the mistake of leaving my dogs outside for just a little too long. “Too long” isn’t a certain thing. It varies from moment to moment. Let’s just say that, in my house, I perpetually live on the verge of “too long”, and leave it at that. Anyhow, since my fuzz-brains were unsupervised for longer than two minutes, they decided to enjoy the chilly air by running around and yapping their joy into the sky.

Did I mention my yard is a mud pit?

Yeah … Both dogs came inside liberally coated with mud. I managed to clean it off of Fae, who has shorter hair, but also seems to believe I am, somehow, going to murder her with the towel. This was not pretty. Or fun. Then, I turned my attention to Shiner. I was dismayed to find the mud wasn’t coming out of the long hair on his legs, so I shut him into his crate to keep him off of the furniture while I went in search of a solution.

I came back about fifteen minutes later, dog wipes in hand and my heart hardened for battle. But when I opened the crate, out pranced a happy, smiley, dog without a bit of mud on him.

a smiley, happy springer named Shiner. Love him!!

And so, there is only one explanation: Shiner’s crate is magical. There is some sort of magical vortex lurking within its dark depths. It is a place where the fabric of reality has worn thin, and unexpected things can happen. The types of unexpected things that tend to brighten a girl’s day — like finding a mysteriously clean dog in the place of a formerly ratty one. I have begun to wonder if the magic of the crate would work for other problems in my life. For example, what if I managed to crawl inside? Would I stuff myself in there — an overly chubby woman in the throes of her middle adulthood — and emerge a slimmer, younger version of myself? The thought has a certain golden-tinged appeal, and I almost want to give it a try.

But then, I picture myself stuck inside a dog crate … trying to explain to my husband just how this all happened. Yep — I think the magic just died.

A Wednesday Confession …

Well, it’s still Wednesday here in my little corner of the universe. Barely, but it counts. My mom always loved telling me, “Close only counts in hand grenades and horseshoes.” But I beg to differ; I think it counts in blogging, too, particularly when one is trying to get something in under the wire of an arbitrarily determined personal deadline.

Anyhow, I thought I might try something a bit new. I’ve never done a “themed” sort of post, but I follow several blogs that employ this tool to wonderful effect. I figured it might be a fun way to shake things up a bit in the middle of the week, as well as helping me attempt to get posts out more frequently. The ten or so people who read my blog might thank me for that. Then again … perhaps you won’t. It’s hard to say.

So … A Wednesday Confession …

statute with flowersI only like grape jelly. Oh yeah, I know. Shocking, right? I think I just heard at least a couple of you guys scream in fear and run from the room in order to escape your computer monitors. Little do you know that my words will follow you … Everywhere. (not really)

Here’s the thing: I have only liked grape jelly from my earliest childhood. When first faced with the decision as to what jelly I should eat, I selected grape. And grape it has been, ever since. This was rather a big deal in my growing-up years, as I come from people who either can their own jellies, jams, and preserves or have ready access to (free) homemade jellies, jams, and preserves. We were not a rich family. And yet, since I subsisted almost entirely on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for most of my childhood, my poor parents were forced to purchase grape jelly from the grocery store. Because, of course, no one we knew had a vineyard. Or even a grape vine.

As I grew older, I toyed with other flavors. I tried marmalades and different types of preserves. I tried “normal” flavors, like strawberry, and I even headed over to the exotics for a taste of fig or quince. I won’t lie. I liked some of them. I particularly like fig jelly with the right type of cheese and cracker combo. But I always came back to grape. And, like a lovely memory from my childhood, grape jelly was always there, ready to welcome me back with open arms. It wasn’t that I felt I had been unfaithful to grape. It’s more that my foray into the more adventurous world of jelly-dom deepened my devotion to my childhood favorite. Which is pretty odd, considering I don’t particularly enjoy eating grapes. And I don’t like grape juice, either. What can I say? I’m a complicatedly simple sort of person.

grapes in a vineyard in californiaIn some ways, I feel I have failed at becoming a true adult. I think adults branch out more. They might even do something as insane as eat strawberry jam on their toast. Whereas I remain firmly rooted in the habits of my past. And yet, each time I reach for the Welch’s Grape Jelly, I can’t find it in myself to regret my choices.

So there you have it. My name is Pish … and I like grape.