Die Suckas!

We began noticing the first Boxelder bugs on a weekend at the home in the middle of September.  They were annoying but “eh,” I said to myself.  “I’m living out in the country now.  Maybe Boxelder bugs are a country thing.  I’m sure it won’t be long til they move on.”  Two weekends later they were so thick on the west side of the house we chose to walk all the way around the house and come in the back door rather than risk letting them into the house.  Not that choosing the back door made a lot of difference because they’d already invaded the nice warm west-facing living room wall and window.   I plucked off every bug I 

could reach with a tissue, marched into the bathroom, shook my squirming tissue over the toilet and then watched little legs and wings try to fly in a porcelain bowl.  What?  you say.  No photo of the death swim?  I actually stood with my camera pointed at the toilet bowl filled with struggling bug bodies but thought that would just be tacky ... you're welcome.  Anyway ... then I went back into the living room and plucked more. When there were a dozen or so squirming in the water I flushed.  “Ha!  Take that you disgusting little bugs!”  I repeated that process many, many, times.  It was frustrating and made my skin crawl

– sometimes literally.  Finally I did the only thing I could think to do.  I Googled to find out how to get rid of them. That’s when I discovered there really isn’t anything to do but wait.  Well, wait and try and seal windows and doors.  Eventually they will hibernate for the winter and give me time to forget their nastiness until they once again make my home their home.  At least they won’t lay eggs in the house.  And it was nice to read they’re harmless, although leaving little poop stains doesn’t seem truly harmless to me.  Disturbingly, they could have come from anywhere, up to two miles away, and just decided to end their journey at our house.

The first week in October we had a hard freeze.  It got down to about 17 degrees.  “That’ll kill ‘em”, I thought to myself.  “The pestilence is over.  I guess that wasn’t too bad.  I can deal with that.”   This past weekend as we pulled into the driveway at the home I fully expected to see bug-free windows and walls.   I was positive the only indication we’d been infested with Boxelder bugs would be piles of dried legs and wings.   We parked, I grabbed a few things from the car, walked up to the door and would have cried except  I was afraid I might inhale a Boxelder bug in mid sob.  Obviously 17 degrees wasn’t enough to kill them.  If anything there were even MORE bugs than the two weeks before.  So, once again, in between cleaning gutters, painting a closet, babysitting and installing a new thermostat (which only took us four times longer than the package promised), I plucked, shook, flushed, plucked, shook, flushed, plucked, shook, flushed … over and over and over.

  I even took the shop vac outside and sucked them off the side of the house, the ground, the windows, the 

porch, my body and my hair.  When I tapped on the side of the house they fell out like chicklets from a broken candy machine.  The shop vac sounded like a machine gun only instead of rat-a-tat-tat it was pht-a-pht-pht.  Dean just shook his head, and gave me the “I think you’re being stupid but if it makes you happy I won’t stop you …” look**.  I guess maybe not having any hair for creepy crawly things to get caught in makes it easier for him to tolerate them. 

With every pluck and shake and pht I cursed the people who were stupid enough to have a Boxelder tree on their property.  What the hell could they be thinking?  Maybe it doesn’t bother THEM to live with swarms of bugs all over their walls and windows, flying into their hair and crawling under their shirts, but they should consider those of us who live up to two miles away from their stinkin’ tree.  Geezo peezo.  Some people just have no consideration for others.

Sharing my home with swarming beetles for two or more months every year is not my idea of country living and even if I can’t do anything to keep them from choosing to set up residence in my house, I decided I had to take action.  I had to figure some way to keep them from making me feel like I was in an Alfred Hitchcock movie.   So yesterday, after we had stopped for a cold drink, gotten onto the interstate and headed home, I pulled out my phone and searched for more information.  I needed to arm myself with knowledge so I could win the pestilence war.   If 17 degrees wasn’t going to kill the suckers what would?  Maybe there IS something I could use to kill them.  But even if learned I can’t kill them, I needed to know how long it would be before they turned me into a raving maniac disappeared.   This time I searched a little harder and read a little closer. 

 Oh no!  Ohhhhhhhh noooooooooooooo!!!   I held my phone up to Dean, who was on the lookout for deer while he cruised at 78 mph, and said, “LOOK!  Look at THIS!  See it?  Now look at THIS!!  From my blog!! Look!!  It’s US!  WE have boxelder trees!  WE have the FEMALE tree!  The EVIL one!  WE are the people I have been damning with every pluck shake, flush and pft.  WE caused our own infestation! 

  

I guess the good news is we are also the cure.   Dean will get to buy a brand new chainsaw, although I thought he’d be much more excited than he seemed to be when I told him that.  Even better, this time next year I won’t be hounding him asking him politely to cut down those trees immediately when he gets the time and I will be overjoyed and content should be pretty happy.  And really … a happy wife ... isn’t that every man’s dream? 

**Turns out vacuuming the stupid things IS one of the ways to reduce their numbers.  Ha!

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Die Suckas!

Whose Yer Daddy?

As good puppy parents we know it’s important to socialize Sir Angus Wallace MacDuff.  So, soon after we got him we took him on his first foray into this big new world where he spent most of his time sleeping with his head in his water bowl.  

At the ripe old age of five months, he can jump at leaves, bark at shadows, chew on sticks, race squirrels and chase his tale for hours – sometimes even up to three – before he needs a nap.  Now that he has become much more energetic he is much more entertaining.  But he’s also a bit more dangerous.   Our after-work routine consists of me standing in the backyard saying, “Angus, Sit!  Angus, Sit!” while he bounces around me like Tigger making snorting noises.  Then we play fetch.  I throw the ball, he brings it back, usually drops it and waits.  Just when I think it's safe to pick up the ball he dives for it.  More than once I’ve looked down to see blood oozing from my arm or hand because he’s accidentally punctured me with those razor sharp claws or the daggers in his mouth.  We’re hoping that exposing him to lots of people in lots of situations will help teach him to sit calmly and patiently until told he can move – and lessen the permanent scarring of my body.

We’ve also been taking every opportunity for puppy play dates.  Partly because we don’t want him to be one of those spoiled dogs who won’t share his toys – but mostly because we’re not stupid.   A dog that has played so hard his usually soft and silky fur is matted and stiff with slobbers is too tired to get into any trouble – or chase kitties – unhappy kitties who are still giving me a “how could you do this to us?” look just before their little spinning legs skid across the floor, with Angus in wild puppy joyfulness, charging behind them.  

Shhhh....pretend like you're sleeping and maybe he'll go away.

When he’s not exhausted from chewing on another dog or terrorizing cats we make sure to take him for a walk where we’re working very hard at teaching him to heel because, considering the fact that he’s only five months old and already weighs well over 40 pounds, we’re pretty sure he’s going to be a big boy and we’d rather keep our arms attached to our torso, not ripped out and bouncing along at the end of a leash in hot pursuit of a rabbit.  

Five Weeks

Five Months

In the four or so months we’ve had him, Angus has been everywhere from music festivals to rivers to backyards to creeks to parks to a brewery.  Don’t worry, we didn’t let him drink – much.  Kidding.  Really. We didn’t.   Everywhere we’ve taken him, somebody has always comes up and said one of two things.  Either, “what kind of dog is he?” or “is he a Newfie?”  When Leslie is asked this question of Baxter, 

On the left -- gotta love the whiskers.

Angus’ brother, her answer is one of two things.  Either, “He’s a Labradoodle mix” or “He’s a Newfoundland mix.”  I, however have only one answer.  “Well, the people we got him from said his mother was a Labradoodle but I don’t really think she’s pure Labradoodle because she wasn’t really curly, she was just wavy, so I think she was really just part Labradoodle.  Dean thinks maybe she had some Golden Retriever in her because she had some feathering.  And we were told his father was a Bernese Mountain Dog because there was one in the neighborhood but later they thought he might be a Newfoundland because one of their friends had a Newfoundland and she said the puppies looked just like Newfies.  But we don’t really know who the father is for sure because they never saw who “visited” the mother so it’s all just a guess.  But he looks like a Newfoundland with that little puff on his head so we’re kind of thinking he’s part Labradoodle and part Newfoundland.  But whatever he is, he’s going to be big!”  By then their eyes are glazed over.  

Since we take Angus out with us a lot, we get asked that question a lot, and even though I’m pretty sure they really don’t care what he is and it’s only a polite opening before they ask if they can pet him, I decided I wanted to know what the heck he really is so I can give them an accurate answer.  So I did a little research and discovered you can buy this nifty little kit and have your dog’s DNA tested.  It’s easy.  All you have to do is pry his mouth open, insert a long plastic stick into his mouth and scrape the side of his cheek without touching his teeth or tongue as you are hugging his squirming furry body while he tries desperately to eat the stick at the same time that 16 toenails and two dewclaws are flailing around your arms and head.  Twice.  Once on each cheek.  Piece of cake.  Approximately three weeks later we had an answer.  

So the next time we’re asked “what kind of dog is he?” I can tell them.  Exactly.  “The people we got him from said his mother was a Labradoodle but I didn’t really believe them because she wasn’t curly, you know, the way Labradoodles are.  She was just wavy.  But it turns out she really WAS a pure Labradoodle because we had his DNA tested and on the mother’s side it said Labrador/Poodle all the way back to his grandparents.  So I was wrong.  We really thought his father was a Newfoundland because he has that puff on his head and people keep telling us he looks like a Newfoundland, and look at those paws, he’s going to be a big boy, and Newfoundlands are big, but it turns out his father is part Shetland Sheepdog for pretty sure plus some possible other dogs like maybe Chow Chow or Shiba Inu.  So now we know where he got his curled tail.  Or he could even have some Dalmation, English Cocker Spaniel or IrishSetter in him.  We were really surprised there was no Bernese Mountain dog OR Newfoundland in him.  We really thought there’d be some Newfoundland in him because look at those paws.  He’s obviously going to be a big boy.  But … it turns out he’s a Labradoodle/Shetland Sheepdog/something else mix.”  

Oh, I forgot.  Sometimes when we’re out, people also ask a third question.  “What is his name?”  That’s a straightforward answer.  “Angus.  His name is Angus.  Because he’s black and he’s going to be a big boy.  Like a cow.  Get it?  He’s black and he’s big.  Black Angus.  The cow.  Big as a Black Angus cow … or I guess bull … til he’s a steer … an it ... a ?” 

Maybe I need some socialization training too.  Or a muzzle.

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Whose Yer Daddy?

Talking Back

Dear Us:

I stood open and vulnerable when you first walked through my doors.  When you said you loved me my walls vibrated with joy.  I thought we were going to have a lasting relationship.  I thought we were going to make new memories together.  I looked forward to sharing joys and sorrows and excitement.  I thought we would age and mellow together like a fine wine.  And then you wrote that post.  What you wrote was uncalled for and just plain mean.  I’m disappointed.  And hurt.  

You need to step back.

       

Give me some time. 

   

 

Look beyond your short-sighted fickleness.

  

I am more than what you have narrowly focused on.  

 

  

I have a deeper beauty to share with you.   

Give me a chance.

  

 Yours Truly,

House

 

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Talking Back