I Don't Mean To Brag, But I Have Discovered The Perfect Cure...

Excuse me. Just a minute. I'm busy shining my fingernails on my lapel, getting ready to take a bow when I'm awarded a patent, and most likely a trophy, national recognition, and a high-dollar contract. I have discovered the perfect cure for c o n s t i p a t i o n !

Just ask Farmer H. He doesn't know I'm the one who perfected this remedy. It requires no pills, no powdery mix, nothing shoved up the nether region. In fact, the sufferer need do nothing at all, except what comes naturally.

Farmer H had been complaining that he was trying to poop. Surely it could not have gone on for more than 24 hours, from the looks of my toilet seat. Anyhoo...he bemoaned the fact that he sat down to try, and was unsuccessful.

Well. Flash to the next day. 1:30, to be exact. When I was readying for my shower, I cleaned the toilet in the master bathroom. It's not going to clean itself, you know. By the time I returned home from town at 3:00, it was obvious that Farmer H's problem was cured! Nothing on the seat this time. He left his tracks in the bowl.

Just like LAST WEEK, within hours of me cleaning the toilet. Only last week, his evidence was left high and dry above the water line. How did he DO that???

I wonder if my skill is transferable. Probably so. I could market the solution on a tiny slip of paper inside a bottle that looks like over-the-counter medicine. It would be marketed for MEN ONLY. The instructions would recommend that the wife or significant other should clean the toilet. Relief should come to the afflicted man within two hours.

The Chicken Smotherer

I dashed into Country Mart on Wednesday, for bananas, bread, and Diet Coke. Of course I figured that as long as I was whipping out the debit card for this meager grocery haul, I might as well tack on some fried chicken from the deli. I could get it at the Gas Station Chicken Store, but that would interfere with my cash transaction of correct change, and it's more difficult to carry out in the cardboard box, what with my 44 oz Diet Coke.

Anyhoo, I wheeled my cart to the deli counter, and waited for service. The tray of fried chicken was overflowing! It must have been right out of the fryer. I guess I'd missed the lunch rush, since I arrived just before 2:00.

"I'd like an 8-piece chicken, and a half pound of livers."

"Oh. Here's the chicken."

Counter Man reached over to the side, to the display where I used to grab my chicken without asking. It's a heated shelf where chicken was already assembled in 8-piece black plastic trays with clear, vented tops, price stickers attached. Like they do at The Devil's Playground deli. Several months ago, however, I stopped finding chicken there. I had to ask for it. The trays were no more. Country Mart bags their chicken now.

"I didn't see that. It's been a long time since chicken has been ready there."

"Yeah, I always try to bag up at least one, when I bring out the chicken. It's the same as in the case. But I put it in a bag, to be ready. Here. Just grab it and put it in your cart."

That's the catch. The fried chicken was already in a bag! You know what happens to fried chicken in a plastic bag, right? It gets sweaty. No matter how many tiny air holes are in the bag. Hot chicken in a plastic bag steams, and the condensation drips from the top of the bag back onto the chicken, and then you have soggy fried chicken.

My chicken couldn't breathe! Counter Guy had suffocated my chicken!

I was so taken aback that I took it! Counter Guy set about tonging my livers. Again into a plastic bag. That's how they sell it now. I'm used to that. But as soon as I get it out of the store, I pull open the ziplock top, to let my chicken or livers or tenders breathe.

Yes. I know I should have insisted that he make me a fresh 8-piece chicken. But he'd already asked another man, over at the meat counter, if he minded if I was served first. So I didn't want to prolong that guy's wait, because he'd actually been there first.

When I told Farmer H at home, he said,

"I'd have told him I wanted the fresh chicken, or not any chicken at all."

Well. Men are like that. Probably everyone else in the world is like that. Except me.

NoTown Records

I didn't go to town on Monday! I don't know how long I'd gone without missing, but I'm pretty sure I broke my own record. The reason for my non-journey was twofold.

The Gas Station Chicken Store was out of Diet Coke on Sunday!

I know! Are you okay? Do I need to get the smelling salts? I also felt the room spinning when I saw that scrap of notebook paper taped to the spigot, proclaiming "OUT." I knew there would be no more until the supplier came. Usually on Tuesday. Methinks me knows too much about the operation of the GSCS. The Nice Guy Clerk actually looked it up in the delivery notebook. I was right.

Anyhoo...that day, I tried Diet Pepsi. NOOOO! Ptooey! Not good! Worse, even, than the PineSol tasting Diet Coke from Dairy Queen. No way was I paying for that again!

The other reason was the electric company. Roundaboutly. They are having a big limb cleanup, to prevent future outages. They've contracted a tree service to do the deed. They've been getting closer and closer, and were up in our gravel roads. So I had no wish to try squeezing T-Hoe past their behemoths.

I managed to survive on bottled Diet Coke and memories. I only had the tiny bottles. Did I tell that story? Can't remember. Anyhoo...my homemade elixir was tastier than the Diet Pepsi debacle. But I had to do without my scratchers, and relive past wins.

Farmer H was gone all day. He had a medical appointment in the afternoon, and went from there to his Monday auction. I asked him for one thing. ONE THING.

To bring the mail when he came home.

Well. That was apparently enough overload to cause a short circuit, because there was no mail to be found when I came upstairs at 3:30 a.m. When I next talked to Farmer H, he said HE FORGOT.

Seriously. He had ONE job to do. I'm glad that ONE job wasn't keeping my electrical cord for life support plugged into the wall.

I hate to leave my mail unattended for 24 hours, down on that lonely stretch of county road a mile from the Mansion. There were two tax documents in there! And a bill! Plus casino offers, and five junk mail catalogs.

Good thing no thieves were in a mail-stealing mood on Monday night.

Mrs. HM Tears A Page From Farmer H's Soup Book

It's no secret that Farmer H likes his vegetable beef soup piled high over the edges of the bowl. In fact, he doesn't need a bowl at all for his soup, since he doesn't like the juicy part. Which is what I actually think soup IS, but we're using Farmer H's logic.

I AM TURNING INTO FARMER H!

Not the bathroom habits, thank the Gummi Mary. And I don't have a PopArm. But I DID find myself using a fork to dip out a certain delicacy the other day, leaving the juice behind.

This is SO. VERY. WRONG. Slaw is not a soup! Yet when I opened up my favorite side dish, I was stunned to find my cabbage and carrots swimming in liquid! Mrs. HM has been betrayed by The Devil! That's where I get the best slaw. Except maybe for Captain D's, and it's too far away, and just a little foam individual cup. Even The Devil's Playground was out of the big containers of slaw. Good thing, I guess. I'd have been paying for LIQUID instead of slaw. I don't mind a little juice in the bottom, but the container shouldn't be half-full.

I know this slaw is pre-packaged and shipped to The Devil's Playground. Otherwise, I'd be pointing the finger (the BAD finger, as Genius and The Pony used to call it) at the deli staff. I was there last Thursday, after an ice storm, right before a snow storm, and only about four registers were open. The checkers were badmouthing the deli, which was closed, because ALL THE MEN had called out.

I'm pretty sure it was a man behind my soupy slaw, too.

Day Three In The Continuing Saga Of The Dog De-Honkerer

Sunday morning, with Farmer H away at his Storage Unit Store, I had the house to myself. I can turn the TV volume down then. And undistractedly peruse the innernets on HIPPIE.

I was kicked back in the La-Z-Boy, watching an old episode of Hoarders with a guy who had 150 acres full of old cars and trucks and buses. I would have turned the channel, except I heard him say that he had invented the electrical system of the Space Shuttle Challenger inside that old bus over there. Whether this was true or not, I never found out, even though I watched that whole dang episode!

Anyhoo...I was distracted by a noise on the porch at the end of the house by the BARn. It sounded like furniture moving, sliding along the wood. Huh. That was curious. About five bouts of the sound. And THEN I realized that it was Marley, coughing less like a goose, and more like sliding furniture. So an improvement, I'd say.

As I left for town, I noticed that the two leftover squares of grease bread in the bowl for Marley were gone from the kitchen counter. So I assumed Farmer H had given them to Marley with honey. He's not one to randomly give out treats to the dogs.

When I got home from town, Marley ran into the garage. Waited at my door until I got out of T-Hoe. I was wary of another fight to the almost-death, so I didn't close the garage door behind T-Hoe. Then I saw Jack on the porch. I got out, and Marley stood to greet me, not jumping up with his muddy hairy-again paws. He trotted to the people-door, and I let him out. Jack was on the side porch with Juno, so Marley thought better of it. Waited on the door jamb.

I went through, closing the garage door, and shooing Marley with my leg away from the people-door so I could close it without trapping him inside. Jack darted to the top of the steps, growling a warning. I praised Jack for being such a good dog (to not kill Marley), and Marley sidled away past Copper Jack on the brick sidewalk.

At the kitchen door, I managed to give the three main mutts a treat of chicken breast bones and grease bread and stale saltines. Marley was conspicuously absent. But the point IS: at no time during this homecoming did Marley honk! Like maybe the cough is gradually going away.

I need to remind Farmer H to dole out some more honey on the grease bread that I saved.

One Creature, Late And Small

Farmer H was given orders to dose Marley with honey three times a day for his goose-honking cough. It's not rocket science. Farmer H didn't have to pass the petCAT, or whatever the prospective veterinarian version of an MCAT would be. All he had to do was get some honey down Marley's throat. Marley is the kind of annoying little critter who will dash up and swallow something he ASSUMES is food, rather than waiting to make sure.

When interrogated grilled quizzed consulted on Marley's dosage Friday evening...Farmer H revealed the following.

"Before I went to town, I took some honey out there. Marley didn't want it."

"Didn't want it? He eats ANYTHING!"

"I tried to give it to him in a bowl, but he turned his head. So I tried to make him lick it off my finger, and he wouldn't. I stuck my finger in his mouth and kind of wiped it off. So I guess he got some."

"When did you give him more?"

"That was it."

"Well...he's supposed to have it three times a day. So now he's behind on the dosing schedule. I don't know if ONCE is going to make him feel better. But I'd sure never stick MY finger in his teeth! I don't trust ANY of our dogs to eat out of my hand. They're snappy! So afraid someone else is going to get it first. I hope you washed your hand!"

"I did."

"I bet if you put it on a tiny square of bread, Marley will eat it. For the bread!"

Well. Farmer H tried that on Saturday morning.

"I took it out there, but Marley didn't seem like he wanted the bread. I dumped it on the porch. I guess he ate it."

"Huh. More like one of the other dogs found it and ate it."

I discovered mid-morning that Farmer H had taken out a WHOLE SLICE of bread. Seriously. I didn't think my instructions were that complicated. So I called him at his Storage Unit Store.

"I know! I'm making chili before I go to town. I'll have some grease bread after frying the hamburger. I KNOW Marley will eat the grease bread!"

Good thing I was right there when Farmer H came home. I had half a hot dog bun soaked with hamburger grease. I cut it in four pieces. Told Farmer H to get the Honey Bear, because I heard Marley honking by the kitchen door when he came in.

"You can probably call Marley into the laundry room, and give it to him there. He'll run right into the house. Then Juno won't get upset."

"I ain't callin' him into the house. Here. Give me a bowl."

So, with one square of greasy hot dog bun in a bowl, with about half a tablespoon of honey on top, Farmer H opened the kitchen door. Marley was right there, ready to dart in. Farmer H stuck the bowl in Marley's face, and he hoovered that bread like a competitive eater swallowing an oyster. Before Juno even knew what happened.

There is more grease bread waiting by the back door. Whether Dr. Farmer H can dose Marley as instructed remains to be seen.

I Play One On The Innernets

Since I diagnose my own quasi-illnesses on the innernets, I figured I might as well give Marley a virtual checkup. I have come to the conclusion that Marley has kennel cough. The main clue being the sound he makes, which matches up info on a search for "why does my dog sound like a goose?" Okay. I didn't type that. I just did "dog cough" and saw that as an option.

Apparently, it can be caused by a bacteria, and is highly contagious. Or also by cold weather, or doggie asthma, or I don't remember others. Since Marley has been penned up, and not around other dogs until AFTER the cough, I figure he didn't catch it from another dog. However, it WAS a cold night before the day Farmer H reported Marley's cough. So I'm thinking that's it.

Despite sounding like he's knock-knock-knockin' on death's door, it seems that according to the innernets, Marley will likely make a full recovery in three weeks or less. Without treatment. That vets are usually not inclined to prescribe stuff for it. Heh, heh. I bet the innernets didn't do a vet survey! They have to make their money somehow!

Anyhoo...I was correct that you shouldn't give expired human cough medicine to dogs! I must be a genius, ya think? While some sites recommended garlic and lemon juice, others declared that garlic is toxic to dogs, and that vitamin C is also not good for them. The one thing that seemed agreeable was HONEY.

Not a lot of honey, but 1/2 to 1 full tablespoon, 3 to 4 times a day, for a 30-50 pound dog. I'd say Marley is about 10-15 pounds. So doesn't need much. Not that it would hurt him, probably. Farmer H said he'd give Marley some honey. I said "NOT ON MY SPOONS!"

Anyhoo...I don't know if Farmer H did the dosing or not, but last I heard of Marley's cough, around 5:00 a.m., it was not as forceful. Maybe he's gradually getting over it. Maybe the 100% humidity from all the mist and snow and fog acted as a natural humidifier. Maybe he was not as barky since he spent the night on the end of the porch in a spare dog house.

I think Marley is probably going to be okay. I'm not as worried now. I need to check with Farmer H about the honey. We have TWO honey bears, each half full, from just not using honey, and from Genius buying one as an additive for Farmer H's homemade beer.