Rogin was trying to get the camera while I was taking this picture. But after messing with the photograph a little, I enjoyed the expression on his face and decided to go with it. I intentionally drew this one a little rough for the play on words with ruff. Not to be confused with buff. ”Rogin in the buff” is pretty much all the time. I mean other than fur, dogs don’t wear clothes unless you have a wife like mine around Halloween or something.
Yesterday, I had my cousin and her family over. I hadn’t seen her in probably 14 years or so. She has three kids now and her husband and has lost over one hundred pounds. It’s quite an accomplishment from the pictures she showed me. Anyway, I wanted to take out my dog Dugal before she got here, but I didn’t get the chance. Well, do you know how you know that you’ve been greeted by a cocker spaniel?
Yep. Pee. All over her pants down her leg. Dugal couldn’t just pee on a shoe, no… he had to jump and squirt at the same time. It takes talent to be a cocker spaniel.
” Hi, I know I haven’t seen you in fourteen years, so here let me let my dog pee on you.” All was good though. We laughed about it. Her kids played some Halo and we got a chance to talk a little while she held Aidan (who happened to have one of those mysterious poops that you can’t see from looking at his diaper and the whole while, I kept thinking “wow, he’s really gassy today!”)
My wife fell asleep on the couch this evening. I grabbed my camera to try to catch some funny pictures of her drooling all over herself (like a good husband). Instead I captured this. No, that’s not her. It’s my dog Dugal who I think was in the middle of some yawn… or getting ready to eat my face. I’m not sure.
I think this is photoshop/caption ready. You have everything. The demonic looking eyes. The sharp teeth pointing out. The stupid expression that could be a maniacal laugh or a rabid snarl. Please post and link back to me here at decloned or email it to me at decloned@gmail.com
I look forward to your entries.
I love my dogs. They really make me laugh sometimes. Dugal is the big dog. Rogin is the puppy.
I was messing with them a little earlier and out of curiosity (and because Rogin was right behind him), I told Dugal to sit. This picture is the result.
I’ve met a lot of people who want a truth catered to their particular viewpoint. The fact that they struggle with a part of the gospel and are offended by it doesn’t mean that it’s wrong. It means it has authority. Their are parts of scripture I’d remove if the editing was done by me. I’d simply leave it out. I mean it would be a “nicer gospel” if Jesus didn’t die on the cross. It would be “nicer” if Sodom and Gomorrah were not destroyed. It would be nicer if no one was kicked out of the garden because of rebellion. It would be nicer if the central figure of the text wasn’t some guy who claimed to be God and called the priests hypocrites while He told His followers to procure swords.
But it wouldn’t be Truth either.
The Truth isn’t nice.
The Truth sometimes Hurts.
But it brings life and it’s worth every bit of offense it brings.
My little guy just began standing on his own today (or yesterday as I am posting this a little after midnight). It won’t be long before he’ll be walking. He’s 8.5 months old now. It’s been since December since I left Discovery Church as Associate Pastor. I think it’s been since March when I left Olan Mills as a studio photographer with them. I really can’t remember. This dad thing makes everything run together. Timelines become a blur of feedings, diaper changes, cuddles and naps.
I will tell you about my favorite activities with Aidan so far though.
#1. The Supervised Freecrawl.
This little activity basically revolves around Aidan crawling and rolling around on the floor while I chase after him and keep him from the things that he otherwise would get into and possibly hurt himself with. Most of this is letting him crawl to a certain point and then I come over and pick him up and turn him the other way. He then crawls till he runs out of space and I chase him down and turn him again. Apparently it’s a real crowd pleaser with the cats who immediately go to sleep watching this apparently crazy owner of theirs expend so much energy chasing after his spawn. I did add a new variation to this little activity today though. I put Aidan in a hooded sweatshirt and put my ipod touch in his hood while it played music. It soon became a twirling baby on the floor as he wriggled around in circles looking for the source of the music.
#2. The Shaggy Dad Mall Walk / Aidan Flirts With All the Girls.
I am trying to lose weight right now. It’s part of a grand plan of actually being able to keep up with a growing boy in the next few years. This means that when I can get out and go for a walk with Aidan, I try to. For some reason walking around the neighborhood pushing a stroller seems odd to a guy, at least me, so I try to go to the mall and walk around there. At least there I can duck into the bookstore and even if I am walking around, everyone assumes I am waiting for my wife to come out of a clothing store. It’s a nice deal especially since they have Air Conditioning. Now Aidan is a cute child as you can see from the videos. I get people from all walks of life who comment about how cute he is. I do try to discourage certain people from getting a little too close to my child though. More on that Later. Well, Aidan is all the rage with girls aged one through ninety-eight. You can’t tell me that a woman isn’t wired differently from a guy. Put a cute baby nearby and it comes out. Aidan loves the attention though. He’s already figured out that a girl or woman is fifteen times more likely to smile at him or talk to him than any guy. You can bet that he takes advantage of it too! He is all smiles when we go to the mall. I’ve stood surrounded in public places while people ooh and ahh over him, seriously it’s that bad on occasion.
Now when my wife isn’t able to go with me as many time she isn’t, I have a secret weapon that I use to keep the double digit x chromosomes from swarming my child. I wear a hat, headphones and listen to my ipod. I don’t shave and make sure that I look like I just crawled out of bed. Right now, since I am in the middle of a job hunt, I have let my hair grow out a little longer. I’ll cut it before any serious personal interviews, but this shaggy-headed, unshaven and hat-wearing guy (who is distancing himself even of the sounds around him by listening to his ipod) does a lot to stave off those who would otherwise comment on my infant child in some way. Aidan still tries to draw their attention though. He giggles, squeals, and sometimes even laughs hysterically when he sees someone who he thinks would give him some attention walks his way.
Now, I told you that there were certain people I heavily discourage from getting too close to my child. I have nothing again certain, well… stereotypes, but there are people who make my skin crawl at the way they seem to stalk babies. Here is a few of the people I try to avoid when I am out with my little one.
Waitresses – They don’t usually do too bad, but I’ve had a few that wanted to hang around while we ate and talk about Aidan… in detail. Most often, they are wanting to share cell phone pictures of their little dumplings at home. It really cracks me up when a waitress uses a food-based name to refer to a child. “Honey” isn’t too bad, but if they start referring to a kid as “dumpling” or “cutie pie” or “small fry” I start getting a little uneasy.
Moms with an Entourage of Children in Tow- There is some really weird advice people give you when you have kids. These moms are the weirdest. They have seven kids ranging from fourteen to negative 2 days (meaning that she is getting ready to pop out one more) and they have advice. More than enough. They can tell you about natural cures for athletes foot or how to tell when your child is going to be sick more than a week in advance. They act like they have just won the cosmic lottery for being miserable and are sure you have too. Another thing that I think is funny is when these moms start fawning all over my child and say something like “Isn’t he just the cutest baby I ever saw?” This is where I look up and try to make eye contact with all of her brood one by one and laugh like a maniac on speed.
Wal-Mart Greeters and Employees - Maybe the greeter is assuming when I walk through those sliding glass doors that I am bringing the child back as an exchange and they want to put a smiley face sticker on his forehead and direct me to the service counter where the lady there can announce to the rest of the store the cuteness factor of my little one before I start the rounds to each of the departments where they all bestow blessings of “Have a nice day!” or tell me about their 19 kids and 6 grandchildren that live out in Omaha, except the littlest because he lived with his dad who got bit by a shark while swimming in the river drunk one night. I sometimes just wish I could write down all the crazy stories I hear at the magical “World of Wally”.
I know it’s going to be bad when I walk in the first doors and the person hobbles up off their chair throws their walker down and sprints about 40 feet to stand there and make sure that they get my little one’s attention when I get to the second set of doors. Sometimes, I take my time and act like I am picking the best cart out of the cart lines (and check all the wheels to make sure they roll freely to amp up the anticipation factor. Sometimes I just want to run in and try to make it past them before they get across the aisle. Here I know I’d lose cause they’d get me on the way out.
Sometimes I make the mistake of telling my wife that I am stuck for something to write about.
Often she tells me to write about something for her. A typical response from her would be, write about rocks. I guess I could write about the mineral composition of rocks, the way a rock makes me feel, or the place I found a particular rock. Today I was talking with her and I told her that I was frustrated because I couldn’t think of anything to write.
She told me to write about daisies. Her favorite flower. I told her that was … uninteresting.
She then told me to write about the color green. I told her that wasn’t much better. Then she had to go back to work.
Then I walked into the kitchen at the insistence of my cat, Keena who showed me this.
Apparently, we were out of cat food and one of our cats was trying to choke down dog food, so Becca made an executive decision that cheerios would be a good substitute. As you can see, Keena is puzzled by this development.
Green Daisies image via flickr
Adam was an odd child. It’s hard to say exactly what made him odd. In our day and age we could probably contrive at least twenty seven different things that might have caused his particular brand of oddity. It wasn’t that he looked somehow different. With large bright eyes peering out from under a dark mop of hair and an inquisitive nature, he was a pretty decent looking kid.
Now, I was a bit of an explorer as a kid. I loved the deep dark places where I could imagine monsters hid ready to pounce upon us. Inside, I knew it was all imagination. But to play out these fantasies and rescue the damsel in distress was a highlight of my childhood. I collected baseball cards. Adam collected old keys.
There was an old abandoned house on our street back then, and when we were about 11 years old, we finally became just rebellious enough of our parents that we made this house a hideout. Nothing was ever really said, but we knew it was off limits. Unfortunately, an old house covered in vines and reeking of untold history holds a special place in the heart of a young boy. Oh the wonders we could imagine. Pirate ships, dungeons, war ravaged apocalypses where we were the only survivors… our imaginations would often run away with us till it was almost dark.
There was a new spot that we found one summer day. Outside the house, buried under a fallen log, and half hidden in vines was a cellar door. Locked. It became a bit of an obsession. What lay beneath those doors? Some beast locked away? A buried treasure? The zombified remains of the house’s previous occupants?
Our first and most immediate response to this dilemma was to break in the door and explore the till now secret passage. You see, beyond imagination there is a place where every boy loves one thing. It is undeniable. It is almost a form of worship. Destruction. We fell to with reckless abandon trying to get into that door. We cleared away the tangle of vines and moss, and beat it with sticks and rocks, making quite a ruckus I assure you. Well, obviously… because mom found out about it and grounded me for a week and told me not to go back to the house.
Adam was grounded too. Unfortunately and unlike me, he also acquired a large amount of poison ivy. So with my week up, and a mystery yet unsolved, I ran to Adam’s house where we could talk over our options. He pulled out his key collection.
Over the last year of playing in the house he had found a treasure trove of keys to add to his collection. Each time he would find a new key, he added it to his ever growing collection. There were hundreds of keys now. Old keys, skeleton keys, oddly shaped keys that used to go to vending machines. The only option was to take them all to the door. I said “the door” with an ominous sounding tone. Adam couldn’t go with me. His poison ivy rash would probably get worse if he even dared to go near the door. Apparently he was more allergic than he first thought.
So holding the tin of keys and running as fast as I could, I made my way to the house. To the door waiting there like some fairy tale. Like the mines in the fantastical stories I read. I became the hero. The one who would brave the fierce consequences and rescue the princess, or set the foul beast upon myself unwittingly. The martyr.
Most keys didn’t fit. I went through them all one by one. Nope. No. That one fits, but doesn’t turn. Not that one either. Finally, with seven keys left, I found one. It slid into the rusty lock. I knew this must be it. Clicking into place, I gently turned the key. It moved just a little then stuck. My heart dropped. Then I forced the key a little. It broke free of the rust and turned the rest of the way.
Jubilantly, reverently, I removed the key and stuck it into my pocket. I gathered up the other keys and put them back into the tin and set them down. The excitement of this moment was intense. I felt like a warrior about to go into battle. I grabbed the largest stick I could carry to use as a weapon and began opening the old cellar door.
With creaks and groans that set my mind ablaze with creatures great and fierce, the door opened. I let it crash into the poison ivy as it fell off it’s rusted hinges. The light streamed down into that dark hole. There was water. Maybe about six inches deep, but it became the dungeon. I would brave it all. Step by step, I lowered myself into the secret place. Water dripping in the distance. A musty odor that would almost knock you over. I imagined it was dragon’s breath. I lifted my sword that my stick had suddenly become and trudged into the depths.
There were shelves going off into little alcoves on either side of a main walkway. Broken jars, old metal cans, an old tire and a broken wheelbarrow. I looked into each little area before I moved on. Suddenly, something moved. The water splashed around me. Squeals of an angry beast pierced my ears. A foul odor erupted and I couldn’t see. I lept back toward the entrance crying, scared. I fell up the stairs, grasping clawing for a breath of fresh air, scraping my knees on the steps, covered in muddy water and dirt. I made my way to the top and ran to the old wrought iron fence that bordered the property.
I caught sight of my dark hair and fearfully large eyes in an old broken window as I stopped and gathered my thoughts. My arms suddenly burning with irritation, I scratched them raw with my fingernails. I had forgotten the keys by the door. “I’ll go back and get them later.”
Suddenly it was clear what had happened to me. A frightened skunk had let loose with the horrible odor. The splashing was an attempt to get away. I had scared it as much as it had scared me.
The events of that day would haunt me the rest of my life. I never went back for my collection of keys. I am sure they rusted away or were swept up in the debris when the house was eventually torn down. My poison ivy got worse till mom took me to the doctor, which was several days after the smell of the skunk lessened. Mom was faced with the awful paradox of grounding a boy who smelled like skunk after she heard the whole story. I was grounded to the yard and couldn’t leave it for two weeks. Those two weeks in the heat of summer was horrible punishment for a boy who had poison ivy as bad as I had it after the incident.
I am not as odd as I once was.
