The Big Reveal

Momma and I have news.  We are publishing a book based on my Blog.  It will be called Lina Unleashed – a sort of “woof all” about my first two years with her.  As you might guess, Momma is behind this project – it is her latest scheme to try make a dollar off me.

And that might be hard to do.  You see, Momma has decided against sending my manuscript off to big publishing houses in hopes of having it plucked out of obscurity to become a bestseller and make oodles of money.  (“We are going to circumnavigate New York, Lina.  No stacks of rejection letters for us.  They don’t know talent when they see it anyway.”)  No, we are going to make (or lose) money the new-fashioned way – we are going to self-publish.  (Translation:  the book doesn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of being picked up, so we have no choice but to self-publish.)  Just woofin’.

The challenge with making money off self-published books, of course, is that it costs the budding author an arm and a leg (or “a leg and a leg” as I might put it), to bring the book to fruition.  In other woofs, you pay the publisher an exorbitant fee and must sell tons of books just to break even.  Nevertheless, Momma has deluded herself into believing that this could be our big break and that it is worth pursuing.  (“We just have to work extra hard on the marketing, Lina!”)  In fact, she already has visions of taking me on Fox News (“The curvy couch, Lina!”) to promote Lina Unleashed, and maybe a chance to espouse some of her crazy right-wing views to the hosts and viewers!  I, for one, would prefer the Today Show and Matt Lauer, but Momma says no – too biased.  (That from a Fox fan.)

Anyway, I’m afraid the book train has left the station and there’s no turning back.  I have submitted the manuscript and we have moved on to the design phase.  Momma’s big suggestion/contribution to the design so far:  to put tiny pink paw prints at the beginning of every chapter.  That’ll make it jump off the shelf, right?

The Photo Shoot

Apparently a big part of book design is creating an attention-grabbing cover.  To that end, Momma took me on a photo shoot last Monday to capture that perfect cover photo. I resisted, dreading the thought of posing for a million pictures and all of the accompanying rigamarole. However, Momma insisted, pawntificating that “the photo on the cover is the key to selling books, Lina.”

Momma was very excited about the shoot, “picturing” us running through tall grass and wildflowers with the wind blowing through our hair/fur and sunlight in our faces, looking at each other lovingly.  I know what you’re thinking, and yes, Momma had decided she would be part of the shoot.  In fact, most of the morning that day was taken up with her selecting just the right outfit.

It turns out that I was right to be dubious about the shoot, by the way.  Rather that taking us to that grassy meadow, the photographer had us meet her at a vacant lot in a rather rundown (who knew?) part of Naples.  Upon our arrival, the first thing I noticed was all of the broken glass and trash, including a discarded tennis shoe, scattered on the lot.  The next thing I noticed was a big red and white “No Trespassing” sign – standing there as plain as day and impossible to miss.

I was apparently the only one who saw it, however, because the photographer and Momma plowed right ahead as if we owned the place.  At this point, I was sensing that this was not going to go well as you can tell by the look on my face. 

What is that old saying – a picture is worth a thousand woofs?  Anyway, after a few preliminary shots of Momma and me, the photographer led us even deeper into the lot, looking for the perfect background. Momma had taken me off leash in anticipation of just the right impromptu photo.  Having no choice, I followed along.

Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a man marching toward us. He was carrying a clip board and wearing a shirt with the words “Animal Control Services” emblazoned on his back.

The animal control officer was quite angry.  He fairly shouted at the photographer and Momma that we were on private property and trespassing and asked, didn’t we see the sign?!  (Uh, yes.)  He further informed them that the dog (me!) was also trespassing and was not on a leash and therefore in violation of the law.  (I was the innocent party here – the victim – and now it appeared that I was the one in the most trouble.)  Would I be paw-cuffed?  Hauled away in a paddy wagon?  Could I get off with probation?  Where was Uncle Chuck, Esquire, when I needed him?

Finally, after apologies and explanations (huh?),  the officer ordered us off the property:  “Just leave right now and no charges will be filed.”  Do you see now why I didn’t want to do the photo shoot?

As we left the scene of the crime, Momma tried to make light of being busted:  “Well, Lina, that was your first brush with the law!” as though it was just a fun rite of passage that every dog should get to experience – and that there would be many more to follow. Momma was a little nervous herself, though and hastily loaded me into the car.

After brushing the burrs out of my fur, we motored on to a park to finish the shoot.  Which kind of “begs” the question, doesn’t it – why didn’t we go here in the first place?? In the end, we did get some great photos and Momma, the marketing expert, insisted that I include one here (“It’s called a tease, Lina.”)

What can be next – Lina Unleashed, the movie?  God help me.

Lina, Indie Writer and Perp

WOOFDA!

Momma and I have been through a rather ruff patch.  Momma is recovering from a concussion and I am still recovering from the election.  I am not sure which is worse.  In any case, I’ve been busy taking care of Momma and trying to get my affairs in order to avoid possible deportation to Australia. Even though I’m not from there, President Trump probably thinks I am.  Just woofing.

Momma’s troubles started when she sustained a concussion in January while having lunch in Naples.  (I am going to go easy here on Momma because of her weakened state, but I can’t help but point out that if she stayed home more, these things wouldn’t happen.) Anyway, it was pretty bad and Momma was scared.  I did my part by giving her tons of face licks and waking her up every two hours the first night.  (I’ve heard that’s important for some reason and I happen to be good at it.)

Although Momma is better now, she did have some effects from the big bang to her head. For example, she has problems with her memory – nothing new here, but the concussion brought things to a whole new level.  It also brought a built-in excuse for every time Momma can’t remember something:  “Oh sorry, I don’t remember – I’ve had a concussion, you know,” a refrain I am likely to hear for the rest of my life.  Momma even thinks her personality has changed.  Out of respect for her condition, I’m not even going to woof a comment.

Not that I’m taking it lightly, but there has also been a silver lining to her injury. Because Momma was not able – in fact advised – not to use her brain much (again – no comment), she was forced to keep her television viewing to a minimum.  Since her programs are pretty much limited to Fox News and its jubilant reporting on Trump’s victory, this was a welcome relief to me.

In fact, Momma was told not to do much of anything – to just rest and relax.  She had little patience for that, though, and after a couple of weeks of no shopping malls or socializing, turned to shopping online.  Since Momma already has more than enough stuff, she began ordering crazy things that she did not need.

For example, one day she ordered a Bose speaker to place in her golf cart.  She had decided that she wanted to play music while she golfed – just like the really cool girl with the great personality in her golf league.  (I think Momma was also secretly hoping that her new personality would be just like Cool Girl’s.)

When Momma received her speaker and its corresponding little blue case – she purposely didn’t pick pink so Cool Girl wouldn’t know Momma was copying her – she opened the box, eager to get the music going!  Like all things technical or electronic, though, Momma hit a few roadblocks along the way.

She had the speaker now, but where would the music come from?  There was her iPhone, but she was pretty sure that she had only about two songs stored in it (one being her ring tone).  Someone had told her to download Pandora and pick her favorite kind of music, but that involved more than one step, and thus beyond her capabilities – especially now, after the concussion.

Next, Momma thought of her iPawd.  She knew that it contained all of her favorites, but she didn’t know if the cord connecting it to her car would fit the Bose speaker.  When she got to the car, Momma saw that it wouldn’t work – it did not have the little pointy end that she would need for the receptacle in the Bose.

Well, she thought, Amazon will have the cord I need – they have everything.  After an extensive search on Amazon and Google, however, Momma could not find such a cord. Now she was stumped.  Then just before she dialed up her (long suffering) IT guy, Gregg, a light bulb went off in her head (and not just because of the concussion).  She suddenly realized that the speaker might work without a cord.  After all, she didn’t remember Cool Girl having a stupid cord dangling around the golf cart!

Long story short (and this one has gone on way too long), Momma was able to set up her phone and make the Bose work!  And miracle of miracles – all of her favorite music magically appeared on her phone when she clicked on the little “eighth note” app symbol.  (“It’s all in the clouds these days, Lina” she pronounced, without any idea what she was talking about.)

When Momma realized there was absolutely nothing else on earth she could think of to buy for herself, she turned to shopping for me.  After ruling out several good devices like Pet Chatz, a gadget that really would allow her to communicate with me in her absence – unlike the stupid Tweet machine, she settled on the Pooch Selfie (“for the perfect selfie with your pet”).

I hate to be one to point paws, but I’m pretty sure the only reason she got it was because it was cheap (no, the concussion did not change that part of her personality).  The Pooch Selfie is a colorful squeak ball that sits in a plastic clamp and attaches to Momma’s phone. It was advertised to “keep dogs attention” (I know – the punctuation!), and would be “fun and easy to use.”

When Momma took a closer look at the new gadget, however, she realized that she was meant to be in the photo with me.  (Did she really think that I could take my own selfie??) Anyway, she dreaded the thought of a close up, but she needn’t have worried.  This blurry mess is as close as we got to “the perfect selfie.”

Just when I thought things might be getting back to normal – Momma was slowly become herself again (I think – but it’s hard to tell with the new personality and all), and the hubbub about the election was dying down, the Academy Awards took place.  Not that we watched them – that is forbidden at our place.  When Momma saw the mix up about the best picture award winner the next morning, however, she pounced!  “Good God, Lina,” she cried, “they can’t even get that right, and they’re telling us how to vote???”  Followed by, “Maybe the Russians did it.”

I think she’s back.

Lina, Still in Recovery Mode (and in La La Land)

WOOFDA!

The other day Momma was all aTwitter.  She had just heard that there was a device available that enabled dogs to Tweet.  This was exciting news to her.  Maybe it would be a new way to raise my profile (in other words exploit me) for marketing purposes.  She would buy the device and get me to “Tweet” about my Blog – and thus increase my readership (and her chance to make money off me).  It sounded almost too good to be true.

Momma did a quick search and found the puppy tweeting device online.  The maker claimed that she would be able to get Tweets from her dog and that the device would work with Twitter.  This was going to be a real breakthrough for us – now all she had to do was set up a Twitter account.  Then (she quickly realized) she would also be able to get the news from Trump firstpaw!

When the package arrived, Momma eagerly ripped it open.  There were photos of dogs asking for sparkling water in their dish and complaining (in a supposedly funny way) that it was hard to Tweet when one is all paws.  (“Apparently none of them have blogs, Lina,” Momma commented drolly.)

The messaging on the box also indicated that Momma could find out what I was doing when she was away and proclaimed – “Tweets are the new bark!”  Momma couldn’t wait to get going on this – she did not want to be left behind the times.  It was not going to complicated – the device had only two parts – a tag and a Dongle.  Momma would figure out what a Dongle was later.

Skeptically eyeing the puppy tweeting gadget . . .

She failed to read the writing on the box that said the product was manufactured in 2010 (that’s practically a life time ago in dog and technology years!).  She also failed to read the part that said the tag was recommended for medium and large dogs.  Last time I checked, I was still a Toy Aussie who weighs 10 pounds!

Setting up the Twitter account was not quite the cakewalk Momma thought it would be. First there were the pesky photo and profile steps – both of which she finally skipped. Then she was required to pick some interests.  This was also a challenge because the list was mindbogglingly long, and there were several sub-categories she had never heard of.  She finally (carelessly) ticked off a few items of interest – just so she could get the account set up and get to the part where she would Tweet “with” Trump (and me too, presumably).

After activating her account, Momma was inundated with strange messages and images – from people whose names and faces she did not recognize and did not want to hear from.  She was, she realized, a little over her skis with this Twitter stuff.  Nevertheless the train had left the station and Twitter informed her that she was now following 60 Tweeters.  Oh well – she would eventually figure out how to unfollow everyone except Trump and me.

First, though, she had to get me “hooked up” to her account.  She carefully plugged the Dongle into the back of the computer, inserted the  battery in the (too large for me) tag and clipped it onto my collar.

God help me . . .

Not surprisingly, nothing happened.

Not one to give up easily (even when one should), Momma asked her IT guy, Gregg, if he would stop by and help her with an issue she was having on her computer.   Luckily Gregg was a patient person and, since he was still working with Momma, apparently no question or task was too idiotic for him.

Momma explained that she had purchased a little device that would permit her dog, Lina, to Tweet via Momma’s computer.  She showed him the little pink tag and Dongle and informed him that it did not work.  Momma further explained that she may have put the battery in backwards or plugged the Dongle in the wrong spot on the computer.  (I’m pretty sure that I saw Gregg roll his eyes at this point – it seems his patience may have run a little thin at last.)

Nevertheless, he delved in.  First he opened the pink tag to verify that Momma had installed the battery correctly (she had!).

Next he plugged the Dongle into one of the computer USB ports, but quickly realized that the software for the program was missing.  He also realized there were no download instructions.

The Tweet installation project had gone on so long by this time that I needed a potty break. When we came back inside, Momma found Gregg on the phone with a representative from the toy maker.

Gregg going through the motions for Momma . . . 

After asking Momma some questions about her purchase, the rep explained that there were no download instructions because the item had been discontinued six years ago (in 2010 to be precise).

At this point, I could tell that Gregg was anxious to bring things to a conclusion – and probably to forget that he was ever a part of this ridiculous doggie tweeting thing.  He quickly walked Momma through the process of getting her $11.00 (yes, $11.00) refund and left.  Turns out, it really was to good to be true.

So – much to Momma’s dismay – I will not be Tweeting anytime soon.  Unfortunately (but much to her delight!) Trump will.

@Lina

WOODFA!

Momma and I fled to Florida in late December.  It was insanely cold in Minni and Momma decided it was time to get out of Dodge.  (Predictably, Momma carped:  “I can’t wait for global warming to reach Minnesota, Lina!”)  We did arrive here in one piece, but our voyage, as usual, was filled with missteps and humiliating moments.

Upon our arrival at the airport, Momma and the cab driver (she’s apparently given up on Uber) lugged her mountain of luggage to the curbside check-in counter.  When we finally got to speak with a skycap, he informed her that she had to check in at “Special Services” because she had to buy a ticket for me (something that drives her up the wall).  It was no easy task, but Momma managed to gather up all of her belongings and roll us (yes, me too – my carrier has wheels) into the main terminal.  Finding Special Services was no easy task either because it had moved.  I think we might still be rolling around the terminal if an airport policeman had not taken pity and pointed us in the right direction.

After finishing up with Special Services, we were shuffled over to the regular security lane where we joined another lengthy line.  After that hellacious wait and screening process, Momma decided that I should go potty once more and dragged me to the “Pet Relief” area.

(Momma:  “Really?  Does everything have to have a politically correct name these days, Lina??”)

It was a welcome site, though, because I really had to go.  And just in case you’re wondering, this relief area was in compliance with President Obama’s order regarding restrooms:  all doggies could use it – no matter their birth or chosen gender identity.  I felt better all ready.

Next we went to the Sky Club where Momma’s plan was to pilfer some food for the plane ride (“I’m not paying $7 for a snack box, Lina!”).  Her favorite trick was to eat a small meal there and then make a peanut butter and bagel sandwich, wrap it in a napkin and slip it into a plastic zipper bag that she brought from home.  She was foiled this time because the Club was being redone and she couldn’t find the bagels.  She couldn’t find the wine either.  Momma was not having a good day.

When we finally made our way to the gate, Momma asked some random person if they were boarding yet and the random person responded, “just priority at this point.”  Well, Momma thought – that’s us – and she pulled me into line.  Luckily just before she showed her boarding pass to the agent, she saw on the scheduling board that this particular plane was departing to Atlanta.  Momma, with a furtive glance around, quietly pulled me away.

When we at last stumbled on the gate for Ft. Myers, we found out that the airplane was delayed by an hour.  Momma, who had forgotten to bring cash with her, decided that she would use this opportunity to get some from an ATM machine.  She soon discovered, however, that her card (was a debit card the same as a cash card, she wondered?) had not been activated. Nor could she activate it because she did not remember her password.  When she angrily called up a bank representative, he told her that if she tried to key in a password one more time and it was wrong, she would be locked out of her account and would have to go to the bank in person to get a new card.  Better to wait until tomorrow and try again, he counseled.

By now, Momma was like a wet noodle – and collapsed into a seat in the gate waiting area. And speaking of wet, she knew in her heart of hearts that she should take me to the politically correct pet relief area once more, but she just couldn’t face another interminable terminal-length walk, carrying her tote, her purse and pulling me.  Instead (go figure!), she asked a man – a total stranger – sitting across from us if she could have some of his (bottled) water for me.  She poured some in my portable cup and I drank like a drunken sail0r.  As you can imagine, this made for an even more uncomfortable trip.

When they finally started boarding our plane, Momma pulled me along and pushed her way towards the overhead monitor to see if we might have been upgraded.  All of a sudden she saw her name on the first class list with a 5 by it.  Jumping to the wild (and implausible) conclusion that she had been upgraded to seat 5 (whatever that is) in first class, she pulled me into line practically screaming, “Lina, we’ve been upgraded!”  When we got to the scanner, however, the boarding agent gave Momma a stern look and explained that, no, she had not been upgraded but rather was probably number 5 on the waiting list.  Mercifully, she let us board anyway.  Luckily no one could see my face through the mesh window in my carrier.

When we got to our assigned seat in coach, Momma discovered that there was no way I would fit under the seat in front of her (a requirement).  Just to be sure though, she tried stuffing me in from all different angles before giving up.

Momma was now confused, angry and a little scared.  She was sure that she had given the representative the correct size of my carrier on the phone.  But what if she measured wrong – would we be forced to get off the plane – an(other) unthinkable horror?

Momma realized at this point that her only option was to try and hide me, so she placed the carrier right in front of her seat and stretched her legs over me.  Then she got out her copy of USA Today and spread it out as wide as she could.  Luckily, the harried flight attendants did not see me and off we went.  Pretty sure that they wouldn’t turn the plane around, we both breathed a sigh of relief.

I just have one question – is there anyone out there who does not think that Momma should have a (carrier-free) psychiatric service animal?

Lina, Ready To Serve

WOOFDA!

As 2016 – and my second year with Momma – draws to a close, I find myself reflecting back on our “never a dull moment” time together.  The year was, of course, dominated by the election – and I must admit that I’m one of those who might need counseling.  On the other paw, Momma is ecstatic!  (“It’s time to drain the swamp, Lina!” she echos mindlessly.)

As usual, the year had its moments of drama – the predictable vet visits and forced “fun” on the water.  But there were bright spots too – I had a rol”lick”ing good time with new friends and got loving care from various dog sitters and day care personnel during Momma’s frequent shopping and golf outings.  All in all a good year, and I can’t believe it’s almost time to celebrate the holidays again.

Where did the time go?  Well, as in the previous year, a lot of it was spent at myriad vet offices, specialty clinics and animal hospitals in Minni and Florida.  How much of the time at the vets’ was due to Momma’s inability to deal with minor – or even non-existent – health issues on her own and how much was due to her desire to visit a hunky doc (unnecessarily) (again) is anyone’s guess.

And a good chunk of the time was spent on the water in Momma’s never ending quest to make me a swimmer.  It’s not going to happen, but that doesn’t stop her from placing me on anything that floats (including a noodle in her friend Debbie’s pool) and paddling me around in the water.  And, by the way, just how was it that I – a water hating dog – ended up living in the “Land of 10,000 Lakes” and on one of the “10,000 Islands” of Florida?

Thankfully – when I wasn’t being examined by a vet or being held hostage on a b0dy of water, I got to enjoy long play dates with my BFFs (best furry friends) – Gracie, CoCoa and Winnie!  I also got to spend gobs of time with Gracie and her family in Florida.  In fact, I’m pretty sure they view me as their very own rescue dog.  I’m just woofing!

And of course, I got to spend quality time with Nanny Becky and Dr. Becca.  I know I will always have my “safe and special space” with them – which is important because you never know how this Trump thing is going to turn out.  How does he stand on doggie rights, I wonder?  (And I fear that Momma does not have my proper documentation.)  In any event, I am thinking about turning our house into a sanctuary site – just in case!

So as I close, I want to wish all of you Yappy Holidays and a fantastic 2017 filled with joy and peace.  I hope you will stay tuned to my Blog, because it goes with out woofing that there will be many more disasters and spectacularly embarrassing Momma moments.  As long as we’re together I’ll have many more tails to tell.

Lina, Snowflake

WOOFDA!

This year Momma was invited to two Thanksgiving dinners.  She was thrilled – that was at least one more invitation than she normally got.  She happily looked forward to picking out an outfit, seeing good friends, sharing a glass of wine in front of a roaring fire and partaking in a bountiful Thanksgiving meal (or two).  Plus, now Momma could proudly respond, when asked, that yes she had plans for Thanksgiving – in fact would be going to a nice restaurant with one group and later to the house of friends in Eagan.  She eagerly accepted both invitations.

The trouble with Momma , though, is that she really can’t handle two social engagements in one day (she is just not good at mingling and is frankly getting a little long in the canines and she knew it).  Nevertheless, she was so excited about the idea of two festive gatherings that she figured (à la Scarlett O’Hara in “Gone With The Wind”) that she would think about the details tomorrow.

Well, tomorrow (yesterday now) finally came, and she was forced to figure out the logistics of Thanksgiving Day.  She would still be social and perky at the first dinner, but she was worried about the second one later in the afternoon – she knew in her heart of hearts that she would be too full and tired to stay and visit very long.  (Leaving wouldn’t really be a problem though, Momma rationalized.  She would just use her trusty, time worn – and totally bogus “I’ve got to get home to Lina” excuse.)  Anyway, since Momma was riding with a friend, she decided that she had to figure out an early ride home.

That’s when inspiration struck.  She would use Uber!  (She had recently heard our friend, Uncle Chuck, use the term as a verb – “I will have to Uber it to the airport” and it sounded so cool that she wanted to be able to say that she too had Ubered it somewhere – anywhere.)

This then would fit in perfectly with her Thanksgiving Day plan – she could attend both gatherings, socialize a little at the second, maybe grab some dessert (and another glass of wine) and then tell everyone smugly that she had to leave – she was Ubering it home.  Momma eagerly loaded the app onto her phone.

There, she thought, I’m set – just tap and go as they say.  Turned out she wasn’t “set” though because she immediately got an email welcoming her to Uber and urging her to “get started” and sign up for a ride and create an account!  This threw her of course.  She didn’t want to sign up for a ride – not now anyway, and she thought she had already created an account.  Nevertheless, she stumbled through the process and created an account (maybe for a second time – did she now possibly have two accounts she wondered?) trying to put the whole thing to bed so she could move on to more important details like planning what she would wear that day.

Then she got a pop-up question – did she want Uber to know her location?  Well, of course they had to know her location to pick her up for a ride, but did they need her location now?  Needless to say, she was baffled – and not just a little frustrated – and clicked on the little “x” which made the question go away – at least for the time being.

Then Momma got another email – this time informing her that she hadn’t completed her payment information.  She navigated the maze that led back into her account (she thought) and keyed in one of the credit card numbers, the expiration date and the secret code on the back.  There, she thought.  Done.

Thanksgiving Day was very pleasant.  She enjoyed the camaraderie with friends and a dinner with all the trimmings and soon it was time to say goodbye and head to Erik and Cheryl’s house.  Momma’s energy was already flagging, but she was bound and determined to be a good guest and join in the festivities.

Secretly though she was already planning how she could gracefully leave early by using the doggie excuse.  After visiting for a short time and nibbling on some chocolates, Momma decided it was time to go.  She was ready to dial up (so to woof) Uber on her phone.

Because she was not too sure about what she was doing (and hoped to avoid making a fool of herself), she slipped away to the foyer and surreptitiously tapped on the Uber icon.  Momma immediately got a prompt asking her “Where to?”  Relieved that she knew the answer to that one (she did know her home address after all), she quickly typed it in.  Next she learned that she had to pick out a type of car – options ranged from an X to an SUV model.  Quickly settling on the cheapest one, Momma chose the model X (not to be confused with a Model T, Momma – just woofing).

Anyway, she thought she was on the right track because the phone screen suddenly showed a line moving from her current location to her home.  The app also indicated that the car would be there in about 1/2 an hour.  Fine, Momma thought, maybe time for one more snack and then she would snappily announce that she was going to Uber it home and take her leave.

As with most things Momma, however, things did not go according to plan.  Soon she noticed that the arrival time of the car kept changing; then she got a message that no cars were available at all.  At this point she was not sure that she had done the Model X request thing right.  Was the car really late or wasn’t there a car coming at all?  Should she keep checking the app or would she have to embarrass herself and ask for a ride home?  At this point people were also wondering what she had been doing on her phone for the last half hour.

Momma, in a mild panic by now, decided that she needed help.  She quietly asked some young people (who were undoubtedly familiar with Uber) if they knew what was happening.  After a brief review of the app her phone, the hip young smart alecks informed her that no, a car was not coming.  It was Thanksgiving after all they patiently explained to her, and a lot of people probably needed a ride home.

Luckily, a friend (who Momma was pretty sure did not want to leave the party just yet) kindly offered her a ride home.  Momma still wasn’t convinced that the model X wasn’t coming for her though, so she – trying to sound all upbeat – trilled out that she had called (called??) Uber and that they might be showing up, so please tell them that she had already left.

Today Momma got another email from Uber informing her that her account is still missing payment information.  I think she has given up.  (“Lina, I think I’ll just use Yellow Cab from now on – do you have their phone number?”)

Still waiting for my Thanksgiving dinner,

Lina

WOOFDA!

October is one of my favorite months.  It means that Momma’s (Minnesota) golf season – including the revolving door of caregivers coming by and my endless trips to day care – is almost over.  It also means that I get to celebrate my favorite holiday – Halloween!

Golf & Doggie Day Care

Although Momma also loves October (it is her birthday month and she enjoys the gifts, attention, etc.), she will miss the endless tee times, shopping for golf outfits, and cocktails on the 19th hole that the end of the season brings.  I, on the other paw, will be happy to see things return to normal here (a term I use loosely when woofing about life with Momma).

This year, Momma, in the vain hope of becoming a better doggie momma, and fearing a repeat of last year when the house flooded – with me at home gated in the bathroom – had decided that I could not stay at home by myself for an entire day while she golfed.  Therefore, she made up her mind – Momma would either find someone to “check on” (code for feed, walk and play with) me, or she would take me to doggie day care.

Luckily, Momma was usually successful at finding a victim . . . er, volunteer . . . to stop by.  If not my personal favorite, Nanny Becky, she would enlist Bob, our next door neighbor, or any other person in possession of our house key or garage code to stop by. Don’t tell Momma – or our insurance company – that I woofed this, but I’m reasonably sure that Momma has lost track of who all does have access to our house which sounds a little risky to me.  Momma seems unconcerned though (“Not to worry, Lina, I have that pet cam/surveillance system set up”).

When schedules jived, Momma would drop me off at doggie day care (advertised as a “camp”) on her way to the golf course.  It is a top notch facility with great care, but Momma has made it difficult for me to fit in there.

First, there was the tour she demanded before leaving me there for the first time and the inquisition about another “camper” in the small doggie play area (let’s just say Momma has a lot to learn about inclusiveness and diversity).  And every time we go there, there’s the embarrassing arrival.  Momma – ostensibly to protect me from big dogs, but really to signal that I should have extra care – carries me in like a baby (causing many eye rolls among “camp counselors” and making me a laughing stock with the other dogs) along with my elephant toy (meant to sway staff and owners to the GOP) and a treat bag.  She then hands me over to a wary counselor and instructs that after about two hours of play I should be placed in my “cabin” to rest – with the elephant! – and given my treats.

Her little production over, Momma finally high tails it out the door for golf.  She often forgets about me then, but sometimes checks the live web cam to check on me (she’s paying for this after all).  If I am not immediately visible in the play area and it isn’t my break time, Momma calls the camp and asks where I am.  That practice came to a screeching halt one day, however, when after Momma’s incessant calling, she was informed that I had been placed in the air conditioned doggie lounge up front where I would be more comfortable and they could give me a little more attention.  (“Best just to let sleeping dogs lie,  Lina.”)

Even when she does see me in small doggie play area though, Momma can’t help but interfere.  If I am – for one minute – just sitting by myself, Momma has a “little chat” with camp counselors about my interaction (or lack thereof) with other dogs.  “Lina doesn’t seem to be very popular, does she?” or “Lina doesn’t seem to be playing well with other dogs, does she?” Momma will inquire.  To which a patient camp counselor will assure her, keeping his thoughts on who really has social issues to himself, that Lina is just fine.

The last time Momma dropped me off took the cake.  Before releasing me to camp care, Momma always asks the counselor (in whose arms she is placing me) what his or her name is – the easier to ask for someone specific when she calls to check on me.  This time the girl’s name was Candi.  Momma, trying to bond quickly, said, “Oh my gosh, that’s my middle name!”  “Really?” asked Candi, “Candi or Candace?”  It was Candace, but Momma thought Candy would better cement the relationship so she responded, “Candy.”  “Really?” exclaimed Candi, “Do you spell it with an i or a y?”  At first, this stumped Momma because she did not know how to spell a name she really didn’t have, but she quickly recovered and blurted out “y” – wouldn’t that be the most common after all?  “Oh,” said a disappointed Candi, “mine’s with an i.”  So much for bonding – although I’m sure Candi won’t soon forget Candy anytime soon.

An October Surprise & Halloween

Just when I thought we had settled in for the fall, I had my own October surprise – Momma went to Florida for more golf and Dr. Becca and Winnie came to stay with me for a week.  (This October surprise should not be confused with Hillary’s – hers involved a man named Weiner and mine a weiner dog.)  We had a lot of fun and the highlight of their stay was when Becca dressed us up in costumes and took us along to work on Halloween.  Here we are – Winnie as Wonder Woman and me as a Princess (“Really going against type there,” Momma sniped).

I for one, am looking forward to winter.  Thank you, Becca and all my caregivers for the quality time you spent with me this season!

Lina, Camper and Princess

Woofda!

The Prelude

A few months ago Momma signed up to work as a marshal at the Ryder Cup.  It would feature the best European and American golfers in the world.  Visions of Phil, Ricky, Jordan and Bubba danced in her head.  Momma would go to any length to see the action up close and personal – even if it meant working as a marshal – something she knew she was not cut out for.

Thinking big, Momma signed up to work Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday.  As excited as she was, though, Momma was equally nervous.  What if she made a huge mistake and disgraced her country?   Oh well, she would worry about that when the time came.         

As the event drew near, Momma got so caught up in Cup spirit that she temporarily forgot her reservations.  She was especially thrilled when she learned that she would be required to buy a new Ralph Lauren golf shirt and jacket.  Perfect!  (“I know I’m on a budget, Lina, but I can’t help it if I’m forced to buy a new outfit, can I?”)

When Momma finally buckled down and read the Ryder Cup materials,  she realized that she was right to be concerned – the marshal job had a lot of responsibilities.  In fact, there were two training sessions – one at Chaska High School and one onsite at Hazeltine. 

The training at CHS was first.  Momma picked up her smart new uniform and headed proudly to the auditorium for the presentation.  The speakers told the participants that the marshals had an important job to do and gave them an overview of their duties.  Although she struggled mightily to concentrate, Momma’s mind kept wandering (would she look okay in the new Polo outfit?) and about the only thing that registered was the volunteer’s motto – “Greet, Assist & Thank.”  “That’s the main thing, anyway, Lina,” she rationalized to me later that night (with just a hint of worry in her voice).  

A few weeks later Momma headed out to the onsite training.  Even though she had been out to Hazeltine before, she was worried she might get lost.  She was to look for parking lot A-3, she thought.  Or was it C-3?  Or C-1?  When she finally found her way (by following all the cars), she luckily saw her Hole Captain, Paul, and latched on to him for dear life as he led the way to hole #3.  Now she would just have to follow him out again, or she might have to spend the night in one of the hospitality tents.

This time Momma listened.  There were ropes to learn (literally) – crosswalk ropes and ropes from one green to the next tee box.  If a player hit it in the “ruff,” the marshal might have to remove a stake or two or three to lower the rope – if requested by the player – and replace it with a hammer after the player had hit.  Seriously?  A hammer, Momma thought?  Did they think she was a carpenter?  The marshals were also warned not to hammer when someone was taking a shot – not even if it was a European.

And then there were the grandstand duties.  The marshals were expected to rope off the stairs (those darn ropes again) and to turn spectators away if the grandstand was full.  If they left for beer or the restroom, the marshal was to give them a little ticket with the hole number and time on it.  The spectators had 30 minutes to return or the marshal was to deny them re-entrance.  God, what had Momma gotten herself into?  Managing people was not her thing.  She decided to avoid the grandstand at all costs.  

The marshals were also to give people directions – to restrooms, to different holes, to concession stands, to hospitality tents, to the first aid station – the list went on and on.  How could they be expected to know so much?  By now Momma was in a mild state of panic.  

The Tournament

Despite her anxiety, Momma’s first day on the job went pretty well.  She chose the easiest job she could find – one that was practically foolproof – working the ropes to let spectators cross the fairway after players hit their drives.  Pretty soon Momma got the hang of it; in fact, she got a little cocky.  She began confidently answering questions and giving directions, even though the only thing she knew for sure was where the restrooms were (having been there 3 times already that morning).  She even started greeting people with her own motto, “Welcome to Minnesota,” which was often met with strange looks since most people there were from Minnesota.  

The next day – as expected frankly – things got a little dicey.  While idly standing by the green guarding the flagstick after the players had gone through (a position likely created just to keep her occupied), Momma glanced over at the (dreaded) grandstand and saw that it was almost full already!  The afternoon grandstand team had not yet arrived so she and her partner, Deb, sprang into action and took up their positions on each set of stairs.  Then Momma pulled the rope across the entrance and turned over the sign to read, “FULL.”  “Sorry” she informed the crowd, “We’re full.” 

The only problem was that several people had left to buy food and drinks and now wanted re-entry to rejoin their friends.  And who could blame them?  At the same time people (who were by now subject to the ticketing/timing process) were streaming out of the grandstand for one last drink/restroom run before the afternoon action.  Not only was Momma writing tickets at warp speed, she also had to time people and (maybe- depending on their story) re-admit some that had no tickets at all!!  Soon people were coming and going at such a dizzying pace that Momma’s head was spinning.  

Luckily the grandstand team arrived in the nick of time and put things in order.  Momma, near collapse, made her own run for the nearest wine tent.

On her final day of duty, Momma worked the tee box where she was expected to operate the ropes (the ropes again!) so players could pass through and also keep the crowd quiet for their shots.  Momma was bound and determined to do well, but she was wracked with self doubt.

Would she be able to undo (and tie up) the ropes at the right moment?  What if she kept the players waiting?  Tripped Rory?  Even accidentally?  Should she crouch down when players were shooting so others could see?  Or should she raise her arms over her head in the universal “quiet” signal like they do on TV?  Would she be on TV?  Could she say anything to players, being an official marshal and all?  She wasn’t just a regular fan, after all.  She totally forgot what she was though when she saw Bubba and cried out, “I love you, Bubba!!”  I’m sure Bubba’s world is now complete.   

By the time Momma came home that night, she was like a whipped pup, tired but happy.  The Americans had pulled off the victory and she had successfully masqueraded as a marshal.  Here are some of her favorite moments ~

And here we are celebrating ~

USA!!!

Lina, Deputy Marshal

WOOFDA!

Last year Momma threw an attention-grabbing party for my first birthday (complete with handouts of my new business cards) in high hopes of upping my Blog readership and snagging advertisers.  Like most of Momma’s little schemes, however, it didn’t work and she put her Blog push on the back burner.

Consequently, my birthday this year was not a big deal to her.  In fact, she almost forgot about it altogether.  She only remembered when her friend – and my legal counsel – Uncle Chuck, handed her a gift bag for me.  Momma, momentarily caught off guard, quickly recovered and said cooly, “Oh yes, of course, Lina’s 2nd birthday is coming up – I’ll give this to her.”  Awkward.

Momma was also reminded of my birthday when Nanny showed up with a snazzy new collar and handcrafted scarf!  Here I am with my Jimmy Chew from Chuck’s dog, Willie and modeling my hound couture from Nanny’s family ~

Well, this got Momma thinking – two priceless gifts- how could she top that?  Then she had a brainstorm.  She would give me the gift of time with her.  The next day she announced to me, “Lina, I am going to stay home with you all day on your birthday.  And we’ll even go to Chuck & Don’s and pick out a nice present.”  (Now that I think about it, I’m surprised she hasn’t embarrassed me by hitting them up for advertising.)

The day at home with Momma didn’t exactly end up being the quality time I had envisioned.  In fact, she had decided that as long as she was going to be stuck at home with me all day, she would go a little Martha Stewart and can some salsa.  (A friend had given her a bunch of tomatoes and peppers and she would take advantage of the free food.)

It may go without woofing, but the canning did not go exactly according to plan.  (My first clue that trouble might be a-paw was when I saw her Google “How to can salsa.”)  It was no surprise then that there were a few mishaps along the way, including the broken jar in the water bath incident.  At least neither of us was injured.  Unfortunately though, the finished product looked more like tomato broth than salsa. How anyone could scoop it up with a chip was beyond me.  That didn’t faze Momma, however – she would pass it off to relatives as Christmas presents.

When Momma finally finished making salsa, she took me to Chuck and Don’s to find a gift.  I know it sounds a tad ungrateful to say that she grabbed the first thing she saw, but it wouldn’t be far from the truth.  It seems the salsa production had taken about 4 hours longer than it should have and cut into my shopping time. Anyway here’s my new ball~

On a brighter note, Nanny also remembered my birthday with a doggie e-card.  I’m really diggin’ it as you can tell ~

Thanks to everyone who made my birthday special!

Lina, Ready To Em “bark” On Another Exciting Year With Momma

WOOFDA!

I’ve been with Momma for nearly two, how shall I woof it?, incredible years now.  For the most part she’s managed to stay on top of things, but lately she has been in a funk about life in the 21st century.  It’s just too complicated, she has concluded – too much work to try and keep up.  “It’s almost like having a full-time job, Lina,” she whimpers.  Which of course “begs” the question – how would she know?

Momma is especially upset about the lightning fast changes in communication and technology (“Things used to be so simple, Lina – a television with 3 channels and a rotary dial desk phone – do we really need more?”).  But now every aspect of her life, it seems, leaves her in a constant state of bewilderment and frustration.  She laments that even her car is way over her head.  She can barely get the radio (if that’s what it’s still called) or the air conditioning turned on.  And does she really have time to be pulling over every few feet to read the operator’s manual?

Another of Momma’s “pet” peeves these days is the onslaught of social media.  “I don’t like the way it’s intruding on our lives, Lina,” she complains.  The reason she is so resentful, of course, is that she doesn’t understand it.

For example, the other day when we were filling up on gasoline and she saw that the ad by the gas pump encouraged her to “Follow Us On Facebook.”  What, she thought??  Even if I knew how, why would I go home and get on my computer to find out what’s new at Super America on Facebook??  Don’t I have enough to do already, she inwardly seethed.

Similarly, she recently heard the host of a news broadcast direct viewers to “like us” on Facebook.  What, I can’t just watch the news anymore and be done with it, she fumed?  Do people really drop everything they are doing and get on one of their devices to “vote” for the stupid program?  (Especially one that is not Fox News?)

Momma becomes even more exasperated when she opens an email from a merchant or a webpage and sees all the tiny social media symbols at the bottom of the page urging her to “stay connected” via Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, Instagram, Google, Google +, Google Play (“Just how many Google things can there be, Lina?”), Tumblr and YouTube.  Should she choose one?  Two?  All of them?  Will she lose touch with the world if she opts not to? What are they anyway?

Another thing that sends her into orbit is all the choices one must make just by carrying out a purchase.  Which credit card should she use?  (Note to Momma – the one that is not maxed out.)  Does she hand it to the sales associate or use the little machine?  Does she slide or insert it?  Invariably she does the wrong thing and the condescending associate – who addresses her as “dear” – must correct her.  And could she just once remove her inserted card from the machine before it honks at her, notifying everyone in line that she doesn’t know what she’s doing?

Then there’s the receipt dilemma.  Does she want it by paper?  Email?  Both?  This drives her crazy.  If she takes it in paper format, the young hip salesperson will think she is a doddering old fool or a Republican who doesn’t care about the environment (Editor’s note:  “if the shoe fits, Momma, wear it”).  If she chooses email, will she be able to find it in the stack of 2,132 unopened items currently sitting on her iMac, when she makes the (inevitable) return?  And she’ll have to print it then anyway, won’t she?  And hasn’t she made enough decisions just by picking which pair of shoes to buy?

“It’s enough to make me want to stay home and crawl under a rock, Lina.”  But not enough to make her want to quit shopping, I’m sure.

Lina, Trying to Keep Momma In Line & On Line

WOOFDA!

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