Get Used to it, Jack

The Light is Upon Us

Wake up!... er....what?   "Get Used to It, Jack!"


Well, it's time to wake up,  after all, these echoes are also  IncomingBytes, are they not?
As a boy- child once said when  he woke me up, little fingers prying open both eyelids for me,  "Sun's up, so get up!"
I wipe the sleep from my face. The blue eyes are only two inches away from my own. "Wake up!"

How can we sleep with that kind of sunlight in eyes pried wide open?
Smart kid. Action, reaction, and satisfaction. Persistence pays. "eh?" er...-that would be "huh?" in American.   

Get used to it, Jack!  The boy pokes the muse, and the muse insists.  We are the bored... tired.   We cannot escape. We will be assimilated.  Beam me up, anyone!  *Note for future reference: "beam me up" is not synonymous with "wake me up"  or "get me up" ..... lazybones.  
 We shall get to  enjoy those technical disparities  whilst snoozing for another five? Another..two? 

Well, not...quite. The  child is insistent, and the sun is getting stronger,  fast.  It is incredibly bright but still -20C according to the thermometer just outside the window.   Joking. It's balmy....only -17C.  That's much better isn't it?   Fact is, we still have 3' of snow in Northwestern Ontario, but ---who's measuring? The sun is the color of daffodils.

I get up with the sun. Most of the time. It's a lifetime habit. Assisted by growling, once in a while, I must admit. Reluctantly, quite often, I must admit.
 I can smell the coffee already too. That's a good excuse.  The brain registers. Coffee. Hot. That does it every time.  Hit the deck.  Get used to it, Jack!  Cold red oak wakes the feet up in no time.


 It seems that here on Incomingbytes.blogspot.com  we have been procrastinating,  playing hookey, m.i.a. , absent on a bit of a hiatus, or...something,  a sabbatical,    'taking some time off -well, not intentionally, you understand, just doing something else which is supposed to be as good as a rest, or so they say.  Who is 'they' anyway? 
 .....I wonder which goofy tired blog-person first said that whilst the eyelids were propped up with toothpicks?
 Do you feel like that sometimes?  If so, you, too, cannot resist. You, too-- shall be assimilated. 
We have been busy, assimilated by life itself.  Working on my new website, incomingbytes.com ,  including blog and author portfolio. 

We have also  been launching The Fires of Waterland,  my hot new novel published by Redmund Productions. We have been admiring the first hands-on paperback copy, of The Fires of Waterland-- which is now the first signed edition, a milestone for any published author.

We have been writing press release sheets. And that doesn't include handouts, setting up book signings,  amusing Tilly the Tall and Ebony the Short  (T.T.S. and E.T.S, the resident pups) or planning (dreaming about) the garden.
  
I can tell, I need some more sleep already...Wake up!


Update:  THIRD Edition!

 Notice....... on the sidebar, the 3rd Edition of The Fires of Waterland  (2016)  is now available on Amazon in print and eBook!   

Why is this story so important?...because...
 
"Fire changes everything but the past....Feel the HEAT.... 
 


Is that Incoming I hear?

The Cooling Boulder

The cooling boulder is a blessing. Just a rock, but we'll get to that.

It's a bit dull out there, and even rained a bit.  Should we cheer?  It seems so, although I tend to like sunny days better.  No matter.  Sometimes cooler is better. Moderation in all things comes to mind. The extremes are too much like yesterday.
 A couple of days ago it was 88F-- in the shade yet.
Out in the direct sun that makes it a scorcher.  Perhaps 95F.  That brings to mind a few million Americans- and friends-- currently suffering without electricity and air conditioning in temperatures closer to 100F, maybe even 105F--that would be American heat --with higher humidity to boot.
 It seems to me that kind of heat is more than enough to glue brand-new boots to the sidewalk while frying eggs. We thank God it doesn't get that hot here daily. Can it? Without forests? Of course!

In NW Ontario yesterday-- out in the blazing  sun-- it was too easy to just give up and head right back into the delicious cool of  air-conditioning.  Too warm to work out in the garden patch without dehydrating in a wink. That kind of heat makes it a little too easy to dive nose-first into the beanery or collapse in the  cabbage patch.

When it's this hot, Tilly the Tall and Ebony the Short  (T.T.T & E.T.S.)-- smart pups they are, --head for the cool air in the basement, flop out,  flattening magically on the floor--  like  flat, furry puddles. Just as it does to us, the heat exhausts them.
We do have an  alternative solution awaiting us in the great outdoors. The cooling boulder.

The Cooling Boulder,   Whitewood Creek     Photo by w.l.kukkee

Our daily excursions down the trails to the Whitewood Creek, our brook trout stream, usually results in a detour, a dog-paddling, serious water-snuffling expedition, and might be equated to a visit to an automatic dog-wash complete with pleasantly-cool water happily sans soap,  -depending upon the point of view taken.  If the mosquitoes and blackflies don't convince us otherwise, we might dally at the cooling boulder for quite a while watching the pups enjoying the cool water.

Have you ever seen a dog lay down in water trying to grow fins?  That's T.T.T.  to the letter.  A true water dog, she almost smiles as she  lays down in the fast water with purpose,  facing upstream into the current.  She's long-legged, but there's a deep spot to dog-paddle in place.
 E.T.S. isn't quite as enthusiastic. The short one is more inclined to stay in the shallow water, washing her feet,  elegantly cooling her low-slung carriage and tasting water as  royalty might daintily sip tea.

We cool our feet. We watch minnows too.  It's one of the finer things in life that happens at the cooling boulder.  Helps the muse --and is amusing too. Creates photo ops.   We sure do have a cool cooling boulder. It might be just a rock, but don't you wish you had one?


Watching the minnows gives me an idea.  I'm going fishing next,  how about you? What's life for anyway?   At Incoming Bytes we think everyone should go fishing next.  Let's go!


Is that Incoming I hear?

Weather, Pinfeathers and Foxes

We observe. 

The sun is shining brightly in a mild morning breeze. Dry winds. It is warming.   Finally. After a week of heavy rain, it was getting to be a bit much.  Overcast, chilly and hardly springlike. Even T.T.T. and E.T.S.  (loyal readers know that would be Tilly the Tall and Ebony the Short,  the resident pups extraordinaire ) were getting tired of being wet and  traipsing through endless muddy puddles. They began walking around them.   (They like water, but not that cold dirty wet kind apparently.)
With weird, severe  weather, lives are disrupted and economic costs can be staggering.  Here the Trans-Canada Highway is still closed and supposedly will be for a couple more days.   Recent flooding in Thunder Bay, Ontario is expected to cost  $50 million in Thunder Bay alone--or perhaps a lot more with thousands of insurance claims.  It is no longer news.  Flooded basements. Ruinous loss. Big cleanup.  Official Disaster. Geographically we didn't quite dodge the bullet this time. We thank our lucky stars for our higher elevation and observe.  

 It didn't take a quantum leap to recognize that some of Mother Nature's own little critters out there-- in the same quirky weather- inevitably end up in challenging circumstance too.  The robin in our temporarily  untrimmed cedar tree hunches down into her nest, staying perfectly motionless if anyone gets too close. The nest had two  blue eggs.  A pair of robin baby blues in their perfection,  imagine that.
A couple of days ago a judicious look revealed a single,  naked chick,wrinkles dried off, homely as only a hatchling an hour old can be. The tiny one was sporting only a pinfeather or two.  Let's go with the idea that early birds get the worm.  Was hatching a day early smart, wearing only two or three less than adequate pinfeathers? Somehow it seems not.
 The second egg was still unhatched. Maybe a genetically superior, wise egg?  Was that yet-to-be born chick waiting for warmer weather?
 Was  that natural selection in a hurry, or just a thinner shell?
 Mother robin returned to keep the nest, the remaining egg, and the naked little one warm. She came right on time too.
   The temperature dropped to -5C the same night.  It made me question how anything as tiny and helpless --and buck naked-- can survive.

How does anything in nature survive?  Two red fox pups, barely bigger than small domestic cats, try  to cross the highway, playing chicken with highway traffic.  They race across the road to join a very anxious adult, waiting helplessly,  watching them gamble with their very lives.  We gamble with our lives for the same reason as foxes do don't you think? Crossing the road of life to get to the other side. 

1.0   Baby Foxes

Nature does play games with us, whacks us sometimes, surprises us once in a while-- but always challenges wildlife that seemingly cannot provide itself with the most basic protection at times. 
Are we better off than animals and birds when it comes to Mother Nature's whims? Have we grown our own feathers and learned to dodge traffic?
That's a good question.





What were we complaining about?   Oh, nothing... it was raining. Cold. The sun is shining to make up for it now. It's one of the reversals we can expect in life.    Let's do something else.  In the garden we planted cabbages first. They appreciate life. They don't mind cold and wet, they don't need feathers either.  Trenched the peas in.  Besides, it really is warming, little by little.  It's also drying out, bit by bit.  Rain, shine, rain shine!   We survive, by contrivance, with rubber boots if necessary-- but will the little ones out there survive too?

 

 

           2.0  Baby Robins   June 07 2012           

A couple of days later back at the nest, mini- robins display big, open yellow beaks and equal amounts of ' fashionable-minimalist outdoor feather-wear'-- for adverse weather and flying trials soon to come. Small wing-feathers are already visible, clearly preparation for the next big test. That was fast.
In observing, -- what is the bottom line?  What is the big hurry for?  A test of life itself?   
 Oh, wait....I was in a big rush to have coffee and get out and  plant the garden even though it was still cold and wet, wasn't I?  
Perhaps we are in a hurry to grow in thought process too, another  lesson in survival.  At Incoming Bytes we're learning to go around the puddles.


Is that incoming I hear? 


photo credits
   1.  baby foxes     www.sodahead.com
   2.  baby robins    (c) r.a. kukkee

An ordinary Saturday

Lonesome Daffodils

It's just an ordinary Saturday.
You know the kind,  'open the eyes when  clock-timer-dog  says  wake up,  yawn, prop the eye lids open, look out the window'. That kind.

 There are no deer at the foot of the garden this morning.  It's actually spring, but it's still cool and a bit gray.  The cold air smells fresh.  The lawn is greening a bit and there are a couple of lonesome  white and yellow daffodils out.

Fall-planted garlic

 I inspect the garden out of habit, looking for deer tracks.  There are none.
 Out in the garden, the fall-planted garlic is 10" high already.  It was peeping through the last snowfall.

  Amazing. Promising.




   
I must take Tilly the Tall  and Ebony the Short  (TTT and ETS) down the trails for their morning dog-a-thon.  It's cool outside, even huddled inside a jacket.  Too early and wet to garden, the  chilly wet  morning avoidance contingency plan kicks in.

 It's a good one. I know, it's just a typical escapist N.W. Ontario morning plan.  Procrastinate. Stay in and drink coffee.  Read.  Maybe some toast and jam, the  homemade strawberry kind. 
The pups are already flat-back schmoozing, that took about a minute after the towel-down. They're  worn out after morning dilly-dallying  and incessant play.
The clock ticks softly. The coffee smells good.  The plan is shaping up fine.
 I settle in and read.  I enjoy reading, it's one of my hobbies. I collect 'bits and bobs' ( Brit. slang )--information, that would be,  but my loyal readers know it's construction material for Incoming Bytes.
  It's amazing how much  information, knowledge, and variety is out there. Web sites. Word mills. Blogs, thousands of them.  Musings. Short stories, articles, opinions big and small, the soothing rhythm and charm of souls poetic . 
Some articles  I envy, the kind I wish I could write sometimes;  serious efforts at repairing humankind. Let's make that mankind;   I have to be honest, I don't appreciate the hypocrisy of  PC jargon. Politicized crap and garble, mindless, misused protocol. How to sensationalize boredom--but I digress.
 I read technical articles, fiction, and pretty much everything  that catches the eye.  News. Columnists. How to write.  Train the muse to dance with two left feet and  write faster. How to write when the stubborn muse is on strike and refuses to cooperate. How to do woodwork, build shelves, stairs or lay ceramic. How to pan for gold.  All about bonsai, you know, the little trees in  pots. That's one of my hobbies.  I could learn to tan a hide, grow stuff, facet diamonds, rebuild a diesel engine, crochet, or construct a chicken-wire fence. 
I cannot hope to ever read all of the classics, old literature or complicated technical content I would like to. I tend to soak it up, and digest it, but it becomes relegated to it's status,  it's pecking order in life;  perhaps waylaid,  it's relevance lost in the brain temporarily.  Recall comes to mind. Restore when needed. File nine.
Creativity, art, substance, questions,  the human condition exacerbates the human  reality at times;  persistent content sticks in the mind, if reluctantly.  Is there a better day for remembering stuff?
The blogosphere doesn't discriminate. Saturday or Wednesday, Tuesdays or Friday. No matter. Monday, Thursday, or Sunday,  they're all out of order anyway. 
Which day is better to read, observe, and listen?  Can the brain ever be filled to capacity? I cannot imagine how.  The mind stalling at capacity could ruin this very ordinary Saturday.

 I wonder why I cannot read faster, too. It would be handy. I already 'speed read', but not nearly fast enough. Skimming pages, sites, blogs.  Look up words unknown, get the context right, the online dictionary comes in handy for that.
 The unexpected. Surprises.  Interruptions.  I know;  at times we must suffer wonderful cinnamon buns instead of cookies, but that's life,  that's what's in the oven.  The construction of life itself.  Baking.  Saturday morning stuff. 

 Now to do something different.   Review the A to Z Challenge. Twenty-six posts.
 We did it. I actually survived and completed it.  I met some wonderful writers in the process, great bloggers,  read a lot of excellent writing,  and learned an awful lot.  I received great and kind comments here at Incoming Bytes. I do thank everyone for their kindness, consideration, and dedication.  Back to the xylography of ordinary life if such a beast exists.
  Shall I play with the pups some more?
Nope, they're still sleeping. Running around all day can be tiring, I better let them save some energy. 
Like me, they'll need it.  Why not teach old dogs new tricks?
Anything is possible--later.
 Meantime the coffee and cinnamon buns call clearly on this very ordinary Saturday, and a little snooze might work too.  Oh..almost 2:00 pm......time must be broken.....


 

Is that incoming I hear?

T is for Tile and Tired

T is for Tile and Tired  because doing a renovation job with  ceramic tile can be tiring work.
 I'm at it again. Remember the wall?  The wall and door chewed up and scratched away by our mischievous pups Tilly the Tall and Ebony the Short?
  Well, this time it's the floor.
 No, our loyal pups did not  dig holes in the floor.  That old self-stick composite  tile is 30 years old.
 It wore pretty well and used to look nice.  Everything looks nice when it is new, doesn't it?
Some tiles loosened off a bit around the edges and pieces cracked away.  It curled a bit in places too. Old stuff is enough to curl your hair and crack your mind sometimes.
 We have to rip out the old composite tile and install new ceramic tile.  By the time I'm finished this job, I will also be tired.  Good thing I have a wonderful helper who is also the supervisor, planner, coffee-maker and cookie-baker.  
See how nice this old floor was?  It took a terrible beating with water, snow melting and mud being ground into it every day for 30 years. Not bad for being so old.
                                                                                                        

  This was the best section. It almost looked good as new, but not quite.   Heating the tile with a hair dryer to soften the glue was a brilliant idea,, but it really didn't help much, and the exposed glue smelled terrible!  A much better idea became obvious. It had to come off one way or the other.  We chose the other.
Cold, it came off in bits and pieces.  No worries.




 The tile came off in bits and pieces with this handy little thin-edged tool!   Notice how the pattern of the old tile is still on the floor? Don't kid yourself, even if composite or vinyl self-stick tiles are tightly placed, they shrink a tiny bit, and water eventually works it's way into the cracks, staining the floor. Surprisingly, the sub floor plywood is still in good, solid condition.
  

A pile of tile.  Rubble trouble.  Unfortunately, it has to go to the landfill. The brittle old composite tile with it's old glue is not usable for anything.  We do not have a recycling facility for such horrible stuff.




   


  The old glue sure smelled awful! Outdoors it went!
Off to the landfill it will go on garbage day.
Tilly the Tall inspects the trash, but Ebony the Short didn't like that stinky stuff very much! Time to schmooze on that remaining nice cool snow instead.





 We checked  the plywood carefully to make sure it is still solid. If you have any doubt, poke it with a sharp penknife.   The stains look terrible but the wood is still perfectly solid.   I ran the belt sander with #80 paper over the seams to remove any remaining lumps of glue, broken, sticky bits of tile, or other old unidentifiable guck.

Next job is to cut off the door trim and door jambs to allow just enough room for the tile to fit under it neatly. You have to remember space for the thin set tile cement!

Trimming the doorjambs

 That handy little battery-powered  oscillating Multi-tool made short work of that tough job!  We used a short piece of board just the right thickness for a natural guide to get the right height above the floor, enough to allow for the thin set and new tile.





 What a mess! Now the floor has to be vacuumed up perfectly again,  and the new ceramic tile laid out.  I know, this should have been called T for tough job instead of  T for Tile and Tired!  

 The layout and installation of the new tile will have to wait until there's more energy available.
  I think it's time for a snooze!  

 Is that incoming I hear?

R is for Reality

Reality comes early....

  This is an experiment in R for Reality.
The last minute of sleep in the morning is reality.  Dream on. I want to enjoy every last bit of that glorious, memorable warm and comfy  snoozing.  The reality of total relaxation and sleeping with closed eyelids is fleeting. That extra bit of sleep, rest, and relaxation might be a happy coincidence --but not this morning.  



Ebony the Short plods softly around the bed.  I remain motionless, maybe the pup will  go back to bed?   No?
She rears up, taps on my arm and  woofs quietly. Time to get up, lazybones. She has an internal atomic timer with accuracy that would make NASA jealous.
I open one eye. She's watching, her head is curiously cocked to one side.  She encourages me to keep the eyes open. I resist.

 The sun is trying to shine in the window too. Pulling the comforter over the head works for a minute. Forget it. You can't fool old Sol or  Ebony the Short. She keeps tapping away;  I know you're under there, so get up, lazybones. 
There's not much air hiding under a comforter anyway. Morning breath sucks.  Is there any respite available for a tired, desperate man? 
 Not this morning. She's got that built-in alarm clock and a devious plan. She picks up her red and white rope pull-toy and heads to the door. Let's play.  "I wanna play. Right now".

  "Not me, dog. I'm back to bed. Right now."
  
A measurably louder 'woof'. Oh yeah?  How unlikely. Tilly the Tall stretches. She agrees.

 Alas,  it's morning,  and I check twice just to be sure. Tired eyes squint at the red neon numbers on the digital clock. Hopefully the time is wrong. Digital clocks can be wrong, can't they?
Nope.   It's reality, right on time. It's reliable. That figures.

Reality is now  7:01 am.  No escape.  No wonderful time continuum mistakes or helpful quantum  errors.  This is earth calling. No choice. Reality sucks too. 
  I have to get up first, hitting the cool hardwood floor. Someone  plods sleepily to the door, buck naked, wondering why he should not be enjoying some other reality, --you know the one, where the terrestrial keeps sleeping, eyes closed,  snoozing buck naked? Not today.  Reality insists. The universe objects. I try to squint at the clock  above the coffee-maker. Can't see it.
 No wonder,  I'm not  in the kitchen yet. Wake up. Give the head a shake.

 Back to reality, get dressed. Get the socks out and pull the blue jeans and T-shirt on.  Shh...don't wake up momma.
 Ebony the Short  and pull-toy are out the door like a shot- and the  more sensible, sleepy Tilly the Tall is close behind. They begin a pulling match.
 The clock in the kitchen sensibly confirms reality. It's now 7:05 am.    


 The last bit of peanut butter in the jar will go just fine with strawberry jam on hot toast.  No, the toast is not smoking or black.  Being awake enough to paying attention to smoke signals and reality is starting to pay off already. One of the benefits of good reality management.
 The first cup of coffee is painfully slow coming. It begins, gurgling lazily. The first drop draining through the gadget is a promise of a better reality.  That first steaming cup will be good too, no kidding. The reality of a coffee habit says so. 
Three cups later reality has set in, the caffeine is working .  I am awake. Check the matched eyelid latches.  Yes, the eyelids stay open all by themselves. Stifle the yawn that wants to negate such fine and encouraging progress.  You really can see better with both eyes open .

 Reality says it's time to walk the dogs.  Tilly the Tall and Ebony the Short check out the reality of the  strange, softening April snow. The sun is almost warm, shining brightly.  There's a fresh spring melt in the cool air.   The pups eagerly snuffle the tracks of rabbits already turning brown. They feel obligated to check out every partridge track on the quad trail too. 
 I call the explorers back quickly if they begin to wag their tails  out of sight.
They wander back slowly onto the trail and wait patiently. They sheepishly look at me like I should have stayed in bed.
Not me. I'm too busy breathing deeply and enjoying reality.



Is that incoming I hear?

D is for Dog

     

D is for Dog.
Of course our loyal readers will agree it is logical to add that double -D  (DD)   is for Dog(s).  
Did I have a choice?
                           ........er......No,  I have two.    

 It's just as well.     What would they do if they weren't  Dually?  Chase bunnies?  Of course, that's dog stuff.
See?  They're trying to dominate and destroy decorated doggie-toys. Isn't that  dedication?

Tilly and Ebony doing 'Dog Stuff '

 
Our dogs, Tilly the Tall (TTT)  and Ebony the Short (ETS)   are special and expect to be treated like they're part of the family.   







                              They  play deviously like a pair of twins,  --or "Double Distractions" as Uncle Mac might add when spouting all that  double D doggerel  about Farm Girl, a whole shed-full of diversions,  bunnies, busting onions and such.
 In his own words,  "Ya know, I got so many visitors,  sometimes the place is a veritable shed-full of Doggone-Devious Doughnut-Dibblers".  
 He further advises  "It's so much fun I oughta' sell coffee and  franchise the place."
"I'd call it the 'Double D' "  he whispers as he hands me a dozen dividing onions.

Back at the ranch even the devious dog(gies) finally admitted the distracting bunnies in  Mac's shed would be a delightful diversion.
 See what I mean?  Now we have franchised double 'D's on the brain and haven't even dallied our way up to the coffee-shop for a double-double to go yet.
For some reason, TTT and ETS  keep begging for double doughnuts and winking at each other.  Go figure.  The world's going to the Dogs.  
Well, for  D- Day anyway.  Woof!
   


Is that incoming I hear?

C is for Cookies

C is for cookies.  Imagine that! Everyone  knows that C is for Cookies.

" Cookies, the food of  Gods, the staple of writers, the delight of children of all ages!"

Which cookies do you like the best?  Peanut butter?  Chocolate chip?  Coconut cream?  Straight out-of-the bag Oreo chocolate with cream filling or macaroons,

I like homemade the best.  Oh, sure, a bag of  'bought' cookies will do in a pinch. Maybe.

You don't have to twist my arm to make me eat sugar cookies with icing, or fig Newtons.
Homemade oatmeal-raisin-coconut are my favorites though.   I  also promise never to turn down shortbread, chocolate chip, or macaroons loaded with coconut and cherries, even if they magically appear in the mail box.

The fact is, any cookie will do anywhere there is a cookie famine. Anyplace there is  a dearth of cookies, like floods, disasters, or empty cookie jars.
 Cookies are essential services. 

See these?

Hot Fresh Puppy Cookies

These are home-made doggie-cookies. Healthy stuff.  Made with real food. Real beef stock. Whole wheat flour. Real eggs.  Tilly the Tall and Ebony the short love them.  No wonder. They taste good.








----Now I want a cookie too.
Hey, these taste great! ....crunch- crunch- crunch...

Cool Fresh Puppy Cookies

 "The ones from the..... middle?

 "Well,...um....er.....no, dear, they're not .....missing. "






Is that incoming I hear?

Disaster fix: Tile a While

Tile a while...Wall

At Incoming Bytes mayhem and destruction happens once in a while, giving me cause to scratch my head in wonderment at why things happen, mixed in with a bit of    anger and hair-pulling pragmatic rage frustration.
 Savvy and financially strapped homeowners all realize that at times, it seems things fall apart faster   than they can be repaired with  a capable home-renovation crew of twenty caffeine-boosted bubblegum chewing workpeople. 

Such was the exterior drywall surface  right beside an exterior door of mine;  you got it, the door to freedom for my demolition-team  pups.
 The first time it happened, the door trim was chewed off and shredded, the adjacent drywall was almost non-existent, and exterior insulation was torn out--all the way to the exterior sheathing. A chunk of the door jamb itself was missing.
It was midnight, and a major social gathering was scheduled for the next day, so it was a night watch
panic repair -including a careful  cutout of  remaining shredded wood on the door jamb, and the necessary replacement,  fill,  and paint.
  On the wall,  I cut out the damaged drywall completely,  re-insulated the wall cavity,  installed new drywall,  taped, filled, sanded, and top-coated again, sanding  all the way to- perfection.
Objective: To finished painting and trim, included, that is!   Invisible, perfect job, finished  at 3:00 am- or was it 4:00am.
 I am fast and good.   A competent workman when I have to be.   Kudos to me.  Used the wife's hairdryer to accelerate paint drying too.  Cool.    Sometimes it's just good to be handy.
Pups forgiven,  next day, party is  on! 
" Smells like fresh paint in here " someone comments.....

  That was the first time.   The second time, the lower cross-buck of  the $400.00  (1979 price !)   interior cedar door was  also chewed away, damage beyond repair. Door trim conveniently removed,chewed to bits and broken too, repaired  door jamb shredded again,  and drywall again seriously damaged.  After only a couple of hours in absentia.  We're never leaving home again. Haywire pups.    
It is surprising what you learn.  We did not know that interior air so carefully filtered with a modern air-conditioning system  could  turn so  unprintable blue.  I should have pictures or kept a Mason Moonshine jarful of the blue stuff  for proof.

   *sigh.  Sabbatical required. Cool down.  Cooler heads almost prevail.   Decisions necessary.  Replace the whole door unit.  Only seven hundred bucks.   Install the new door unit, jamb, new lock set  and all.   Insulated steel door this time.   Repair the drywall again, prime and paint, install new interior trim,  job well done!  Party on! 

It does, however, seem that  Tilly the Tall and Ebony the Short have OCD  a  psychiatric compulsion history of wanting out NOW, walls in the way, doors closed or not . Why?

 A brief diversion  will reveal to the aware  that whenever  Mr. Buck and Ms Doe,  Willie the wolf,  Charlie Coyote, Peter Rabbit, Mega-moose   or  Bear himself happen to appear close at hand in the  Great Outdoors, things happen.   If they even  smell like they're within a country mile or three,    the friendly pooches want to see which of their friends is invading.
  Human visitors of the door- knocker kind,  a casual pickup truck or  touristy  turn-arounders a half mile away, the curious,  dilapidated lost seeking directions  or not, they all inspire the same effect.
Our research proves that  Sam the Weasel, Murray Mink  and Pierre le Stink  don't help either, five times out of five.   The dedicated dogs  want out  or the innocent handiest wall is doomed.

Off comes the broken trim. Again.  Paint layers scratched off. Again.  Enough of that. 
Tape the joints, sand, prime and paint it, and replace shredded, broken trim. Innocent pups  are required watch judiciously as repairs are made.
 Right, that oughta'  suffice -- until next time. And the time after that!  
What is the answer? High-strung pets may deface walls repetitively.  I have resigned myself to that distinct possibility.     
 

Ka-ching!  Think stainless steel, bullet-proof glass overlaid with ceramic tile. Scratch-proof.  Right over top of the nice, perfect drywall repair. Perfect protracted thought.  I did it.

Ready to Grout!

 Yesterday I tiled a while and put an end to scratches, bite marks and destruction. More than half-way up the wall for good measure.  Ha! 










I can see it now.   I'll be longing for the good old days.   Tape the joints, sand, prime and paint it, and replace shredded, broken trim.  I can do it with my eyes closed and one arm tied behind my back, midnight or not. I've got experience.
 Right, that will suffice -- until next time. And the time after that!  High-strung pets may deface walls repetitively.  May? Will? Did!   Emergency repair withdrawal, cold turkey.
What is the answer?   Remind myself again. Real life. Haul out the wallet. Head to the building center.

Ka-ching!   Ceramic tile. Scratch-proof.  Bite-proof. Woof-proof.   Tile a while and put an end to scratches, *bite marks and destruction.  I'm recommending it to everyone. Party's on!


*Note to myself.  Level surface grout so there's no place  to insert teeth, fangs or claws.  

 I've got'em beat now.  Maybe.


Is that incoming I hear?