Our Fabulous Son Spottswood

I tend to resist the feline charms of cats. Mostly because I experience radioactive explosions in my face the second I inhale cat dander.

Ian wishes I didn't ignore the cats, or run away screeching if they sit near me, or chase them manically out of the bedroom every night.

Ian: "I feel bad for Spottswood. He always snuggled with me in the past. I'd wake up in the middle of the night spooning him."

Laura: "That's very cute. But imagine spooning poison ivy. Because that's like me spooning a cat."

Ian: "Ouch."

However, Spottswood's a charming kitty. He's skittish and shy around strangers, but amiable and playful around family and friends.

Spottswood is a sensitive cat. A very sensitive cat. If you catch my drift.

Laura: "Spottswood, you're a beautiful rainbow. You can be whoever you want to be. If you want to date males instead of females, your Daddy and I will support you."

Ian: "Spottswood's not gay."

Laura: "Spottswood, don't ever change. Don't let societal gender expectations affect you."

Ian: "Laura, Spottswood's not gay."

Spottswood doesn't meow; he squeaks. His kitty noises reach ranges that only dolphins and nine year old girls can attain.

Spottswood exhibits occasional bursts of manliness. He holds his own against a hyperactive Winiferd. If Winnie gets too rough, he'll swat with claws, producing doggie squeals.

Bitches need to know their place, you know?

Men, please take this moment to shield your eyes and scroll ahead. If not, I apologize in advance for abusing your sensitive masculinity. 

Every month, Spottswood displays a intense interest in the bathroom wastebasket. 

Dear Laura,

Today we lost. I awoke this morning to find that the bathroom doors had been breached, the waste can knocked over, and in the middle of the living room, wrappers and applicators. Today will go down in infamy in regards to feminine hygiene products.

Love,

Ian

Dear Ian, 

It's times like these I could swear he's straight.

Love,

Laura 

Spottswood enjoys posing daintily for the camera, his head resting angelically on his arm. Please enjoy the following pictures.

 

Winiferd Adjusting in the Burbs

Moving to the suburbs has reaped rewards for Winiferd. The house provides much needed room for roaming and playing. Plus, the cats and guinea pig keep her company during the weekdays.

Winnie loves going doo doo in her own yard, and she enjoys taking walks around the quiet neighborhood.

The one thing that knocked Winnie off balance? New Daddy. Winnie felt accustomed to Mommy coming home shortly after five o'clock every weekday.

Now, New Daddy arrives home at about 3:30. MAYDAY! MAYDAY! CHANGE IS COMING! CHANGE IS COMING! Winnie is struggling to process this monumental shift in life.

Winnie: "I am not used to a human coming home at 3:30. WHAT IS THIS BULL SHIT?"

Monday:

Ian: "Today when I got home, Winnie just sat and looked sad. She refused to go potty. It was bizarre."

Laura: "I wouldn't worry. Look how happy she looks."

Ian: "She doesn't act like that when I get home."

Tuesday:

Ian: "Today Winnie braced herself and refused to walk when I took her outside. She braced so hard, you could see her teeth clenching."

Laura: "Did she use the bathroom for you?"

Ian: "No."

Wednesday: 

Ian: "Today when I walked in, Winnie stared at me and then went to sleep. AND SHE NEVER GOES DOO DOO FOR ME."

Thursday: 

Ian: "Today Winnie just waited at the door for you."

Laura: "She certainly looks excited now. Aww. She's running in circles with her squeaky toy. What a happy puppy."

Ian: "She never does that when I get home."

Friday:

Ian: "Today, when I took Winnie outside, she walked away and laid down in the bushes. She stayed there until I dragged her back in."

Ian and I have been trying to understand Winnie's strange behavior.

Ian: "I think she's scared of me. Because I'm the disciplinarian."

Laura: "We both discipline. We just discipline in different ways."

Ian: "How so?"

Laura: "I discipline softly, and you discipline loudly. Remember when we were trying to break her of jumping on the table? And you charged at the window so loudly and knocked on it so violently that you shattered the storm window? Even I was scared of you then."

Ian: "That makes me feel bad... Wait. If you were so scared, why were you doubled-over, wheezing with laughter? You couldn't even talk because you were laughing so hard."

Laura: <Remembers when Ian shattered the storm window; doubles-over laughing>

Ian: "You're doing it again."

In actuality, Ian was spot-on in his assessment.

When I see the dog, I scoop her up, nuzzle her head, and coo. When Ian sees the dog, he wonders why she isn't a cat and hopes her doggie tooth paste will someday disguise her doggie breath.

Also, Ian's more apt to yell when she barks.

In the Backyard:

Winnie: "Bark! Bark! Bark!"

Ian: "Winnie, shut up! Stop barking!"

Laura: "She can't even bark outside? Ian, she's a dog."

Ian: "Oh. Yeah. I guess that makes sense."

Ian's frustration with dogs and normal dog behavior amuses both of us. We joke about it a lot.

Laura: <Cradling Winnie> "Winnie, New Daddy told me that on gray days, he thinks about you, and then he sees a beautiful rainbow."

Ian: "Hmpf."

Laura: "Winnie, New Daddy told me that he wishes he could clone you, so when he goes to sleep, he can have one Winnie on his right side and another Winnie of his left."

Ian: "Unnnnnn."

Laura: "Winnie, New Daddy said if he was hanging off a cliff and had Harvey in one hand and you in the other, he would drop Harvey to save you."

Ian: "Where do you get this stuff?"

How CDR Got His Groove Back

In December 2010, Ian and I adopted Guinifred. Shortly afterwards, our old buddy CDR came to visit. CDR stands for Christopher Douglas-Roberts. He was named after the University of Memphis basketball player.

CDR moved in expressly to sweep Guinifred off her feet with his amorous abilities. Ian hoped the union would lead to baby guinea pigs.

Laura: "Most people try to guard against rodent pregnancy. But you encourage it."

Ian: "Guinea pigs are a culinary delicacy in South America. If Guinifred and CDR mate, I could sell the babies for a nice profit. And we could fry us up some good eatin'."

Laura: "I bet they taste like chicken."

Ian: "Guinea pigs are supposedly some of the best meat you can eat."

Laura: "I'd dunk them in ketchup."

Truthfully, Ian wanted to sell the babies as pets. After CDR moved in, Ian and I would periodically place Guinifred in CDR's cage and wait for guinea pig magic.

However, CDR's a roly poly pig, perfectly content to sit idly, nibbling on carrots and throwing poop. He was as awkward as a sweaty-palmed 13 year old wearing a Pokemon t-shirt, asking a cheerleader out to see the latest X-Men flick.

Guinifred, by contrast, was a lithe, delicate creature. CDR would plod in circles, attemtping to get his groove on, while Guinifred sprinted elegantly away from his awkward clutches. They produced zero babies.

Laura: "He's defective."

Ian: "No he's not. Come on CDR! You can do it, buddy!"

Laura: "Guinifred's an intelligent guinea pig. She doesn't consent to casual sex. CDR needs to build a committed, healthy relationship with her first."

Ian: "Eh, you're probably right."

Guinifred sets high standards and believes in eating a wholesome diet full of fruits and vegetables.

We began leaving Guinifred in CDR's cage for longer lengths of time. We would leave the two pigs in the living room, under dim, romantic lights and slip out the back door.

Ian: "We should give them tiny wine glasses and play Barry White records."

Upon returning, we would try to size up the situation, desperate to see any signs of romantic shenanigans.

Ian: "I bet they did it. CDR looks really awkward."

Laura: "CDR always looks awkward. He's the guinea pig equivalent of Louie Anderson."

CDR tried mightily to get his groove on, but the poor boy could never figure it out.

In fact, the title of the post is misnomer. CDR never lost his groove, nor did he ever regain it. CDR has never had groove in his whole entire life.

Ian and I overlooked CDR's social and biological failures and emphatically embraced him into the family fold. Last week, CDR returned to his original home.

We miss him very much.

Long live His Majesty, King Christopher Douglas-Roberts, Lord of Love Making and Duke of Doo Doo Throwing.

Boy Meets Girl; Girl Meets Plants

Ian loves plants the way middle-aged white women love Oprah. He loves plants. He currently works in a garden, and he'll finish his horticulture degree this year.

Ian makes a beeline for the plant section the minute we set foot in a Home Depot or a Lowe's. He points out every tree, flower, bush, and weed we pass while walking or driving. He can talk plants for hours, using their ancient Latin names.

Ian: "Look! It's Acacia berlandieri."

Laura: "That's the summoning spell from Harry Potter!"

Ian: "I don't...think so."

Laura: "I guess it was 'Accio', not 'Acacia'."

Ian: "Hmm."

Laura: "Accio broomstick!"

Ian: <Looks uncomfortable>

Truthfully, I know embarrassingly little about plants.

According to rigorous scientific research undertaken at the J.K. Tolkien Institute of Botany and Botany Related Stuff, even my dog knows more about plants than I do.

Talking about plants bores me. (Only a little, Ian! Only a little).

When Ian and I first began dating, it wasn't a problem, because I'd read enough pioneer stories during my youth to carry a conversation about poisonous plants and the poor pioneering saps who ate them. 

(The same saps who, according to Oregon Trail, didn't know how to ford a river or avoid snake bites. Puh-lease. Ezekiel, if you had stayed in the wagon, we wouldn't have had to wait two weeks for the ground to thaw so we could bury you).

After we had discussed poisonous plants consumed by pioneers, Ian had to deal with the fact that his girlfriend knew nothing about his dearly beloved plant world.

Meanwhile, I tried to maintain my dignity whenever Ian talked about horticulture. Mostly, that meant watching for my cues during plant conversations:

1. Nod 
2. Nod
3. Smile 
4. Execute the "tell me more" face 
5. Look mildly confused 
6. Look concerned 
7. Have a 'light bulb' moment 
8. Smile
9. Smile bigger
10. Nod 
11. Nod vigorously

And we're done.

When Ian first introduced me to his cat, Spottswood, I felt positive that "Spottswood" was a plant or a tree or something from nature.

How cute! Ian loves plants! And he loves cats! So he named his cat after a plant! AWWW!

I operated under this delusion for a good six months, until Ian explained the cat had been named after a street.

Laura: "You mean there's no plant called Spottswood?"

Ian: "No. Just a street. And a cat."

Laura: <Feels disappointed>

One day, while in the car, Ian was doing his normal thing of pointing out plants, and I was doing my normal thing of composing limericks in my head:

Laura: <Deep in thought>
"There once was a little white dog,
Who drank some tainted egg nog,
She got really whack,
She fell on her back,
And she entered a hazy, drunk fog."

Ian: <Becomes aware I'm completely checked out> "Have you learned anything about plants since you've been with me? Anything at all?"

Laura: "Of course I've learned things. I listen to you all the time."

Ian: "When do the hibiscus bloom?"

Laura: "When the biscuits bloom."

Ian: "When do Crepe Myrtles bloom?"

Laura: "Whenever Myrtle comes to town."

Ian: "When do sunflowers bloom?"

Laura: "When the sun comes out."

Laura: "Look at the roses!"

Ian: "Those are azaleas."

Ian's Birthday

Ian's birthday was last week. We felt pretty psyched about it.

We had made plans with Ian's mom to meet at the Botanical Gardens in Alabama.

We awoke at 5:00am on Friday morning, Ian's actual birthday, to go meet Ian's mom. We dropped Winnie off with my parents and drove into the ritzy town across the way, as directed by Google Maps.

Suddenly, we saw blue lights flash behind us.

Ian: "I'm being pulled over."

Laura: "Why? You weren't doing anything wrong."

Ian: "I know. I'm confused."

A young, bleached blonde man strode over to Ian's window.

Bleached Blonde Cop from Rich People Land: "Do you know why I pulled you over?"

Ian: "No."

Bleached Blonde Cop from Rich People Land "You went straight in a turn-only lane."

Ian: <Baffled>

Bleached Blonde Cop from Rich People Land: "Are you from here?"

Ian: "No."

Bleached Blonde Cop from Rich People Land: "Do you know where our court house is?"

Ian: "No."

Bleached Blonde Cop from Rich People Land: "Here's your ticket."

Ian: "Thanks?"

Bleached Blonde Cop from Rich People Land: "Do you know where our court house is?"

Ian: "No."

Bleached Blonde Cop from Rich People Land: "..........."

Needless to say, Ian felt a little angry.

Ian: "He didn't even say happy birthday."

We motored on. Google Maps had indicated a three and a half hour trip.

Google Maps was mistaken. The drive lasted five hours.

At the gardens, we spent the day strolling the grounds with Ian's lovely mom. We basked in the surprisingly pleasant weather and considered our luck changed. We bid farewell to Ian's mom at 3:30 and drove towards home, confident in a simple trip back.

Five Minutes Later 

We found ourselves in bumper-to bumper traffic, ensnared in an ocean of cars, going at a snail's pace.

Thirty Minutes Later 

We passed the wreck that was holding up traffic and got back on our way. Hooray!

Forty Minutes Later 

Laura: "What should we eat for dinner?"

Ian: "Mexican food? I saw a ton of Mexican restaurants on the way here."

Laura: "Okay!"

One Hour Later

We saw zero Mexican restaurants. Our route was a wasteland of McDonald's and Wendy's and Burger King's. But no Mexican restaurants.

Ian: "I must have been dreaming when I saw all those Mexican restaurants. I'm starving."

Laura: "Me too."

Twenty Minutes Later 

Ian spotted a Mexican restaurant. Yay! It's in the scariest part of town on the scariest road in Alabama, but we can eat!

Ian: "I bet someone steals my hubcaps while we eat."

Laura: "Do you hear that? A little dog barking? In that building. Wait... Oh my god! There are two dozen Chihuahuas in there! And they're going ballistic!"

The Chihuahuas were housed in a dark, blank building directly next to the Mexican restaurant.

Laura: "Is that a Chihuahua puppy mill?"

Ian: "The restaurant probably owns them and uses them for food."

Laura: "Eww. What's this place called?"

Ian: "El Parian."

Laura: "That must be Spanish for 'fried Chihuahua'."

We walked into the restaurant and gratefully ordered dinner.

Then the food came.

Laura: "I had no idea food could taste this bad."

Ian: "They have a buffet table for lunch. I bet they reheat the old buffet food for dinner."

Laura: "This stuff would make great diet food. Because nobody would ever eat it."

The restaurant's decor was, well, colorful.

Ian: "Don't ask why, but I feel the distinct need to take a photo of you right now."

Laura: "Toucan Sam and his sugary gang are staring me down. I feel funny inside."

We left the restaurant feeling queasy and more suspicious of the Chihuahuas next door.

But, we were on our way home! Home! We could put this awful car ride behind us!

One Hour Later 

Ian: "Does any of this look familiar?"

Laura: "Not really. But then, everything has looked the same on this trip. Sorta redneck meets Twister. I can't tell if it looks familiar or not."

Ian: "I think we're lost."

Laura: "How can we be lost? It's a straight shot down 72, and we've been going straight on 72."

Ian: "What road are we on?"

Laura: "Umm. Highway 13. Highway 13?"

Ian: "I must have missed a turn."

Laura: "How could you miss a turn? We're meant to go straight for a million miles. The only way we could be lost is if you had suddenly made a U-turn and driven in the opposite direction."

Ian: "That's true. We must be on the right path."

Two Hours Later 

We were not on the right path. We had been barreling forth in the wrong direction for hours.

We were deep into Deliverance country, following the sounds of banjos, the stench of hard liquor, and the screech of the weekly chicken fight.

Ian: "Oh my god, we're in Jasper. How the hell did we end up in Jasper? We drove hours out of our way! @#$%^&*()_++_)(*&^@#$%^&*()#$%^&*(@#$%^&*($%^&*()!@#$%^&!"

One Hour Later

Laura: "Hi, Dad. Remember how I said we'd be home by 6? And then I said we'd be home by 9? Umm, well, we should be home by 1:00 a.m. Hopefully."

Dad: "Are you lost?"

Laura: "Not anymore."

Dad: "Okay. Winnie can spend the night with Mom and me."

Laura: "Thanks."

Ian: "@#$%^&*()@#$%^&*()!@#$%^&*()."

One Hour Later

We drove into Memphis. We were met by unholy construction and a snare of cars and semis.

Ian: "@$#^%%*(&$#^%&(()&**&^#@$*@$#@$$$#@^%$."

Fifteen Minutes Later

We got lost in downtown Memphis.

Ian: "$#!@^$&*()*(^%$#&)&@%$#!%#@!%$#^%$#."

Ten Minutes Later

We arrived home.

And it was the best birthday ever.

Happy Birthday, Ian!

Baby Winnie

Having Winnie is like having a baby. She demands constant care and attention. I often feel like I gave birth to a three pound puppy back in the summer of 2010.

Last week, in Barnes and Noble, I flipped through a book about Maltese dogs:

Laura: "Ha! Listen to this: 'If you want a baby, adopt a Maltese. If you want a dog, look elsewhere.'"

Ian: "Dear God. Truer words were never written."

Winnie's Blankie:

Winnie has a blankie. It's cute, actually.

She likes to pile every toy she owns onto it and drag it in circles.  

Laura: "Today, Winnie loaded all her toys onto Blankie and pulled them into the kitchen."

Ian: "That's fairly organized for an animal."

Laura: "She's gifted!"

Ian: "Let's not go overboard."

Winnie's Toys:

Winnie has an absolute menagerie of toys. My mom buys tons of cheap crap at yard sales for Winnie to play with, mostly stuffed animals that squeak.

She fixates on certain toys, dragging them everywhere, often leaving them by the toilet. In the afternoons, she'll run in circles, jubilantly squeaking her favorite toy of the moment.

Ian: "That's actually pretty cute. It warms my cold heart."

Laura: "Aww. New Daddy loves Winnie!"

Ian: "New Daddy tolerates Winnie."

Winnie's Wardrobe:

My dog has a wardrobe.

There's something about a dog wearing clothes that screams, "I wanted a baby."

Baby-Sitting:

Winnie craves human attention.

Ian has finally accepted that having Winnie means rearranging schedules and changing plans in order to spend time with the dog.

When I used to drive out to Ian's house, Winnie would ride shotgun, joyfully hoisting herself up to window gaze.

In the evenings, we plan dog-friendly activities. Or rather, I plan dog-friendly activities.

Ian: "Where should we go eat?"

Laura: "Chik-fil-A! They have a drive-through! And outdoor tables! We can take Winnie!"

Ian: <Exasperated>

When we watch TV? This:

Ian, a cat person, feels irritated by Winnie's neediness.

Ian: "Cats can take care of themselves. If Harvey got loose, he'd survive. If Winnie got loose, she'd get hit by a car."

Laura: "That would be sad."

Ian. "Uh...yeah. That would be...sad."

Potty-Training.

Winnie potty-trained quickly. After a mere two weeks, she was rock-solid in the potty-training department. But that was in my apartment. She felt confused about doo doo decorum in unfamiliar places.

For at least a month, she took one dump per week in my parents' dining room. Likewise, she peed a few times on Ian's rug during her early visits.

She has since outgrown having accidents. Still, Winnie weighs eight pounds. Her bladder is the size of a peanut. She has to potty A LOT. Winnie wakes me nearly every night, urgent to take a 3:00 am crap.

Additionally, when Winnie sleeps too long during the weekdays, she often bounces around on the bed at night, bursting with pent-up energy.

Laura: "I don't know if I could handle the sleep deprivation caused by a real baby someday. It's hard enough with Winnie.”

Ian: "That's were you're wrong. Winnie's much worse than a baby. Winnie jumps on my head and digs into my back all night. When I wake up, I feel like what comes out of her rear end at 3:00 am. At least a baby would bring some emotional reward."

Last month, we went to Hollywood Feed to buy dog food.

Laura: "This is a special visit. Now that Winnie is a year old, I have to buy adult food. No more puppy chow. My baby is growing up."

Laura: <Feels weepy>

Ian: <Feels irritated>