Carson's Long Strange Trip

True story: Carson was tripping balls this weekend.

Much as other people might treat a new car, KT and I have been adamant about bringing Carson in for all his "routine scheduled maintenance" since adopting him almost nine months ago. He's a member of a wellness plan (a more palatable way of saying "we make exorbitant monthly payments whether we use the vet or not, so we might as well go"), he is up to date on all his inoculations and he gets regular tick control medication. We've even adjusted his caloric intake after sufficient shaming about how his 92.5lbs is "four to five pounds more than it should be". In short, we've been what could be called "good pet owners". Audrey observed this weekend that Carson has been to the doctor more in nine months that she has been in the past nine years. I said we were good pet owners, not good parents.

We started out as responsible pet owners with Maggie, too. We were even good about bringing Uma in for visits when she first entered our lives. Maggie, however, would spiral into the most sadly pathetic victim that we stopped taking her after a few years because we couldn't handle the intense guilt trip she would lay on us every time. Uma, on the other hand, was/is just an asshole. Whenever brought her to the vet, she would immediately hiss, drop a turd on the scale during weigh in and repeatedly attempt to bite/scratch anyone who approached her. We stopped taking her altogether when the vet told us that maybe we should only bring her in if we thought something was wrong because "cats don't have a propensity for forgiveness".

With Carson, however, we have vowed to be good and responsible pet owners. That meant dropping him off at the vet early Saturday morning for a teeth-cleaning, ear cleaning and nail trim. The procedures meant that he would be put under general anesthesia and need to stay at the vet until afternoon. KT and I weren't excited about leaving him, but remembered our vow to be good pet owners and proceeded with the appointment.

The issues began the night before. We were given strict instructions that Carson was to have no food after 7:00pm Friday, which wasn't a problem that night as he normally eats his (calorie counted!) dinner around 6:00. It became a problem at 3:00, 3:15, 3:40, 4:05, 4:30, 4:55, 5:20 and 5:45 the next morning, however. When we adopted Carson, he came pre-wired with the insane notion that anytime after 3:00am is fair game to start insisting on breakfast. He lays in bed with us waiting for the slightest sign of movement. Should one of us cough, roll over or show any signs of life, Carson will jump up and start an intricate tap dance routine on the bed until I get up and feed him. Try as we might, we have been unable to break him of the habit. Most nights it is not a big deal as I can stumble out of bed, feed him and grab a few hours more sleep. As feeding him was not an option, however, KT and I were treated to several repeat performances of the "Feed Me" song and dance routine.

Groggy and more than a little crabby, I brought Carson in bright and early on Saturday. He loves going places, so had no problem running into the vet's office, jumping on the scale and happily greeting anyone within reach. I filled out the paperwork, handed over his leash and headed for the door. As I was about to exit, the veterinarian's assistant began frantically waving me down asking me to return. Apparently, Carson determined he wasn't so excited about this appointment after all. When the poor girl (who probably weighed 10 pounds more than Carson) tried to lead him into the back, he promptly sat down and refused to budge. It was a highly effective and almost inspirational moment of passive resistance. I watched with a guilty sense of bemusement as she pulled, pushed and pleaded with Carson to come with her to no avail. Carson pulls this trick often, putting the brakes on when asked to go a direction he isn't interested in going. We once spent nearly 30 minutes in a stand -off when, in the middle of a walk, Carson determined we had gone far enough and was ready to head home. Problem was, we were walking in a new area and he had become completely confused over which direction home was. So there we sat, me pulling, begging, reasoning and chastising him to go the direction I wanted him to go (towards home) and Carson determined to go the exact opposite way. I was relieved the scene we caused didn't draw a call to the police as I dragged him nearly a block and a half (imagine driving a car with the emergency brake on) before he gave in. Anyways, back to Saturday - I watched for a few seconds before tricking Carson into thinking I would indeed be going into the back with him and leading him back there. I felt guilty about the deception, but didn't see a choice.

I got the call that he was ready to return home at 1:30. I quickly drove down to get him, planning a nice, long walk and ball-playing session for the afternoon to reward Carson for making it through to the other side. The vet greeted me when I arrived and warned that Carson was probably still a "little groggy" and should be taken home for a nap before going on a walk or playing ball. No problem, I was eager for a nap myself after the four hour tap dance performance of the night before. I signed the paperwork and the vet went back to grab my puppy. As soon as Carson came out from the back, I could tell he was completely, thoroughly stoned. He bumped into a door and then barreled right past me, completely oblivious to my (or anybody's) presence. I quickly caught up to him and knelt down to say hello. His barely opened eyes looked right through me, not only not recognizing me but I'm quite certain not even seeing me. I grabbed his leash, said our goodbyes and started out the door. Holiday shopping had the parking lot packed, so we had quite a walk to get to the car. Carson began the trek by completely spacing out that we needed to take a step down off the sidewalk curb to reach the parking lot. Instead, he barreled straight forward and gravity did the rest, toppling him over in front of confused but somewhat entertained holiday shoppers. I quickly bent down and helped him to his feet (no easy task). We gathered ourselves and continued the arduous journey, stopping frequently so Carson could gather his thoughts while people, cars and shopping carts whizzed by completely blowing his drug addled mind. Finally, we reached the car, whereupon I heaved his mostly shapeless mass into the backseat and he promptly fell asleep.

I took him home immediately, where I was forced to wake him, guide/carry him into the house and onto the couch where he immediately fell back asleep. We sat there for the next eight hours, with Carson alternating between a sleep so deep I often checked to make sure he was breathing and an episode every twenty minutes or so where he would bolt upright as if shocked back to life by CPR paddles. He would glance around with a "where in the hell am I and how in the hell did I get here?" look as I gently brought him back to a prone position with gentle petting and he would pass out again. Like a spirit guide leading someone through a bad acid trip, I slowly brought him back to reality. By the time KT got home from work early that evening, he was cognizant enough to wag his tail a few times before the exertion necessitated another four hour nap.

We were actually relieved when the 3:00am breakfast dance routine began Sunday morning. Carson had successfully made it to the other side and was himself again. We celebrated by giving him an extra 15 nuggets of dog food. Please don't tell his vet.

KT Does NOT Tolerate Gum

True story: KT got mad last night (and she still is).

KT doesn’t get mad, like really, actually mad, very often so this is noteworthy. KT was in the kitchen hustling about while Audrey and I were in the other room on the laptop and reading, respectively. Without warning, a bellowing “DAMMIT!” thundered from the kitchen. I was only slightly concerned, as I have become accustomed to the “DAMMIT!”. The “DAMMIT!” happens several times daily, usually following one of the several times each day KT spills her coffee/water/beer/wine (in chronological order). This “DAMMIT!” sounded a little more terse than normal, but I determined I would read my way through it. Audrey had her headphones on so remained unaware of the disturbance.

I had just found my place in my book again when a “MOTHER F***ER!” roared from the kitchen. Now this was more serious. KT isn’t shy about using the “F-word” but there was an edge in her voice that isn’t there often. I needed to investigate. I set my book down and started towards the kitchen. I had not quite gotten there when KT screamed “WHO THE F*** CHEWS GUM?”. Oh no. Oh, please God, no. Not gum. KT will pick up the most disgusting, unrecognizable discharges from our cat - regardless of which end they came out of - sometimes with her bare hands. But not gum. Gum KT will not tolerate. I quickly turned around, hoping she hadn’t seen me approaching. No luck. “PAUL! THERE IS GUM IN THE RUG!!! WHO THE F*** CHEWS GUM?!?!” KT was well aware the answer to this question wasn’t her, me, Carson or the cat. That left Audrey. I tried to protect my youngest, offering “I may have accidentally knocked it out of the garbage can when I was throwing the coffee grounds away. I thought I saw something fall, but I looked around and didn’t see anything.” KT wasn’t buying it. “NO! I taught our kids when they were three years old that you DO NOT throw gum away without wrapping it in a tissue!!”. She stormed into the other room. Audrey was beyond helping now. “AUDREY!! DO YOU CHEW GUM?!?!” Audrey removed her headphones and KT repeated the question/accusation. Audrey, knowing things were not going to end well no matter how she answered, dug in and softly said “sometimes”. KT then filled her in on the crime - “THERE IS GUM IN THE MOTHER F***ING RUG!!!” I, meanwhile, was cowering in the doorway. The only thing scarier than KT mad is KT and Audrey both mad and fighting. I silently begged Audrey to de-escalate the situation, offer a meek apology and go attempt to remove the gum from the mother f***ing rug. No luck. Audrey thought a moment before coolly replying “It wasn’t me.”

Shit. Now it was on. The only thing KT hates worse than gum in the mother f***ing rug is gum in the mother f***ing rug when nobody will take responsibility. After a five minute tirade, which I won’t repeat because I’ve used enough capital letters and it would probably get me banned from Facebook, KT threw her arms in the air let out a final “DAMMIT!!!” and went to tackle the problem. I watched silently from the kitchen stool, knowing from experience to neither offer to help or to try to calm her down. She grabbed an anonymous spray bottle from under the sink and violently soaked the heavily embedded gum. Then she took a spoonful of coconut oil and spread it over the offending party before covering it with a napkin. Thirty seconds later she said “DAMMIT!” and removed the napkin. She then took a large scoop of peanut butter, spread it over the gum and called “Carson!”. Carson came over, gingerly licked the peanut butter up and turned his nose up at the gum before walking away. KT said “MOTHER F***ER! I GIVE UP!!!” and stormed out of the room.

That’s where we left it. To her credit, KT didn’t (and never does) let it ruin her evening. She was able to be her normal, friendly cursing self. But the gum is still there, lurking, waiting for round two. There will not be true peace in our home until the gum situation is solved. On the surface, it may seem like she has moved on but 25 years of experience assures me that she does not move on from unresolved gum issues. The best course of action, (dearest Audrey if you are reading this) is to go to Menards and shell out $7.95 for a new one. You needn’t admit guilt - or even say anything - but the gum situation must be resolved. This may seem wasteful and an unnecessary expense, but is far cheaper than therapy. Because, Kate does not tolerate gum.

Carson and Camping

Subject is not as innocent as he seems

True story:  I learned last week that Carson is full of shit.

In the three months that we have had Carson, we've learned that he is exceptionally large and equally as clumsy.  He has refused to go either up or down the stairs in our house, content with just hanging out on the main level of our house.  We've always attributed his reluctance to clumsiness.  Even going up the four stairs to our door from outside, Carson requires backing up a few steps, getting a head of steam and more or less just lunging himself at the stairs and hoping his giant paws find solid ground underneath him.  Things like stairs - or heaven forbid jumping - are definitely not in his arsenal.

Which brings us to last week.  I had some vacation time to burn and KT did not so I decided to take the dog, a stack of books and enough whiskey to fill a small swimming pool and head to the woods for a week.  It was a beautiful vacation of no deadlines and no responsibilities.  I had even constructed a small perimeter fence outside of the camper and deck so that Carson would have a little bit of freedom to wander and use the facilities.  The fence was only a few feet high (see photo), but more than enough to keep the clumsy oaf contained.  The campground was virtually empty and tucked backed into a remote corner as we were, we saw nor heard anyone else.

By Tuesday, I had decided that there really wasn't a point in wearing my hearing aids.  I wasn't talking to anyone, nobody was talking to me and Carson and I learned to communicate non-verbally.  It was also quite warm and so I let my normal self body-shaming slide and was laying reading with a pair of shorts on and nothing more.  I was as content as could be and Carson, although maybe a bit bored, seemed happy laying on the outdoor couch next to me and snoozing the afternoon away.

At some point in the afternoon, Carson lifted his head abruptly and cocked his ears, listening intently.  I heard nothing of course, as my earhorns weren't in but wasn't alarmed as Carson had taken quite an interest in the chipmunks and red squirrels scurrying around.  I glanced at him briefly and went back to my book.  A few seconds later he rose and headed towards the temporary barrier I had erected.  Still not alarmed - this was Carson, after all, who once couldn't make it from one room to another as there was a four-inch tall box blocking his way - I continued to read.  After a bit, I noticed his tail started whipping in counter-clockwise circles at about 400 RPMs.  I couldn't see what he was looking at, as his line of vision was around the corner, but I decided to investigate.  As I approached where he was standing, Carson decided that what he had spied was far too exciting to risk my ruining it.  He put one foot up on the fence and without the slightest hesitation, hurdled the fence with all the grace and agility of an equestrian horse.  Upon landing, he tore off down the small gravel road that led to our site.

I quickly (relative use of the word quickly here as I had been stagnant for several hours and had some whiskey in me) followed him, tripping over the fence he so adroitly scaled just moments before.  Regaining my balance, I turned the corner to see where he had run off to and came face to face with one of my biggest fears.  About 150 yards down the path sat Carson right in the middle of two moms and four or five early teen girls soaking up their love and adoration and endless petting.

I quickly yelled apologies for his intrusion and demanded Carson return at once but there was not a chance in hell he was interested in returning to the soul-crushing boringness I was offering when this all-inclusive fawning was an option.  So, barefoot, shirtless and deaf I started hobbling down the path to retrieve him.  I don't go barefoot often as I have sensitive skin on the bottom of my feet (pussyfoot as KT calls me) so I didn't so much as run to Carson but awkwardly hobble towards him, cussing silently (or maybe not silently, my hearing aids weren't in) each time a rock dug into my precious feet.  After about 45 seconds I finally reached the congregation and got a hold of his collar.  I apologized over and over, realizing that if I stopped talking I would need to explain that I didn't have my ears in and thus couldn't easily respond to anything the by now head-over-heels in love (with the dog, not me, but I probably don't need to elaborate that) group of ladies said.  So, I grabbed him and headed back towards our base.  Carson, as he tends to do when being asked to go somewhere he doesn't want to go, put on the brakes, steadfastly refusing to move.  I offered promises of his ball, bananas and cauliflower, but none were enough to entice him.  Instead, it was 95 pounds of passive resistance flopped down in the middle of a group of females who by this time must have been incredibly confused by the barely clothed man who kept talking and not responding to them.  After what seemed like an eternity, I was finally able to scoop up the shapeless mass and with promises of dinner, drag him back within our confines, where I quickly began constructing a more impenetrable line of defense.  It was only after I had been back for a few minutes when I realized that on top of my other embarrassments, my fly had been down the entire time.

The girls didn't stay at the campground long - only about thirty minutes - but I can only hope their encounter wasn't what kept them away.  We spent the remainder of the week without incident, thankfully, but I will never again believe the sad eyes Carson deals out when we invite him to join us downstairs.

Outfit of the Day

True story:  I'm not the most fashion conscious person.  In fact, the opposite (fashion unconscious?) would be a more apt description.  Apart from underwear and socks and one clearance priced University of Minnesota sweatshirt, I haven't purchased "new" clothing in about three years.  Instead, I rely on thrift stores to keep me clad.  And by thrift stores, I don't mean fancy ones whose names contain words like "Chic" "Retro" or "Name Brand".  Instead, I browse the Dirty Heights stores where it is recommended you thoroughly wash your hands several times after visiting.  Anyways, all of this is just an obnoxiously wordy way of saying I may occasionally be susceptible to ridicule for my chosen outfit of the day.

Never one to pass up a chance to ridicule me, KT has turned it into a science (as I've noticed, and she agrees, she is definitely funniest when she is mean).  The following - in non-chronological order - is a very incomplete list of her replies when I ask her if my outfit is suitable to be seen in public:

 - "You look like a picnic blanket"
 - "You do know people can see you, right?"
 - "Playing tennis at the country club today, are we?"
 - (KT) "What do you have going on today?" (me) "Nothing special, just a normal work day" (KT, with a snort while shaking her head) "Just go"
 - "What exactly is the look you are going for?"
 - "Hard to believe that came from the thrift store"
 - "Is that a costume?"
 - "What up P Diddy?"
 - (in falsetto voice) "Sweater Boyyyyy!" (this is applicable anytime I wear a sweater)
 - "What can brown do for you?"
 - "What color do you think that is?"

and, my personal favorite:

 - "It looks like you are attempting to create Garanimals for adults."

The Perm

True story: When I was in sixth grade, I was tricked into getting a perm.

I've always had what can most kindly be described as "fine" hair. It can't really be called thin hair as that conjures images of receding or non-existent hair. I have hair, it just is so fine that it is almost translucent. The "fineness" of my hair is only exacerbated when it is longer. In fact, my barber once remarked that I am the only person he has ever known whose hair actually looks fuller when I have a crew cut than when it is longer. Consequently, I have worn my hair short for the vast majority of my life.

In sixth grade, however, nobody had short hair. The unwritten - yet extremely rigid - handbook at Valley Middle School required that hair be grown out. This posed a challenge for me, but a few barbs from friends about the strange consistency of my hair was easier than being the only person with a crew cut. Then, for motives I assumed pure at the time, my mom started hinting that I should consider a perm. I brushed off the suggestion as absurd. Only girls got perms! No, my mom insisted, guys were getting perms all the time. It was all the rage! I could be a trendsetter! I still wasn't sold. Gradually, the perm pressure increased. "Look! That guy has a perm!" became the nightly game while watching television. Over the course of what I now imagine to be months, but in reality was probably just a week or even a couple of days, my resolve weakened. Maybe a perm was exactly what I needed to become hot shit in sixth grade. I finally grudgingly agreed to consider it.

"Consider it" is all the permission my mom needed. Within a day, my Uncle Jerry, who just happened to be training to become a barber/hairstylist, showed up with all the necessary equipment. My feeble sixth grade mind never put two and two together. It was, strangely enough, Marisa Tomei who opened my eyes 10 years later. In the epic 1993 film "Untamed Heart", Marisa plays a character training to become a hairstylist. As a part of her training, she needs to find a "victim" whom she can give a perm to. My jaw dropped on seeing this. My own mother threw me under the bus to find my Uncle Jerry his perm guinea pig.

I can't clearly remember the full details of the actual perming of my hair, but I do vividly recall the smell giving me an immense headache and my brother offering a relentless slew of insults and slanders while I was captive in a chair, forbidden from moving and unleashing my fury on him. I'll let one of the very few surviving pictures of "The Great Perm Tragedy of 1983" tell the story of how it actually looked, but even as a sixth grader I knew immediately I had made a horrible mistake. I approached the next day at school with an overwhelming sense of dread, sure I was going to receive my righteous pummeling from an eighth grader. In my very first class of the day, however, I caught a glimmer of hope. The prettiest, most popular girl who I and every other sixth grader was head over heels in love with, noticed me and for the first time ever approached to speak with me. Yes! Mom was right! A perm is where it's at! My enthusiasm was fleeting, however, as the girl simply giggled, said "You like a girl!" and then called several of her pretty friends over to confirm that I did indeed resemble a female. I was mortified and demanded that the perm be reversed. The problem with perms, however, is that they are intended to be, well, permanent. I was left with no choice but to either shave my head or wait it out. So wait it out I did, while making the vow (kept to this day) that my hair would never see curls again.

Mmm...Bacon

True story, again wardrobe ignorance related: One morning a couple of summers ago, KT and I went to the downtown farmers market to nose around and see if anything inspired us. We were in the market for a few vegetables, herbs, etc., but were also looking for some bacon for a particular meal we had in mind. We went to each booth that was selling meat asking if they had any bacon. Each time we were met with a reaction ranging from barely controlled giggling to out right guffawing. Puzzled, we left for home minus the bacon. Only a few hours later did we realize that I was clad in my favorite t-shirt (pictured below), which explained why we were such a source of amusement.

My Run In With the Law

True story - 23 years ago I had my first and only run in with the law.  I was in college in St. Peter at the time and was doing about the only thing there was to do in St. Peter - drinking beer.  KT and I had just started dating at the time and, along with other friends, decided to go to a party.  The party was your typical early 90's party which involved a $3.00 keg cup, loud music and bad decisions.  This particular party was held in an apartment situated above one of the businesses lining the main drag in St. Peter.  You reached the apartment by climbing a long, dimly lit stairway from the back alley.

As was (and I'm sure still is) the case, word of the party spread quickly on our small college campus and by the time we arrived, the place was packed.  We forked over our requisite admission cost, grabbed our keg cup and got in the never-ending line for the keg.  By the time we neared the keg, we were parched and exploring other drinking options for the evening as it was evident getting a cup full of beer was going to be difficult amongst the throngs of college students in their never ending search for a buzz.  When we finally were able to gain possession of the precious tap, we noticed a commotion at the far end of the apartment near the entrance.  Word soon filtered back that the police had arrived and the party was going to be shut down.  I had experienced legal interruptions to parties before and knew the best possible reaction was to slam as many beers down my throat as possible before the precious keg was confiscated.  So, for the next several minutes, I furiously put down beer after beer, determined to receive my $3.00 worth.

After about 20 minutes, word circulated to our now tightly formed keg circle that this was no ordinary police bust.  Instead of simply taking the keg and telling us all to go home, St. Peter's finest were using this party as a fundraiser.  They were checking identification of each party goer and issuing breathalyzers and citations to those consumers who happened not to be of legal drinking age.  Shit.  Our plans quickly changed.  One of the more adventurous of our gang thought the only reasonable solution would be to rush down the stairs in a mass exodus into the night, allowing the police to grab only a few in their trap while the rest of us would go free.  In my now tipsy state, I was on board.  We moved en masse to the stairway, summoning up our courage and quickly failing dexterity.  Once we arrived at the top of the stairs and looked down, our plan quickly fell apart.  There were no fewer than 20 uniformed officers awaiting us at the bottom of the stairs.  Full of liquid courage as I was, I still had the capacity to realize that this wasn't going to work and I retreated to the back of the apartment to reconsider.

One of my fellow party-goers then mentioned that his brother (or friend, cousin, whomever) swore that he once evaded an underage consumption by furiously sucking on a penny.  Apparently, the copper in the penny neutralized all signs of alcohol and you could pass the breathalyzer with ease simply by sticking a dirty grimy penny in your mouth and going to town on it.  Brilliant!  We all quickly grabbed any pennies we could find and started sucking away.  I can only imagine the sight of the ten or so of us, mouths full of pennies and devilish grins on our face knowing we had outsmarted the law.  Gradually, the party thinned and we were faced with the inevitable - it was our turn to head down the stairs.  One of our party, my friend Nick, chose a different route.  He spied a section in the ceiling he could conceivably crawl into and avoid detection.  He split from us, used a chair as leverage and disappeared into the ceiling where he promptly took a nap.  The rest of us spit out our pennies and got in line for the breathalyzers.

As I watched the first four of my fellow penny suckers fail their "test" miserably, I became concerned that our ingenious solution may not be so ingenious after all.  Time for Plan C.  My brother, attending college 70 miles away, was 21.  As I didn't have any form of identification on me, I could simply say that I was him.  I knew his full name, date of birth and address.  Keep in mind this was before the internet, so quickly verifying with a photo was much more difficult.  I recited his pertinent information over and over again in my head as I waited for my turn to blow into the breathalyzer.  When my turn finally came, I was shaking nervously, but still convinced I would be able to beat this.  The cop asked for my name, to which I immediately responded, "Paul Kruse."  Shit again.  I totally choked.  Now, I had to determine whether to try to say I had erred in giving my name and come up with an elaborate hoax as to how I could have possibly forgotten my own name or just accept my fate.  I chose the latter.

My $3.00 keg cup that evening ended up costing my $173.00 after paying my underage consumption fine.  My buddy Nick, on the other hand, calmly slept for three or four hours before emerging from the ceiling.  He gave a quick nod to the shocked and by now depressed party hosts (they were in much bigger trouble than a simple underage consumption), and walked home.  The total ticket tally for the fine governmental offices of St. Peter was well over 100.  To this day, rumors persist that there is a plaque in our honor in a new city park built with the funds from this party.