Tagged: Pseudonymous Household

Growling Coyote

Coyote Fugly: Part 1 – Your Friendly Neighborhood Predator

I was already mourning the morning walk.

Before we’d even traveled a block my dog had decided to lead the caravan, walking directly in front of the jogging stroller, her hindquarters mere inches from the front wheel. I don’t know why she insists upon this walking arrangement–maybe she likes to think she’s in charge–but(t) it never “ends” well for her, typically culminating in me literally running her ass over. It begins when she looks back at the stroller and decides she is terrified of it, so terrified that she freezes in place, causing the usually-taut leash to slack and wrap around the stroller’s back axle, putting us at a dead stop just after the tire bumps her square on the cheeks. I do my best to stop before the butt-bump, but she forces me to tailgate her at an unsafe following distance.

Falkor from The Neverending Story

It would be a lot easier (and fun) if my dog could fly.

On this particular day, she had jumped to deer-in-headlights mode so abruptly and forcibly that it had pulled her harness clean off. (We attach the leash to her harness and not her collar because after years of scientific research, we have determined she would rather be choked to death than respond to leash tugs.) And because my dog just barely qualifies as obedient, I knew I had to act quickly on this leashless freedom unless I wanted to choose between:

1) chasing her around the neighborhood, loudly cussing her out while she thinks its a game, waking the Twins from their stroller catnaps and yielding a sterophonic meltdown; or

2) tritely employing the if-you-love-her-set-her-free-and-if-she-never-returns-she-was-never-yours axiom, which would most likely mean never seeing my beloved canine again, as she would surely make a grand exit from this life in Harry Houdini fashion while performing her famous freezing-in-front-of-an-oncoming vehicle trick.

It was in that moment that I remembered I am a ninja, as my keen, subconscious reflexes sprang into action, one-handedly snagging her by the tail, keeping the other hand firmly planted on the stroller.

She turned her head towards me, dumbly panting with glee, as if to say. “That was fun, Dad!”

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Baby Einstein Count and Compose Piano

Satisfaction (or Lack Thereof)

Not a whole lot has gone right in the Pseudonymous Household this week. In fact, the most prominent scientists in the field have estimated the past few days to have kicked my hindquarters more forcibly than a ninja grizzly bear/man hybrid shuts a vehicular door.

Baby Einstein Count and Compose Piano

Fair Warning: This post contains a grown man playing a toy piano.

Be not afraid, O Loyal Reader. Nothing serious has transpired–it just seems a devious conglomerate of small, annoying occurrences has established an Axis of Evil bent on thwarting our usually positive outlook. Everyone has bad weeks now and then, and apparently our number has been called at the Deli of Life, serving us an open can of Whoop-Ass (an alleged derivative of Spam) instead of the grocery-store-club-card-discounted honey-roasted turkey we asked for. Don’t you just hate that?

Such a week would usually be excellent fodder for this fine publication, but it’s been so hectic that I don’t even have the time to sufficiently thrill you with a proper Twincident.

However, I do have the time to play you a thematically-relevant song on a baby toy.

Here, in Twinfamy’s first-ever musical performance, is Yours Truly rocking the seminal opening riff of The Rolling Stones’ “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction”…on a Baby Einstein Count and Compose Piano.

Forgive me for not working out the whole song. I only have five notes in my arsenal with this particular instrument.

. . .

Fortunately, the week is almost over. I have no doubt that the smoke will soon clear, and the elusive Satisfaction will be re-gotten. In the meantime, the Twinfants and I will be here in the playroom, dancing our cares away, just like they used to do down at Fraggle Rock.

Join us?

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You may also enjoy:

The Butthead Butterfly Effect   Born to Rock   Eating the System

If not, perhaps you should take our dancing-away-of-cares invitation more seriously.