I have always wanted to say that. Using that one little phrase confirms my baptism into veteran blogger-hood. Wow, that's kinda sad.
Anyhow, the blog has been silent because I have returned to Tennessee. No offense intended. Our internet (that I hook up to the Mac) has evaporated into thin air. My Dad's computer is the only internet source, but... alas! My pictures are not on it. Only my beloved Mac. So the story goes. But, hopefully I will be going to the local library tomorrow, and then perhaps I can update y'all with anything interesting. I suppose I'll have to go shoot a few first. :)
I had a strange sensation today (speaking of shooting)... there I was, peacefully eating a mug full of gross kefir and looking through the latest Pottery Barn catalog when the dogs (with wild yelping) and Lily (with a damsel-esque distressed countenance) came rushing in to announce the arrival of The Big Black Dog. The Big Black Dog is a rather illusive and sought after phantom at our house... he comes, he goes, we don't want him here, but he comes anyway.
Living on 50 something acres with about 35 of it not fenced, you get intruders. In this case, our friendly Mennonite neighbor's "scary" dog comes down the ridge to play with our very cute, very lovable, very adorable, very cuddly, and altogether stupid Pyrenees puppy. But alas, our (or should I emphasize AMBER'S) very ugly, very Gollum-esque Chinese Hairless Dog (no, you didn't read that hairless part wrong) DOES NOT LIKE the Big Black Dog. Sign of intelligence, I suppose. Just in case Amber reads this... my fondness of Buzz is growing. Blogs are just generally brutally honest, that's all. I'm conforming.
Personally, I don't have hard feelings against the Black Dog. He's not scary, in my opinion, and he doesn't eat our chickens. But the other female members of this house are convinced he is part Pit Bull, and therefore... The Big Black Dog Must Die.
New agenda: shoot the Dog with a BB gun whenever he dares to lurk about the shadows of our woods.
So, back to my gross kefir. I was sitting there pleasantly for a few moments before finishing up some work I had to do, when The Alarmists come rushing in. "Hannie!" the only one who can speak English (meaning Lily) cries, "It's da Big B'ack Dog!!!!!"
"Go, GO!" Mom and Amber cry. I run to the bookshelf near the piano and grab one of two loaded BB guns off the top, rush out the kitchen door ( followed by a menagerie of frantic people, frantic hairless dogs, and suave, humanlike cats). I set my sights on the perpetrator from the two-story porch railing. Narrowing in my gaze, rifle slung over shoulder. This is not a satisfying definition of "taking action" I guess, so I was rushed down the steps to finish him off.
There I go, running down the road, wearing skirt, flip flops, huge gypsy earrings (I'm talkin' BIG) and... a gun o'er 'er shoulder. Silently hoping that the two guys working on our porch have not noticed the California girl acting out of character, looking like Granny from the Beverly Hillbillies
There I go, thinking "Annie Oakley git yer gun" over and over in my head for some odd reason. Now, if you don't know me (and most likely, if you are reading this, you do), you don't know that this is totally out of character for me. Or anyone in my family.
In my home state, there are no scary dogs running loose, no loaded guns on the bookshelf, no vendetta to shoot anything that has the potential to have "a loving home", and you DO NOT let anyone know that you have a gun. It's a rather scandalous possession.
The word "Pit Bull" is not part of the Californian vernacular. If there is a Pit, a Pit mix, or anything that slightly resembles one, they must die. Right now. Oh, and shooting is inhumane. We euthanize. That's also a naughty word. Rather: put to sleep.
So anyway, you're probably wondering if I ever shot the thing.
After running about half way down our (very) long driveway, myself about 50 feet behind, the Dog and my White Fluffy Dunce make a sharp left over the ravine/ditch/empty creek, across the meadow, and up the hill.
The thought suddenly occurs to me, as I bring the weapon up to my shoulder, that my aim might waver and give my adorable white puppy a large welt on the backside. Not good.
Oh well, I didn't take that two day shooting class thingie for nuthin'.
Safety goes off. I cock the gun. Aim, shoot. Nothing happens. What's wrong with this thing? An examination commences. I look back toward the house to make sure no one see's me looking unsure of myself. All clear. Safety goes off, then on, then off, then on (just to make sure I guess... don't ask). I cock it. It's ready. Raise, position. Take aim. Breathe. Pull the trigger. Nothing happens.
It wasn't loaded.
Alas, my barefoot-tough chick-I've got this all under control- gun slinging reformer has a severe ego blow. I walk back to the house. Everyone wants to know if I shot it.
Was it loaded?
Of COURSE it was loaded!!! (not)
So, I went back to my gross kefir and my magazine (after replacing the BB gun onto the top of the Shabby Chic bookcase (filled with epithets of femininity and virtuous womanhood), and wonder if the neighbor will be chasing after my white fluffy puppy with a real gun once they reach the top of the hill.
As I speak, the Big Black Dog has graced us with his phantom presence once more. There is a big fuss on the back porch. And I am not chasing after it.
My Dad is.
For the Californians who might be concerned: permission was granted from the friendly neighbors mentioned above to enforce property lines with a fake gun. All animals used in the production were not harmed, just almost.