Poopsie: The Happy Ending

Well, Poopsie's "mother" turned out to be a man named Rick who lives nearby and was at his daughter's volleyball tournament all weekend.  The little dog actually belongs to Rick's college-aged son, who is away at school and blissfully unaware of any of his beloved Poopsie's misadventures this weekend.  I figured all of this out by taking Poopsie to a local vet, where they effortlessly scanned him for a microchip and made a few short phone calls.  So much for making flyers, taking to the streets, or dealing with the pound!

So, yay.  He was reunited with his grateful owner(s).

But not before he made himself at home in my house.  I had to let him inside for a few minutes before his peeps came to claim him; apparently Poopsie has "mad ups" and can jump over our fence somehow--I discovered this by answering a gentle rapping at the garage entry door, and there he was, despite my having secured all backyard exits!  ("Tis the wind, and nothing more!"  -Poopsie)

" 'Sup?"

Oh, and Poopsie's real name is Sly.  Like a fox.

Somehow, I doubt this is the last we'll see of Sly.

Poopsie

Last night, Joe and I went for a walk for our date night.  We found a dog.  He was trying to commit suicide 'neath the fast-moving tires on a busy thoroughfare.

None of the other good samaritans involved in talking him off the proverbial ledge would bring him home for the night.  "My dog would eat him!" was one lady's excuse reason.  So we're stuck with him for the moment while we plaster our entire community (including the virtual community, via Craigslist, and local Facebook/Twitter Found Pets pages) with FOUND DOG posters.

We're tentatively calling him Poopsie.  The name came from Joe's spot-on prediction that he would thank us for rescuing him by pooping in our garage.

Also, he's a Poopsie because he's clearly somebody's Little Poopsie of a dog.

Incredibly well-groomed and clean (at least, until he rolled in something in our backyard).  Strawberry blonde fur that is glossy like a fox's.  Pert, pointed little fox ears.  Collar but no ID tag.  Curly little tail that hangs ever just so.  And the sky-high, largely unfulfilled expectations of sitting in my seat, sleeping in my house, and/or finding a dog treat in my hand at any given time.

And did I mention that Elise is obsessed with him?  He's been on so many walks today (well, I guess she alternated between carrying him and pulling him in the wagon, so it doesn't really count as a walk) he must be exhausted, dahlings.

I hate to bring him to the local, high-kill animal shelter, so hopefully his owner will respond to the queries soon.

Poopsie, where is your mother?

Gypsy That I Was

I bought Zach a new toy from the children's secondhand store.  It's something I always stuck my nose up about, swore I would never buy, and I made it all the way through three kids' infancies before breaking down and getting one.

"I entertain myself!"

The beauty of the exersaucer (or whatever the heck it's called) can't be denied, though.  Due to its orbiting "sidecar" configuration, this gigantic baby-holder contraption allows him to amuse himself for a few full minutes by satisfying his wanderlust and containing him.  No, I'm not getting paid to plug this thing.  It's just cool.

In other news, James and Elise got awards at school this week; James for social studies and Elise for math.  Will didn't get an award this time and was totally happy for his siblings anyway less than thrilled.

However, that awards ceremony was right after the Y-Guides Olympics, in which Will won three medals, Elise got one, and James got none.  James was making the same face as Will stood atop the podium, decorated with all the bling and glory a gold medal in the 3rd grade boys' hula hoop competition can bring.

Ah, it's hard being an almost-Irish twin.

Hashtaggery

It's come to my attention that, when you type certain words with high frequency, Blogger automatically adorns your post with custom hashtags of those high-frequency words.  It's probably an algorithm that somebody at Google thought up.

Ordinarily this wouldn't be a problem.  "Cool," I'd think.  "They're making my life easier for me, over at Google."  But my last post (entitled "Science Fair: You Are Entering...") *may* have contained the word "diarrhea" a few too many times for comfort, discretion, or general good-taste, because I just saw the following adornment that I did not (I repeat, DID NOT) personally add to my Google plus post:

#diarrhea

Once I noticed this ill-advised "auto-hashtag," I laughed until I cried.  The end.

Also, on a hopefully unrelated note, P.S., if your name is Sarah V., I am totally on the frickin' edge of my seat to hear what you are thinking of naming your upcoming BABY BOY!  I am also excited to hear what the Hemsworth-Pataky family is naming their sons, but WAY more excited for Sarah.  Yay!

Science Fair: You are entering a world of feces

The kids are doing science fair projects this year!  Exhausting, but yay!

Adding to the exhaustion: Zach has had an absolutely ridiculous odyssey of diarrhea lately.  Diarrhea in the middle of the night, several times a night.  Never-ending diarrhea.  No-sleep diarrhea.  I've taken him to the doctor FOUR TIMES in the past month--twice to the regular pediatrician, twice to urgent care.  All they did was give me an Rx for butt cream (poor, chapped little butt!) and mumble something about trying to change his formula (stool sample for rotavirus and/or other nasty infections was negative).

It finally ended on Sunday; I've never been so glad to see a diaper full of normal feces in my life, save for when James did his first BM ever.

Would it be horrible if I let one of them look at slides of Zach's poop under a microscope and draw what they saw (if anything)?  I don't think it's a powerful enough microscope to see anything quiiiite as tiny as anything that would cause such havoc.  If I'm wrong, the headline will read, "Local Kids Find Giant Virus in Baby Brother's Stool; Mother Held For Questioning."

Don't worry.  We'd wear gloves and throw away the slides once we were done.  And the junior microscope, and we would probably have to powerwash our kitchen with bleach.

Do they sell hazmat suits at Costco?

Nameberry: Dr. Seuss Names

March 2nd is Dr. Seuss' birthday, but I’ll never forget the day I heard Ted Geisel had died; I was eight.  Mom was crying a little, and I asked her what was wrong.  She said that she’d never written Dr. Seuss thank him for teaching her children to read.  In fact, in my early childhood we pored over Dr. Seuss’s ABC so many times I can still picture which page was torn (the one with the Zizzer Zazzer Zuzz).  As an adult I’ve wanted to thank Dr. Seuss, too, for the wonderful, untold hours I’ve spent reading his books with my own kids.

Everyday Seuss-isms: I’ve angrily called our elder two sons “Thing 1” and “Thing 2” when they’ve Sharpied the carpet.  And as kids, we siblings Laura and Max were often collectively referred to by our dad as “The Lorax.”  The perfect Seuss sibset, we were!

Anyway, I wrote a Nameberry (Berry Juice) post about Dr. Seuss names in celebration of his birthday.  Here's the link:

http://nameberry.com/blog/dr-seuss-baby-names-the-complete-guide-from-bartholomew-to-ziggy#more-31779