Lola's Fable

My mom, Julia and I were leaving Target when the headache started. We got into the car and I opened the center console, where I had seen a bottle of Tylenol. I absentmindedly shook out four Tylenol and swallowed them down.

About halfway home, I started getting strangely sleepy. By the time we got to our exit, I said to my mom-
"Wow. I am really, really sleepy. All of a sudden." By the time we pulled into the driveway, I said "My God, I can barely hold my eyes open."

And my mom said "ZOMG." Actually, she didn't say ZOMG, but her face did. What she said was "Oh, shit. I don't think that was Tylenol. I think that fell out of my purse."

And I said "What do you mean, it's not Tylenol? What is it?". But what I actually said was "Whasssuvvvv Tlenol whasssssvvu iiii?", because my head was full of cotton and my mouth full of marbles.

She looked me square in the face. I saw three of her, so the look was triply alarming.

"It's Lola's Xanax."

At this point, I have to tell you that Lola is my mom's friend's Yorkshire Terrier.

I said, "What the fuck?" I feel confident that I was able to get that out in an understandable fashion. I don't want to go into the details of why my mom had dog Xanax ("It's just regular Xanax, it was just prescribed for the dog!") in a Tylenol bottle, or how it got in the console of my car, or why I need to take 4 Tylenol. It was not until later, much later, that I even thought about these things. At that moment, all my brain was saying was "zummmmmmm...burrrrrrriiiTOS!".

My mom hustled me into bed and left with Julia so I could sleep it off. I'd like to say that's what I did for the next four hours. At least, that's all I remember doing. Apparently, I also filled out and printed the award certificates for our Brownie Troop (I am sorry, Mrs. McAllister, but Brittney really was 'Troop Bitch'), ate a bag of Doritos, and someone put chocolate pudding in the toilet. That may or may not have been me. The husband called to check on me at some point. I answered the phone, said "Hold on a minute.", and then never came back to the phone.

It was the best buzz of my life, and I don't even remember it.

The lesson, of course, is to keep pills in their original container, look at them before you take them, take the prescribed amount. Or, at the very least, don't have big plans for the day.

Jackass

jack·ass noun \ˈjak-ˌas

1: donkey; especially : a male donkey
2: a stupid person : fool
3: a dog who behaves in such a manner that you frequently look at her with a scowl and mutter under your breath, "Jackass."

Meet Roxy.



Roxy is 11 years old. Sean found her on the side of the road when she was a puppy, abandoned and forlorn. After a search for her rightful owners, we decided to take her into our home and make her ours.

She soon revealed herself to be the canine equivalent of a problem child. Unlike our pug, Kato, Roxy was smart. Sneaky smart. She'd ignore you unless it suit her. She refused to do any tricks. She ate...everything. She ate a hole in the vinyl flooring. She ate an inflatable swimming pool. She ate a load of dish towels and baby socks and had emergency surgery and came close to death. Over the years, she has eaten CDs, foil pans, countless toys, newspapers, rolls of toilet paper, the bottom 12" off the living room curtains, and much more.

She barks at intruders, real and imagined. She barks at us if we're outside. She barks at the TV. She howls at the answering machine. We tried the shock collar (too cruel), we tried the citronella collar (briefly effective), we tried being stern with her (not at all effective, and it led to Julia thinking the dog's full name was 'Roxy Shutup').

Put a baby to sleep, Roxy will wake it up.
Lay anything down, Roxy will eat it.
And maybe barf it out. Most likely on the carpet you just cleaned.
Feed her a treat, Roxy shits it out in a frothy mess. Most like on the carpet you just cleaned the barf off of.

It is her way.

She instinctively knows when the door to the bathroom is open and makes her way to the trashcan. I am sure Kato taught her this trick before he died. One time, a coworker was at our apartment and used the bathroom. A few minutes later, Kato trotted out with her tampon in his mouth. If that wasn't awkward enough, the was an eternity of seconds where we both just stood there, trying to figure out which one of us should go after it. Her tampon, my dog...in the end, ownership of personal hygiene products trumped ownership of a dog. Thank God.

But...but, but, but. But Roxy is my dog. MY dog. The kids like to think she's their dog, but she's not. She follows me around, she sleeps next to my side of the bed. Any time I bend down, she is right there, looking up at me pitifully, asking for a tummy rub. She comes when I call, she gives me kisses when I scold her. She would lay down her life for any one of us.

And so, as I push her down off the baby's highchair while he's eating dinner and mutter "jackass!", she looks at me with her smiling old doggy eyes that say "Yes. But you love me."