Month: August 2010

This story first appeared in the August 12, 2010, issue of The Trussville Tribune…

I love my dogs. I really do. I love their sweet little Chihuahua faces and funny ears. I love how they cuddle under a blanket at my feet on a cold evening. I love the enthusiastic greeting I receive whenever I return home, whether I’ve been gone for minutes or days. And I love the way they can be bribed to sit, stay or come with the simple offer of a cheese treat. If only husbands, bosses, and waiters in Mexican restaurants who don’t keep tea glasses full and forget to bring extra salsa were so easy to control.

But we have a bit of a situation here: The inmates have taken over the asylum. It’s no longer a case of Jimmie and me letting Shug and Dobbie live in our house. They’re letting us live in theirs. They’re also letting us sleep in their bed, sit in their recliner, mop their floors and mow their lawn, i.e., bathroom. In return, we finance their food, shelter and medical care. What’s wrong with this picture?

The ungrateful mongrels have not only assumed ownership of the house, they’ve also learned to manage the live-in human help without uttering a word. An intent stare broken by intermittent glances toward the door means, “You’d better let me out right now, or you’ll be mopping that floor again.” An upright stance achieved by propping front paws on the couch and a clipped bark means, “Move over. You’re in my spot.” A pitiful head-hanging gaze at the food bowl means, “If I don’t get something to eat pretty soon, I just might starve to death, and it’ll be all your fault.”

And there’s no question when bedtime rolls around. The pups apparently fear turning into pumpkins after 10 p.m., so at 9:55 most nights, they’re sitting at the head of the bed (yes, the same bed we used to consider ours alone), waiting for one of us servants to come turn the covers down. It doesn’t matter that the servants still have the kitchen to clean or ironing to do; the furry little princes are weary from all the lounging around they do all day while their humans are out working to support them in the style to which they’ve become accustomed.

It all happened so gradually that Jimmie and I failed to notice what was going on until the takeover had occurred, and now it’s gotten out of hand. As non-parents who, in the past, have ridiculed the parenting skills of people who let their spoiled, unruly children get the best of them, we’re now feeling somewhat abashed. We’ve been outwitted by a couple of Chihuahuas.

But we might have a strategy: We’re thinking about getting a cat. We’ve seen how it flusters Shug and Dobbie when they try to intimidate the neighbor’s cat, Layla, and she strikes back by swiping one or both of them across the nose. The dogs respond by yelping as if she were killing them then hightailing it to the front porch. So a cat could very well be our most effective weapon in this war.

The only problem is, Jimmie doesn’t particularly like cats, and I’m allergic to them, so we’ve still got a few kinks to work out of the plan. But we’ll figure something out. The takeover took a few years to occur, and we realize that regaining control is liable to take a while, too.

In the meantime, if you see me down at the Winn-Dixie on the pet food aisle at 1 a.m. looking for cheese-flavored dog snacks, you’ll know who sent me. Of course, that would probably mean you were sent there, too, which would also mean you’re as well trained as I am. And in that case, we may as well give it up and admit the obvious: It truly is a dog’s world, after all.

This story first appeared in the July 29 issue of The Trussville Tribune…

Regardless of whether or not we participate, some rites of summer never die. The annual Harper Family Reunion is one example. Until this weekend, the last time Jimmie and I attended was as newlyweds over 30 years ago, but our absence has affected the 93-year-old tradition not one whit. It just goes on and on and on, an Energizer Bunny of a gathering that continues despite the fact that many of us who showed up this year are virtual strangers to one another.

But when Cousin Kathy recently e-mailed a reunion reminder and urged the rest of Granddaddy Harper’s grandkids to attend, I thought, “Why not?” Like I said, it’s been a while, and a break from the usual weekend routine sounded appealing. So the day before, I went grocery shopping to pick up a ready-made pound cake and the ingredients for an easy fruit salad (MeeMaw Harper used to cook for hours for these things; I obviously didn’t inherit that gene), and bright and early on the fourth Sunday of July, Jimmie and I took off for Rome, Georgia, where a host of Harpers awaited.

Walking into a roomful of unfamiliar faces didn’t bother me. My job requires that I attend networking events on occasion, so to me, this was just another banquet room full of people to mix and mingle with. Jimmie, on the other hand, steps into new situations a little more cautiously than I and was, thus, a little flustered at the greeting he got.

Most Harpers are about as shy as I am, which isn’t very, so getting from the door to the serving tables to add our contributions to the potluck meal wasn’t easy. We were immediately surrounded by and being introduced and re-introduced to cousins of every age and degree of removal. We had no doubt of our welcome status.

Harpers are also huggers, and if you’re the least bit kin, you’re bound to get more than a squeeze or two in fairly short order. And Jimmie’s cuddly teddy-bearish looks invariably attract women huggers. So when a second cousin flung her arms around him as he walked through the door, I could tell by the look on his face that he was wondering what the heck he’d gotten himself into.

The same cousin later teasingly threatened to steal him away but backed off when I told her she could have him – only on a no-return basis. I’d earlier been teeth-grindingly aggravated with him for not pulling complete directions to the reunion site off Mapquest (we got lost twice on the drive over), and since a residual amount of annoyance remained, I probably sounded a little too anxious to pawn him off on the first taker. She evidently noticed and wisely declined.

The most fascinating part of the day by far was perusing Cousin Jo Ann’s family trees on which she’d separately charted the descendants of Granddaddy Harper and each of his eight siblings. The work it’s taken to develop the charts, much less keep them updated, is a priceless gift to each member of the family. I hope everyone appreciates Jo Ann’s efforts. I know I do.

The funniest part of the day was watching Kathy, appointed by Jo Ann as the unofficial (unpaid) event photographer, trying to snap photos of every person present. She must have taken a hundred pictures of various groupings, many people in various states of chewing, and all with a broken camera that had been rigged together with an oversized screw and a rubber band.

At the end of the day, the 2010 version of the Harper Family Reunion was well worth the trip. It was a beautiful, albeit hot, day for a drive, and we enjoyed a sumptuous meal in the company of a lot of Harpers – which is fine combination, if you ask me.

The reunion was also a reminder that there’s something to be said for family connections, no matter how close or distant they may be. On the strength of common ancestors and a common name, we Harpers share a unique bond, and – forgive us if we seem conceited – we think there’s something pretty special about that.