Run, dog, run.

Fucking Hell.

Yes, I know, most people do not find their Sunday afternoons marred by such horrific language, displaying not only an utter lack of articulate usage of more appropriate words, or consideration that perhaps, that isn't the best way to begin any sentence. Then again, those are the only fitting words today. Bore some resemblance to Dr. Suess books.....

See dog.

See dog run.

See skunk.

Run, dog, run!

See Mom.

She Mom run.

Run Mom Run!!

See dog bark at skunk. See Mom swear. See color drain from Mom's face. (insert: Fucking. Hell here.)

See several other dog owners backing away from scene, dragging their barking, howling, ruff raised dogs in the opposite direction, lest they too come one heart beat away from stroking out, visions of a smell permeating a home faster than they can gather the tools to suppress odor. How right now, we cannot bathe out of doors, as it's a mere 51 degrees, and while I firmly attest to the You're So Stupid You Deserve To Be Cold And Clean, I do not agree to drop gobs of money on a stupid dog that got pneumonia solely due to my intense irritation. Not to mention, the water's cold too, so, you know, I'm not all up for getting that cold and wet either.

And I can attest: there is indeed, a God. A Higher Power. Guardian Angel. Call Him/Her whatever you wish, they were on my side: Fucker Up I'm Going To Kill Her did not get sprayed. The skunk, either old and blind, delirious with fatigue (or fever - please no no no no) failed to even fully turn around to expose the, shall we say, Business End. The tail went up, that's for sure. Pucker stopped, trying to get at least one synapse to connect - I could smell the smoke she thought so hard - I'd like to say she backed up, but then, lying isn't my thing.

I just stood there.

I'm not good with wild life. Yes, I've healed the odd ailing chipmunk, releasing him back to his natural habitat with a belly full of acorns and a forepaw on the mend. I've pronounced more birds DOA than I care to admit, after they beat themselves senseless on the sliders facing the back deck. I've met bucks and does at the back deck stairs, seen bunnies up close and personal - all of these animals undoubtedly are more afraid of me, than I of them.

That is not the case here.

I like skunks. They have such panache, such showy, confident coloring.

I prefer them from a distance. Like strip bars. I know they exist, I don't need (or want) to see them. Both provide a service to certain aspects of nature I don't fully understand. Ignorance is bliss, you know. Usually, I'd not believe that - I do enjoy the odd tidbit of information, not only as they are usually interesting, but fabulous conversational openers, or, topic changers. Someone says something to which I cannot respond? Simple. I slip in the "Did you know.....?" How, for example, according to this study I read, Asian women do not go through menopause. Scientist attribute this fact to having a diet rich in sea food, rice, and very little processed flour products. Evidently, Japanese ladies also do not suffer from cramps.

Now, being Celiac, where I eat a large number of things not including flour, I can assure you, a diet rich in non-flour delicious products has no bearing whatsoever on cramps, or attitude. Ask anyone around me ...er...then...and they'll be happy to tell you not only am I a pain in the ass, who's also in pain, I generally haven't a clue as to why I'm being such a pain in the ass. Not until a few days later. Changing my diet has not changed that.

See? Something like that opens all sorts of doors conversationally. So many topics to choose from, most often followed by the remark that I know the strangest things...where did I get that...to which I calmly, truthfully answer: I read a lot.

The key to using that phrase though, is to drop it in such as way as to not make anyone standing near you feel undereducated or clueless - as though anyone literate would know these things, if only they picked up a newspaper, visited a waiting room for hours on end with nothing to do but read back outdated issues of weird magazines, or cruised the Weird News section on internet websites. Just because the first time I noticed one of these items - I recall it specifically - it was in the Wall Street Journal doesn't mean everyone who reads the Journal would have noticed it.

Hard to miss, it was on the front page, above the fold, with a rather bold headline reading:

Ice Berg Lettuce Making A Comeback

I was in California. I took a brief moment to ponder if that had anything to do with this article - but no, as it's called the Wall Street Journal, for a reason. I was waiting for my friend E at his place of work, (Boeing) where he was some kind of engineer. He told me what he did about a dozen or so times - I never fully got it. Then again, as for stimulating conversation, I needn't have: I had all the info I needed right at my fingertips, including a verifiable, trusted source. No one disputes the Journal. Everyone talks about lettuce. Er. Maybe not everyone. Everyone who knew me at that time did.

It wasn't fascinating just because I happen to be a fan of the Ice Berg Lettuce Wedge; but noteworthy as someone else at The Journal was interested in Lettuce too. And they liked Ice Berg - for so long a lettuce thrust into the center of a thorny debate over whether or not eating leaves to weeds remains a better choice than the crisp Ice Berg. If arugula or any other fancy multi-colored lettuce that comes in the same bag carries more nutritional value than Ice Berg. Ice Berg, the author pointed out (I firmly agree) isn't just lettuce, but the building block to a great salad, one with infinite combinations of color, texture, taste.

Weeds? Everyone puts a low-fat vinagrette on it. There's no surprise, no experimentation. Weeds. In a bowl. Covered in oil and vinegar.

Kind of ties me back to the skunk - a lot like fancy lettuce. It's pretty, it's natural, packs a wallop, but always comes with the same dressing. Sure, he has the element of surprise on his side, but really, that's it.

Yes, in case you're wondering, that is what I thought about as Pucker and I navigated our way out of the forresty section of our walk. I patted myself on the back - doing nothing essentially relayed to my fully trained, smart puppy that she would be wise to do nothing as well. So proud of ourselves I hardly paid any attention to where we were going, which is most likely why I didn't notice the that Pucker had led us right into the clawing distance of those ugly, nasty, ill-mannered Guinea Hens taking up residence up here too.

See hens.

See hens charge.

See Mom and Pucker run.

See us run home, throw open the door, slam it closed, eyes bugging out, chest heaving, mouth agape.

See Mom comment.

Fucking. Hell.