I think the thing I get the most kick out of during Christmas is watching my family rip off wrapping paper, confetti filling the air, and start squealing (and, yes, George of the Jungle and Zippy the Monkey Boy and Speed Racer all do squeal on occasion. But, they insist, only on occasion) for [...]]]> by Richard

I think the thing I get the most kick out of during Christmas is watching my family rip off wrapping paper, confetti filling the air, and start squealing (and, yes, George of the Jungle and Zippy the Monkey Boy and Speed Racer all do squeal on occasion. But, they insist, only on occasion) for joy over what is inside. It’s great. It’s really wonderful.

It almost makes up for the hours and hours of backbreaking, bent-over, late-night heck I’ve gone through to wrap the silly presents. I’m not even going to talk about the clues I’ve written on the stickers that get ruined by Google. No, I’m all about reducing stress this year. Still, even though it seriously cuts down on my anything else time, presents have to be wrapped. Sort of.

First I need to make something clear. I never learned how to wrap. No one ever took me by the hand, or ear for that matter, and explained the intricate, arcane secrets that go into wrapping a present well. All I got were stolen looks over the shoulders of various folks who were wrapping presents for me. I quickly got shooed out of the room and didn’t really see much of the process in any case.

For the most part, my wrapping in years past looked like the random result of a drunken chimpanzee at the tail end of a three-week bender who’s been locked into a small room with a lot of boxes, enough wrapping paper to encircle the house and enough tape to fix a rip in King Kong’s pants. Things get wrapped, yeah, but it isn’t pretty. Not by a long shot.

As the years went on, though, I have gotten better. Slowly. Painfully. Which means that, now that I know (sort of) how to do it, things take a little longer and I actually take a rather perverse sense of pride in getting well-wrapped presents under the tree. Which, again, leads to a dearth of anything else time as we stumble into the season.

Well, last year, I found my salvation. Bags, dudes, bags. I love those things.

You can get present bags in all sizes and shapes. It’s wonderful. Buy a couple dozen bags, drop in the gifts, cram in some colored tissue paper (not, I hasten to add, the sort you sneeze into. I know this from experience.), tape the top shut to keep out prying fingers and eyes and you’re good to go. Just drop those puppies under the tree and you’re done. It’s easy. It’s quick. And you still get confetti filling the air, even if you have to rip up some of it yourself. And, best of all, if the present is in a bag, the little dudes won’t know from the shape of the wrapping what’s inside.

Win, win. So get to it. Tomorrow, trick number 3.

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Okay, so it wasn’t exactly Thunderdome, but today I saw the greatest example of animal on animal violence that I’ve ever witnessed.

In case you missed the memo, we’ve adopted a labrador/pit bull/cow/beaver mix into the family. He’s about 40 lbs, 15 months and as hyperactive as a methed-out chimp pulling an all-nighter while hopped [...]]]> by Richard

Okay, so it wasn’t exactly Thunderdome, but today I saw the greatest example of animal on animal violence that I’ve ever witnessed.

In case you missed the memo, we’ve adopted a labrador/pit bull/cow/beaver mix into the family. He’s about 40 lbs, 15 months and as hyperactive as a methed-out chimp pulling an all-nighter while hopped up on an eightball and chasing it with No-Doze by the package. So, you know, not really very sedate.

So. Anyway. I was walking Buzz this morning. We’ve got a great open field near our house where there was supposed to be a housing development. Recession, depression, etc. etc. No housing development, but plenty of open grass.

I’ll take Buzz down there of a morning, settle down on one of the brick walls out there and then let him off the leash for about 30 minutes of running like his tail was on fire. This morning I went there with Buzz, settled down and then let Buzz off the leash. What I didn’t notice and what Buzz didn’t notice was that — at some point — about 40 Canada geese had landed in the open grass about 100 yards away.

While we hadn’t noticed it before, as soon as Buzz took off. . . Well, let’s just say he noticed and he noticed hard. He picked up his speed even more, actually leaving trails of dust behind, and rushed the geese. Of course, they saw him coming, but they waited until the last minute before they took to the air. And they did so in all directions.

Buzz was paralyzed by a plethora of possibilities. Eventually he picked a couple of geese and set off after them. They landed about 10 yards from him. He closed in. They took off for about 15 yards and landed. Buzz was after them again. They kept teasing the poor dog for what seemed like hours, but probably wasn’t more than a couple of minutes.

When, eventually, they all finally took off for good, poor Buzz was so worn out he could barely move. I was actually able to get a good look at him, now that he wasn’t vibrating so fast he was in danger of going to a parallel universe.

Hmph. Well, I thought it was funny, dude.

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I’d thought that as he grew older (he’s now [...]]]> Some things, it seems, never will change. Take my middle little dude, just as a for instance. Zippy the monkey boy got his name because, as a little little dude, he would climb anything he saw. I mean anything. Couches, legs, counters, trees, fences, cars. Seriously. Anything.

I’d thought that as he grew older (he’s now approaching his 15th birthday) he just might have grown out of it. Turns out I was wrong. Very, very wrong.

When we were at the beach for our family vacation last month, Zippy and I parted ways after the deep-sea fishing trip. He stayed behind to eat lunch with some of the cousins his own age, while I headed into town for a little shopping. What can I say? That’s how I roll.

Anyway, he headed home with the cousins to an empty condo. There was no one home. To top it off, the front and back doors were locked and, he said, he couldn’t find any way in.

So, what did he do? Did he decide to stay with the cousins? Did he ask an adult for help? No. Of course not.

He reverted to type.

Zippy the monkey boy decided to climb up the outside of the condo to the second-story balcony, clamber over the iron railing and then open the sliding-glass door to get inside. Luckily, the sliding-glass door was unlocked and he got in without incident.

Here’s an artist’s conception of Zippy the monkey boy getting into the empty condo.

Considering the artist has never met Zippy, well, let’s just say it’s a pretty good likeness.

– Richard

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