Samson – A Short Story of Companionship
by Karla ° Thursday, March 30, 2006
As Samson approaches that pivotal day in his life where his manhood will be robbed and his two hulking nutsacks will undergo some serious repurposing, I thought I would take some time to reflect on all the joy he has brought into my life.

Despite his biting, blobs and blobs of poop, jumping, accidents, humping and retard fits, I can’t imagine life without a puppy anymore.

Sure it looks like I farm cows in my 30 x 30 foot yard with all of the poop he leaves behind, but it’s hard not to smile and feel proud of his mammoth elimination habits when he proudly returns and gives a “High Five” after finishing his business.

Of course it’s disgusting that he likes to hunt down every morsel of trash and litter when out for a walk, but seeing the pride wash over him as he tries to gobble up his delicious garbage discoveries is really quite endearing. However, it’s gross and dangerous, so I have no qualms crushing his spirit and jamming my fingers down his throat to fish out the mostly unidentifiable items out of his mouth. I have the war wounds to prove my steadfast devotion to avoiding emergency intestinal surgery.

He loves water. So much so in fact, that he dives head first in the water bowl, with such vigor, that I have considered equipping him with snorkeling gear so he doesn’t drown himself. His love for water doesn’t stop there. Queerly enough, he finds bubble baths perplexingly fun. If he is not standing at the side of the tub trying to eat bubbles off my toes, he is trying to jump in the tub for deliciously luxurious swimming lessons amid apple scented bubbles.

He also shows no shame or remorse when he greets company at the door with an energetic episode of crotch sniffing. I know it’s acceptable in the culture of doggism to use such asinine methods to meet and greet the population at large, but I suspect my company doesn’t much enjoy the glaring spotlight on their genital area. Therefore, I resolve to work harder on practicing his ability to simply “wave”.

Despite all his puppy peculiarities, he is a welcome distraction from past year of devastation we’ve been faced with. His intelligence, goofiness and steadfast determination to make friends with the cats never fails to make me smile. His devotion to learning and persistence to be a cuddly lap dog has developed into an undeniable bond that I am grateful we share.

And it is that bond that I want to keep. For that reason, I need to take him to the testicle chop shop, so his fiercely loyal companionship to me remains, and he doesn’t have the desire to run off and sire some bitch.

The End.


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by Karla ° Tuesday, March 21, 2006
I’m about as girly as girly gets, minus the whole nylons and skirt business. And that is probably why I failed miserably in the field of geophysics. There was no way I could survive in a desolate forest where my strange quirk for smelly creams and perfumy redolence would attract swarms of flesh biting bugs. Or even worse, survive in the barren wilderness where electrical outlets for blow dryers are about as non existence as toilets that flush.

I have been having a secret love affair with my blow dryer for years. Many mornings begin with heated hanky panky, and an “oh so smoothing” blow out. I can’t stop myself. It’s as addicting as Desperate Housewives and chocolate. Anyone cursed born with Little Orphan Annie ringlets knows what I mean (and probably has their own fair share of hot air flings and bathroom blow dryer trysts).

Smoothing out my swirly whirly locks has been a constant battle between my blow dryer and the tragedy of a lion mane sprouting out of my head ever since puberty hit and I wanted to kiss a boy. The whole hair domestication process takes 45 minutes and involves specific products, brushes, clips and other complicated hexes. It is also a process that only works, despite praying and straightening voodoo spells, when the air is dry. Minuscule amounts of moisture will sends my hair into a frizzy pandemonium and ultimately, that means I am forced to wear my curls on display and give my blow dryer, and all the steamy passion we share behind closed bathroom doors, a day off.

I don’t really have a point to all of this, except that my hair has grown insanely long. I can pull my hair from behind my back around under my arm pits. Since I am no longer a teeny bopper, have no intentions on becoming a hippie and have no recollection of idolizing Crystal Gale, I’m quite certain that means it’s time for a hair cut.

And I dread hair cuts.

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Paw in Mouth
by Karla ° Wednesday, March 15, 2006
I need to divert my attention to stuff less traumatic than dying babies. Talking about my ever so adorable poop machine of a puppy weighs in just under the trauma level and just above the hair ripping, frustration level on my going insane scale of sanity, or lack thereof.

Samson started puppy school a few weeks ago. It has become my comic relief as we attend the canine circus every week. The pooch brigade is more like a puppy pile up playathalon, which is entertaining considering I’m certain there are hamsters masquerading as itty bitty dogs and elephants cleverly festooned in German Shepherd attire in our class. Of course, no puppy circus would be complete without a buoyant Boxer that likes to make circles on the floor with his pee while jumping and bucking like a rodeo bull.

Samson is, of course, the only normal dog, and of course again, the most handsome and dapper doggy on the planet, despite his love for ear chomping, humping small dogs, and weekly course finale of leaving a giant piss puddle by my feet.

Having a puppy is a very new experience for me. They do strange things. Like suddenly taking off running, full steam ahead, and completing 14 million circles around the dining room table, with the occasional detour through the kitchen, surely as an attempt to add spice and variety from the dizzying dullness of running in circles around a table.

When he really gets going, he does, what I have since discovered, the hard way, is not an aggressive “I want to eat you” growl, but a happy “I just like being crazy and it makes me content to run and growl” growl. The means with which this discovery was made was a regrettable word faux pas on my part.

In a world of political correctness, it’s sometimes easy to forget proper etiquette in your choice of words when speaking in front of a crowd.

Instead of asking the trainer why he likes to tear through the house at full speed, I asked the trainer, “What does it mean when has a Retard Fit”, in front of every single mammal, fury or not, present.

Well fuck, I just garishly offended every star trek fan and mentally challenged person on the planet.

The trainer officially dislikes me, and the only person who talks to me in the class is a lady who feeds her dog a four foot long chew toy that is made out of bull penis. Samson needs friends to bite and hump. Maybe tonight I’ll try to bamboozle the puffy poodle into being Samson's hump buddy.


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Fight or Flight
by Karla ° Monday, March 13, 2006
The blood tests I’ve been having every 48 hours show my HCG levels (pregnancy hormone) are dropping.

Aside from discovering that my ovaries are “really high up there” while being subjected to the particularly unpleasant poking and prodding of internal ultrasound vagina cams and feeling sorry all the techs who had to fish around in my girl parts, it has been confirmed that I have in fact, just miscarried.

I take great relief that my tubes will remain intact.

Just like when Ava died, I feel a sense of fight or flight kicking in. Something deep inside is telling me to leave this place, to run away and start fresh somewhere else, far away.

The financially responsible side of me knows that we would more than likely loose money if we moved already. We’ve only lived here about a year and a half. On the other hand, the adventurous and wounded side of me can’t help but think that we are still young, and if ever there was a time to take risks, it is now.

Either I need to find the risk taker inside of me, or make peace with what we have.

Running away seems so much easier.


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Empty Uterus and Empty Arms – Again
by Karla ° Thursday, March 9, 2006
Another tiny little life has been whisked away from us, although this time, we never had the chance to caress their cheeks or hold them in our arms.

Finding the courage to attempt conception again was no easy feat. Battling with my husband about our conflicting emotions and readiness to try again tugged deeply at my heart and tested my will and patience like I have never been tested before.

The day he finally came to me and let me know that he had never lived his life in fear and wasn’t about to start was the first time I felt hope since Ava died. A sense of optimism set in, mixed with a tiny shred of naivety that there was no way possible the world would summon such devastation into our lives again.

That sense of naivety has forever been lost.

Devastation happened. Again.

The life we created is gone. And if life couldn’t get any fucking crueler, an ectopic pregnancy still hasn’t been ruled out because even though my uterus is now empty, I have been bleeding for a week and my hormone levels still scream I am pregnant. Two babies have died on me in one year, and if that isn’t enough to send me to my knees, there is a chance a pregnancy is located in one of my fallopian tubes putting my fertility greatly at risk.

I feel numb and I feel completely helpless.

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