Millie has a tissue issue!

Millie under my desk
when I'm writing,
 and there's not room for two.

My dog, Millie, is supposed to be a Maltese and Shih Tzu mix, but I often wonder if she is part bloodhound and wily coyote, too. Her nose (sense of smell) is off the charts good, and she is sneaky.

Millie has a tissue issue. Not toilet paper, but tissues for your nose. In her eight years of running my house and me, she’s never pulled a tissue from its box and ate it, but she will eat them unused or used (sorry about the image that just grossed you out), if they are outside the box. Her bloodhound nose will lead her to them just as soon as one is pulled from a box and the scent hits the air. Yes, we could say that it’s my fault for leaving tissues where she can harvest them, but it is difficult staying one step ahead of Millie. Finding tissues is always on her mind. Eating them fast is her talent. She has no qualms about nosing in small trashcans to yank one out or pull them from a jacket or pant pocket if they are within reach. 

 

I came home from a writer’s meeting one night and stepped out of my jeans, letting them fall on the floor. Normally, I put clothing away, but that night I did not. With my sinus issues, I went to the meeting prepared by stuffing a tissue in one pocket and a paper towel in another for sweat dabbing, as needed. I didn’t use either. 

 

The next morning, after Millie ate her breakfast, she went MIA. By this stage in her game, I know that her absence means nothing good. Usually, it means there could be an escaped tissue somewhere in the house, and she has gone in for the kill. I was almost to my bedroom door when Millie raced out and passed me like something was chasing her. It was guilt. Guilt was chasing her. The minute I walked through the door, I saw the remains of a tissue on the floor next to my forgotten jeans. I had interrupted her feast. 

 

Millie sleeps in my bedroom. I am certain that she schemed on extracting the tissue all night long, until 5a.m. arrived, when I left the bedroom and my coffee distracted me. 

 

I wish she could answer these questions?

 

• Why do you eat disgusting things?
• Do tissues taste like vanilla? 
• Did you dream about the yummy goodness of a good tissue all night?
• Or did you stay awake all night with excitement? 
• Lastly, would you consider a career as a rescue dog IF I made sure that the people needing rescuing will stuff a tissue in their pocket before things happen?

Millie is sometimes a mess, but she is a perfect mess. 

 

T. 

Returning To Where We Started

I’ve said this before and will repeat; I loved living in Illinois for the three-ish years we lived there. This was actually my second time at Illinois residency. My parents (with me) also lived in Joliet, from my age of 6 months to 3 years old. There are a couple of things that I consider memories, from that time, which is interesting since I was so young. That will be a future post. 

The story of our moving day from country living to city living is featured in Trading Lives. I think I was twelve when my parents made their very happy decision to move back to the place where they belonged. I kind of had to go with them, but I had built friendships and expectations on the next school year. As a kid you go where the folks go and make the best of the new until it becomes your normal. 

Washington, IL: Family Picnic

When we were just a couple of weeks out from moving for good, my dad loaded me up with our Rat Terrier, Bluto, a few of our household and personal goods in the car and headed to Missouri.

MEMORY #1

Before we left Washington and sorry in advance for "too much information", my stomach began to hurt. I think I was nervous about traveling to Missouri, with my dad who really didn't talk to me much and staying with my grandma and cousins without my mom. At one point, I begged my mother to give me a laxative because I had not had a BM in a while. She did NOT want to do this, but I pleaded and won, if you call it winning. 

The last hour before we landed in our tiny hometown, I was ready to explode. The first place we stopped was at our neighbors house. They owned one of the country stores and ran the post office. I stayed in their one bathroom so long that both Dad and the woman of the house knocked on the door, at separate times, asking me if I was okay. Of course, when I exited the bathroom there was some teasing, and I was embarrassed.

MEMORY #2

Our little Rat Terrier, Bluto, was a mighty dog, rarely

(R-L) Me, my brother and Bluto with

his head turned. I'm probably 4 and

my brother near a year. 

 afraid of much. He was a bit energetic so the long distance car trip was not his favorite thing to do. Along the way, he became...gassy. This was not fun for the humans, but it did make my dad (who NEVER wanted to stop and stretch) stop so that Bluto could take care of business, as needed.

MEMORY #3

As a child, anytime I stayed all night with anyone other than home, I missed my mom terribly. Until my parents, two siblings and a truckload of furniture and things arrived at our house, I would be staying with my grandma. Staying with my Grandma Sadie and the three cousins was fun, but I was so homesick for my mom. They were so excited to have me stay and spend time with them that I told no one of missing my mom. 

My Uncle Charles, his wife Glenda and their children lived with my grandma and ran the farm. My uncle was leaving the army when my granddad died of a heart attack. Grandma couldn't run a farm on her own so Charles moved in. Later he would marry Aunt Glenda and their five children would grow up there. My youngest cousin was actually a couple of months older than my son.  

Ultimately, my family moved back into our farmhouse, near both sides of our family. Bluto got to explore wherever he wanted--a much better life than in the city. Throughout the years, I felt sad for kids who did not live near grandparents and cousins. I understood the gift I'd been given. Not all family members are people you want to live near, but living near the "roots" of your family gives a glimpse into your own identity. A cool thing.

Teresa

When rewriting a story should not be done...

When I was a kid there was a game we played. We called it Gossip, but I think the real name might be the Telephone Game. The first person whispered a sentence or two in another person’s ear. That person whispered what they'd heard in the next ear until the last person repeated out loud what they had heard. At that time the first person would read or repeat the actual message that had been gossiped. Usually, what came out at the end was not the original story.

If nothing else, Gossip made us laugh. 

Sometimes family stories are rewritten on purpose (to save face) and sometimes because people cannot remember them correctly.

My Easter outfit that year. I wore this
to the graduation

For years, I had told a story about staying with my grandmother Minnie one night so that I could attend my aunt’s college graduation with her. At the time, we didn’t have many college graduates in the family. I knew it was a great accomplishment and wanted to go. The plan was that I would stay the night with my grandmother and the next day drive down to School of the Ozarks (now called College of the Ozarks).

That evening, (distant) relatives that I did not know, and had never met, out of the blue stopped by my grandmother’s tiny two bedroom house in town. They asked if they could stay the night. I remember four adults: the older couple, their adult son and daughter and a younger kid (although the kid could be gossip). My grandmother cooked them dinner, fixed up the living room couch as a bed and put bedding on the carpeted floor. She didn’t want them to invite themselves along to the graduation the next day and asked me to not mention our plans.

In her bedroom, Grandma told me they "mooched" off other people. She said that the younger male, probably in his early twenties, hadn't ever worked a job. And by the way, she didn't trust him, and thereby, I would be sleeping with her and give the spare bedroom to the older couple of the family. I was fine with that. She told me to bring my purse in the bedroom, too, because things went missing after their visits. To me they were odd acting people. I did what she asked. She put her poodle Trixie in it's bed between us and shut her bedroom door. The next morning Grandma fixed a monster sized breakfast with no help from anyone but me and did the dishes, then encouraged them on their way.

Trixie in 1983 or 84

Here’s where I sort of rewrote the story. I've told this story many times in depth, how I slept in my grandmother’s bed with Trixie the poodle between us in a little pet bed made by Grandma. One day my daughter said, “How could that have been Trixie?"

Originally, Trixie was my aunt’s dog but did not have her when she graduated college. After she finished her masters degree, she worked her way across the U.S. with a friend of hers for the experience. I believe that is when she left Trixie with Grandma and well Trixie never went back to live with my aunt. My aunt graduated college in 1969 or 1970. Trixie was born after that. As I think back, one of grandma’s cats was probably in the pet bed between us, but who knows? I could be rewriting that, too.


Are family stories ever rewritten in your family? If so why? Bad memory? Embarrassing incident?