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I have never tried to eulogize a dog before. Thankfully, it’s because I don’t know any dead ones. I know a few whom I wish had never been born, and a few who lived way too long. Ultra-thankfully, I’ve never had to attend a dog’s funeral and been asked to say a few words. But a couple of days ago, we had to make that sad decision to have our dog put to sleep. Bailey was a good dog.

I am the kind of dog owner who thoroughly disgusts people who consider themselves to be dog lovers. And both types of us really piss off cat owners, but that’s a different post altogether. People who are dog lovers let their dogs eat off of their plates at the end of the meal, or let the dogs sit on the furniture or in the front seat of the car. I’m not that kind of dog owner. Maybe I’m more of a dog tolerater.

I will always believe that a dog is a pet, kind of like a goldfish but a whole lot sturdier and less likely to die if you look at it funny. It isn’t quite as noisy as a parakeet; I know, because I’ve had one of those. Actually, two of those, and I released one into the wild after it pecked its cage-mate to death in a horrible parakeet version of cockfighting, only I wasn’t involved in the scheme and I didn’t make any money on the outcome. I still think the green one took a dive.

I’m not the kind of pet owner who thinks the dog is a family member, but unfortunately everyone else in my family is, including the new dog we adopted yesterday. He rode in my lap on the way home from the Rescue, pranced through our house giving it a once-over like a realtor in a bad market, and plopped his oversized carcass on the couch, head on paws facing the television and waiting for a human to work the remote for him.

You’re prepared for the tales of woe about how this mangy-ish animal has wreaked havoc on my otherwise calm life. You’re breathlessly waiting for Marley-and-Me-esque tales of torn curtains and stained carpets, overturned indoor ficus trees in his wake. I’m terribly sorry to disappoint, but I’m addicted to this reserved and affectionate older dog.

Rescued animals are always the best dogs and this poodle is no exception. My husband, however, was a hard sell at the start. His exact words were, “Are you sure poodles come in male?” I must have looked horribly unnerved and confused, because he clarified: “I mean, aren’t poodles girls?” I patiently and quietly asked him to tell me where he thought more poodles came from if all poodles were girls, and he didn’t really have a response. Where our own children came from is still kind of a mystery to him. I assured him the dog was both a boy and a poodle. Call it a genetic anomoly, if you must.

Here is where I have declared my husband to be Father of the Year 2010, a dubious title since it was bestowed upon him with only three days left in the calendar year. The adoption fee was…$150. I mouthed the number at him while the attendant’s back was turned in order to avoid any embarrassment. I then mouthed, “It’s your call.” I also mouthed something to the effect of, “No one would blame you for not wanting to spend that kind of money on a mixed breed animal that has had a lot of health problems and a history of neglect and possibly abuse,” but just like when I actually speak out loud, my husband stopped listening after the third word. He looked down to where our oldest daughter was sitting cross-legged on the floor with the expensive animal in her lap, asked her if she was sure she wanted that one, and then reluctantly agreed to the fee. I fell in love all over again with the man who would do anything for his children.

And we have therefore adopted Jake from the Poodle Rescue. There is less paperwork involved in crossing a border into a Communist country. We had to supply the names and phone numbers of our vet, our groomer, and three references, and were sternly warned that the numbers would be checked out. We were also given a couple days’ supply of Jake’s organic canned dog food, to be mixed with some of the provided organic dry dog food, which is all mashed together with rice cooked in chicken broth, broth which has been provided by the whole chicken we’re supposed to boil and feed him tidbit-by-tidbit. We signed a contract, agreed to a surprise inspection in our home, and led our new dog to the car on his brand-new leash, being sure to give him ample time to say goodbye to his fellow dogs at the Rescue and letting him choose to walk to the car rather than being carried off against his will.

I only wish it were so difficult to get a child. People have long argued that the driver’s license exam is harder than producing a baby to care for, and they’re right. Only most babies don’t eat organic food from the start.

Rest in peace, Bailey. Welcome to our home, Jake.

I am both embarrassed and ashamed about how little I know about current events. And my ignorance really isn’t out of apathy or laziness, but the time constraints of a working wife and mother. Basically, if it wasn’t newsworthy enough to appear on the Yahoo! homepage, then I can’t carry on a meaningful conversation about it. It is unfortunate how much crap about the Kardashian sisters appears on Yahoo! and various other sites that claim to carry the news.

But I have been catching snipets here and there about something called Wikileaks and some man named Julian Assange who is apparently outraged that he has been arrested for hacking into government computers, gathering top secret data, and posting it online. The name Wikileaks, right off the bat, doesn’t concern me, because if Wikileaks is as bad as Wikipedia about disseminating accurate information, I welcome their help in throwing off our enemies.

Several things have baffled me about the whole ordeal, not the least of which is why this man chosen to bear a startlingly similar resemblance to Draco Malfoy’s father from the Harry Potter movies. Seriously? Was it to just look all the more Scandinavian in an attempt to avoid prosecution under the mistaken belief that they would somehow hide you? You know what the Scandinavians value more than anything? It’s not privacy, sadly, it’s anonymity. And you just called attention to the fact that those few countries are still up there and they are still not part of Hitler’s government. They’ve been flying under the radar all this time and Mr. Assange just pointed out that they still exist. So they promptly handed him over.

First, I am absolutely shocked that it was easy for someone outside our government to access these secrets in the first place. I can’t get online and find out what time a movie will be showing in my hometown without three passwords and an established account that has been verified by two existing email addresses. How did he get this information in the first place?

Second, why are so many of our own citizens on his side? There was a comment posted on Twitter (I can work Twitter, of all things) by someone at least claiming to be Mr. Assange, and it was to the effect of this: “People. YOU elected this government and they don’t want YOU to know what they’re doing.” You’re absolutely right.

More importantly, I don’t want to know what they’re doing. But I have a very good reason for that.

In my humble opinion, there should be three people with the access codes to our nuclear weapons. One guy to turn the key, one guy to turn the other key so it isn’t just a fluke (I saw War Games in the eighties), and a third guy who stays at home with that knowledge just in case Thing One or Thing Two develops a raging stomach virus and can’t fulfill the duties of his job. Like the first runner-up in Miss America. She’s there in case the real Miss America can’t represent the crown with a smile, only we all hope we never need her since that would mean Miss America was either dead or had released an online sex tape.

If we go around telling every single citizen all the things that only a few people need to know, word is bound to get out. I, for one, will sing like a bird about how to get in and out of Fort Knox with the gold if you so much as point something sharp at me. I am not the one you want guarding that information.

I work in a prison and it sounds like a handbell choir when I walk down a hallway. I have keys to every cell door, every storage closet, every office door, the library, the cafeteria, etc. I can get in and out of the building any time I want to. The one key I don’t have? The key to the fence around the compound. And it’s not because they don’t trust me with it. They don’t trust Rocko, aka Inmate #82769. If Rocko thought for a minute that I had the key to the fence, he would slap me stupid, grab the key ring, and be in the next county before I had picked my self up off the floor. And trust me, this one missing key is a fact I point out to the general population every time I take them out into the yard.

Am I sticking my head in the sand and pretending my government is doing everything they do only because they care so much about me? Probably. Are they doing things that I and everyone else on the planet think they shouldn’t be doing? Well, duh. Is telling everyone in America where our next strike zone in the Middle East will be going to accomplish anything other than getting a lot of our soldiers and even more of their citizens killed? Of course not. That’s why I’m hanging on to every word of the Kardashian sisters.

Back in college, I wandered blissfully through an independent bookstore one day and stumbled on my very first magnetic poetry kit. It contained hundreds of tiny magnetic strips with a word printed on each, along with some little blank strips so you could add your own words. It’s the greatest nerdiest fun you could ever hope to have. All of those little magnets (and some three hundred of their bretheren, now that I’ve added to my kit collection with a few more kits) are stuck to the side of my four-drawer filing cabinet so I can push them around with my finger into veritable masterpieces of poetic flow. Or raunchy limericks, depending on my mood.

This year for Christmas my daughter bought me the Far Eastern companion to my poetry cheat-sheet, a set of Haikubes. This kit contains 60 smooth marbly dice with words printed on each side. The idea is to roll all sixty of the dice in order to pick out the words that scream themsevles at you to create a haiku. Half the fun is not having any control over what words appear. It feels all the more mystical, like a literary ouija board.

And as someone who is easily amused by shiny new toys, I have to say I’m absolutely in love with the clackity sound these dice make. They feel like super duty mah jong tiles, all smooth and noisy. Poetry be damned, I could just sit here and roll these things for the next hour.

Obviously my daughter stinks at keeping a surprise as much as I do, so I’ve already received and relished my Haikubes. I have to say, a book of my poetry is forthcoming. Any day now. To save you time and a few dollars, here are some of the gems the Kubes and I have given birth to:

I marvel at us,
Our full fortune looks simple.
It’s only a dream.

Okay, I’m having flashbacks to high school poetry full of oozing teen angst. Someone talk my inner poet off the ledge before she jumps. Ever see the South Park epidose where the Goth kids sit around writing poetry? I’m there.

Her smiling lips sang
But thunder consumed her words.
Still her voice shines on.

There’s a reason Japanese monks take a vow of silence. It’s so they don’t have to read their haikus to anyone. But they don’t have the magic cubes to blame it on. At least I have the benefit of pointing at the little dice and saying, “Give me a break! That’s all I had to work with! Let’s see you try it!”

Oh wait, re-read the directions. The two cubes with red words are supposed to be your topic/title. Okay, let me try it that way.

Topic: A Reflection on My Childhood
Nope. My therapist said I’m not ready to write haikus about that yet. Re-roll.

Topic: A Regret About My Future
There aren’t enough syllables to write a haiku about that one. Re-roll.

Topic: A Dream About Our World
Okay, that one seems harmless enough.

A radical grace
Last ran heavy and sleeping
Desperate for hope.

Oh my goodness, these dice contain the words ass, hump, and screwed. Where did these things come from? Did my husband take her Christmas shopping at the adult video store under the interstate bypass? Holy hell!

Re-roll. Last try before the Kubes go in the closet where I keep other embarrassing items.

I slowly realize
Every gorgeous dilemma
Is what’s next for me.

Okay, I’m no Maya Angelou, but this has been some of the best thirty minutes of wasted time ever. I even feel more inner peace than I did when I first sat down. Besides, this has got to be a drinking game waiting to happen. Competitive Haikubes, anyone?

There’s a terrible drawback to trying to break into the literary world while knowing that your mother has signed up to follow your emails, your blog, your Facebook posts and your tweets: every once in a while the opportunity to get your name out there comes in the form of writing erotic poetry.

Haiku, to be exact, with points awarded for raunchiness involving not only Hello Kitty, but unicorns as well.

I can’t do it. I tried. I even submitted. But I’m from Alabama and we don’t even refer to our private parts without whispering behind our hands and using cutsie euphemisms. My favorite is hoo-ha, although “cooter” is still popular with women of my generation.

I did my best. I even work in a prison, but I couldn’t get anywhere close to erotica. If you can do better, by all means find the Fine Print Literary contest for Allison Pang’s new release. Search for it on the Borrowing Heaven, Subletting Hell website and see if you can win. If you do, dibs on the darling stuffed animal.

Apparently, when wild bears attack you in order to eat you, they are fairly quiet about it. I just read an essay by a man who was woefully snuck up on by a hungry bear who did it tippy-toe style. The author barely survived but was not, in fact, unnibbled by the secretive animal. According to the plethora of scientists and researchers quoted in this article, bears who are just pissed at you or don’t want you in their necks of the woods make all kinds of angry snarling sounds while they dismember you, but the hungry ones just get down to business without all kinds of theatrics. One expert even went so far as to refer to bears as The Silent Killer.

Wait, I thought great white sharks were the silent killer. And heart disease. And carbon monoxide poisoning. And brain aneurisms. And the farts of twelve-year-old boys. Just how many freakin’ ways are there to die without any idea in the world that your end is near?

I wouldn’t be able to agree that dying loudly or with all kinds of alarming noises first is any better than dying unsuspectingly, but it does make me kind of fear the calmness of a quiet house. Of course, I am a mother of two school-aged children and we learn early to fear the silence almost as much as we yearn for it. It is actually kind of quiet in my house right now and I happen to know that the younger child ran through earlier carrying a large bottle of glue. If I cared more, I could stop it.

Having two older brothers, I remember several childhood moments that started out in a house full of sweet stillness only to erupt in all manner of rage and profanity when one parent discovered the that two boys had actually concocted a plan to launch some kind of (occasionally human) projectile and had also built the necessary contraption for the launch. The discovery did not always occur before the would-be test pilot had already been through a trial run. There was usually blood.

My children are girls, which only means that no one was physically testing the laws of physics on a sibling. Usually some colored and/or perfumey substance is no longer contained and is instead staining the carpet, the furniture, the dog, or worse. Industrial cleaning agents and scrubbing will be involved, but hopefully while I’m bent over unstaining something a bear won’t sneak up on me.

I’m sitting on my couch enjoying the cheapest bottle of Merlot the gas station had, my kids by my feet watching a Christmas special while my husband sings all of the songs from memories of his own childhood watching these same nostalgic shows. The entire scene before me is so perfect that there really should be celestial creatures holding banners above the whole tableau. That is, until I look over and see that my child is using one of my special bamboo chopsticks to reach down inside the cast on her leg to reach an itch.

I would love to scream something very un-Christmas special-y right now. I lean over to my husband and say, “Get that from her and put it in the sink to be washed.” He replies something along the lines of that was the best use for that particular chopstick that he’s ever seen. And he has a point: I only eat with it.

I am forced to admit that it was pretty smart of her to get the longest, pointiest, non-lethal object in the house to solve her problem, namely an unreachable itch. However, when the elves on the show break into song and she begins conducting them with my chopstick, I have to take it all back.

I am not the first person to wax poetic about how stupid our country has gotten, so it’s a relief to see someone actually do something pretty smart. Case in point: I did some holiday baking yesterday. On the back of the bag of Jet-Puffed brand marshmallows there is seriously…wait for it…a recipe for S’mores. If I’m lyin’ I’m dyin’. Go to the store and see for yourself. If you are so stupid that you cannot figure out how to make a s’more, you’re probably too stupid to get the bag of marshmallows open so it’s all moot.

The s’more recipe made me remember the second stupidest observation I had regarding food stuffs and their packaging. I picked up a can of Walmart-brand salmon a few weeks ago and turned it over to see if this variety was billed as boneless or not. There, on the back of the can, in large white letters, read the end of the world. It said, “Allergy Warning: Contains Fish.” I swear to you, the can of salmon warns you that this can contains fish.

Supposedly this generation has made more technological leaps than any other generation in history, including those during the Industrial Revolution, but just how smart can we be? We need to be taught how to squish a marshmallow between two graham crackers and throw some chocolate in there for fun? What’s next, the recipe for ice cubes? Don’t laugh, with the advent of installed ice makers, I know people who aren’t sure what that plastic tray with the individual square dents is for.

All we can do is hope for a better future, probably by beginning a worldwide pact to only breed smart people. Or at least letting people who are allergic to fish figure out what’s in the can.

I have discovered the ultimate pet for people like me. It’s important to know which character flaws led to my decision. First, I am taken with shiny objects but tire of them quickly. Second, I am entirely too busy for my own good, let alone the good of another creature. Third, some days its enough that my children ate, let alone that the pet was thought of.

So Euglena are a perfect pet. They eat, but if you forget to feed them they can fend for themselves by using chlorophyll to make their own food. Unless you lock them in a dark closet, in which case they cannot access sunlight from in there.

When the water on my Euglena tank starts to look a little murky, that means all is well. Not so a fish tank, in fact the fish can drown in a slurry of their own poo if the conditions are bad enough. You have to be talented to drown a fish. But the more that the Euglena water resembles the sludge on a cow farm pond, the happier they are.

They do have their drawbacks. You cannot train them, except to get them to go towards or away from light, and I can’t bring myself to encourage any living thing to head towards the light. They don’t respond to promises of treats or rides in the car, and it is nearly impossible to curl up with them and watch a movie or take a nap. But if you’re the kind of person who appreciates the concept and illusion of responsibility that pet-ownership gives you, but don’t love the actual work involved in bending over once a day to drop congealed animal by-product in a bowl on the floor for your actual pet, Euglena might be the way to go.

Except that the last time I tried to look at my darlings, through a microscope that is, they were looking a little puny. They didn’t have their usual swamp-green healthy glow. So I took the tank outside and walked around for a while to give them a chance to recharge. Yes, I was the crazy woman in the parking lot taking her fish tank for a walk.

As ridiculous as I felt, the excursion did not inspire me to adopt a more reliant, meaningful pet. I know my flaws and I’m fine with them.