Well, of Course My Beagle is a Weapon of Mass Destruction!

The Fourth of July always does interesting things to me, not the least of which is indigestion. But not this year, kids! My Independence cookout will be vegetable kebobs with grilled pineapple, tabouleh, and a green monster smoothie. Awesome, right? I suppose it is, but all I really want is ribs. Carter is planning on grilling some magnificent meat magic tomorrow and being the reluctant, albeit committed, vegan that I am (for 6 weeks, at least), I will be watching him eat it with the rapt and obsessive attention of teenage boys viewing pornography for the first time…. Or 100thtime. (Does it ever get old, guys? Do you ever have that moment where you say [insert the voice of James Lipton], “This screen shot is both repetitive and pedestrian. How have I missed it all these years? I feel as though I’ve wasted literally MINUTES of my life!” Sorry guys. But the answer is NO. We all know you watch it. You can stop hitting ALT + TAB when we come in the room.)



I will be asking Carter to give me the play-by-play of his July 4thfeast. In fact, I have been working on a taste worksheet (Like the ones at wine tastings. Yes, yes, the ones I’ve only seen on Food Network.). As I see it, the taste worksheet will include various gauges of flavor profiling: smoke factor, fat content, general WOWEE factor, etc. Yes. Wowee. You read that right. And I followed it with an abbreviation. There’s that $47,000 in MFA education at work for you. Aren’t I clever?

So 4th of July might be interesting in our house tomorrow. Thank GOD I found a recipe for Vegan Cookie Dough Blizzards that I may or may not share with Carter. (Who are we kidding? NOT. The man gets meat for Pete’s sake. Isn’t that enough? I ask you – where is the line!?!) So I’ve got that one going for me. Cookie Dough. JAnd I may use one of my empty Toll House Chocolate Chip Cookie dough tubs that I just happen to have lying around to eat said cookie dough from. You know, to simulate old times. Shame-eating it with a spoon out of the tub. At 2 am. While the bag of spinach looks supremely judgmental in the eerie glow of the refrigerator bulb. It’s fine—I never liked him anyway!
(Note: I lied. I do like spinach. Just not the passive aggressive variety. It’s usually not labeled, so examine carefully before purchase. It will judge. Oh yes, it will judge.)
All in all, I think it’s going to be a successful 4thfor Carter and I. Barbecue porn. Veganism. Vegan cookie dough out of a tub. Not sharing said cookie dough in tub. Enduring the silent treatment for not sharing. Bribing forgiveness for not sharing with Nutritional Yeast. (Remember? The stuff that tastes like cheese? Allegedly. No? Glad you’re keeping up.) Feeling awful when it is pointed out to me that Nutritional Yeast is NOT cheese and that even if it were, it would not be an acceptable substitute for cookie dough. (Note: I’m totally justified! Last night, Carter and I split a bottle of wine. I started pinning crap and got distracted. When I surfaced for air from all of the pins, I noticed that my wine glass was empty and that Carter’s was double full. Bastard took my wine and put it in his! “But babe, I didn’t know you were going to finish it!” Bullsh*t. He looked repentant enough, but as we all know, I am a giant pain in the ass nothing if not fair. As such, I felt the need to subject him to angry looks as I finished the entire jumbo glass of wine. That will teach him. Cookie dough? You don’t deserve it, Carter.)
(Addendum to previous note: I immediately felt bad. Carter, you do deserve cookie dough. You deserve cookie dough because I’m a giant pain in the ass a spirited woman with defined opinions and a territorial attitude towards food and you’re stupidbrave blessed enough to find me lovable.)
But on this, the eve of the 4th of July, I am reminded of another 4th of July, long ago.
Long, long agoIn 2009, in a far away land in the mystical Kentucky, there lived a family. There was a king, a queen, two princesses very odd daughters, a poodle with an attitude problem named Max (Pour one out for my homie. RIP), and a beagle.  The beagle’s name was Rigby and she was afflicted with poor nerves. (Think Mrs. Bennett in Pride & Prejudice. The new one. Yep. That bad)
If I’m going to do this, I’m just going to do this. Read on, kittens!

Twas the Night Before Independence Day: A Poem
Twas the night before Independence Day, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The fireworks were stored in the garage with care
In hopes that by morning all fingers would still be there.

The children were running like mad on the lawn
While GamGam on the deck had started to yawn.
And mamma in her muumuu, and Dad in his cap
Had just started fighting about the potato salad being crap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the couch to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. (Note: At least, if this were 1835 I would have done all these thing. I’m pretty sure I just looked outside the mini-blind-less window.)

Fireworks, a day early, in the sky did blow,
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
Rigby the beagle, quaking in fear.

With her tail all a-quiver and her legs all a-shake,
I knew in a moment what all was at stake.
More rapid than eagles her tremors they came,
And I shrieked to my mom, “We need the freakin’ Benadryl!”  (Note: You try rhyming anything with Benadryl.)

“Now Rigby, please take it, please take this great pill!
I put it in peanut butter, it won’t make you ill!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
We held her down and stroked her throat and she swallowed it all! (Note: Stow your dirty minds. This is ART.)

We thought we were safe, that our work had been done
And shut her in the bedroom to go watch the fun. (Note: Fireworks, you pervs. Remember?)
So up over the rooftops to the dark sky they flew,
A symbol of freedom, blazing red, white, and blue. (Note: Fireworks came from China. Irony?)

And then, to my horror, my beer glass looked dry,

I went in to give that Mich Ultra a try. (Note: Learn from my mistakes. Don’t give it a try.)
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Into the kitchen ran Max with a bound.

He looked simply gleeful, from his head to his foot.
How could I tell, you ask, he’s the color of soot?
He wanted me to follow, this much I could tell.
If only I’d known he was heading for Hell. (Note: Just wait for it.)

His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, he’d been into the sherry! (Note: We are not classy enough to own sherry. But nothing else rhymed.)
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
As he knew how much trouble awaited me, so…… (Note: For those of you who never had the pleasure of knowing Max, he was a devious ass who loved getting Rigby in trouble.)

I opened the door and drew back in shock,
The bedroom smelled worse than low tide at a dock!
There sat my Rigby, all covered in sh*t,
And I do mean covered, she was all over it.

I can only describe it as I saw it that night,
Rigby’s bowels had exploded because of her fright. (Note: I am NOT exaggerating. EXPLODED.)
I was all over the carpet, and spread up the wall,
It was smeared up on the door, and some out in the hall.

I spoke not a word, but went straight to my work,
I dumped her in the tub, turned it on with a jerk.
And laying my fingers aside of my nose,
I set to work cleaning before the stench rose!

Rigby sprang from the tub, to my side gave a shake,
And splattered me with more dung than a stable stall rake.
But I heard Mom exclaim, as she walked into our fight,
and I cussed, “Happy Independence to all, and to all a good-night!”

Look at how ashamed… and drugged… Oops.
(P.S.: I never exaggerate. Ok, sometimes. But I swear, this is the God’s Honest Truth. Well, aside from the whole rhyming bit. We don’t really do that in Kentucky. I can’t make this sh*t up! [No pun intended. Ok, maybe a little intended. Stop analyzing me to death!] Rigby’s large intestine exploded because of her overpowering fear. Makes you think about what you’d do if you ever took that skydiving trip you’ve been talking about incessantly, eh? She did do a Beethoven-esque [dog, not deaf composer] and sprayed me with what can only be classified as bio-terrorism [Yes, the noun]. And so I had the pleasure of sharing a shower with a terrified beagle who now had a self-loathing guilt complex and hogged all the hot water. [If you’ve ever owned a beagle, you know EXACTLY what I’m talking about.] We got the sh*t out of the carpet and THANK GOD for that stain resistant paint on the walls and door, but the damage was done. We could never look at Rigby the same again. She was not a sweet, porky pig of a beagle any longer. She was a ticking time bomb, a disaster waiting to happen and the slightest hint of celebration,….a WMD. Here she is, Geroge Bush, that thing you’ve done been looking for! Now where is the Nobel Prize for my mother and I?!?!?)
(P.P.S.: Ok, some people in Kentucky rhyme. I have some very talented poet friends.)

(P.P.P.S.: I sense that you don’t believe me. Shame on you.)

Happy Independence Day, everyone!

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