News from the Madison Mansion . . .

A heavy, and, we think, a fun filled weekend ahead. Friday night we go up to Temecula (about 20 miles north) to take in a Four Preps Concert (26 Miles/Santa Catalina, Big Man, etc.) and then Saturday morning we'll be listening to the Huskers vs Idaho game on the Internet; Saturday night we go back up to Temecula to take in another concert, this one is 'Surfin' Safari,' a Beach Boys Tribute band (and a band we are considering hiring for a fundraiser in Escondido for our Kiwanis Clubs.) We'll probably take in a barbecue restaurant while we're at it.

Saturday, we're taking Tim Cunning, our Kiwanis Club President, his wife Marie, and their two kids, Morgan and Alexander, along with a Romanian Chaperone and three Romanian students who are visiting the US; also, Marty Madison, Evelyn's youngest son, will be joining us. So, that's eleven of us, if I'm counting correctly, all going up to Temecula on Saturday. Sunday, pro football is back on tv . . . so probably not a lot is going to get done around the house. (Particularly after having watched college football for a good portion of Saturday, during the daytime).

While I continue to be hopelessly in love with our pup, Trixie, she does cause us some vexation. This afternoon I took her out, on a leash, to go 'potty.' She didn't do diddly-squat. I was out with her for a good 20 minutes, gave up, came back in the house. Two minutes later she peed on the carpet in the master bathrrom. I was on the computer at the time but I could hear Evelyn shriek and scold her and then throw her out the front door.
Evelyn was understandably angry but I told her . . . "but she doesn't know what she did wrong."

"Yes she does," Evelyn said, "I rubbed her nose in it, spanked her and threw her out the front door. She didn't go anywhere, she just waited there with that forlorn look, waiting to be let back in."

I checked the schedule of PetSmart to see when the next Puppy class is and it's not till a week from this Saturday. Not wanting to wait that long, I called the store to see if we could do anything earlier.

"Oh yes," I was told. "A personal trainer can meet with you. $119 for an hour."

That's about what neurosurgeons get, I think.

We'll wait.

Damn! She's so damned cute and we both love her so much . . . but we are beginning to lose our patience with her.
Most of the time she goes tinkle outside but poopies? That's another story. We are constantly picking up little gifts she leaves us.

Everytime I see Tim Cunning I am alway sure to express my gratitude for this 'gift' he bestowed on us! (Several times we've looked at Trixie and said, 'you're going back to Tim!')

And the house . . . Evelyn has always kept a tidy house. Spotless. And then comes Trixie into our lives.

Remember when we were all young marrieds and had little toddlers? How the toddlers would leave toys all over the house? Same with us today. Our 'baby' has chewy toys laying all over the family room, ready to be played with whenever she's in the mood. Torn up newspapers, (she has a fetish for chewing and tearing up anything made of paper; one day she got into my tax return for last year and managed to separate the papers, teeth marks and chewed off bits . . . but I salvaged enough that I can turn it into the IRS with all the data.) She also revels in dragging either my tennis shoe(s) or my sandal(s) all over the house. The footware is at least as big as she is . . . which makes for a comical sight to see.

She sleeps between us at night and if either of us gets up to visit the john, she's right there with us. That means putting on the leash, opening the door and taking her to go 'potty' at 3, 4, 5am. (See these bags under my eyes? We call 'em Trixie bags!)

I still love her . . . as does evelyn, but, boy! It's starting to get to us.

Glad football season is back; maybe that can occupy my mind, which has become numb from looking after Trixie. (I shouldn't complain so much. It's evelyn who does most of the "walkies" and the cleanup. I help . . . but she's the worker-bee.)

Enough.

Bed time for Mr. Davis.