No Swimming!

I keep a very close eye on my Kids. It would be fair to say that I am just a bit over-protective of them. Yeah. Okay. That might be an understatement...

Newfie came over to play yesterday afternoon - a friend's Giant Schnauzer puppy [at nine months old she is a big puppy!]. We were all outside - me and the three Kids. The three of them were all romping and playing and jumping and snarling. I must be very easily amused, because I get a big kick out of just watching them all. I was on one side of the pool - at the end where our patio table is - and the Kids were all on the other side of the pool at the end where the chaise lounges are. I was watching as Newfie got into her "crouch and pounce" position ready to playfully "attack" The Boy, who, anticipating her "attack" backed up in one big jump and SPLASH! Into the pool he went.

Somehow The Boy was able to catch himself at the edge of the pool and was gripping and clinging with his two front legs to not end up fully submersed - and as I ran to "rescue" him I was yelling, "Honey! Come Help Me!!! The Boy is in the pool! DH came racing out of the house and pushed me out of the way and grabbed The Boy and pulled him out by his collar. Both girls - The Baby and Newfie were right there too, to "help" and had to be pushed out of the way so that DH could grab The Boy.

DH and I have discussed this before - what I need to do to get the Kids out of the pool if they fall in. It goes without saying that if I would have had to I would have been in the pool in an instant to get The Boy if DH wouldn't have been right there to help me. There is no way I'm going to be able to pull a [soaking wet] 120-pound Great Dane out of the pool. I will somehow have to get him to the steps so that he can get out on his own, which will likely mean that I will have to be IN the pool to get him to the steps. In June, July and August the water is quite warm. It is November though, and the water is NOT warm. It is cold.

This is the second time that The Boy has gone into the pool, backwards. He, apparently, just does not have a conception that the pool is there. The first time was this past February. DH was there - in fact, he was the reason The Boy backed up into the pool. DH had just come out of the garage with a rake [in The Boy's eyes rakes are very, very scary]. The Boy crouched and snarled and leaped back at the sight of the rake - straight into the pool. The Baby has gone into the pool once, accidentally as well, but she knows how to swim - and she is much smaller than The Boy so I am not quite as concerned about The Baby being in the pool as I am with The Boy. I think The Boy can probably swim - but since he is not overly fond of water, I'm not a hundred percent on that...

Any suggestions as to how to keep The Kids out of the pool, short of putting up a "No Swimming" sign? Putting up an orange safety net fence is an idea but there is no way to anchor it - DH is NOT going to let me pound stakes into the tile we had laid surrounding the pool - and I do worry that in that one split instant that I am not out there or watching from the kitchen windows that something could happen. Perhaps putting life-vests on them when they are outside playing is what I am going to have to do. We will be in the States for the Holidays and I may just go ahead and purchase a couple of them while we are there. I just don't know what I am going to do until then. I will have to make very clear to the babysitter who will be here with The Kids while we are gone that HE MUST AT ALL TIMES be outside with them when they are out. And, I need to find out if he can swim.

My goodness. Who knew that a pool could present such peril?!?

I'm Going to be Thinner AND Smarter!

Two morning walks every day. One with each Kid. No more walks together - the three of us - me and The Boy and The Baby. Not since I got pulled through the bushes and dragged over the asphalt. Separate walks. The Boy goes first - and I leave The Baby home, crying madly, as The Boy and I head out. Then after a half-hour or so walk with The Boy, I take The Baby out and we walk for a good forty-five minutes or an hour. The Baby just has that much more energy. She could walk much longer... After I go for two walks then I get on the treadmill for at least two miles - and I try to do three or three and a half. [All depends on what is on TV or what I am reading...] So, at a minimum I'm walking for four miles a day, and probably closer to five. The pounds are not dropping, yet, but I know it takes a good six weeks to notice the difference, right? They'll drop. And, if they don't? The treadmill goes!

How is getting thinner going to make me smarter? According to this, which I borrowed swiped from James Burnett, a team of researchers have come upon some findings that suggest that reducing fat benefits the brain. Although, actually, the study was conducted on patients who had had gastric bypass surgery, and I'm beginning to think that that would be a whole lot easier than trying to shed a few pounds by walking and walking and walking... Perhaps I can get Dr. M. to tell the insurance company that I am putting too much weight on my bad knee and that I would be a good candidate for that surgery instead of the total knee replacement. Hey, it's worth a try!

Locking up The Kids!

I know this has been posted at a few other sites on the Web already, but not nearly as pertinent to someone writing in the States as it is to someone writing in The Sandbox!!!

Banning the sale of dogs and cats in Saudi Arabia is only going to make it MORE dangerous than it already is for four-legged Kids. I worry every day about The Baby getting loose and not making it home – because someone out there, a local, thinks that a “black dog is evil.” I don’t know what truth there is to that – whether black dogs are really considered “evil” here, or not, but I am just not willing to chance it. I worry every day that The Boy might get loose and that some “local” will think that because he is so big he would be perfect for a dog-fighting ring. The Boy doesn’t have a fighting bone in his entire body and just the mere thought... I cringe!!! It’s much more prevalent here than you would think. Yes, the sport of Dog Fighting. This is a sport?!? It. Is. Criminal. That’s what it is! No, I will just NOT think about that, today.

Amazing that one of the reasons that the sale of dogs and cats will be banned is because the powers that be here believe they “can be vectors” of diseases which “can dangerously affect newborn babies, the elderly or persons with immune system deficiencies.” Huh? I did a Google search to find out more about what diseases dogs [did not search cats, just dogs] carry that could harm newborn babies. There is very, very little out there, and in fact, but for allergies – oh, and rabies – one canine psychologist, Kathleen Martin, has this to say:

“… health risks are minimal. It should be fine as long as the dog has had its immunizations. We can’t catch doggy diseases anyway. The only thing we can get is worms – so make sure the dog is regularly wormed.”

Wikipedia had a short entry on the subject of “elderly and dogs.” I was hoping to find something that suggested that older people who had dogs lived longer, healther lives – I know that this is true – I just can’t find a link to back me up, here. Ahh, here’s one, and here’s another. There are many, many more. I just wasn’t typing the proper words into my earlier search.

Regardless that fact upon fact upon fact will confirm that having four-legged canine kids is NOT dangerous, I, for one, will be keeping an extra close eye on The Boy and The Baby from now on – it would not be too far fetched to think that their leashes will be wrapped around my waist while we sleep. Nope, I will not be letting The Boy or The Baby out of my sight, here, ever again. [Not that I ever did to begin with, mind you, but...]

Today’s Agenda

Not exciting, really. But I do have a list of things to do. It’s a “healthy” list!

1) Post on 2,996 project.

2) Put other posts that have been written – but are not up – on Stilettos.

3) Go to library – find book on “Blogging for Dummies.” Need to learn how to post side-bars, favorites, etc.

4) Find out where shipment is – it was supposed to be here between 7A and 10A this morning. It is past 11, now…

5) Unpack and get laundry started.

6) Go to post office to make sure there is no mail.

7) Go to Commissary; the Kids are out of “breakfast” dog food and there is no more coffee!

8) Make appointment for manicure and pedicure.

9) Cancel trip to London.

10) Start diet.

I can knock off number 1 on the list.

[For your information, I tried and tried and tried… to get photos to publish on the “Boxers or Briefs” article. They would not take. No matter how small I made them – they would not “upload.” All the more reason to get that “Blogging for Dummies book at the library, today!]

Home: Heat, Humidity, Flooding, Rat Turds

Oh, yeah… It’s soooo good to be home!

Savannah was nice. Savannah is actually very nice. It is a beautiful old city with plenty to do and I thoroughly enjoyed myself every day of the seven I was there. My husband was there for some company business three weeks prior to my joining him, and continued working the entire time I was there. So I amused myself and found plenty to do. Even the one afternoon it rained I sat in the hotel bar met lots of nice people, including an employee named Elena from Russia who I have decided would make a wonderful wife for my son if it should happen to not work out with the young lady he is currently involved with [who he loved dearly until I told him that I actually liked her!]. I shopped; I explored the old tree and moss lined streets with the beautiful stately homes [mansions!]. I ate – way too much – but all the good things I’ve missed while here in The Sandbox – the very first night – baby back ribs! They were absolutely fabulous. And I drank. There are probably a few bottles of Sterling Cabernet left in Savannah in some of the more remote stores and restaurants, but when we left there was none left in the immediate “downtown” vicinity. Savannah’s weather was absolutely perfect [but for the one rainy afternoon – and it didn’t even start to rain until I put my bathing suit on to head to the pool – but of course…], in the upper-80’s, low-90’s every day, some humidity, but not unbearable.

After my husband was done with company business we headed to Buffalo where my parents are. They are actually outside of Buffalo, in the very western part of the state in a teeny, tiny little town which is only on the map during the summer, right on Lake Chautauqua. It is a summer “resort” area and come Labor Day, the sidewalks are all rolled up and put away until the following Memorial Day. How my parents have lived there year-round for so many years amazes me. Upstate New York in the winter – which lasts for a full seven months – is utterly dreadful. Cold, gray, dreary. Depressing. It snows every single day. It is called “lake effect” snow. Call it whatever you want; it still needs shoveled – plowed – and it’s still cold. Very cold! So, we had a perfect five days there and took advantage of the beautiful summer weather. I laid on the dock and worked on my tan and my husband worked on the golf course chasing a little white ball around [no, I don’t play – I tried – it takes “hand-eye” coordination and I have zero]. We visited with other family members; played catch-up with an aunt and a cousin I’ve not seen in almost twenty years. We spent a glorious day at Niagra Falls on the Canadian side, and really, this should be included in one of the Seven Wonders of the World and it isn’t.

From Buffalo we headed to Maryland where one of my sister’s and her family live. It was here that for the first time in sixteen years – yes, sixteen years – that my ENTIRE family – all nineteen of us – got together for a family picture. There have been many, many family gatherings in the past sixteen years, but someone has always been missing for some reason or another. I hope my parents aren’t too disappointed with us all – there are four of us – children – and along with our respective spouses we only produced nine grandchildren for them – and if my brother’s wife wouldn’t have had twins then there would be only eight. My Dad’s sister has twice that many, and his brother has twice that many plus some more. We aren’t a very big family…

After a few days in Maryland we finally headed to what we call “home,” even though we don’t have a home there anymore – Wake Forest, North Carolina. The almost two weeks we spent there flew by. Zoom. Whoosh. Vacation was over and it was time to pack up and head back to The Sandbox. However, while “home,” did attend to some of the straggling “loose ends” that never seem to end – dealing with the bank – we’ve been in Saudi for almost four years now, and even though we have filled out the appropriate documentation, sent letters and e-mails and made repeated, lengthy and costly telephone calls some of our “bank” mail goes to Sudan! – and it was during our last week in Savannah when we found out that one of our credit cards was cancelled because apparently some “bank data” was jeopardized so the bank sent new credit cards to everyone involved and our credit card was sent to Sudan and then returned – but we were actually paying for dinner one evening when we discovered the original card that we had in our possession had been cancelled – that makes for an interesting situation – and thankfully we have more than one credit card. We had to take care of our mail forwarding [mail goes to a “agent” who then forwards everything to us on a monthly basis], get the boat registered, and of course, as always while we are in the States get a shipment ready to send here. Hopefully sometime next week this shipment will be here – and this particular shipment consists of 484 pounds and will cost almost a Thousand Dollars. Four hundred pounds of this shipment is dry dog food. It’s just part of the cost of living in the Middle East. You pay what you have to pay.

It is a long trip home. A very long trip. On the day we left Raleigh, North Carolina, we checked into the airport at about one o’clock for a three o’clock flight to Detroit. We sat in Detroit for almost two hours. From Detroit we went to Amsterdam where we only had about an hour and a half before getting on the plane to Bahrain – but not before going to Abu Dhabi – which added some two and a half hours to our flying time – not because Abu Dhabi is so far – it’s only a fifty minute flight from Bahrain – but once in Abu Dhabi they had to service the plane and pick-up additional passengers. It was almost eleven o’clock when we finally, finally dragged our sorry selves through the front door – after a total travel time of twenty-seven hours.

We arrived to a very, very quite house. The “Kids” were at the kennel. This was the first time we’ve ever come home to such quiet, as in the past The Boy has been here with the House Assistant – the addition of The Baby only happened this past spring while I was in the States for most of February and all of March – so she has never stayed with him. I have no more House Assistant. I fired him on July 1st, six days before I left. He just wasn’t doing his job. Oh, sure, I could have “talked” to him again; we’ve had many conversations in the past where I’ve said “these are your responsibilities and this is what I expect.” And, for several weeks, things will go along just fine, and then we have to have “the talk” again. I’m done. No more talking. It’s detailed… On Wednesday, June 28th, I said “today is floor day,” and he actually gave ME a hard time about it. Wait a minute, here… This is my house. This is what I want done. You are my employee. And, you’re going to argue with me about washing the kitchen den hallway bathroom floor? Umm, no. It was an on-going issue – what needed to be done and what actually got done. My House Assistant’s schedule was that he worked for us seventeen hours a week – in the mornings – and this house should have been immaculate – and it just isn’t – wasn’t. I spent that Thursday and Friday just seething about the whole situation and decided that I just wasn’t going to have “it.” I started making a list of all the times we’ve “talked” and all things we “talked” about. It is three pages long. When the “cons” outweigh the “pros” by two and a half pages, it’s time to make a change. Well, firing the House Assistant, right before I left, probably wasn’t the most optimal way to handle this, and I had to put the Kids in Canine Camp for almost an entire month, but I knew that with the in the kennel – here on our compound – that I wouldn’t have to worry about how much time the House Assistant was spending with them, whether they were getting fed on time, and whether or not they were safe.

Maybe I’ll go into detail on the House Assistant issue at a later time. I am still very, very angry over this whole issue. The bottom line is, however, that I hired someone – he’s been with us almost three years – treated him much better than a lot of household help here gets treated, paid him more than I should have, and I was taken advantage of, over and over and over. I will not have household help again for a while. I just don’t want to go through this again.

So, after just a few hours of sleep, I woke up before the sun, anxious to get to the kennel – which doesn’t open until seven o’clock – to collect my Kids. As I am about to leave the house – it’s 6:45 in the morning – I see this puddle of what looks like “yellow” water on the den floor, along the wall. I am questioning what it is I spilled – it’s not coffee and it’s not from one of the Kids [they aren’t here!] – and was it there last night? Hmmph. Okay, wipe it up with a couple of paper towels, run upstairs to grab my wallet and “put my lips on,” and when I get back downstairs, there is more yellow water. What is going on? Oh, my, the neighbors must be having some plumbing problems. I head out the door and ring the neighbor’s doorbell. No answer. Ring again. Oh well, no answer. Whatever. I jump in the truck [it’s a Land Rover – I call it a truck] to go to the kennel to get the Kids. They are THRILLED to see me – and I am THRILLED to see them! It was a very touching reunion. We get in the truck and come home. We walk in the door and the den and kitchen floors are soaked! Water is just running into my house from next door. I start throwing some old towels down to cover the floor. Uh-oh. The carpet in the dining room is wet, too! It is “squishing” when you walk over it. Great. Just great. I don’t have that many old towels and I really don’t want to use nice towels to clean up something I’m not even quite sure what it is. As I head out the door to go back to the neighbor’s – the Kids are racing through the house – racing through the water – and someone is going to get hurt! – the House Assistant from next door is running toward me – his arms waving wildly and telling me a pipe broke and he doesn’t know who to call. [There is no less than four inches of water on the floor of the townhouse next to ours – the Oriental carpets have got to be ruined – as well as some of the furniture! They have two little “yip-yip” dogs next door and the poor little things are swimming in the water. I make the call to “202” and tell them it is an emergency and they have to come right away. They do. They send plumbers, a truck that sucks water out of your house, a team of men to “squeegee” the house next door and rip up the little carpet they have there – it is mostly tile. Several hours later the same team heads to our house to do the same thing. It is just one big mess.

In the meantime, as I am trying to unpack and get semi-situated back at home, with the Kids, I notice some black pellet looking “droppings.” I think I must have a rat. Great. I’ve seen one rat here – thankfully it was not alive at the time – and it was not pretty. And, now I’ve got one? Oh no, this is NOT good. I call “202” again and they send “pest control.” They little man gets here and says, “Oh, Madam, you have a rat.” Yeah, like I said on the phone when I called. And, gee, thanks for confirming this for me. “We must send someone with a trap.” Yeah, like I said on the phone when I called. So, a little while later another man gets here and he takes one look at the little black pellet looking things and says, “it is a gecko.” Are you sure? Because the man that was just here said I have a rat. “Oh, no, Madam, it is a gecko.” And, to prove this he starts squishing the little black pellet looking things with his finger – on the floor! Eeeuww! “See, Madam, they are soft and contain bugs. It is a gecko. Rat droppings are very hard and you cannot squish them.” Yeah, well, okay then. Now what? “He will leave, Madam, he will not like the cold air [huh?] and wants to be outside.” Sure he does… Not to worry, The Boy will find him if he’s here, because he is after all, the World’s Best Lizard Chaser! The Boy won’t catch the lizard, but I’ll know when he finds the lizard because of the ruckus it will cause. The little black pellet looking things have been cleaned up and there have been no more, so if there was a gecko in this house he’s either hiding somewhere and making a mess elsewhere or he has decided he doesn’t like it here and he has left or I guess, he could be under the stove or one of the refrigerators and dead at this point. There’s no awful smell coming from under any of my appliances so I’m hoping that he has left, gone back outside to the almost unbearable heat and humidity we’re experiencing.

It’s soooo good to be home!

Lizard in the Bedroom

The Boy, our Great Dane, is a world champion lizard chaser. He’s only caught one, ever, so he’s not much of a catcher – just a chaser. The lizards are much faster, and probably much smarter. All but for the one he caught – and that lizard lost its little tail – but the lizard didn’t leave. He continued to live out back, to taunt The Boy every chance he could possibly get.

Last night, I was sitting at the computer, and I kept hearing this “whack!” “thwap!” noise. Each time I would get up to go see what it was, I’d see The Boy – just standing on the bed – and I figured, okay, he must have lost a chewy or a ball down in between the mattress and the headboard. Geez, I hope he’s not scratching the headboard and that that is what that noise is. This went on for about ten or fifteen minutes. I’d hear the “whack!” “thwap!” and get up to go check it out. Each time – nothing – just The Boy standing on the bed.

Again, “whack!” “thwap! THUUDDD!” and I go to see – and there he is, The Boy, who must have been standing on the nightstand – no small dog – he’s a Great Dane – is caught with his right front leg and rear leg BEHIND the nightstand, his body in a rather sideways position semi-on top of the nightstand with his head down on the side of the nightstand stuck next to the wall. Oh, my gosh! What in the world are you doing?!? I help him – free him from an almost impossible position and spot – without hurting him – and what does he do? The Boy jumps back up on the bed to try this again! And that’s when I see it. There is a baby lizard on the wall – up high – a teeny, tiny little gecko lizard, all of about two inches long. It is driving The Boy absolutely crazy, and he is bound and determined to get it, no matter what furniture he destroys doing so, or how many broken bones he might end up with. [That he didn’t break something when he fell off / onto / behind the nightstand is nothing short of a miracle! And, the nightstand is still intact as well. Note to self: Write to the furniture company, tell them how strong their stuff really is. Another note to self: Start wearing camera around neck to have readily available at all times, and especially for Kodak moments like this one!]

Great. Now what am I going to do? How do you catch a lizard? And, oh, my, I’m not actually going to touch it! I can’t! I’m close to petrified of creep crawly things, and I realize it’s only a baby lizard, and I don’t think they bite, do they? It’s only nine-thirty. Call the neighbor. I’ll have him come and take care of this. I dial the phone. No answer. Try again. No answer. Okay, leave a message this time… But, now I’ve got to stand here and watch this lizard until he calls me back – what if he’s not home until midnight? I can’t possibly sleep in this room with this lizard in here! What to do, what to do… I grab a newspaper, fold it in an “L” shape, open the sliding door just a couple inches, and am able to nudge the poor little creature outside. Phew. Call the neighbor back, leave another message. No worry. I took care of the lizard.

The Boy is still standing there, just giving me this look that says, “Well, good job. Now you’ve ruined my night.” He was going to get that lizard! “You almost got it. You’re a Good Boy. And, you’re a really, really good Lizard Chaser. Good Boy.”

Vacation IS Work

I am leaving, at the end of next week, and will be gone for almost a month. This will be my fourth trip to the States in less than a year. Apparently, there is something very wrong with me, because everyone around me seems to be much more thrilled about my situation than I am. They are both envious of me – for getting to “go to the States,” and excited for me – that I’ll get to be in the “real world” and experience “normalcy” again, even if for a short time. My reaction to this? Well, not once have I said, “Oh, I can’t wait!” or “It’s going to be so much fun!” No. Instead, I am dreading it.

The travel, alone, is daunting! I will leave here, my house, in the evening, and take a cab to the airport – which is, at a minimum an hour away – if not longer – so I will allow myself two and a half hours, by the time I get through customs on both sides and finally cross the causeway [I’m leaving from Bahrain], where after arriving at the airport almost two hours prior – as is required for International flights – my plane will not leave until almost one in the morning. That’s not such a bad thing – I’ll be able to sleep – I can sleep almost anywhere. The first leg of the flight is almost nine hours and upon arrival in this country, I will spend two hours at the airport waiting to catch a flight for the next leg of my trip. The second leg of the flight is a little over seven and a half hours long, and at this point I will probably have to force myself not to become to “antsy” from sitting, I won’t be tired, and I probably won’t be able to sleep. Estimated travel time, so far: twenty-three hours. I will arrive in the States and have to go through customs, where it is more likely than not, that I will be pulled aside and taken to a little room for approximately an hour to be interrogated and given the third degree for being an American citizen who lives in Saudi Arabia.

The questions are always the same – yes, this happens regularly – I don’t recall the last time I made the trip where this didn’t happen. My answers will not have changed since the last time you asked me [February] what I am doing living in Saudi Arabia, why I am traveling alone, how much cash I have on me [U.S. Dollars – none], who my husband works for, etc., etc., etc. The nice – and sometimes not so nice – Customs people will hand me back my passport and tickets and I will be on my merry way – to locate some semi-comfortable spot where I will need to kill another four hours until I finally board the plane for the last leg of this trip, for a two-hour flight where I will be unable to prevent myself from becoming “antsy” and where the very slightest provocation will set me off [if that is your child, sitting behind me, kicking my seat, I will – not quietly – be sharing my thoughts about your unruly, obnoxious, misbehaving offspring if it doesn’t immediately stop]. The trip, so far, will have now consumed some thirty hours of travel and layover time. There will be the inevitable half-hour or so wait at the airport of my destination to collect my luggage, before finding a cab to take me to the hotel where my husband is and has been since the beginning of this month. The total time elapsed, from the time I leave my house, will be just short of thirty-one or thirty-two hours!

Yes, I am happy that I will get to spend time with my family and friends, but to do so will require more travel – we will fly from Georgia to New York – a week after my arrival – next week – only to fly south, again, three weeks later, to North Carolina, before getting on flights to return to The Sandbox. My husband will have lived out of his suitcases for two months; I will have done so for almost a month, spending time in hotel rooms or family and friend’s guestrooms. And, this will be an “easy” trip. [The first time we returned to the States, a little more than a year after arriving in Saudi Arabia, in a little less than two months we traveled first to Texas, then to California, to Washington [state] to New York and to North Carolina, where we joined friends who left with us to go to Italy where we went to Venice, Rome and Milan – we stayed in thirteen different hotel rooms or family and friend’s guestrooms at various destinations which required traveling on eleven different flights – International and domestic – and a couple of trains. Oh, no, we will NEVER, EVER do this again!]

It’s not just the travel, and living out of suitcases, with no space to call your own… There is the fact that if you are at a hotel, if you want to get up in the middle of the night and have a bowl of cereal – oh, wait – you can’t – sure you could order room service – but it’s not the same as walking into your own kitchen and opening the refrigerator to find something to eat that will satisfy whatever craving it is you are having. And, if you are with friends and family, I think it would be considered slightly bad taste to just get up and leave the bedroom in your nightshirt to grab that first cup of coffee – I, personally, don’t ever want to have a “first thing in the morning while I pour coffee” conversation with my husband’s best friend or my brother-in-law in my tee-shirt [just the tee-shirt!], hair not yet brushed and the tell-tale signs of mascara from the day before lining my eyes. So, unlike what might be something you are comfortable doing in your own home, you really can’t do somewhere else.

Forgoing the actual travel and being away from home, I’ve got numerous “things to do” before I can even leave… For starters, I make all the “Kids” food. Yes, this is something for which I have no one but myself to blame – but the food that is available for purchase here in The Sandbox is lacking in quality, to put it mildly. So, I’ve now spent an entire week in the kitchen preparing pre-measured bags of food, filling a chest freezer, for the Kids. I have cooked sixty pounds of hamburger, twenty pounds of chicken, ten pounds of turkey, and six pounds of salmon. I have hard-boiled, peeled and chopped more than twelve dozen eggs, cut into “stuffing” size cubes ten loaves of cereal bread, grated some ten or fifteen pounds of cheddar cheese and four or five pounds of parmesan cheese, cooked and pureed bags of frozen peas and cans of lima beans, shredded several kilos of carrots and sliced twice as many kilos of zucchini. I’ve cooked and chopped enough broccoli, green beans and beets that my hands have taken on a lovely light yellowish green and lavender hue. I have peeled, cooked and mashed sweet potatoes, and cooked rice and barley in commercial sized batches along with a couple containers of oatmeal. Thankfully, this is task is finally – finally – done.

There is the list of instructions to be left – which up until this trip – has been on the computer and I’ve just changed and updated it to make it applicable to whatever flights, dates, hotels, friend’s and family’s homes we can be reached at. We got a new computer [oh, yes, thank you, Dear, for getting us something we really needed – without a diskette drive so that I could simply put what I need from the old computer on a disk and plug it in to this one!] and so I am going to have to do the “instructions” from scratch. There are forms that must be filled out, here, that are not an option, and then delivered to their respective offices: One for housing that says we are gone and who is responsible for maintenance, one that is for security authorizing our “house assistant” to stay here with the “Kids,” and one for the vet authorizing treatment for the “Kids” should it become necessary allowing payment of same to be withheld from my husband’s pay, and finally one for the mail – that we never get – to be held. My list of “things to do” includes numerous other items – some of which are relatively important [i.e., get The Baby’s stitches removed – she was spayed this week], and others which, if not done at all [i.e., get a pedicure] will probably go unnoticed.

So, no, I’m not entirely thrilled to be “going on vacation” at this point… And, no I’m not excited. But for the fact that my father’s health is failing – he had two heart attacks in March, just before we returned to The Sandbox – so I want to spend some time with him – I would tell my husband who has been in the States for work-related purposes, that I just can’t do this trip, again, right now. We were in California in September of last year; we were in Las Vegas for the Holidays and returned to The Sandbox in January; our “long” vacation was scheduled for March – I left The Sandbox to go to North Carolina in February – to get The Boy’s little sister, The Baby, and was gone for almost two months. We have another “short” vacation – already scheduled – for this fall – we are going to Thailand – and I could happily wait until then to go anywhere… I really rather wish, already, that this trip was over and done with and that we were home again, because traveling like this isn’t a vacation. It is work!

The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly

The good: A simple phone call to “202” fixes any and all maintenance problems.

The bad: Today I had two minor maintenance situations and no less than eleven [11], yes, ELEVEN men have been here to fix them – two, simple, minor little maintenance problems.

The ugly: Me, at this point. Ugly beyond belief.

I have much to do in the next twenty days before leaving, again, for a short visit to the States – my third trip in six months. My list has six million three thousand and eleven “things to do” on it… So much to do, so little time… Deciding to eliminate two of those “things to do” off my list I called “202” first thing this morning to see about having the freezer door repaired and the dryer vent fixed.

Our refrigerator, supplied by housing, here, is probably going on thirty years old – it is at least twenty years old. It is one of those ‘fridge on the bottom, freezer on the top. Standard, basic model. No ice maker, no water dispenser. Nothing fancy. For three years now, I have lived with opening the freezer door and having whatever is on the bottom “shelf” of the actual door falling out onto the floor. The cheesy little metal bar that holds the items on the shelf was broken at some point before we moved in. Typically, I just pick up the frozen peas, the “kid” ice creams, and the box of Eggo’s that only has one waffle left in it, put the little metal bar back in, and then put the “stuff” back on this shelf. At this point, the metal bar is swimming in the holes where it is supported as the plastic molding has been chipped away little by little each time the bar falls out and is then replaced. When a can of frozen limeade fell out this past weekend and got me on the top of the foot, having this fixed made its way from being lost in the middle to the top of the “list.”

The dryer is another story. The vent hose – connected from the back of the dryer to the “hole” in the floor to blow the “hot air” outside has not stayed in place from the very beginning – from the day it was hooked up. My husband or my “house assistant” has to fix this for me almost every time I use the dryer [daily] as the hose “releases” itself and blows hot air into the kitchen. When it is 110 degrees outside, and your air conditioner is already working overtime, the very last thing you want blowing on you is hot air, especially if you have to be in the kitchen because you are cooking food for the “kids” to stock the freezer in preparation of departing for a short while, which I started working on yesterday and planned to continue working on today. So, having the dryer vent “fixed” became number two on the “list.”

The simple dialing of “202” is really something that can spoil a person. It is a good thing. If your hot water tank breaks at ten o’clock at night – someone from maintenance comes right away – and by eleven o’clock you will have a new hot water tank [if that’s the problem]. If your air conditioning goes, no matter what time it is, someone is dispatched to your abode, pronto! An air conditioning “break” constitutes an “emergency” here in The Sandbox. Pretty much whatever the problem – but for having the phone / computer outlet changed in the bedroom [see earlier column…] is taken care of in short order.

Certainly, but for maybe some sort of assisted living retirement home, or hotel, there is no place you could live in the States that I know of where you can simply dial three numbers and have a problem resolved, in a relatively short amount of time, even if it does require twenty different men to show up. Did I mention that this service is “free?” Well, free in the sense that we don’t pay for it; it is part of “housing” and the “company” takes care of it. Even when The Boy went through the sliding screen door, folded it in half, and completely tore the screen out of the frame, it cost us nothing to repair. Sure it cost something – the help that comes to fix the problem has to [hopefully] be paid, the cost of a new frame for the slider and screening, but we were not personally charged a penny. It is all good.

There was a situation with “big bugs,” really, really “big bugs,” that required several phone calls – somewhere close to twenty different repairmen, engineers, supervisors, metal workers, exterminators, glass fitters, photographers and whoever else, shortly after we first moved in, and took about a week to resolve. So, but for this one exception, calling the simple three digit number for maintenance has been great, and even this was taken care of, it just took longer than the usual customary “right away” timeframe…

I walked downstairs one morning into the kitchen and saw this “shadow” on the wall. I turned to see what it was and it was and screamed! It was a roach the size of a mouse – maybe even bigger! I am not kidding. [I’ve lived in Florida, I’ve seen what they call “palmetto bugs” which are actually roaches on steroids, but this roach was mutant!] I didn’t even want to kill it because of the noise I knew it would make – the little creature screaming in pain and agony, and then the “crunching” of its bones and body – but did end up grabbing one of my husband’s sneakers and attacking it. Yes, of course I felt bad – it was akin to killing a small animal – I probably could have named it and wouldn’t have had the get The Boy a sister this past February – but for the fact that there is not enough room in this townhouse for THAT bug and me.

When my husband finally got up later that morning, he asked what his sneaker was doing in the middle of the floor – he was sure I was going to say, “Hey, you left your shoes out – The Boy didn’t know it wasn’t a chew toy – and that’s why your sneaker is there.” I am incredibly tolerant of this type of thing – and there are no bad “kids” in this regard. My philosophy, with regard to “kids” is that if you want to make absolutely sure something you want or need isn’t going to be chewed, you need to take care of it or you are at fault. Of course, The Boy has never, ever chewed a sneaker – or any shoe – but I wouldn’t have blamed him if the sneakers did end up getting chewed when they weren’t in the closet or on a pair of feet where they belong. I explained to my husband that I put it there – the sneaker – and that he would have to clean up the mess – and he says, after sipping his coffee, “What mess?” To which I respond, “The mess of mangled bug blood and guts underneath your sneaker.” He’s a good man, my husband, and dutifully cleaned it up. [A really, really good man would have gotten out of bed when his wife screamed at the sight of the “critter” on the kitchen floor and come running down to save the “damsel in distress,” properly eliminating the scary little monster!] End of story…

Wrong. A few days later the dead bug’s big brother was in the kitchen, sitting on the floor, just waiting for me… There was no way I was going to be able to kill this one. First of all, my husband’s sneakers were no where in sight – I wasn’t stepping on it with only my flip-flops on – no way! – and there was NOTHING else readily at hand with which to maim this giant mutant cock roach, so he was able to escape to freedom without losing his life. I did, however, immediately call “202” and tell them that I needed an exterminator. The “interior” exterminator appeared a short time later. I told him about the “bug.” He probably didn’t have a clue what I was telling him, but he was able to spray the house and tell me that I needed to call “202” again and tell them that I need “outdoor” pest control, as there was a hole in one of our sliding glass doors that someone must have drilled for some reason and that is where he [the “interior” exterminator] thought the bugs must be coming in from.

Okay, fine. I called “202” and told them that I needed “outdoor pest control.” The next morning the man for “outdoor” pest control appeared and he sprayed outside. Afterward he pointed out the “hole” [it was more like a double-wide garage door for mutant cock roaches!] and patiently explained to me that unless I got the hole in the door fixed that I was not going to solve my problem. So I called “202” again, and after explaining what I had been told by the “interior” exterminator and the “outdoor” pest control men, finally got to speak to a “supervisor” that could help me. The supervisor made an appointment to come and see the problem. It only took him about three seconds to determine that there was in fact a problem, and one he did not have a simple solution for. [I suggested a new sliding door, but that, apparently was a far too simple solution and NOT the way things are done here.] This is when the various departments of men started showing up on a daily basis. First there was the glass guy – he had no suggestions to take care of this – he wanted “construction” to come – they did – then they sent some sort of engineer to look at the door – who, again, readily agreed that I had a problem but offered no solution. Another engineer – or door planner – or glass architect – whoever – came a short while later and took pictures. That afternoon someone else – metal worker of some sort – showed up to take measurements – he had two workers in tow with him. This went on for a week. However, finally a piece was designed to fit over the hole that would block these “visitors” from coming in without an invitation. [It sounds much more simple than it actually was, and but for drawing a diagram of the door – and showing where the “piece” was missing, just go along with a “hole that someone drilled.”] Truly there were no less than about twenty different repairmen, representing the full gamut of building professions – but for plumbing – all coming to simply fix a “hole in the door.” Yes, my “simple” suggestion of taking a sliding glass door off an empty unit for here – putting the door with the hole in it on an empty unit – doesn’t actually “solve” the problem, but it would have easily “solved” my problem.

Back to today… I get a maintenance “appointment” for 2:30 this afternoon. At 1P, the “appliance” man calls and says he is outside, can he look at my freezer now. Sure, come on in… I have to crate the “kids.” He’s petrified of them. Okay. Everyone is, not a big deal. So I round up the “kids.” The Boy happily trots into his crate – he is soooo good about this – The Baby, on the other hand, is still small enough to be incredibly nimble and limber that crating her requires quite a struggle on her part and my part – to do this – and it all has to be done very quickly – get her in it, get the door closed and get it latched – she HATES her crate – just HATES it! Poor little Girl… The appliance guy opens the freezer, sees the problem and says, “not good – cannot be fixed.” Okay, fine. Not my problem. The refrigerator comes with the house, and obviously I need one – a refrigerator. He calls his supervisor and explains that the freezer door cannot be repaired and that the entire unit needs to be replaced. This is now on order and it will be delivered within the next day or two. Great. List is already looking shorter, with only six million three thousand and ten “things to do” left on it…

At about 2:15 a “construction” crew from the Maintenance Department shows up. Yes, four men and a supervisor – all to fix my dryer vent. I dutifully send The Boy off to his crate, and chase, catch and crate The Baby. The construction “crew” comes in and we all crowd into the laundry closet – which of course is hot, because the hose isn’t connected to the vent properly and is blowing hot air out into the kitchen – so that I can explain the problem and tell the supervisor that no matter what we do – twisty-tie-thingy’s, duct tape, wire, super glue – nothing is keeping the hose connected to the vent that goes outside because the hose is so much bigger than the pipe we’re connecting it to. So with the six of us crowded into this little closet area, the “supervisor” pulls the dryer out and says, “The hose is not tight.” [No shit, Sherlock! Are you sure that’s the problem? Guess this is HOW you became the supervisor!] And, right in front of me, he proceeds to take the giant twisty-tie-thingy off the hose that is connected to the back of the dryer and attaches the hose to the floor vent with it, which NOW means that the hose is going to fall off the dryer! He moves the dryer back into place. I am trying to remain calm and not hurt him – explaining that I could have done that – but that this isn’t fixing the problem that as soon as I turn the dryer on the hose is going to fall off the back of the dryer and won’t be fixed. “Yes, madam. All fixed.” No [YOU IDIOT] it is not fixed! Now you’ve made it worse! “Oh, no, Madam. It is tight. All fixed.” As the supervisor and his entourage trot out, I am still rambling on that this has not taken care of the problem, that I need a new hose – one that FITS – and that I am just going to be calling them back, and what about the back of the dryer… and they have left and the door has shut.

I uncrate the “kids,” The Baby is going nuts, she’s been “locked in her prison cell” for all of five minutes, for the second time today! She is crying, barking, as if to say, “What have I done? Is there ANYTHING I have EVER done that could possibly justify my deserving such cruel and unusual punishment!?! I didn’t mean to chew the fig tree!!!” The Boy is just so mellow he could care less one way or another. I turn the dryer on. Two seconds later it is blowing hot air directly on me. I go to grab my duct tape to fix the back of the dryer myself. Incredibly, the gang that has just left has walked off with MY duct tape! I am starting to feel myself lose it… My temper. It isn’t going to take much… I call “202.” Now, not only do I have to report that the “construction” [yes, I am not kidding – CONSTRUCTION] crew that has just left after supposedly fixing my dryer not only did not fix my dryer, but made it worse, and they took my duct tape. I have a conversation with a man that goes something like this:

Me: Yes, I called to have my dryer fixed. They have come and gone, but now my dryer is worse than it was before they came, and I can’t fix it myself because they took my duct tape.

Man: Yes, you called on freezer. It will be replaced.

Me: Yes, yes, I did call on the freezer. This man has come and gone, I have a “ticket” for another refrigerator to be delivered in the next day or so. But my dryer is not fixed.

Man: Your refrigerator is broken?

Me: NOOOOO! My refrigerator is fine. This is all set. My dryer is broken.

Man: Oh, yes, we will send somebody.

Me: No. You are NOT understanding me. Somebody JUST left – five minutes ago – they fixed my dryer but made it worse and took my duct tape.

Man: Company dryer, Ma’am?

Me: No, my dryer.

Man: Oh, not our problem, Ma’am.

Me: Yes, yes, this IS YOUR PROBLEM! My dryer works fine. The vent is the problem. And I want my duct tape back.

Man: Something is missing, Madam?

Me: Yes, my duct tape is missing.

Man: I will call security.

Me: No! I don’t need you to call security over a missing half-roll of duct tape. I just want my dryer fixed. And if I had my duct tape I could fix it myself.

Man: Oh, yes, Ma’am. You need to call “residential,” this is appliances.

Me: Well, what number do I call for residential?

Man: Call 202, Madam.

Me: I did DIAL 202 – that’s how I got you!

Man: Yes, call 202.

This turned into a “shouting” match. Well one of us was shouting – and it wasn’t the guy on the other end of the phone. Ever notice how when someone doesn’t understand you – and you don’t understand them – raising your voice seems like the appropriate way to make them understand? Regardless, the “Man” won that round. I called “202,” again, and asked to speak to a residential manager. And, just who do you think answered the phone when I called “202?” Yep, the “Man.” And if it wasn’t the “Man,” then whoever it was sounded exactly LIKE him!

Man: Yes, Madam. You will get a call back. He is out of the office until four o’clock.”

Me: No. No, I do NOT want a call back. I want to speak to someone, right now! Someone who I can understand and someone who can understand me.

Man: Yes, you will get a call back.

...click. HE HUNG UP THE PHONE ON ME!

I am incensed! About close to beyond controlling, at this point. If I knew where it was, exactly, that “202” was physically located, I would have been on my way.
I called “202” again, and some young lady with a very demure voice – a whisper, almost – answered. I explained – in that ranting, raving way only an incensed lunatic can – that I needed to speak to someone in charge, right now. Fortunately this young woman did understand the urgency of the call – and I found myself speaking to a man who identified himself with an Arabic accent in PERFECT, FLAWLESS English – and I explained the problem. I think he, too, could tell that there was a problem at this point and that probably my dryer vent was not “it,” or the freezer door… He did ask me for my number and house address and said he would be calling me back within five minutes, he just wanted to see who it was that had shown up – not fixed the problem – made it worse – and to top it off, had walked off with my duct tape.

I did get a call back, within about two minutes, and this man asked me if he could come and see the problem. Yes, do, by all means…

Five minutes later, the door bell rings – again – I round up the “kids,” back to those crates… This man – who I now know is the Quality Assurance Manager – wants to fix my problem. He has someone with him. The two of them look at the dryer, and the other man – not the “Manager” – tells me that the hose is too big. [NO! You’ve got to be kidding, right?!?] The Manager makes two quick phone calls – speaking only Arabic [and this is why I am so bound and determined to learn this language so that when someone is talking to someone else – if they are talking ABOUT me – in Arabic – I’ll know whether or not they are saying, “Yeah, Mohammed, here’s the situation – we need a roll of duct tape right away to cover this bitch’s mouth – and someone to fix her dryer – she is about crazy! There is steam coming out of every orifice in her head – and we are afraid she could be a threat to the community if we don’t fix this, right now. Yeah, yeah. Security should probably be on high alert. We’ve got a classic nut case on our hands at 456 Flower Circle.”] Mr. Manager hangs up the phone and explains that someone is on the way to deliver a roll of duct tape to me [although, really, I could care less about the duct tape – which is NOT the issue – but for the fact that now I can’t fix my own damn dryer without it – and no, I don’t think it was “stolen” but merely that one of the members of the five-man construction team who was there earlier probably walked off with it not realizing that it was mine to begin with], and another man is on the way with a new dryer vent hose and the problem will be taken care of today…

So, we have “freezer guy," then “Supervisor and his four-man construction team,” the “Quality Assurance Manager,” and – who knows who it was with him – we were never properly introduced – probably just some “desk jockey” along to be a witness after realizing that there was a volatile situation to defuse over a dryer vent and half a roll of duct tape… That’s eight men visiting, in three separate “door bell rings / time to be crated” instances.

The door bell rang just moments later. There are three men standing there. The Boy takes off around the corner and dutifully goes into his own crate. He is such a good boy… And I think he realizes too that “Mom” is not having a good day, best to get to the crate and be safe. The Baby, well, she’s still young. She doesn’t quite realize that it is not a “good day” here at 456 Flower Circle, regardless of the fact that she’s now been imprisoned three times. Well, this was it for her, too. As I was struggling to get her in her crate – she actually BIT me and drew blood!!! This is a very, very first, ever, and no, it wasn’t a “real” bite, well, she didn’t take a chunk out of my finger, but she didn’t want me to have the chance to “latch” the crate and she bit me! And drew blood – kind of like a pin prick would, but the point… I know she hates the crate, but this behavior is GOING to stop! We’ll work on “crate desensitizing” starting tomorrow – which of course, means that my list once again has one more item to be added to it… Two steps forward, one step back.

These men are here to fix my dryer. All three of them? [Hey, the “construction crew was four and a Supervisor.] No. Only two. One of them is carrying a new roll of duct tape.

I tried last night to do a post on double standards – rape of the maid a week or so ago – and three young men, who shall remain nameless and faceless for taking pictures on their camera phones of women. I wanted the “photos” and scanned them in from the papers, but couldn’t get them to download after about two and a half hours. Then, tried it again this morning – spent another hour or so and still couldn’t get them to go… Decided my list of things to do was much too long to be playing with the computer and posting scanned copies of photos. Instead, wanted to let you know what happened with my “house assistant” this past Wednesday when I sent him to town… I’ll try to fill you in on that tomorrow or Monday. I’ve just had too much, already, today, with the freezer door, the “major” dryer vent fix and the disappearing duct tape. Time for a cup of tea – something stronger, perhaps, and to try to unwind … Ahh, yes, life in The Sandbox will, no doubt, provide plenty of fodder for blogging…

Kids...

Yesterday was an incredibly busy day… We started out the day with our usual “morning outing,” but it was cut short because “The Boy” [our oldest “kid] did not want to wear his “Doggles,” yes, sunglasses for dogs – called Doggles – needed more for the dust than the sun… Poor little guy has terrible dust allergies – and where are we living? Yep, we’re living in what is probably the dustiest place in the World! [I’ll post a picture one of these days of The Boy with his “Doggles” on. He looks too cool for words with them on – unfortunately he doesn’t think so, and usually puts up quite a struggle about wearing them.] And, “The Baby,” well, she just wanted to play and romp – and chase the birds to the end of her leash – but she did not want to walk. She doesn’t have allergies, and hopefully never will, nor does she have a pair of Doggles – I will buy a pink or fuchsia pair for her when we go to the states next month.

When we returned to the house, as we walked in, I decided it was high-time to finish a project that I started several months ago. That it was going to totally consume the entire rest of the day was not my intent. Sometime before we last left for vacation, in February, I got that awful “spring fever cleaning flu” and started weeding out “stuff” from closets that we just do not have room for. The closet under the stairs was so bad that safety equipment wasn’t an option if you opened the door. Hardhat, goggles [or The Boy’s doggles!], and steel-toed work boots were a requirement to prevent serious injury. Thankfully the “flu” didn’t last long, but while it did… So, after determining what “stuff” we didn’t really need any longer – why the heck we even bothered keeping it to begin or had it in the first place is beyond me – was put into boxes and neatly stacked against the living room wall. [Yeah, instead of keeping it out of sight in the closet, I decide to put it out in the open – so much more attractive this way – nothing like a bunch of overstuffed boxes to compliment any décor!]

At six-thirty yesterday morning I was taking pictures of the “stuff” and madly typing ads to post everything on the “For Sale” section of my husband’s company website. I had no sooner hit “send” to list the “stuff” when the phone started ringing and didn’t stop. The old answering machine was a hot commodity. It was sold immediately. And the make-up mirror – I can’t tell you how many calls I got for this. [More men called about this than women, and although I didn’t ask any of them on the telephone, I just presumed they were calling for some “female” relation. It was when the young man who bought the mirror was at our house when I asked him if it was for his wife – no it wasn’t, he said he wasn’t married – oh, girlfriend, then – nope, he said he didn’t have one, and no – when I asked him if it was for a sister, he said he had no sisters. Maybe for his mother – I didn’t ask about her. He certainly was a handsome young man, I’ll give him that, and perhaps he wanted this lighted, magnifying make-up mirror for his own use… We will never know.]

So, in all, out of several dozen phone calls, if not more, probably about a dozen men ended up coming to our house, and of course, ringing the doorbell – if you have four-legged “kids” then you know what happens when a doorbell rings… My “kids” get all excited – wildly racing to the door, back to me, to the door, back to me and to the door again – simultaneously announcing – The Boy with his deep loud bark, and The Baby with her sharp, high-pitched bark – that the doorbell rang [just in case I didn’t hear it] and someone is “out there!” The floor to ceiling window on one side of the entry-way allows for anyone outside to see “the kids” responsible for the commotion coming from the inside. By the time I am able to reach the door whoever it is that is there is usually backing up down the walkway so as to avoid what must be anticipated as an “attack” about to happen. [No doubt that along with the barking heard coming from the inside of our townhouse, I can be heard commanding in my “Mommy” voice, “Get back, nooo, get back!” This may better explain why visitors back up down the walkway – although I doubt it.]

It is both amazing and sad how four-legged “kids” are regarded in this Country, and that so many people are really, really afraid of them. Very, very few Saudi’s on our compound have dogs – oh, sure there are a few, and in a community such as this, that is not very big, where you are so confined – walled in – you really do get to “know” about everyone. No, I do not actually, personally know everyone, but one does get to know people by sight, or in my case, by who has “kids.” There may be more, but of the many Saudi families here, I can only come up with four that have “kids” that I personally am aware of, versus the many, many Western families that do. As for Saudi’s outside the compound? With regard to having dogs as pets, I believe it would be a pretty accurate guess that but for a small minority –Saudi households are unlikely to include members with names like Spot or Rover.

[More horrifying and pathetic than amazing and sad, is the popularity of dog-fighting, here. This barbaric spectator activity is something that I am passionate about – it incenses me beyond words. Truly, if there was “one” thing I could change here in The Kingdom, it would not be allowing women to drive or go “uncovered,” it would not be ending domestic help “abuse,” or fixing any other number of social injustices or ills. I would make dog-fighting more illegal than smuggling drugs, and beheading – maybe worse – if there can be such a thing – the punishment for any participant in this event!]

That so many are afraid of dogs here, is almost downright amusing. All of the men [not one woman!] who came to our house yesterday to either see an item I posted for sale, to try to bargain for an item, or to actually purchase the “stuff” I am getting rid of, refused to come in because of my “kids.” Needless to say, the “kids” spent the late morning and most of the afternoon being crated and uncrated. The Boy’s crate is a haven to him and he freely and willingly goes in and out. If The Boy is told to “go to your crate,” he [usually] will trot right off and head into his crate without any fuss. The Baby, on the other hand, who less than two months ago spent some twenty-two hours in her crate traveling from North Carolina to The Sandbox, associates absolutely nothing good with being confined in such a manner. There is no treat [piece of American cheese] or cookie you can give her that alleviates her displeasure and she is most vocal about it – crying and whining and barking until the door is opened and she again is free from the confines of what she must think is akin to a prison cell.

That a “kid” or “kids” could cause such fear is just something I must just have not realized or had a great deal of association with in the past. Even when, a couple times yesterday, my communication with these men was at the very least strained, that they were terrified of the “kids” was abjectly clear. From the very little I am able to ascertain, there is absolutely nothing un-Islamic about having a dog. And, although keeping a dog inside one’s home certainly wouldn’t be expected, according to this article, having a dog would be acceptable. That so few do, and that a dog or dogs are the cause of such verbal and visible emotion, here, was for me, something rather unexpected.