Ploodle the Chicken Hawk

Santa Claus lost his mind at our house last Christmas. Santa Claus asked one little green-eyed girl what she thought Santa would be bringing her for Christmas.

She said, green eyes soft and glistening and with the complete faith and certainty of the completely adorable, “A puppy and a kitten.”

An audible snap was heard when Santa’s mind gave way. Santa began to shop for a puppy. He found one. He found a perky, excited example of one brand of canine at a puppy store, and he bought it—with actual Santa dollars.

Upon seeing Santa’s puppy poke his alert, frisky head out of the Christmas gift bag, the little green-eyed girl said, “His name is Ploodle—a perfect name for a perfect dog.” There was an audible snapping sound in the chambers of the little green-eyed girl’s father’s head, and so Ploodle came to live at my house, with me and CoCo Chanel, my free dog.

Ploodle is a Yorkshire Terrier and a Chicken Hawk. He feels that it is his personal responsibility to protect our property from cats, bats, sheep, cows, turtles, birds, moles, earthworms, and the two homeless chickens living under the horse trailer. Taking Ploodle and CoCo for one of their multitudinous walks, I quickly steered them away from the picnic table where I spotted a feral cat crouching in terror, unwittingly pointing them in the direction of the two homeless chickens lurking under the horse trailer. Ploodle was on it. Ripping the leash from my arthritic hand and resembling a possessed oven mitt with dread locks, Ploodle propelled himself in pursuit of the homeless chickens.

CoCo wanted to propel herself in pursuit of the homeless chickens, but she’s a good dog. Ploodle is bad. Ploodle chased the chickens, cornered one, and bit it on the neck. It died. Ploodle weighs 5.0 pounds.

“Hey, do you know how they used to cure dogs from being chicken killers?” I asked my husband. Looking a lot like Santa, he shook his head.

“Well I’ll tell you. They used to tie the dead chicken to the neck of the dog and make the dog drag it around for a while.”

“Did it work?” he asked.

“Who knows? But it won’t work for Ploodle, because the chicken outweighs him. We’d have to tie the dog to the chicken’s neck.”

“How about we put a bell on his neck?”

“I would, but it might tip him over.”

Ploodle does not know that he weighs five pounds and cannot possibly herd sheep, round up horses, drive cattle, or fend off killer chickens, and I’m not telling him. There’s an old saying about “it’s not the dog in the fight; it’s the fight in the dog.” I believe it, and I espouse it as a personal motto. Like Ploodle, I’m small, but I’m feisty, and feisty is hard to outrun.

Linda (Chicken Hawk) Zern

Super Men Really Can Fly--If Only In Their Dreams

“I can fly.” My husband of thirty-one years told me one morning.

I rolled over, gave him the look-see, and said, “Honey, have you taken a good look in the mirror lately? You really haven’t gotten more streamlined over the years. I’d call it more super carrier. Are you sure you can fly? Maybe you’re floating, but it feels like flying?”

“No, no, I keep dreaming that I can fly, and I’m pretty sure that I can.” He was adamant.

He continues to insist that he can fly. I insist that he stop snoring. It seems that when he dreams that he is flying, he snores. His snoring does not make me think that I can fly. It makes me think that I am being digested by a whale—with gastric-intestinal issues.

I have actually been heard to say in the dark of the night, “Honey, if you don’t stop dreaming about flying (i.e. snoring) I am going to crush your head with a brick.”

He says, “Oops, sorry.” And then he rolls over to dream about fighting naked ninjas.

I don’t dream. I don’t have to. Sherwood does the heavy dreaming for me—he also does a lot of the heavy lifting.

My husband, of thirty-one years, spent the first ten years of our marriage working full time and going to school part time—for ten years. Did I mention that it took him ten years?

He graduated from the University of Central Florida with a degree in computer science and ten years of experience in his field of study. During that time he insisted that he always have a job with decent insurance, which turned out to be more than a blessing when we welcomed four children to our home in six years—by caesarian section—exciting, but not cheap, and for fun throw in a diagnosis of malignant cancer. (That was me.)

When we brought our first son home from the hospital we owed the hospital one dollar and fifty cents for a bottle of shampoo that I had purchased during my seven days in the hospital. We didn’t have one dollar and fifty cents. We had to put one dollar and fifty cents on a payment plan.

For eleven years, my husband worked the graveyard shift. At one point he drove more than one hundred miles PER DAY to get from his job in Daytona Beach to his college classes at UCF. He once fell asleep at a red light, and didn’t wake up until the cars behind him started to beep and drive around him. No one checked to see if he was dead.

I tell young women that I go to school with that my guy, of thirty-one years, is the real deal, and if their guy isn’t willing to go to the mat for them the way Sherwood did for me, he isn’t good enough for them or for their children. My husband allowed me to concentrate on raising four excellent children, who are now working on raising their own excellent children.

In a day when there is a lot of man bashing in and out of the college classroom, I find it easy to believe in the goodness of men at heart. I have been personally acquainted with the best of men and that has made all the difference. Now that I think about it, I’m pretty sure my husband can fly, because he is Superman.

Happy father’s day, darling. Happy every day, forever.

Linda Zern—wife of Sherwood (the Super Hero) Zern

Sardonic, Self-Deprecating, Ironic Wit

“Does that say what I think it says?”

My husband slid his reading glasses to the end of his nose and read out loud, “Contestants catapult into foam and tackle obstacles – Reality Television.”

“That’s what I thought it said.” I sighed. “Man if I had a nickel for every time I have had to catapult into foam and tackle something. Why just today, Conner took a nap on the couch, peed through the cushion (which is foam, by the way), and I had to tackle getting the delightful smell of toddler urine out of the sofa.”

“That’s reality for you,” he said.

And isn’t it just.

So, I’ve been writing an essay, of sorts, every week, for about ten years—mostly about catapulting myself into foam and tackling obstacles; you know, reality. Occasionally, I write a disclaimer about my work, also a warning.

So let this serve as a disclaimer and a warning: To “get” my writing, it can help to be familiar with the concepts of satire, irony, caustic mockery, and sarcastic self-deprecation. If you’re looking for Three Stooges eye poking humor, move along. No seriously, keep moving. Mostly, I go for witty, but often miss and hit the acerbic mockery bulls-eye.

For example:
Satire (seeking to expose wrong or folly to ridicule): Here’s me making a satiric comment using the above mentioned example of “reality” –They were a people given to much foam catapulting and obstacle tackling while Lilliput burned. And no, Lilliput is not a town from the musical Oliver, as suggested by my husband.

Sardonic (an adjective meaning scornful; mocking; cynical; or derisive): It looks like some of those female contestants came with their own foam padding built right in—their shirts!

Ironic (suggests a milder & subtler form of mockery): I’m so happy that there is a television show that finally shows life as it truly is, a series of foam covered rotating fanny paddles that fling human beings into a soup of muddy goop, while the gods on Mount Olympus laugh. Oh boy, can we watch it every night?

Sarcasm: Oh boy, can we watch it every night?

Caustic (biting or corrosive): If this “reality” show isn’t an indication that civilization is dead as we know it, I will eat that foam pillow
.
Wit (one skilled in repartee, humor, sarcasm, irony): Sweetheart, if you make me watch the foam catapulting obstacle show, I will stab you with a sharp object not covered in foam. Okay, this sentence may be less about wit and more about statements that can be used against a person in a court of law.

So be warned. I am a writer with strong opinions about foam, catapults, and Lilliput. So it you’re easily offended by strong opinions, expressed with the spice of caustic humor keep your eyes closed at all times while reading. Thank you and have a nice day.

Linda (Read ‘Em and Weep) Zern
Read More @ www.zippityzerns.com