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Ruth Anne; Dachshund Security Patrol; A Shocking Joke; Peewee’s

Suzanne found out tonight that she has a new great niece and her mom Ruthie has a new great grand-daughter, named after her. At 8 lbs 6 oz, Ruth Anne Smeltzer has come into the world in Whitefish, Montana, with her mom Eleanor, dad Matthew, and older sister Olive (named for Suzanne’s dad, Oliver). Ruth Anne’s grandparents, Brent and Cheryl Smeltzer, live in The Villages, but will probably be making even more trips to beautiful northern Montana in the near future. Congratulations! 

Someone left this note card on our door recently with a clipping cut from a newspaper; it showed a sign reading “CAUTION; Area Patrolled by Dachshund Security Company”. 

Anyone who knows wiener dogs recognizes the fearless nature of these aggressive beasts, as proven by the look on the face of our own guard dog, Gretchen (AKA “Ten Pounds of Fighting Fury”) as she keeps an eye on the drain line at the back of our lanai (it is a “Gecko Highway”). An errant golf ball has landed under the shrubs, and should a golfer try to recover said ball, Gretchen is trained to growl and mutter, like Clint Eastwood in Gran Torino, “Get out of my yard!”

My Lovely Bride needed a couple of AA batteries today; she found the bag of batteries in the standard kitchen junk drawer, and said, “Okay, I’ve got them.” I countered with, “Not so fast, My Darling; let me meter them with my handy dandy digital volt meter to ensure that they are up to strength.” She rolled her eyes, a sure sign of lack of faith in Your Faithful Correspondent’s Wisdom; at least she didn’t mutter “Here we go again” under her breath. I got my meter ready, and as I applied the probes to the ends of the 1.5 volt battery, she jerked her hands and went “bzzzzz” as if she were being shocked. I was not amused. Most importantly, I was vindicated when the meter read 0.265 volts, showing a nearly dead battery. Two more of the eight batteries had to be discarded because of low charge. “So there, Miss Smarty Pants!”

You might have noticed in the last blog entry photos of the bright orange ball cap I wore on my less-than-successful fishing trip. In 1997, when Corvette Chick was a mere Lieutenant Commander, US Navy, and assigned to the US Naval Academy at Annapolis, MD, I worked in Washington, DC, an hour or so commute from Annapolis. I would often get stuck in Beltway traffic, and call her to say I’d be late getting home. Our joke was that I was really at Pee Wee’s, a local fine drinking establishment, mockingly called “a biker dive” by My Beloved, where I was “sucking down suds” instead of hurrying home to her loving arms and a delicious home-cooked dinner. I often told her about other Pee Wee’s patrons, and that I even had my own bar stool with a brass nameplate. She often asked me to take her there, but I demurred, saying that she would be too much of a surprise to the other patrons. Then she caught me off guard on my birthday with a Pee Wee’s Preferred Customer ball cap that I still have. (In reality, she had the ball cap specially made, because they don’t sell clothing.  That’s okay, because I had never even set foot in Pee Wee’s, but I’m not letting her know that.)

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