Or
Even the best laid plans can take you down that primrose path.
It was a day unlike most others. The air was sweet with spring fragrance, the sun warm on my face. The mood was light as a summer breeze. It was a glorious day meant for enjoyment.
I had the afternoon off. I was to pick up the princess from school and take her with me to the dentist for our usual checkups and cleanings. After that, the day was ours to use as we saw fit. I had such plans . . .
We were done at the dentist office by one. Time for goofing off and . . . Shopping!
For those who don’t know me, I hate to shop. Yeah, I know. How un-womanly of me, but I seriously hate it. However, there are times in life when one needs things. The need of the day was to find some cost-effective way to corral our dog without fencing and without digging.
Ah, I have it! A wireless animal containment unit. That’s right, a transmitter that sends out a signal and a receiver that accepts the signal. That’s what we need, so let’s go get it.
It’s humane, only lets off a tiny charge no stronger than the zap you get from running your shoes over the carpeting and then grabbing the doorknob when someone pounds ferociously on your front door. I don’t know about anyone else, but it hurts when you grab that dang doorknob. Always makes me squeal.
But, hey, the little Bichon mutt is smart. She’ll figure it out quickly enough and it’s better than wanting to kill her because Princess didn’t walk her and she crapped on the carpeting again. This way, the pup can go out whenever she needs to without waiting for said princess to find her shoes, look for the leash she mislaid, get sidetracked when she sees something shiny and then go searching for the proper cleaning products when the dog can no longer keep her little legs crossed. It’s just the ticket, right?
First stop was the farmer’s friend, our neighborhood Farm & Home Supply store. They had just what I was looking for, but it was pricey, so I decided to shop around a bit. Next was the store with the giant red “R” on the front of it. I never did like that place. The staff is rude, the place always smells like the inside of a barn and it’s hard to find what you want or need. And they wanted an extra $30.00 for the same product (probably to pay for all the red paint for the sign out front).
Wal-Mart was right next door, so I decided to try there. I hate shopping, as I already stated, so Wal-Mart is like a trip through hell. Man, I despise that place.
Anyway, I dragged the poor princess through the enormous Super Wal-Mart, seeking out the intended item, but it was nowhere to be found. Finally, I spied one of those blue vests that tells you, “Hi, I’m *insert name here* and I don’t give a &%^$ what you need. Chances are I don’t know what it is anyway.”
As luck would have it, this rather astute young blue vest was quite intelligent and willing to help. He knew exactly what I wanted, and was very enthusiastic when he told me it was discontinued. Ah, well, back to the F&H.
My second trip to the F&H was successful. I snagged the containment unit from the shelf while Princess whined about not wanting to put a “vicious, cruel, mean shock collar” on her doggy. “Sorry, kid. It’s either this or we dig a hole in the back yard for the mutt’s carcass.” She agreed to give it a try.
So, armed with the new and expensive kit, we pulled out of our parking place and—oh, darn. We still need groceries. Crapola. The nearest grocery store is the dread Super Wal-Mart. Back to Wal-Mart, drag a tired Princess through the store again, choose food, make escape.
Only two more stops and we can go home. Stop number one: sweet treats for everyone. Stop number two: fountain sodas for everyone.
The princess continued to point out the dangers of putting a shock collar on her sweet doggy, while I continued to press the point that someone had better finish the potty training of same. It was a stalemate by the time we got home. Neither side won.
It was after three when we pulled in the drive. My day of lazy goofing off was growing short and I still hadn’t had a chance to do anything I wanted, so may as well set up the perimeter and start training the dog. Following the instructions, one must first set up the transmitter—positioned within the house so as to get the best angle on the area outside where the dog will be able to roam—then set out the marking flags.
Per the instructions, I began to walk the perimeter, staking the flags wherever the alarm on the collar beeped. Not so difficult, right? Yeah, as long as you don’t touch the metal posts on the collar.
Static charge, my backside. Apparently, I had the thing set to the highest setting and when I got zapped, the collar went flying. I screeched, the husband (watching from a safe distance) laughed until I wanted to punch him and the neighbor kids watched with much curiosity. Good thing they weren’t dumb enough to approach.
The perimeter seemed too small, so I moved the transmitter and set it on high. Then I began the arduous task of re-staking the flags. Since you have to hold the collar at the level the dog’s neck would normally be at, and since the dog is a tiny Bichon, by the time I finished I felt like Quasimodo. When I straightened my back, there was a distinct snap, crackle and pop. But it was done and I had only shocked myself two more times. Too bad I forgot to adjust it to a lower setting. *this is where to insert the rolling eyes icon*
Okay, time to put the collar on the dog. She took one zap and learned quite quickly not to go beyond the flags. I knew she would be a quick study.
Oh, crap. I forgot to reduce the charge. Now guilt-ridden, I walked the miserable little fluff ball back to the house and removed the collar. At this point, the indicator light on the thing stopped working. I had no idea what setting it was on and I wasn’t about to test it myself. Hey, I’m a quick study too.
Sigh.
Trip number three to the F&H was a little annoying. I live outside town, so it’s not a quick jaunt to the corner store. By now it was almost five. Another sigh.
The people at the F&H were very accommodating. When I asked to exchange it for a smaller collar—one that would better fit my little dog—they had no problem. When I read the package and asked questions, they answered them in a knowledgeable way. They seemed to know what they were talking about.
Acting is a fine art.
The collar didn’t work with my system. Trip number four to the F&H was anything but happy. I had made up my mind that I wouldn’t yell or be in any way rude, but that was before I pulled into the same parking place I had used on all the previous visits. There was a resounding pop. I had no idea what the noise was, but I knew it meant trouble. When I got out of my car, I heard that telltale hissing noise that could only mean one thing.
Sure enough, there was a bolt the size of my thumb sticking out of the right rear tire.
Breathe.
Don’t scream.
Don’t kick the car.
Laughing maniacally, I walked into the store. The young man at the counter saw me and cringed. I handed him back the collar and pointed to a few items on the packaging.
“You said this would work with my system,” said I.
“This is for a wire fence system,” said he.
“Well, duh,” said I.
“Okay, I see the problem,” said he. “I think we can fix this.”
“Oh, I know you can,” and I started laughing evilly again.
The boy looked scared. Smart boy.
He came back with the proper unit, scanned it about eighteen times with the little scanner thingy (that’s a technical term) and refused to meet my eyes. With the transaction finished, I said, “My tire picked up some of your hardware in your parking lot. Do you think someone here could help me change it?”
“How do you know you picked it up here?”
That was the wrong question to ask. He was met with my frostiest smile (not a pretty thing, I’m told) and I answered with, “I’ve made four trips to your little store, burned half a tank of gas, ruined a tire and lost a day. How do you know I’m not a homicidal maniac?” When he started to back away, I said, “Because I heard the thing pop when I ran it over.”
Seriously, that boy needs to grow a pair.
Without looking me in the eye, he said, “We’re not allowed to do that for people. I’ll be happy to call you a tow truck.”
“I’m going to pay $80 because you people can’t clean up your parking lot? I don’t think so. Tell your manager I’ll be back to see him tomorrow for compensation for all the gas and the repair to my tire.”
Out the door I went. If the manager’s smart, he won’t open tomorrow. Me Irish temper got the best of me. I tore into my car, pitching stuff from the back out into the parking lot, tearing out the cover panels and releasing the spare and jack. It’s not your normal little donut spare, either. It’s nearly full size and weighs about thirty pounds. Just as I lifted it, some jerk in a pickup drove by, pointing his finger and laughing.
I lifted the tire over my head and pitched it at his truck. Good thing he gunned the engine or there would have been a nasty dent in his passenger door. As it was, the spare clipped his back bumper as he sped off. When he offered me an obscene gesture, I smiled and waved. I was feeling better already.
After a quick call to the house to tell the man what was up and that his take-out dinner would be late, he said he’d round up the kid and come help me. But I was still angry and knew how long it would take for him to get there, so I decided to fix it myself. We country girls are like that.
I had the jack set in place and was about to loosen the lugs when a very nice young woman, carrying her small child, went in search of her husband. Steve and Amy (names changed to protect the kindly) were very helpful. If not for Steve, I would never have been able to get the tire off. The lug nuts were wrenched on so tight; he almost couldn’t get them loose.
Good ol’ Steve had me back together in nothing flat (pun intended because the spare was quite low). I thanked them both profusely and wished them a happy evening then placed a call to the husband’s cell. He was already pulling in the parking lot by that time, so he dropped the princess off with me and left.
I was filthy, fed up, and the dog still had not been trained to the new system. The day was wasted, my mood was destroyed the F&H was still standing. Lucky, lucky F&H.
No comments:
Post a Comment