...realized my notes are not quite right.

In just a few days I'll be stuffing everything I own into my tiny little Subaru and heading back to Utah. My feelings right now are quite complicated. Yay friends! Boo, no more puppy! Yay making money again! Boo, paying for my own things! Yay learning! Boo, homework! Yay Slab/Krispy Kreme/IHOP/etc! Boo, Provo! And so on. Still, it's going to happen whether I want it to or not, so today I began packing. Well, theoretically. I actually ended up taking tons of pictures of Hoover as he slept, pretending my new bendy tripod was a hydra, wrestling with Hoover at length (who can resist when he comes over and gently pries your hand from your face and tries to drag you to the living room? No one. That's who.), finishing off some Ben & Jerry's Half Baked, and then finally decided I could at least purge some drawers I'd stuffed full of school things and left alone. So I did.

Most of it was pretty standard: some old homework I'd once believed I'd refer to again, some books I actually will refer to again, a mug full of money from Ukraine/Poland/the Czech Republic and tons of pennies, and various writing utensils. Then I came across the notebooks. For whatever reason I had 3 spiral notebooks full of notes and essay drafts with no apparent organization. Notes from Physical Science 100, for example, were scattered across the three, appearing on random pages sandwiched between doodles and religion notes. This meant that I had to look through every page to see if there was anything I needed (though I can't imagine what those would be unless someone breaks into my house and threatens to kill me unless I can pass a Physical Science test but decides to give me 15 minutes to study my old notes, and even then I'd be pretty screwed since I'm fairly sure I failed that final after studying for days). Despite my careful search, I found nothing important. But I did found some things of interest.

I'm an avid doodler. It's much easier for me to pay attention when my hands are otherwise occupied--or in same cases to tune out boring professors who talk too much about dragons. So I expected to find weird drawings, and they were there. Lots of people with fangs, really fat horses, and little monsters I've created. But I don't just draw; I also write random things in the margins. Sometimes they're relevant to the notes, like when I was apparently enthusiastic about science and scribbled "Plasmas are charged! Yay."

Occasionally, I think I can identify my thought process, but I'm uncertain. Even if I'm right, I'm not sure it makes much more sense. This, for example, was the only thing on the page:

"I'm pregnant! I'm glad you found someone who loves Buffy."

I think I was writing a draft of a letter to a missionary, but I'm not sure where the pregnancy came in. I bet in the middle of a really boring class where the alternative was probably coloring in my freckles, I thought it was a hilarious joke. And then there are things that make sense, until you consider context:

"I just want to hug everyone in the whole world! Love love LOVE!"

This was in Physical Science. I am sure I never felt that way, in that class or out of it. But especially in it. Mostly I was murderous or bored to death, which probably inspired me to write this apparent poem:

"My little pony/it's a whole/new mindset/canary!"

The delightful thing is that I have no recollection of writing any of these things. I'm sure that at the time I had perfectly logical explanations, or at least flawed logical explanations, but now it's like opening a time capsule. A time capsule from about 4 months ago. Still, I'm sure 4-month-ago-Chloe had something clever in mind with these gems:

"I just don't like corndogs, okay?" (beside notes about Bronte's use of Christianity and mysticism)

"JASON BOURNE WILL KILL YOU ALL." (in the middle of notes on "Lanval")

"I do love faeries!" (on an otherwise empty page)

And finally, after looking through several hundred pages of random notes, doodles, and scribbles to myself, I learned something I probably wouldn't have realized otherwise: apparently I have some fixation with fecal matter. Who knew? There are many references throughout. Some entirely random...

"Pooping rabbit!"

Another poem...

"Ghostbusters/ My pony's name / is Tanner. It is / not Poopface. / Multiple! / Je ne sais pas. / Potato. / I love potatoes!"

And finally, my personal favorite:

"Poop! Poop. Poop. Poop poop poop!"

What else is there to possibly say? Poop poop poop, indeed.

...had the ugliest Christmas tree ever.

This is not it. That's actually last year's tree, which was...charmingly unique, but cannot begin to approach the ugliness that is this year's tree. You may be thinking, "but Chloe, that's a seriously hideous tree!" and you may be right; I wouldn't even know anymore. You see, we judge trees differently here. Anytime my family has lived in Colorado, we've purchased a permit and gone up to the National Forest to cut down a wild tree. These look nothing like those symmetrical and full trees you'll find at lots, but I always loved them anyway. For several years we had a vaulted ceiling and were able to get 20+ foot trees, and the sheer impressiveness of the tree made up for whatever cosmetic deficiencies it might have. Then we moved up to the mountains and huge trees were no longer an option.

One benefit to having land is that you don't have to buy a Christmas tree or even get a permit; you just go in your backyard and chop one down. As you see, we have many trees. Unfortunately, these were too tall to be the tree. Fortunately, there were others to choose from.

This is especially good news for someone who once got lost in the woods for 8 hours because his or her stupid brother didn't listen to this individual and took them the opposite direction of the car when they were cutting down a tree in the National Forest--but that's a story for another time. It's easy these days: grab saw, walk outside, hack down a tree, and decorate. True, they won't be perfect, but they have character. Getting a tree is simple and fun. Or it should be.

We got our tree November 28th, which is practically heresy in our home. Christmas celebrations cannot commence until December, didn't you know? I think what follows was punishment for our early festivities. Walking outside that day was a bit uncomfortable. There were still several inches of snow from a storm a few days back, and we were scheduled to get more that night (hence the rush to get our tree). This meant that it was cloudy, cold, and a simply dreadful wind was blowing. Undeterred, my parents and I suited up in down coats and snowboots heavy enough to give you a workout every time you try to take a step. It didn't help much. After a few minutes I couldn't feel my face, and thus all my helpful suggestions sounded something like "Uh thung uh shud gut thussun dun."

This, combined with the rapidly approaching dark, put us in somewhat of a frenzy to find a tree. Our initial insistence on the perfect friendly fir soon gave way to frequent sightings of the "perfect" tree. We became so blind that indeed, we thought the tree we soon selected was beautiful. Sure, we'd have to cut off the bottom half to make it fit in our house, but it was dying anyway. And yes, there might be a wee little spot that wasn't as full as we might like, but we'd just put that side in the corner and no one would know. So we began cutting it down, which actually was much harder than it ought to have been. See, our saw looked like this:

And yes, it was as dull as it looks. Extra bonus, three of the four screws somehow fell out, and so as we sawed the handle would regularly fly off in a desperate bid for freedom, only to be awkwardly restrained by that one little screw that was still working to free itself. Still, with a great deal of sawing and a lot of pushing, the tree finally fell, and my father carried it down the Hill of Death with Hoover leaping after him, biting at the tree in an effort to protect my father from the terrible green beast.

At last we got back to the house and tried to determine the best place to cut the tree. My father quickly ditched us, having had enough tree-related fun for one decade. My mother and I, however, are determined to get this thing up and decorated tonight. So we measure the height of the room we'll be putting it in, and then we promptly cut the tree without thinking it through and adjusting for the sparse top we might have wanted to cut off and such. Then it strikes us: this tree is hideous.

Sure, we knew it wouldn't be perfectly beautiful. We've long forsaken the ideal tree. Who cares about symmetry? What's this fullness you talk about? What do you mean there shouldn't be squirrel poop in your tree? Who cares if our tree isn't perfect? It's got character! From that moment on, those three words became our mantra as we desperately tried to convince ourselves that we weren't bringing an abomination into the house.

For example: upon examining the bare spot that was approximately the bottom two feet of the tree, my mother and I laughed weakly and reassured ourselves, "It's not perfect, but it's got character!" As we tried to find the best angle to face outward and realized that no matter how we turned it, the tree still looked worse than Charlie Brown's before the magical transformation that never made sense to me as a child, we'd grimace and mutter, "It has character."

After a great deal of finagling and splinters (one of which I was too wussy to remove and now seems to be permanently embedded in my palm which I'm sickly pleased about) we got the tree in the stand, where it stood leaning sadly to the left. That, of course, just gave it more character. Then we stared at the tree, long and hard. In addition to the completely bald bottom two feet, there was a bald spot near the top, and even the fuller parts were pathetic. There was only one thing to do: graft.

Armed with a drill, branches we stole from the abandoned half of the tree, and a stupidly dull kitchen knife, we set to work. Of course, we couldn't find our drill bits, so we were left with the smallest one we own. This meant making a small honeycomb pattern where you wanted the branch to go and then using the knife to carve out the thin walls--in theory. In reality, it meant a great deal of mutilating our already ugly tree as we failed in attempts at accuracy and drilled completely through the tree on more than one occasion.

Once we had some semblance of holes, we whittled down the end of branches and stuck them in, only to watch them promptly flop over, making our tree appear quite as depressed as we felt. I was all for giving up and having a Christmas coat hanger, but my mother was on a quest. She got the hot glue and some twine and forced me to hold branches in awkward positions as she alternately slung them on and glued them in while the tree attacked my face. We did two branches that day before admitting defeat. It looked like this:

Again, keep in mind--that ugly tree has already been the recipient of two fake branches. I know, it's gorgeous.

So we left the tree alone for a week. Maybe two. Every so often we'd glance sadly into the room where it sat and once more mutter, "It's got character." Then a few days ago, my mother took charge and grafted more branches. Suddenly, it wasn't quite the ugliest tree ever--just the runner up. Then she put on lights. And then she forced me to decorate the stupid thing in that cold, cold room. (In my family there are two long-standing myths: one, that I love decorating the Christmas tree; two, that I love wrapping everybody's presents. These things are not all that true.)

And that left us with this (please excuse the bad picture--it was so cold in there):

Perhaps not quite the ugliest tree in the world anymore? I wouldn't know.

I call him Brutus.

...started fearing for my life each time I went outside.

We warned my mother it would be this way.

Since we moved up into the mountains, she's had a fascination with the wildlife. I can't blame her; many people don't get to see turkeys, deer, bears, foxes, chipmunks, elk, and all manner of birds within an hour or two (possibly with a lynx, vulture, or feral cat to top things off). We're host to many beautiful animals, and I do enjoy staring at them and taking their pictures. My mother, however, is not content to enjoy from afar. She must feed things.

For the most part, this doesn't bother me. We avoid feeding predators (except for that one fox that tried to give me rabies), and generally the other animals are pleasant (except now I have a grudge against deer). There are few things better than watching the turkeys come running when they hear corn or than having jays and chickadees flutter around you. Feeding chipmunks and ground squirrels just happens to be the most adorable thing possible.

So while I think my mother goes a bit overboard with her insistence we give the turkeys or deer corn every time we see them, mostly I don't mind being on friendly terms with the fauna. Mostly. You see, something has changed.

The chickadees are out for blood.

I realize it looks all innocent there. For a long time they appeared to be our friends, these tiny birds with their bright little eyes. They were so timid, preferring to snatch peanuts while we weren't looking. Then they observed the chipmunks and realized they could just land on our hands and we wouldn't kill them. Sometimes they would peer in our kitchen windows, asking if we could come out to play.

I should have seen the warning signs. I should have realized their incessant early morning calls of "chickadeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedeedee" were not friendly greetings, but actually a call to battle. I should realized they were not peaking in our windows with friendly curiosity, but that they were actually plotting and scoping out our defenses.

And now it's too late. Our beloved little birds are trying to kill us all.

I went out to get some wood this morning, which means I was approximately 7 inches from my front door, still on the porch. I always figured there was some magical rule about how things can't attack you on the porch, much like monsters can't get you on the bed. I was wrong. Something came at me, buzzing my head before retreating as I yelped in alarm. It was a chickadee. Already I could see it sitting on a branch, glaring at me as it planned its next attack. I went inside, and it sat outside the kitchen window, continuing to give me the evil eye. It knows me, and it wants me dead.

I never would have thought the chickadees would turn on me, though in retrospect I realize this probably happened long ago and they're simply getting bolder in their attacks. I was taking pictures this summer when one attacked me camera. Somehow we justified that as being perfectly rational. Even looking at pictures from the last month confirms my suspicions: they've been biding their time. Look at this one, for example. It appears to be a friendly chickadee deciding which peanut it wants.

It's actually an evil monster pondering if it could get enough force to puncture my ulnar artery before it steals my food and leaves me to die in the snow. Just look closer, and you too will see the evil bloodthirsty nature that lies within this seemingly innocent bird.


If you never hear from me again, just assume the birds got me. After all, they are the descendants of velociraptors. They'll learn how to open doors any day now.

...lived in the most beautiful place on earth.

Don't argue.


Excuse me for a minute, I'm about to get sappy.


After years of military housing and suburban neighborhoods, I'm lucky enough to live on 27 idyllic acres in Colorado. It is, quite frankly, difficult to even begin to describe how much I love this place. It's home in a way no other place has been, which makes being in Utah even harder. I love the openness, the freedom, the animals, the smell, the sounds: everything--even the snow. You go outside and chickadees make you feel like a Disney princess as they land on your hand. It's a magical place, I tell you! Magical!


Certainly, this lifestyle is not without its pitfalls. There are few things more discouraging than arriving home at night during a blizzard only to realize your driveway (a small glimpse of which is in that photo above) is far too icy to get up and you have to walk up, which is difficult even on a warm summer day what with the steepness, length, and altitude. Most likely you'll be in your holey Chucks, or possibly even heels, and there's a good possibility you'll have just arrived from Utah and thus have lots of bags you need to carry up that will end strewn across the driveway as you slip and slide. On the other hand, it makes for incredible sledding--even if you are risking your life if you don't bail well before the road. Don't worry though, the UPS man will see you early enough to avoid squashing you. Usually.

Then there's afternoons like this, and it's all too easy to forget about the sometimes dreary winters. Summers here are nothing short of magnificent: never above the 80s, few insects, lush wildflowers everywhere, and the aspens provide a lovely soundtrack to your days. Many nights I sleep outdoors because I can't bear to miss the incredible stars. The only potential problem with summer is the bear, but we only saw it once this year, and it didn't even do any damage. I guess you might die from the lack of oxygen as you traipse around trying to look at all the gorgeous views, but that's entirely your fault. Weakling.

I can't listen to John Denver when I'm not here, even though he's actually a favorite of mine; a couple of lines from his "Rocky Mountain High" will have me bawling, which is always rather awkward for anyone who happens to be nearby. It's pathetic, really, but there's a reason I come here so often. Okay, yes, it often has to do with free food and laundry, but being here revitalizes me in a way that nothing else can. Also my parents' washer has a lovely handwash setting so I get to wash all my sweaters and dresses that normally require intensive labor to clean. But mostly it's just super pretty here.

And we haven't even talked about what's around my 27 acres (hint: mountains). Sure, this place is not for everyone. There's those freaks that continue to say the northwest is better or New England, or even California beaches. They're wrong, of course, but I guess it's good crazy people like that exist--more room for me here.

...glimpsed younger Chloe, and it was awkward.

Tonight I was working on some creative writing for kicks and giggles. Part of this entailed writing letters to random people, ranging from ex-boyfriends to Edith Wharton, and then the kid who sat behind me in my Sci-Fi class sophomore year of high school. Suddenly, it seemed vitally important that I know his last name, so I went into the deep dark closet full of dead crickets, dug through some boxes, and finally came across my only yearbook: freshman year, 2004-2005.

I'm a high school dropout. Approximately seven days into my junior year, I'd had enough, and left school (I quickly obtained my GED and went off to college a year later, but I still delight in reading statistics about dropouts and realizing I've contributed to those). Still, this means I endured two years (and seven days) of high school, none of which I particularly enjoyed. My hatred of this time combined with an already bad memory has essentially created a void when I try to recall this period of my life. I know I took French, never did homework, and had a great deal of angst, but that's about it. Consequently, looking into this glimpse of 14 year old Chloe was rather revelatory.

Naturally, the first thing I did was look myself up. And there I was. Looking like this.

Initially, all I noticed about this picture was that I have a lot of hair. Somehow I'd managed to forget that I ever had that much hair, being that it hasn't been past my shoulders in years now. Dang, that is a lot of hair. That is a very solid mass of hair. Think of the rope I could have made! At this stage in my life, I'd had possibly two haircuts--both from my mother, both just cutting straight across the bottom to get rid of some length. I was convinced that to cut or dye my hair would be to desecrate it somehow. At the time, I couldn't have even imagined that someday I would dye it black and then buzz it all off. I have a very complicated relationship with my hair.


Well that's a bit different.

Back to the yearbook--leaving aside the "I would rather be chewing off my own toes" expression, I'm left to wonder what's on the shirt. I rather suspect it's somehow related to Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron. I was kind of big on horses at the time. Honestly, I'm fortunate that this is one of the nicer pictures that exists from that time. Dwell on that for a while. I like to pretend I just sprang from my father's forehead at age 17. It's better that way.

So after a brief and rather unsuccessful search for Guy Who Sat Behind Me in Sci-Fi, I started looking through at the notes people wrote. A certain individual wrote the following:

Chloe! Besides your randomness, strange drawings of dead horses + [other weird pictures], you rock! You've been an awesome friend to me this year and I hope the fun continues next year! Have a great summer! We should hang out sometime! [phone number] -Katie

This strikes me as odd for a number of reasons. First, the drawings. On the one hand, I don't really remember drawing dead horses. I know I had a fondness for doodling cows and weird little monsters, but not dead horses so much. On the other hand, I certainly believe that I did it. That sounds like me--not that I'm a lover of dead horses, but I have been known to draw some odd little things. Here, for example, is a sample of things I doodle at church:


So as you can see, the dead horse probably isn't that much of a stretch.

Second, I enjoy the caveat of "besides your [prominent traits] you rock!" I read this as essentially saying, "you'd be really cool if you weren't so you!" Third, I have no idea who this person is. Sure, I didn't know who lots of the people were, but apparently I was "an awesome friend" to this person. Perhaps Katie was prone to hyperbole, but the specifics about the drawings make me think that we actually were somewhat close--too bad I have no idea who she is and there's no last name. So, I decided to do a reverse lookup of her phone number, thinking that would jog my memory. Unlisted. I can think of one Katie I knew, but she signed elsewhere. So I flipped through the book, looking for any Katies. No one I recall. Anyone who might use Katie as a nickname. Still nothing. I have no idea who Katie is, despite the fact that we were awesome pals. This, dear friends, is why you should use a last name.

Katie, if you're out there, you were a great friend too. Probably. I don't really know, but you sound nice enough!

My final observation was that I was apparently a very...different person. I've always known that I was a bit odd perhaps, but I suppose I never really understood the extent of my strangeness. This came up quite often, as you can see from this sampling:

"Thanks for the great yet horror filled memories (including the story of your life)."
"You have not lost any of your weirdness."
"I think at first I thought you were a very scary person (and that thought comes back every once in a while)."
"I'm not scared of you anymore. Yay!"
"You're crazy, in a cool kind of way."
"Yes, you're weird, but that's not an entirely bad thing."

I don't know what these people are talking about. Clearly I am perfectly normal.


Maybe not. People certainly still think I'm strange/scary/otherwise a societal outcast. Indeed, there comes a time in almost all of my relationships in which someone feels the need to tell me, "When we first met I was really intimidated by you and I thought you were kind of a freakshow. Now I know you are, but I like it." I'm never sure how to react to this revelation. Should I be flattered that they stuck around long enough to change their mind, offended they thought such things about me in the first place, or something else altogether? Usually this is a good time to suggest we eat pancakes.

So here I am, 5 years later: less hair, better clothes, but still full of weird doodles and general oddity. Apparently high school freshman Chloe and college senior Chloe have more in common than I thought (or hoped)--except for the part where I've gone from staunch conservative to flaming liberal. I guess that's different.

...went home for a semester and went mad.

I knew when I took a semester off that I might go crazy. I left home at 17 and swore I didn't want to live there again--not because my parents are mean or because I don't like Woodland Park, but simply because I rather enjoy my independence. I wasn't necessarily eager to return to a house in which everyone goes to sleep at 9, a place in which I am often rather confined by snow, and a ward there are--let me count--no people my age. Things have turned out alright, however. My home is beautiful, I hike like crazy, I have a new best friend in Hoover, and on rare nights my parents even stay up until almost 10 to watch Buffy with me. Consequently, I thought my sanity was actually fairly well intact. Then I was looked through some pictures I've taken recently and...well, you can judge for yourself.

Exhibit A:

Yes, that is a plush Rudolph from Build a Bear. Yes, he is out in the snow, and yes I put him there (reindeer like snow, right?). I'm not sure what my thought process was here, except that I had time to kill while waiting for some people to come look at a car. And hey, at least this buck didn't want to kill me. Bonus!

Exhibit B:

When I was feeling slightly more festive in late October, I began working on Christmas cards--sort of. I've come to realize that none of them are really related to Christmas. I made a lovely Hanukkah-themed card, one related to literary theory, and then lots of animals. Yes indeed, that polar bear is about as Christmasy as it gets with his green background and red eyes. At least I still have a chance to redeem myself by writing festive messages inside like, "This Christmas, I really hope no polar bears seek you out and maul you!"

Exhibit C:

I really have nothing to say about this.

Draw conclusions as you will.

...was really stupid when trying to take pictures.

Just kidding, that wasn't just this one time--it's all the time. I really love photography. As far as hobbies go, this should be a fairly safe one (especially when compared to that crazy/wonderful horse I risk my life on). Unfortunately, I seem to have come down with an incurable case of the Stupid. Maybe it's genetic. The simple of act of pressing a button on a magic picture taking device is becoming increasingly perilous (although this is probably true of most things in my life).

Let's take today for example. This morning I looked outside to see Chickadees staring in the window at me. They looked so very delightful on the snowy trees, and so I grabbed my camera and rushed outside, taking the time to grab some peanuts to lure them in, but neglecting shoes or a coat. Oh, and it just so happened I'd just come out of the shower, so my hair was drenched. And it was 16 degrees. I'm sure you can see where this is going. At least in this case, however, I ended up with a few photos I enjoy. My icicle hair and pained feet were worth it, and it was a minor inconvenience anyway.


A few hours later, Hoover starts yelping, kindly alerting me that there's a couple of fawns down by my shed. This time I actually did grab a coat and shoes as I ran down, only to discover there were more deer. Lots more! Here's where I run into trouble: I don't have a zoom lens. I'm lucky to have my camera at all, so I make due with the 18-55mm lens it came with. Unfortunately, this means that if I want to get a close up of something I have to get, well, close up. This works nicely when I'm taking pictures of flowers, but can become slightly more difficult when stalking wild animals.

It's hard to sneak up on deer. Impossible, really. The best way I've found for getting close to them is to move slowly parallel to them as long as possible, probably while singing a jaunty tune. You get varied results, of course, but sometimes it works. So there I am, shuffling around the deer while blabbering on about nothing to them (with the turkeys I usually discuss politics, but the deer just never seem interested), when they start moving nervously. As I pause, I notice one of them has wee little antlers, much to my delight. I creep closer, and out of the trees comes this big buck--not quite the freakshow that Bambi's dad was (I privately believe that he was secretly an elk)(can deer and elk even breed? Google says yes), but certainly formidable. Any rational person would probably realize at this point that there's a freaking huge buck escorting these little ladies around, and it's winter, and oh remember that time in Rockrimmon when that buck gored a man in his backyard? The Chloe, on the other hand, thinks only, "Ooh, pretty! I should get closer!"

Obviously, I was not gored to death, but Chuckie (the buck) did not like that one bit. I'd never actually heard a deer snort outside of Jingle All the Way until today when that Chuckie was snorting at me. And if you think that rack is impressive when a buck is just mulling around, you should see it when it's lowered at you. Fortunately, at this time I realized I probably ought to scamper. Or was scampering even the right thing to do? I know all about what to do when a bear attacks you (in essence: you die), but somehow the topic of charging deer didn't come up as much. Obviously I had no chance in hell of fighting the thing, so I ran--or rather, stumbled--up the driveway and back to the house. Luckily, Chuckie decided I wasn't a threat and just herded his little family away leaving me with quite the adrenaline rush and nothing better than this crappy photo to show for my efforts:


My tendency to put myself in stupid situations might be one thing if I had a good reason for it, like monetary profit. I don't have any such reasons though; I'm an amateur taking pictures simply because I enjoy looking at pretty things. Alas, I'm also inflicted with the Stupid. I wish today was an isolated incident, but then I remember that one day when my first reaction to seeing the bear on my porch was to run out and take pictures. Or that time I decided to try and hand feed our fox so I could get better pictures. While I didn't actually get rabies like some people were led to believe, he did take a snap at me, and the risk was real. Even without trying to get animal shots, I manage to trample through thistles, climb to perilous places, and generally be an idiot. I always think that this incident will be the last one, and now I'll be smarter. Then I see a picture I couldn't have taken otherwise, and I realize the Stupid is incurable.

For future reference, if you're being charged by a deer you're supposed to edge slowly away. I'm sure you'll use that knowledge a lot in your life.

...got a dog to protect me from lions.

And this is how he does it.

Even as I write this, Hoover is curled up next to me (he dearly loves to snuggle, which is just fine with me as almost anyone who has sat on a couch with me can attest) and snoring so loudly I need to use ASL to communicate with anyone in the room. I have never met a dog who sleeps as much as J. Edgar. After a full night's sleep, this dog slept the whole drive from Provo to Woodland Park (almost 9 hours), and then promptly went to sleep when we got home. Sure, he's got energy enough to go on long hikes and runs, but if you stop moving for more than two minutes and thirty-eight seconds, he's out.

This is somewhat embarrassing. You see, Hoover is half Rhodesian Ridgeback. According to Wikipedia, he should able to "corner and wear down a lion by taunting and goading it into confusion." Yes, that's right. A freaking lion. J. Edgar Hoover should be able to put a lion where he wants it and then wait for me to mosey up and shoot the thing if I feel so inclined. This is important. You realize that up to 700 people are attacked by lions each year, don't you? (And don't try and tell me I'm safe just because I'm in Colorado; I have vivid recollections of reading my friend's book about man-eating lions, and most of those were American house pets until the day they woke up and decided, "Gee, this would be a good day to see if I can rip off someone's scalp. Humans probably taste much better than this Meow Mix crap.") So as you can see, it's important to have an African Lion Dog around. If any of those nasty felines come around, Hoover should take care of things--in theory.

Does he look ready to taunt or goad anything?


Even if he were able to stay awake long enough to fulfill his lion-related duties, I'm not sure Hoover is up to it. Don't get me wrong, I admire him intensely. I have witnessed him leap over objects as tall as me from a standstill, I've been dragged across the floor when playing Tug o' War, and I've tried very hard and very unsuccessfully to outrun him. When he stays awake, this dog is a machine, and I have yet to see him matched in athleticism. Unfortunately, he is also the biggest coward I know.

Please understand--I appreciate cowardice. After all, a healthy dose of fear is probably all that keeps you from stomping up to a grizzly and trying to swing dance. Fear keeps you alive. But I'm supposed to be the one who's allowed to be cowardly, not him. I shouldn't have to escort him outside after 5pm because he's terrified of the dark woods.

On the other hand, at least the dark is a semi-reasonable fear. His others, however? Not so much. Hoover has shown an aversion to writing utensils, reflective surfaces, Michael Jackson, brooms, and body spray--among other things. As my mother and I watched General Conference on my laptop, Hoover took it upon himself to warn us that Elder Andersen was probably going to crawl out of the screen The Ring style and kill us. Did the dog actually try to protect us? Nope. Rather, he alternated between yelping and backing away in terror.

Ultimately, any lions out there are probably going to eat me with little opposition. Or they would, if they weren't busy spending their days the same way as Hoover.

Maybe I'm safe for now.