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H IS FOR? I'm typically halfway around the block when the rain starts -- again. Bug and Chieka are pretty much done with it and take every opportunity to turn back to the warmth and comfort of the awaiting bed (ours, not theirs). Any conversation overheard would be something along "Chieka, just poo and we can go home." She understands this as "Cheeka blah blah blah blah blah blah blah." I do wish that I had a growl/bark translator so I could determine exactly what naughty words she's calling me as I haul her through the wet weather. Has she picked up "Jesus H. Christ?" I think the entire neighbourhood learned that one when my father came over to view the after effects of the three car wreck my sister and I were involved in way back when. It was just another crappy December night when I'd gone to pick up my sister and Jenny Punter from a party downtown. We were following a Honda Civic (the tiny ladybird like early models -- this all happened back in thea early 80s) when a fellow in the oncoming lane "fell asleep at the wheel" (what DUI was before everyone decided to pull the plug on post party accidents) and plowed into the car ahead of us. The force of that collision pushed the Civic into the passenger side of my dad's Chevette as I attempted avoid the accident. Claire, Jenny and I sat there dazed while Mr. DUI, bleeding profusely from the nose, shuffled up to the drivers side of my car. He mumbled something but all I remembered doing was rolling down my window enough to push a box of tissues out the car at him. We three sat stunned in the car until the RCMP arrived (Ottawa has three possible jurisdictions -- cops, OPP (Ontario Provincial Police or the "Official Party Poopers") or RCMP (Royal Canadian Mounted Police -- who at that time were driving around in purple cars. Purple?). We were lucky. The couple in the Civic were not so -- recently married, they both had both legs broken as the front end of their car had pretty much accordianed into nothing. The force of the collision had pushed in the passenger side of my Dad's car, springing the top out about four inches. We all crawled out the passenger side and talked to the officers. I didn't want to drive home, most likely never wanted to drive again and after much cajoling by the officer that "I could do it" left the scene of the accident and went on our way. My mother was a stickler for curfews (I'd once arrived home past my deadline to fine a dime taped to the screen door with a note -- "call your father") and she dealt reasonably well with to rather shaken daughters. After relaying the our story, she'd peered out the front window to look at the car in the driveway and called my father with the news -- "It doesn't look that bad." "Jesus H. Christ." My dad had taken the bus over and was looking at the damage which my mother had greatly underestimated in the darkness the night before. It's been known to pop out of my mouth while under great duress and I wonder if the tender ears of my Chihuahua have discerned more than "blah blah blah." I never asked what the "H" stood for. Harold? Update: Tom Cosgrave, "It's Jesus Holy Christ, according my uncle. He should know - he's a priest ;-)" 01/ 9/2005
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