Little Miss Menacing: “King of the Seals”

My Dad is convinced my dog is going to attack him.

Or, more accurately, he is convinced she is going to rip his throat out in a murderous rage.
(Too graphic? I was going for ‘Game of Thrones’ gritty but I feel like that just sounded forced? Thoughts?)

I digress.

My poor Dad is genuinely terrified of my sweet pup. It all started the first time he met her and she barked at him nervously. In her defence, he had just driven Kevin home from having his wisdom teeth out and she was very sketched out to have some strange man arrive in her new home with her family member that now smelled of blood and the dentist.

Really, you can’t blame her.

After that encounter my Dad ended up having a terrible nightmare (his words) about my dog, who he has nicknamed “King of the Seals”, killing him in a terrifying and graphic way. (Apparently Ninja resembles a boy seal? I don’t seal it … har har har)

happy face

Little Miss Menacing

It didn’t help that their second encounter involved her freaking out and growling quite menacingly at his recliner (and him in it). I’ll admit that was a less than ideal second meeting.

He is fairly traumatized.

As a loving daughter I am torn between trying to respect his fear and telling him to get over it because my doggy is the best doggy and there is no better doggy anywhere.

I mostly lean towards Option B.

As a Rescue Pup, Ninja is understandably intimidated by very tall men, and my Dad is very tall. She is cautious but warming up to him each visit, though I think she senses his fear and it makes her more nervous. In an effort to help I have offered him Ativan and muscle relaxants for their visits, but he has declined in case it dulls his reflexes when she attacks.

Alas, only time and increased exposure will help them become more comfortable with each other. (Though I doubt she will ever forgive the recliner, but in all honesty it had it coming …) In the meantime I continue to regale him with stories about my fur baby that inadvertently frighten him even more.

I suppose it would be prudent to keep any story that contains the words “she tore it to shreds!” to myself …


Ninja’s most significant casualty, my nearly 20 year old oven mitt.

Awkward Update

I feel the need to defensively discuss my lack of blog posts this last year while adopting a heavy yet subtle passive aggressive tone and explain that just because I haven’t been posting doesn’t mean I haven’t been writing.

(This post is for you, Dad.)

You see, Dear Reader, it’s just that my attention has been elsewhere. Instead of writing sarcastic and manic blog posts I have been focusing my sporadic talents on harassing my family members and close friends via text message (some of these texts have become quite lengthy – almost essay worthy).

Oh, and I have also been writing and illustrating personalized books for my niece and nephew.

(Any guesses which one of these tasks is more time consuming? Hint, it’s the more annoying one.)

The books I have written my niece and nephew are part of a series I plan to continue until the kids are old enough to realize I am not very cool and/or they become less interested in presents that aren’t money. Whichever comes first.

“Walter the Pirate Captain Who Only Does Good Deeds” and “Emily the Explorer” are the first books in the respective series and they are all about my darling Munchkin buddies. My ambitious plan is to write one book per child per year. I’m pretty sure I was delusional when I assigned myself this task, but now that I have started and promised the Little Buddy’s one book per year (a fact I didn’t expect them to remember – but they do!) I am doing my best to keep up.

The books are very grounded and gritty, as is suitable for very young children. They feature a heavy dose of realism with an emphasis on teaching the Munchkins the truths about life. In Wallaby’s books he captains a ferry boat that turns into a diesel train (because a steam train is so passé according to him) and in Em’s first book she and her robot pal rescue a brontosaurus that has been stranded on Saturn.


Basically the stories are pretty biographical with real events and totally plausible plots.

… Or at least the plots would be more realistic if my brother would just buy my Niece a rocket ship or at least find a DIY Tutorial that is capable of reaching deep space. Alas, I suppose we will just have to use the “power of imagination”.

Anyways, there really was no real point to this post other than to share a bit of what I have been working on these days. (Though I have neglected to include examples of my text message prowess as the content is not always appropriate or easily understood out of context.)

… I am going to end this awkwardly now and just share a few pictures from the books I wrote.


Jingle Bell Hell: The Christmas Ruiner

Disclaimer: The name of the gentleman friend in question has been changed to protect the identity of someone who has no idea this blog exists.

I have a natural affinity for Hyperbole (as I am sure anyone who has read my blog has noticed). There is something beautiful in the art of slight (or major) exaggeration, especially when done right.

But this next story, dear reader, is not exaggerated at all. And, as a double whammy, it also serves to show that I have come by my love of hyperbole naturally.

Though I lived in Edmonton for nearly five years I never missed a Christmas in Victoria. I always took two weeks of vacation and flew home to visit friends and family for the festive season. In addition to the family traditions and get-together’s I always filled these trips with visits to see friends, making sure every second of my time was accounted for. It was a whirlwind of fun topped up with a fair amount of double booking and stress.

One such Christmas, and incidentally my first Christmas as a single lady in many years, I took an evening to visit my friend Josh. It was Sunday night and I had been cautioned before leaving for my non-date that I needed to be back at my parent’s house at a reasonable time as we were driving to Nanaimo the next morning and I would have to wake up early-ish.

My Dad justifiably loathed Josh and I honestly believe his lecture about being home early was more to do with cutting short my time with Josh than because he believed I couldn’t wake up by 10am, but that point is moot.

Still, like the good daughter I am, I kept his lecture in mind and researched the bus times thoroughly to ensure I would meet curfew. I had it all worked out, I would catch the 8:05 bus, transfer to an 8:20 bus, and be home before 9:00pm.

With my route home sorted I relaxed and spent a delightful evening with Josh. We had dinner and watched movies and just generally caught up with each other.

And then 7pm rolled around and my phone rang. It was my Dad.

“Sarah, I just want to remind you that you need be home early as we have a big day tomorrow.”

I assured my Dad that I had the bus times all worked out and reminded him that due to Sunday Schedules my bus only came every hour so yes, the 8:05 bus would be the earliest I could catch.

I settled back in to watch the movie and at 7:07pm my phone rang again.

It was my Dad. Again.

“Why haven’t you left for the bus?” I once again reminded him about Sunday Schedules and told him I would be home before 9:00pm. As I hung up the phone Josh laughed nervously, very keenly aware of how little my Dad liked him.

At 7:20pm my phone rang again. This time I was annoyed.

“Dad! I will be home by 9:00pm. If you would like I can call you when I am on the bus, but for now would you stop calling?”

My Dad launched into a lecture about family commitments and how we needed to leave exactly on time for Nanaimo the next day. He was not happy with my decision to stay out to the late, late hour of 9:00pm.

Well, we were even, because I was not happy with his decision to call my cell phone three times in less than half an hour.

I settled back onto the couch with Josh who had very conspicuously removed his arm from around me and was now sitting with a cushion buffer between us.

My phone rang two more times in the next ten minutes and I let the calls go directly to voicemail. With each ring Josh inched further and further away on the couch until he was practically sitting on the armrest.

Then at 7:45pm my sister phoned in a panic. “Sarah! Are you ok? Dad says he’s been trying to reach you for an hour and that you are out with Josh and he is worried something has happened to you because you won’t answer your phone. What’s going on?”

I literally growled before explaining to my sister that yes I had already talked to Dad, no I was not in danger, yes I was heading home shortly, and no I didn’t need a ride.

I went back to sit on the couch fuming only to see Josh hurriedly putting on his shoes, ready to walk me to the bus stop early and get me the heck out of his apartment. We walked in silence, the mood ruined.

When I finally made it home I was fuming and I didn’t hesitate to tell my Dad what a jerk he was being. Here I was 22 years old and completely humiliated while spending time with a boy that I liked.

My Dad responded in the most mature way possible, cutting off my tirade and yelling out that I was “Ruining Christmas for everyone!”

I stomped upstairs and went to bed early feeling furious.

The next morning I sat across from my Dad at the breakfast table. It was just the two of us as my sister was driving over to meet us shortly and my Mom was upstairs getting ready.

I stubbornly refused to say anything.

Finally my Dad cleared his throat sheepishly.

“I think I owe you an apology.” He began. “It seems I have forgotten how to parent in the years that you’ve been gone and I may have overreacted last night.”

I graciously accepted his apology.

Actually that’s a lie. I was a huge brat about it teasing him mercilessly and telling everyone the story of his overreaction. In fact, to this day my sister and I still yell out that I am “Ruining Christmas for everyone!” whenever something slightly out of the ordinary happens. It’s become a great tradition.

As a further disclaimer, Josh was always a bit of an ass and as I have grown wiser and older and I can see why my Dad was so concerned. Still, I don’t think my staying out until 9:00pm ruined Christmas for anyone, let alone everyone.