Sunday, March 20, 2011

Miracles Happen

My grandparents have for many years always preferred Chihuahuas. 
Why, I will never understand. Or anyone else for that matter, so the world may never know. But the thing is, it seems they root out the ones with psychological problems. 

They have a stoner chi (Rambo), the eater (Furby) and the little homocidal maniac (Little Man). I personally think Little Man (to be known as the Rat), is evil. This yappy little thing will run from you, turn and glare at you when you attempt to speak to him and god forbid someone take his spot on the couch. 

Rambo, who has passed, had gotten to the point in his old age he simply did not care what happened with the world around, just so long as no one took his pillow. You could get away with anything, so long as that pillow was always with him. In fact, I would not be surprised if he allowed you to place him on his pillow, perch said chi-pillow combination on top of your head and proceed to run right into a pit of snakes. The dog would not care.  

 Furby (to be known as the Fat One), on the other hand, has formed this crippling dependancy on food. Born a tea-cup chi, she has decided to drown her sorrows in milk and anything edible throughout the house, most often what has been given to her by my grandmother. I think the fact that Betchy is such an enabler saddens the Fat One even more, which in turn caused her to eat even was just a vicious cycle... :(

The Fat One has a belly which now drags the ground, earning her the nickname "Low Rider". The Betchy took the dog to the vet one day, after my growing concern and constant complaining FINALLY convinced her the dog would eventually explode, and I refused to leave any bowls of milk (or anything for that matter that wasn't healthy dog food) on the ground so the Fat One could get to it. 

So off they went.

My grandfather had sat down just a few moments before they returned that afternoon, and I was sitting quietly on the couch, reading a book and enjoying the silence. 

 my grandmother slams the front door open with such force (and sound effect, might I add), that I threw my book and almost fall off the couch because, keep in mind, I was lost in la-la land. :-)

What does she say, while holding onto the door frame and the Fat One in the other arm?? 

"Pit-chul pitchul!!" (That is Pickle, in English and is my grandfather's nickname. No one knows why. We're afraid to know the real reason)
"The Vet says Furby has lost 3 WHOLE POUNDS since her last visit Pit-chul!"

My grandfather simply looks at her, lifts the sandwich to his mouth, shrugs and says "Miracles happen I guess" then continues to eat, as if Betchy isn't standing at the door with a triumphant look on her face because the fat, wheezing dog in her arms has lost three pounds.

I at once start laughing. Not just a giggle, I mean deep, loud belly laughs. Attempting to point and laugh. 

It suddenly became the best day ever. And of course I told everyone. We all laughed our asses off and from then on out, "Miracles Happen" became an inside joke. 

This is the story reader, of how a miracle happened in a small town in Florida. :-)

About the OP (original poster)

I am a 23 year old living in the EST of the US, safely tucked states away from my leech-like grandmother, let's call her Betchy. The stories and entries that will be found in this site will follow my misadventures with my dear grandmother, along with shared experiences from others who have had the misfortune to have an encounter with the betchy kind.