Adios Creepy Dog

Contrary to the normally downbeat editorial tone here at Chaos HQ, I am pleased to bring you a rare feel-good happy ending story - consider it the silly pet tale at the end of the grim evening newscast. You know, the one that leaves you grinning like an idiot and muttering 'aw shucks' even though the world is on fire in eleventy places.

You may recall that I recently embarked on massive toy purge that left Creepy Dog and his brethren bound for the tip. But at the eleventh hour, a lovely family decided to adopt him and a handful of the other doomed plastic cheep and nasties. I would tell you more about the family, but they are now in a witness protection program. Anyway, they wouldn't have time to respond to press queries because they are busy reading 'Cujo' and re-thinking their hasty adoption decision.

Pack your doggy bag. 

I can hardly believe my luck. Having finally managed to pass the curse on, I embark on a new chapter in my life. I've lived for so long with the curse that I am left with a sort of empty creepy nest feeling.

Happy trails Creepy Dog. Good luck new family - time and sanity allowing, I hope you will carry the creepy mantle and report back on the doings of your new, moderately psychopathic canine companion.

Even pack rats get the blues

I live in a homing beacon for crap toys. For the past three years an entire galaxy of 'cheap and nasties' (term courtesy of A&E Mum) has found the magnetic draw of my house irresistible. My research indicates that this is due to my home's geographical location on the conversion point of two ancient polymer ley lines—it is essentially a semi-detached plastic henge.

For the first three years I didn't mind. I became a bit of a toy-pagan myself. My Mama Stockholm Syndrome reasserted itself and I began identifying with the junk, even giving the most hateful bits names: Creepy Dog, Molly Dolly, etc. But the clutter that alighted innocently at first began to flock in an increasingly Hitchcock-esque manner. Before long there was something menacing and undeniably stickerman about.

The Clutterati. 

Things went bump in the night—against the arch of my foot any time I was so foolish as to set foot out of bed. By day I was mad-dogged by their fearsome leader. Sometimes I could have sworn that he changed location without any human moving him.

One morning I had a premonition of a mighty judgement coming: a vision of myself turned into a plastic cat lady, buried under shape sorters and poorly-drawn fake plastic kitchen food. Clearly something had to be done. But for the life of me, I couldn't think of what.

Then, while stumbling over toys one day, I landed upon an insightful documentary on this very subject called 'Toy Story 3'. Inspired, I commenced operation 'Crap Toy Desertion'. Now the teeming plastic masses are in bin bags in the garage, bound for the charity shop (which is where most of them came from in the first place).

Riding off into the fake sunset. 

I can once again walk across my own sitting room without risking foot injury. All that remains is to hang garlic above the doors to prevent a recurring infestation.

I feel unburdened, weightless, peaceful, as I sit here. The first toy was the hardest to toss. But each one became easier, more rewarding, until I was chucking them into bin bags more rapidly than Sylvester McMonkey McBean throws Sneeches into his Star-On machine.

Hang up your plastic saddles. 

I had a joyous epiphany: having children doesn't have to mean a houseful of crap. Funniest thing about possessions: they grow to possess you, if you don't show them the door first.

21: Santa imposters

Day 21 in Advent is staring down at Who-ville with a sour Grinchy frown.

...and laying a finger aside of his nose-ring...

There is a local tradition in these parts whereby kids are taken to a creepy, skinny, unbearded, fake Santa Claus in the days preceding Christmas. They queue like trembling lemmings, then sit one by one in Creepy Claus's lap and recant their sins. There is much grovelling, gnashing of teeth and plaintive crying to show contrition.

Parents photograph the whole scene to use as evidence, should the kids later recant their confessions and commence misbehaviour. A key part of this cultural practice is that surrounding grown-ups must say things like 'ah how cute' and categorically refuse to acknowledge that Creepy Claus is clearly a big phony.

If the Grinch could do it, then so could Creepy Dog. 

I hear that our Santa imposters are pretty tame compared to the uber-scary Swiss ones, who travel with evil whip-wielding sidekicks, and pack kidnap bags for the naughty kids (thanks for the info, Sheena). And anyway, according to the eleventy-hundred good parenting manuals I should have read, threats covered in treats-clothing are crucial to the cultivation of good behaviour. You see, after a date with fake Santa, kids will be super-thankful for their Christmas presents and act like angels for months, or until all memory of him has passed (so possibly only a few minutes).

I do my best to respect local custom, so last week my girls went for their annual review with fake Santa. And there we met the jolliest, fattest, beardiest Santa imposter imaginable. I can only assume the agency hired him over the phone, or made an administrative mistake. I waited for him to speak in a scary voice, or pull out some other Scroogey trick, but he remained a kind, grandfatherly type throughout the interrogation.

Wise one that she is, Ali howled like a banshee anyway to indicate that she knew her place in the ritual, and felt genuine remorse for her sins. Ana looked bored, irreverent, borderline half-asleep. But in fairness, not even the Grinch would make Ana nervous. In fact she rather identifies with that guy.

Santa imposter ritual complete, I'm off to stock up on Who-hash and roast beast for the big day.

Translation hazard!

Ana, harbinger of destruction, needed a garden swing like a hamster needs a hamster wheel. So I ordered one online without putting much thought into it. Upon arrival I discovered that my hastily-selected swing was an import from Molvania. This was apparent from the safety instructions, clearly a collaboration between Babel Fish and Borat. Here's an excerpt:

Warning! Adult assembly request. Adult supervision required at all limes when using this product. Suitable for children aged. DO NOT loosen the rope, otherwise the seal will fall and cause injury. DO NOT allow children 10 get off the swing when it is stilt moving. This item is for Family donestic use only. Avoid swinging empty swings. Try and orientate swing to avoid swinging directly into sun.

No kidding--printed right there on the box.

Now I'm an imaginative speller and a monoglot, so I can't have too much fun with this--glasspots in kettlehouses shouldn't lob seals, etc. And whereas elfin-safety glop is usually so tedious, I enjoyed this and must salute the person responsible. Humour is the only glue holding the various bits of my sleepy brain together right now. So I wonder, legal disclaimery aside, if there is so little actual information contained in kiddie safety warnings that they can be written in Mad Libs, why not hire comedians for the job? Or if comedians are too expensive and expletive-laden, perhaps the introduction of a standard label would both warn parents and eliminate future translation hazards. I reckon this would cover the bases:

You know this stuff like the back of Junior's cute widdle hand and it's pretty condescending of me, a mere safety label, to regurgitate it back to you in small words, but frankly you're so tired right now that you can't remember your own name, and you're too embarrassed to ask your spouse for clarification, so read on. Your snowflake is currently attempting serious self-injury and permanent world-damage on a vast scale and in five ways that you haven't thought of. So keep your eyes on Bambina until your vision goes all wonky and you get pinging dots across it diagonally (no this is not normal, if you mention it to other people, they will give you spare change for a sandwich). And don't even think about having any hobbies or sitting down because all that nonsense is for grownups, a group from which you are hereby quarantined. If you and Angel survive the first three years it will be a small miracle and you will receive a complimentary Molvanian cake and two free psychotherapy sessions with a seal of your choice. Now go play with this toy and stop reading this rubbish. Your name is Fred.

Silliness aside, I really wasn't sure how to interpret these instructions. So in the interest of elfin-safety, I let Creepy Dog (still surviving) have the first swing. No injuries to note. 'You're funny!' implied approval to my ears. Guinea pig test done, over to Monster Dog.

Here comes the sun dog.

Fearless-pirate Ana and wise-sage Ali both make me wonder what part of childhood is supposed to be healthy or safe. I hate to indulge Ali's paranoia but I'm inclined to agree with her--the tall world handles short people with kid gloves, only to shove them off the deep end and into life one day. Life being that eternally rough thing that adults never get a comfortable grip on.

As I write this, I hear Ana's whoops of delight from the garden as she swings directly into the sun. How it should be. I give the swing three Molvanian thumbs up.

Creepy Dog v Monster Dog

Talking baby toys seem like a good idea to the uninitiated. But these battery-operated buddies suffer much abuse at the hands of their captors; they are licked, kicked, smacked, mocked and ultimately forgotten out in the cold rain. Such treatment would turn anyone rotten.

Ana fell in love with a plush talking dog at a friend's house. I can't blame her--he was very charming. He sang when she squeezed his paws, giggled when she poked his tummy, counted, recited ABCs and said all manner of sweet phrases. Naively, I decided to buy one for our house too.

Our new pet was licked, kicked, smacked and mocked. He cheerfully sang the ABCs and nattered on and on about the itsy bitsy spider. Then he was left out alone in the cold, damp world. After this rainy abandonement, the first signs of spooky behaviour set in. 'Hug me', he chirped intermittently in empty rooms.

Somewhere in her early months--Ana, always a dog-lover and ever the barbarian--aquired the pet name  Monster Dog. Her affinity with the canine cause made her more sympathetic to the posessed dog toy than the rest of us. So he ended up in her room. But he was quickly banished after he woke her up at 2am with, 'YOU'RE FUNNY!'

Bad dog.

From here on he was officially known as Creepy Dog. I moved him from room to room, nook to nook, in an increasingly frantic attempt to avoid his creepiness. His demands for hugs and tickles escalated. Menace and psychosis crept into his perky AA-battery android voice. I began to toy with the idea of Creepy Dog meeting with an unfortunate accident. But he was always a step ahead, and I could never corner him alone with a bin liner, or a screwdriver for the battery compartment. One day Ana hugged him tight, and demanded that he go with her in the car. He remained in the back seat for weeks. Every pot-hole: 'Peekaboo! I see you!'

Then he went quiet. I thought--prayed--perhaps his batteries were spent. Weeks passed. I forgot all about him.

I found myself driving home alone on a dark rainy night. The streets were empty but for feeble moonshine and rainwater overflowing from defunct street drains. I was two turns away from home, going over a narrow bridge. Then bump over a pot-hole. 'I love you!' wailed Creepy Dog suddenly, blood-thirstily from the back seat. I swerved to correct my jumping, shaking hands.

That was truly the last creepy straw. Creepy Dog went into a bin liner that very night, over a year ago. But today I found him in the garage, in a dusty bin liner that never made it to the tip.

'Hug me!' he barked enthusiastically when I squeezed his paw. 'I love you!' It was comforting somehow, to know that at least he had missed me as he hibernated, conserving battery-power, poised, dormant, waiting.  He went on to a twitchy rendition of the ABCs like some warped Sesame Street character. 'You win again Creepy Dog', I conceded.

Ana found him. In true Monster Dog form, she wrestled with her fellow puppy for about an hour before getting destracted by a biscuit.

He's out there right now and it's raining, it's pouring...