Guest Blogger: Mommy Lost in Translation

Tomorrow, Nellie and I are headed to Chicago for a week. My mom’s memorial service is finally this coming weekend. I didn’t want my blog to be all empty and stuff, so while I’m gone I will be featuring some awesome guest bloggers for you all to enjoy. The first blogger is my real-life best friend Rachel, who blogs at Mommy, Lost in Translation. She’s hilarious and if you’re not reading her blog already, you need to. She has amazing stories and writes an awesome series about how she & her husband met and fell in love. Without further ado, here’s Rachel!


Well hello there, reader. So happy to be guest blogging at Mommy Boots today because it is ONLY MY FAVORITE BLOG EVER. I’m not just saying that because Mommy Boots is my real life BFF. Okay. My favorite blog is The But whatever, Mommy Boots is totally my second favorite.

I was told to write about a story that Natalie doesn’t know about. Being my best friend and all, this is somewhat hard, I mean she knows a whole hell of a lot. I think I actually ended up choosing a story that I have mentioned to her before, but I think it was something like, “Once my mom dug up a dead dog,” and that was kind of the end of it. You see, a lot of my stories are a little off the wall and sometimes people just give me that confused head tilt look and an awkward smile and don’t ask any questions.

So I’m gonna go ahead and tell the story anyway. Once my mom dug up our dead dog. That’s a good opener, yes?

Let me elaborate. My mother loves animals, all the animals always and forever. I grew up surrounded by about 10,000 animals. Seriously, we always had a pet, well, we never had “A” pet. We had multiple pets, hoards of them. Once we had like 30 cats. No exaggeration. I mean, they lived outside but they were still ours. We didn’t seek out the 30 cats, we lived on acres of land and people just kept dropping them off on our property and my mother being the loving person she is took care of them. This is pretty much the reason I only have one cat and when that cat dies…well I probably won’t get another one. Don’t get me wrong. I like animals and all that, I just grew surrounded dog puke and cat piss on the carpet and fleas and kittens that had some kind of weird condition where their intestines started sliding out of their butt holes. I don’t know what that condition is but it happened to us multiple times. We also had a litter of kittens that one of the other cats ATE. We think it was one of the male cats that wasn’t the father, I guess he was jealous that the whore female cat had someone else’s babies. Though, really, how could he TELL they weren’t his? I mean they totally could have been his babies. Anyway, there were a bunch of little half eaten kitten corpses lying all over the house. HOW PLEASANT.

I’m getting off track, but I thought you needed a little back story. Actually, I think you still might need some back story: right now my mom has this over bread puppy mill pomeranian named Foxy. Foxy is about 7 years old and has a collapsing trachea and brain damage and has frequent panic and anxiety attacks. My mom gives her breathing treatments with steam and a little sheet over Foxy’s head. This is the kind of patience and love my mother has for these animals, people. Now that I think you have enough information, I’ll get on with it.

Once, years ago, my mom had this ancient dog named Poko. She adopted him from an elderly old woman who was in the hospital and could no longer care for him. Poko was old as shit when we adopted him but he managed to live for several more years. He was this scraggly pomeranian/poodle mix but his hair and his teeth were falling out. He didn’t do much but limp around and sleep but I don’t think my mom has loved any of her pets the way she loved that damn dog. And then one day, ol’ Poko kicked the bucket. He died in his sleep in his little doggie bed and my mom buried him in the creepy pet cemetery in our front yard. (What? OF COURSE WE HAVE A PET CEMETERY.)

Anyway, Poko died while I was in college so I wasn’t living at home. I came home the weekend after to check on things. I walked into the house and my sister, who was in high school at the time, was sitting in the living room painting her nails and my dad was reading the paper. I was making small talk with them when I noticed a Ziploc bag of fur lying on a nearby desk. I picked it up and realized the bag was labeled with “Poko’s fur.” I asked them what that was all about and my sister said “Oh thats so Mom can clone him if she wins the lottery.” It was about then that mom entered the living room. My sister, being the snark shark that she most often is, said “By the way mom, I hope you ripped that hair out by the follicle.” My mom said, “What?” and my sister said, “The FOLLICLE. Otherwise you don’t have any of his DNA. You have to rip it out, you can’t just cut it off with scissors.” My mom stared at her for a minute and then stomped out the back door without saying a word. Without looking up from his paper my dad said, “She’s going to dig up that dog.”

My sister and I looked at each other dumbfounded, thinking “Surely not.” So we followed her out the back door and sure enough, there she was, heading toward the pet cemetery with a shovel.

We all sat in silence in the living room for about half an hour. My mother calmly reentered the house, picked up the Ziploc bag, emptied out Poko’s fur into the trash and replaced it with a new fistful of hair. She gave my sister a “Humph,” and went back to tidying up around the house.

Rest in Peace, Poko.

We’re still waiting on that winning lottery ticket.