Goodness, NO! If Delynda has a page on this website - then more people read her exagerated stories. (Delmer Pat Pilon's Editorial on his daughter's stories)
Read Delmar (Pat Pilon's Amazing Conversion Story. He knew the Book of Mormon was true...but the truth couldn't possibly be in the Mormon Church....could it?
Delmar is always willing to share his testimony, including his conversion story. He isn't quite as excited about Dylinda's tales about their family.
Return of the Bionic Man
There¹s nothing like a retired farmer and lumberjack to figure out how to fix the impossible. Recently we opened a store in one of the buildings that fronts the street. The second area is also going to be part of the store, but it was in much sorrier shape than we realized, so we¹ve curtained it away from public inspection (never mind the huge picture window that anyone with a pair of eyeballs can see anything they care to through) and continued to remodel it. Remodeling began with the removal of a lot of junk so that we finally got down to the indoor/outdoor carpet underneath everything.
At one time that carpet was probably a great investment, but it sure was showing
its age recently, not only in wear and tear, but also in odor (from years of
spilled flower water - everytime I walked through there I was reminded of
funerals). My son and brother pulled it up (the language was fouler than the
carpet¹s odor) and tossed it. However, over the years the back of the
carpet, wetted down time after time, separated from the face of the carpet
and glued itself to the tile (which looks circa 1940) underneath.
Nothing could unstick that carpet. Everyone but my dad had pretty much given
up on unsticking it. He continued to try to find ways to scrape it off.
Then Wren Atwood showed up with a hoe - that¹s right, a garden hoe - and
after much sweating and scraping, him and my dad removed the black sludge
from the floor. They did a great job, but then they are a couple of bionic
(although dad disagrees - he says the new joints are plastic, not bionic)
men. After all, dad has two bionic knees and Wren has one bionic knee and
one bionic hip (I think). Never mind that, though. Those two fellows would
put guys half their age (and with no bionics) to shame, not only in hard
work but in innovation.
The next step was to remove the stage then put in a door between our home
and the store area. Mom hates the idea of putting in a door. She says dad
will never hear her holler for him if there¹s a door in the way. Dad says he
can hear her holler from the opposite side of the building behind a closed
bathroom door. Mom then asked why he never answers her then. Dad looked a
little chagrined by that question.
But dad says a door is absolutely necessary. Apparently he doesn¹t want the
cat meandering back into the store area.
Me: But the cat loves you.
Dad: Customers won¹t like it.
Me: They will think he¹s adorable.
Dad: Ya, until they walk out of here covered in black fur - or have to watch
him hack up a furball, or lick his...
Me: Okay - I¹m convinced.
So dad went to work putting up the door. However, halfway through his
endeavour he lost his screwdriver. He wandered the house for a good half
hour moving this and that looking for his screwdriver.
Dad: I put it in a safe place - an easy place. I know it.
No one answered him. We¹ve all heard this refrain before, but usually it¹s
either his keys or his glasses that he¹s Oput in a safe spot¹.
He never did find it. Later on we decided to go take in a movie in the Hat.
Dad seemed a bit uncomfortable during the drive, twisting this way and that.
Finally he reached into his pocket, fishing around for whatever was poking
him. Then he pulled out his screwdriver.
Dad: That¹s where I put it.
If there¹s some kind of bionic memory transplant in the works for people, I
think my dad should sign up.
The escape of Gizmo
I took my son to Lethbridge Tuesday and we bought a teddy bear hamster at a pet store there. The hamster was a cutey, all fuzzy and white and grey. He
named the little guy Gizmo, and we bought him a deluxe hamster cage, put
down a layer of sawdust, filled a bowl with food and the tube with water and
set it carefully on the seat of my van. Then we took in a move at the Movie
Mill. When we came out, the hamster cage was empty. Gizmo was gone. Disappeared.
We searched the van frantically. It was locked when we went in and still
locked when we came out, and even in the unlikely event that Gizmo overcame the fact he has no opposable thumb and acutally opened the door, I doubted he¹d think to lock it behind him. Therefore I knew he still had to be in the van.
This was proven true on the ride home. I could hear him gnawing frantically
on the wiring behind the counsel. This did not make me happy.
When we got home we searched the van again, but could¹t coax Gizmo from his hiding spot.
That night I had to go to a town council meeting. I mentioned my dilemna to
the honourable members of our council and got a few suggestions.
Mayor: Put the cat in your van for the night.
Town Manager: Leave the doors open for a while.
These suggestions seemed a little blood thirsty to me. I mean, I don¹t want
to kill Gizmo, I want to catch him. After all, he has a name. You can¹t kill
something after it has a name.
By Thursday morning, I still hadn¹t come up with a solution to my problem,
however I did find a sprinkling of hamster surprise waiting for me on the
floorboards of my van.
Cheryl (co-worker, soon to abandon us): That cat idea is sounding a little
better now, isn¹t it?
Me: Maybe. (I don¹t like poop. Not even little hamster poops.)
Cheryl (she also happens to be Rob Burgess¹ - the mechanic¹s -
sister-in-law): You should take the van over to Robby¹s and have him look at
it before that hamster does some real damage.
Me: (pondering whether or not mechanics generally keep hamster extraction
devices on hand) I think he might laugh at me.
Cheryl: Of course he¹ll laugh at you. But I¹m telling him anyway, so you
might as well go over there.
Then my brother, Clayton, came rushing into the office.
Clayton: Give me your keys, quick. Gizmo is sitting on the back seat. I
think I can catch him.
I threw him my keys and rushed out to watch. Clayton hit the lock button
instead of the unlock one. The horn honked. Then he fumbled for the unlock
button.
Clayton: (finally opening the door) He¹s gone.
Me: Even I could have escaped by the time you got there.
Then Clayton suggested I buy a mouse trap that doesn¹t kill mice, only
catches them. I did.
It cost me 20 some bucks.
I only hope it works before Gizmo digests my entire wiring harness.
Gizmo lives
Thanks to all of you who¹ve asked about the hamster infestation in my van. I
have just one thing to say: Gizmo lives.
Actually, I thought he was a goner. Two whole days went by, and I didn¹t
hear him flick a whisker. I removed the live mouse trap from the van. I felt
a shadow of grief pass over my heart. Poor little run-a-way hamster. And I
felt a bit of relief, I admit. The wiring harness was saved.
Then, after returning from Medicine Hat last weekend, my son noticed
something odd about my diet coke cup. The top was gnawed off.
Me: How did that happen?Dallas (my son): Gizmo lives!!
Now, I know the live mouse trap was in proper working order, because after
taking it into the house, my son set it up to catch a pesky mouse that has
been skittering away behind the couch, and driving us crazy. The trap
worked, the mouse was captured (and released in the back alley - neither of
us had the stomach to do what my dad said and drown the poor little guy -
meaning he¹s probably made his way back inside by now).
I think I¹m going to have to clean out my van. I may have one too many food options in there for Gizmo. It seems that, besides enjoying the occasional taste of wire, he also likes popcorn and McDonalds. In fact, he seems to prefer those things over the hamster food stocked in the live mouse trap.
Behind the back seat of my van is a little pile of popcorn my son spilled
after bringing his half eaten bag out of the theatre. In the centre aisle is
my garbage bag, which is stuffed with old Mickey D containers, some of which still contain a few crumbs of food. And someone left a lot of crumbs from what I can only assume was a sub sandwich on one of the back seats.
Apparently, with plenty of diet coke to drink, and Mickey D leftovers to
satisfy him - and popcorn for dessert, Gizmo is doing just fine. So fine, in
fact, he doesn¹t have to lower himself to enter the live mouse trap and eat
the hamster food.
That¹s all about to change tonight. Tonight we¹re going to clean out the van and remove everything that the hamster has been gnawing on - everything except the wiring, of course. Then, we¹re going to set that live mouse trap up. Gizmo is bound to get hungry enough sooner or later and get inside.
After all, my head is a whole lot bigger than a hamster¹s head, so it
follows that my brain is a whole lot bigger than a hamster¹s brain. So I
must be smarter than your average hamster...
Right??
The wild hamster war cry. Gizmo is fast on his way to becoming a star. I¹m certain he¹s gotten more ink than the average hamster, but he continues to torture me, so I continue to write about him.
About a week and a half ago I heard him skittering around in the ceiling of
my van, and I finally decided it was time I caught the little fellow. I
tried to slip my hand under the upholstery where it meets the window, but
couldn¹t. However there is a piece of upholstery right above my visor that
came away from the board underneath it a bit. Giz seemed to have chosen that spot as a favourite. I could see his little hamster body impression as he
lay there. So, I poked him a little and he moved and I took a pair of
scissors and made a small slit right at that point. Then I listened for him,
and I thumped the roof behind him and herded him back to that spot. When I
saw one little paw, I pushed my fingers into the slit and tried to grab him.
Giz took exception to that. He made a sound somewhere between a cat hiss and a pig snort and charged, biting me with all his hamster might. I pulled my
finger out and it was covered in blood. Then I went into the house to tell
my dad what happened.
Dad: (aghast) You cut a hole in your upholstery?
Me: See, I¹m bleeding.
Dad: If you listened for him, then punched the roof real hard, you¹d end the
problem. And you wouldn¹t have to cut a hole in your upholstery.
I think we were having a communication problem.
Anyway, I didn¹t hear from Giz for a few days, and I admit a part of me
didn¹t care. But my conscience started nibbling at me. Surely the poor
little guy was thirsty. I¹d hate for him to die of thirst.
Then one morning I heard him skittering around. He sounded a little listless
so I filled a bottle cap with water and offered it to the hole in the roof.
Sure enough, he came over and poked his nose through and drank his fill.
But anytime my fingers got anywhere near him, out came his wild hamster war cry, and I retreated. Once bitten, twice shy - ya know?
Then Saturday came along, and when I got into the van I noticed a difference
in my ceiling. Giz had taken the small incision and turned it into a big
ragged hole.
Dad: If that rat ate a hole in my ceiling, I¹d kill it.
Me: (looking at the hole) It¹s really not that bad (uncertainly).
Then Giz stuffed his nose out and made that sound again. I knew he was
demanding water. In fear (now, if he wanted to, he could jump out right on
my face and bite off my nose - or at least a chunk of it) I gave him some.
Dad: (disgusted) Now I¹ve seen everything.
Later he drove the van and claimed Giz threw bits of fluff out the hole at
him the entire time.
Meanwhile Clayton, my brother, came over and I told him the latest Giz
development.
Clayton: Give me your keys. My gosh, I can¹t believe you guys are scared of
a little hamster.
It only took about half an hour for Giz to change his tune.
Clayton: (covered in fluff) He bit me.
Me: Aw, he¹s just a little hamster. A teddy-bear hamster at that. Surely it
didn¹t hurt.
Clayton: I¹m leaving. Catch your own @#$% hamster.
I wish I could. I just wish I could.
Captured
I now have proof that I am smarter than the average run-of-the-mill
teddy-bear hamster. I caught Gizmo.
I actually thought he¹d finally died because I didn¹t hear him scratching or
hiss/snorting for water for about a day and a half. Then my mom asked if I¹d
checked the live mouse trap recently. I hadn¹t. In fact, I¹d forgotten all
about it. It sat in my van for six weeks while I checked it everyday
religiously, and never a hamster (or any other critter) was in it. Finally I
forgot all about it.
When mom asked if I¹d checked it lately, I called Dallas and we rushed out
to the van. Sure enough, there was Giz, mad as he could be, hiss/snorting at
the world.
Dallas carried the trap into the house and set it on my bed.
Me: Don¹t open it.
Of course, being a teenager he immediately opened it.
Giz, looking as scruffy and skinny as a convict being given an early
release, leaped out of the trap and started skittering across the floor.
Me: Dallas! Grab him!
Dallas started chasing him across the room, but every time he reached down
to grab him, Giz would hiss/snort at him and rear back on his hind legs,
yellow hamster teeth at the ready.
Dallas: No way.
In that moment I had a vision. I foresaw my future. I foresaw my home being
overrun by fuzzy little mice-like creatures with big attitudes.
Me: Move out of my way.
I scooped Giz up. He bit one hand and I tossed him in the other. He bit that
hand to, and I finally got him back into the trap and closed the lid.
After that, my son transported Giz to his cage. Giz spent his first day in
captivity attacking the metal bars and crossing the cage¹s ceiling time
after time by swinging back and forth - with his teeth.
Dallas and my brother got a kick out of pushing a straw between the bars of
his cage and watching Giz attack it.
Guys are strange in their pursuit of entertainment.
Anyway, by the second day, Giz had calmed down. He seemed to remember he was originally a house pet. He even let Dallas hold him. I held him too. As
I was stroking his rather matted fur and telling him what a good little
hamster he was, he bit me.
By then I¹d had enough. You can only bite me so many times before I get
ticked. I bit him back. When I told our Ad Manager, Tom, about this, he asked if I bit off Giz¹s head, kind of like Ozzy Osbourne.
Me: Ewwww. No. Besides, Ozzy bit off bat¹s heads.
No, I just nipped Giz on his little teddy bear hamster ear. He made a
strange sound and hid in the palm of my hand.
And he hasn¹t bitten me again since that incident.
Sick brother
It was kind of like a scene out of the Godfather.
Me: (using the appropriate accent) Clayton, this one time - this one time
I¹m gonna let you have a say. I wanna write a column about this, but, this
one time I¹m gonna give you the chance to say no, don¹t do it.
Deanna: (Clayton¹s wife) Go ahead. Do it. DO IT.
Clayton: (glaring at Deanna) You might just as well. (At this point he
sounded kind of pouty) I was at the drug store and Steve asked me what was
wrong and before I even had a chance to answer he said O Never mind. I¹ll
just read about it in your sister¹s column.
It started out like this. Years ago Clayton, like many men, thought his body
was made for lifting objects that are a little heavier than say a toaster
oven or a bag of groceries - things like car motors and refrigerators. This
was, apparently, not a good idea. See, just because you can lift something
doesn¹t mean you should lift something. Consequently, he got a hernia.
Because Clayton never does anything small scale, this was one monster of a
hernia. Then it either started to leak (according to one source) or burst
(according to another source who is a bit more dramatic - ya, mom, I mean
you), so Clayton had to go into the hospital in Medicine Hat to have an
emergency operation.
Now, I like to give my brother a bad time, especially in print. If you knew
how many times that drunken (this was a long time ago) little bugger phoned
me at 3 am for a ride home, or hit me up for 20 bucks after borrowing my car
and promising to put 20 bucks of gas in it, you would understand my glee at
now being in a position to occasionally embarrass him - like when he comes
over and eats all my cheese or borrows the plunger. (He finally bought
himself a plunger - from the dollar store. He even managed to sound
surprised when it broke and he had to borrow mine again). But I love my
little brother. I don¹t want him to be ill, in the hospital - getting
surgery.
Following surgery, he seemed to be healing fine. Then there came a
complication. The nurse noticed a lump on the other side of his hernia while
she was cleaning his wound. The lump was actually growing while she was
examining it. At the time I was doing an interview, but when I came back to
the office, I was told my mom had called and she seemed very upset.
Something further was wrong with Clayton.
Mom: (did I mention she can be a little dramatic?) I think it¹s cancer.
Me: I don¹t think you can actually see a cancer tumour grow before your very
eyes.
I was trying to be the voice of reason, but truth be told I wasn¹t sure.
Maybe cancer tumours do grow before your very eyes. I mean, we¹ve all heard the stories about the guy getting diagnosed with cancer one week and being laid to rest the next.
I admit it. Mom got to me. I was worried. Fact was, mom got to the whole
family. After all, we¹re not doctors - and as you can probably already tell,
none of us are ever going to be rocket scientists either.
Later that afternoon I finally got a call from Deanna.
Me: So, did the doctor say anything? What was it?
Deanna: What was what?
Me: The lump - the cancerous lump that was growing right before the nurses eyes.
Deanna: Oh that? (giggles) It was nothing. He was just constipated.
I suppose he¹ll be over to borrow the plunger again real soon.
Rapping dad
My dad is a lot like my Uncle Vern, a comparison he doesn¹t always take
favourably, probably because when my mom mentions it, she¹s usually annoyed with him.
For instance, after 40 plus years of marriage, my dad knows exactly how to annoy my mom in the morning, something he loves to do. He'll begin by serenading her, usually with a Ocolourful¹ song about Nellie Butcher Branch.
I don¹t know anything about this Nellie lady because my dad never gets farther than to tell us she came all the way from France before mom shushes him up with a growl and a promise to do him violence if he continues.
Dad: You¹re just jealous of my beautiful singing voice.
Now, that in itself is funny. Listening to my dad sing is like listening to
a frog croak, but less tuneful. Mom can sing, and this statement never fails
to annoy her.
Me: Maybe I should let Della Marie Woodruff know about your lovely voice,
Dad. Della Marie is the leader of our church choir, and she¹s always looking for new talent.
Dad: Why don¹t you mind your own business?
Mom: Ya, Dee, call Della Marie.
By then Dad will have made himself a cup of herbal tea, usually peppermint.
He¹ll carefully doll a scoop of sugar into it then take his place in his
chair, which (for safety purposes) is just slightly beyond the reach of my
mom¹s cane. He¹ll begin stirring the tea, tinkling the spoon against the
rim. If mom doesn¹t tell him to quit right away, he¹ll just go on tinkling
until you¹d think the hunchback of Notre Dame took up residence in our
living room.
Mom: Shut up Pat! You¹re just like your Uncle Vern.
Dad: What do you mean by that?
What she means by that is my Uncle Vern was a cantankerous old fellow who loved to annoy people, and who hated, in particular, rock and roll music.
When his wife passed away, he moved in with his daughter and her kids. They loved rock and roll and proved it by playing it as loudly as they could on
the stereo, forcing Uncle Vern into his bedroom. No amount of hollering and
complaining could stop those kids from blasting their tunes. Uncle Vern
decided, since he couldn¹t beat them, he¹d join them. He went out and bought himself some records (no, they weren¹t cd¹s back then) of what he considered the most annoying music every created by man. That¹s right - bagpipe music.
Uncle Vern began taking over the stereo every chance he got and blasting
those bagpipe songs as loud as they could go. I¹ve never seen teenagers
clear out of a house faster than when Uncle Vern played his piping records.
Once they were gone, he¹d turn the music off and enjoy some good old peace and quiet.
A few months later, when Uncle Vern passed on, my dad was standing by the
grave while they lowered him down into the earth when suddenly the sound of bagpipes filled the air. One of Uncle Vern¹s grandson¹s looked my dad¹s way.
"This was his favourite record,"he said. "We had to play it at his funeral."
My dad barely hid a smile. It was a joke Uncle Vern would have really
appreciated.
And it¹s true. My dad is getting more like Uncle Vern as he ages. When we go to Medicine Hat and Dallas plays his cd¹s, my dad will rap along with them.
Of course, he makes up his own words and they don¹t sound like anything
Eminem wrote. But at least dad sounds better rapping than actually trying to
sing.
Zing - you missed
When I was a kid we used to alternate Christmas's between my mom and dad's folks.
Christmas at my Grandma French¹s house (mom¹s side) was always quite formal. She wore a pretty dress and a festive apron, laid out a lovely table and allowed everyone - even us kids - one glass of wine with dinner. Afterwards the kids would be chased into a back room with a bunch of games while the adults enjoyed drinks in the living room.
That part sucked. There¹s nothing worse that being imprisoned with snot
gobbling little cousins in a tiny room with games your grandma thought would
be cool. Especially when you¹d rather be listening to all the gossip going
on in the front of the house (especially the stuff dad would be po¹d about
on the drive home).
Christmas at our other inlaw¹s house, the Pilon¹s (my dad¹s side) was
completely different. Dinner was served buffet style and everyone took a
seat where ever they could find one. Kids would be running all over the
house, chasing each other and rough housing. Sometimes uncles would be
chasing the kids. Candy and wrapping paper were everywhere, and amongst all the confusion was loud conversations (you had to be loud to be heard above the mob) and occasional groans (gluttony... lovely gluttony).
After dinner, my uncles and dad would inevitably have to Oshow the kids¹ how the cooler toys they¹d bought them worked.
One year they bought all the boys cap guns (I would have liked a cap gun too), so after dinner they loaded them up and commenced having shoot-outs with one another, even to the point where one would stumble around the house in a melodramatic show of agony until he died.
My dad never died, though.
Uncle Bill: Bang (apparently cap guns work better if you say bang when you
shoot them).
Dad: Zing - you missed (apparently fake bullets sound better if you say zing
when they pass you by).
Uncle Bill: (running up to dad and pushing his cap gun into my dad¹s belly)
BANG!
Dad: Zing - you missed (using his hands to point out how the bullet
ricocheted off his belly and fell elsewhere).
Uncle Bill: Pat, you¹re a cheat. (my dad¹s nickname. His real name is
Delmer, but apparently when he was a kid there was a popular brand of
margarine called Delmer - hence he chose to be called Pat. And he was tough enough to enforce that.)
Uncle Pete: He¹s a yellow-bellied sap-sucker (to this day, I¹m not sure what
a yellow bellied sap sucker is so I don¹t know why it¹s so bad to be one).
I¹m going to pistol-whip you!
Then a free-for-all would commence with my rather girthy dad trying to
defend himself against his little brothers. Meanwhile my little brothers and
cousins were just trying to get a turn with the gun before all the caps got
used up.
Anyway, I loved both types of Christmas¹s, but if I had to choose, I¹d go
with the bedlam of a Pilon Christmas - wait a second - I guess I have.
My dad still wakes us up at 4 am, he still has to try out all the cool toys
first, we still eat dinner buffet style, and if you shoot dad with a cap gun
he still says - zing - you missed - even if it¹s pressed right into his
tummy.
Dylinda Pilon joined the church more than a dozen years ago in Prince George BC. Delynda wrote this website's first article; the amazing conversion story of her father Delmar (Pat) Pilon. Delynda now lives in Bow Island, Alberta where she is the editor / writer for the Bow Island Commentator. Delynda has agreed to let me post some of her bi-weekly columns on the website.
Since she is writing for a local paper - the content of her articles will be less "churchy" that others on the website. However, over the last four years residents of our small town have come to love her column as she describes the incidents, events and stories of her family.
Her father is one of her favorite topics to write about. One time I was at a Stake meeting with Delmar in Medicine Hat. In introduced him to a stake member who gets our local paper. "This is Delynda's Father." The Stake Member said "Ohh.. I have read so much about you..." Delmar replied by shaking his head "Oh boy..."
Since our local residents (except for Delmar) look forward to her stories - why not share it with the rest of the world. In the end all of our families have their unique quirks about them...the Pilons are just lucky that Delynda has the writing talent to share (and Delmar says exagerate) the stories and share them with the world.
All of Dylinda's articles first appeared and are copyrighted to the Bow Island Commentator.
Just a Little Needle
Delynda Pilon
November 25, 2007
My dad gave me a good scare this week. He had chest pains late in the night, but decided it wasn¹t worth waking me up. Mom told me about them the next morning, so I called my sister-in-law and brother, scared the heck out of them, and between the three of us, forced him into the Emergency room.
Dad kept complaining it wasn¹t anything serious, but I haven¹t really trusted his diagnosis since I was a kid. I remember going to him on several occasions with a bang, cut or bruise and showing it to him, only to have him look it over carefully then declare Owe¹ll have to cut it off¹ with terrible glee. Of course, if it was anything at all serious, he¹d haul whichever kid
it was into emergency. With Clayton, that was nearly a weekly occurrence.
The reason my dad hates going into the doctor¹s office or hospital is he is terrified of needles. I¹ve seen my dad face down a grizzly bear, give a mean drunk more than a small piece of his mind and walk 17 miles home when his brother (who was his ride) annoyed him. I just don¹t understand how a guy like that can turn white and nearly pass out when he sees a needle. It never fails to amaze and amuse me.
The first thing they did at emergency was take blood. Then they opened up a line in his arm in case he needed an IV later. Then they hooked him up to a new telemetry machine and kept him overnight for observation. Our entire family was grateful to the staff at the hospital for their good care, and the serious way they treated the situation.
Well, they weren¹t always serious. Apparently some of the people there have
a pretty good sense of humour.
Dad: (after the nurse took blood) I did pretty good that time. Didn¹t even pass out.
Nurse: Me either. And my eyes were closed.
Dad: (very pale) Your eyes were closed??
Later the doctor told dad they weren¹t going to let him go home because they needed someone on which to try out their new telemetry machine. One of the nurses told dad they were going to call it Delmer, after him.When dad got home, he told me that was the only reason they kept him overnight.
Dad: And I already knew how it worked. I was hooked up to one with my first heart attack.
I didn¹t say a thing. He was already pretty mad at me. He blames the entire incident on me.
Dad: (continuing on his rant) And they had a new guy try to put in my shunt.
Just look at this hole.
Me: How am I supposed to see a needle prick from across the entire room?
Dad: Oh, you can see it. It¹s a huge hole. It¹s like the Grand Canyon!
He continued whining for some time after that, and claims he¹s going to
sneak into my room and poke me with a darning needle the first chance he
gets.
Even so, I¹m so grateful he¹s home. I¹m grateful that I get to spend another
Christmas with my folks. I thank God and the good doctors and nurses at our
local hospital that he¹s just fine.
Now I just have to go and hide all the darning needles in our house.
Personally, I am not all that scared of needles, but I am a little nervous
about my dad¹s threat.
This article first appeared in the Forty Mile Commentaor May 13 2008
Gizmo Update
by Delynda Pilon
My dad really likes Gizmo. For those of you who don’t know, Gizmo is my crazy hamster. He became part of our family when I bought him around a year ago in Lethbridge. While my son and I took in a movie that same day, Giz somehow managed to escape from his cage and hide out in my van.
It took me six weeks to catch him. In that time period he went a little wild and took to living in the ceiling of my van, just beneath the upholstery. In order to catch him I slit a small hole and stuck my hand inside. He bit me (viciously) and let out a shriek that could give Stephen King the jitters.
Anyway, I did catch him and he’s been living in hamster captivity since then. He also went from being a scraggly wild eyed shrieking hamster to a mild mannered chubby chittering hamster that sets his beady eyes on anyone who nears his cage, staring expectantly. He does this because every time my
dad goes to check on Giz, he gives him a treat, a hamster-sized donut that is flavoured like strawberries (or so the package says) and is made of yogurt.
My dad checks on Giz quite often. He thinks it’s cute when Giz comes running when dad nears his cage. He thinks Giz is fond of him. I know better. Giz just cares about the donuts. In fact, he cares about them so much I no longer have to worry about him dragging his scrawny body between
the bars of his cage and pulling another Houdini act. There are two reasons for this. In the first place, he’d never leave his donuts behind. In the second place, he is no longer scrawny. My wild-eyed crazed hamster is now about as wide as he is long. Basically he’s like a snowball with fur.
Giz has a little igloo in his cage, but instead of skittering into the door of his igloo, he now basically lifts it up and puts it on like it was a shirt.
When he’s inside, he’s kind of grouchy. He goes completely incommunicado, stuffing his side of the door with sawdust so no one can bug him. I don’t know why he bothers. Every time he does that, I pick up his igloo and move it to another part of his cage, just to keep his life interesting. He’ll slowly wake up, blinking at me with his beady little eyes. Then I’ll laugh and remind him of the time he bit me. I’m certain if he could make a rude gesture he would. Instead he comes to the door and
demands another donut.
Giz also likes spending time in his ball. While inside he acts like he’s completely invincible. My dog will follow the ball around the house as Giz rolls from wall to wall or down the hallway and back, zooming to and fro like he’s on an Albertan highway. Buddie (my golden Lab) follows behind,
sniffing, ears tucked high, certain Giz is going to damage something. Fats, my cat, meanwhile just lifts a lazy head off the back of the couch. He doesn’t care for fast food.
In the evenings when we sit and watch television, it is easy to tell which person in our family is the soft touch. Dad usually sits in his walker, which has enough height so his legs are comfortable. He leans against the back of the couch. The cat takes up residence at dad’s chin, demanding adoration. The dog crawls under the walker. That is his safe place. And Giz continuously bumps his ball against dad’s ankles.He does that until dad gets him another donut.
