Week Almost 6 - ZwerchOW

I'll try not to whimper, but it hurts to type. It's also no longer the least bit fun to say zwerchau, and I really could use a cruller. But at least I'm done. Well, half done. The rest will come tomorrow when my arms don't feel like jelly and my wrists don't feel like they're about to snap off. And for those to whom the following makes sense, no, I did not wear a battle thong. It is way too chilly for that nonsense. Plus... totally not comfortable.

Anyway, I started off enthusiastically enough. But after I completed my first triumphant ZWERCHAU! in the living room, I realized two things: a. cats are fascinated by shiny things, even when they're moving quickly, and b. my ceilings are quite low. Rather than risk slicing off whiskers or putting another gouge in the ceiling to match the source of my epiphany, I moved outside and did my penance there. I tried the sidewalk first, but decided to relocate after a few swings of my gorgeous new sword. (She's been named Bacio di Acciaio, by the way- Steel's Kiss in Italian, unless my translator fibbed). I don't think the weeping cherry tree out front properly appreciated being kissed though, and after I lopped off a few weepy branches accidentally, I figured moving would be wise. Honestly, I'm not usually such a ditz, but I definitely have not mastered the ability to gauge my reach with a 36" steel extension. The puppy stared forlornly at me through the glass storm door, his accusing stare burning into my shoulders as I ventured further out into the yard.

Ow. Ow. Ow. ZwerchOW.

Hah! I know why it's called that now. After the first few hundred, your wrists really start to ache. If I get carpal tunnel from this, I'm totally blaming my instructor. But the nice thing about repetitive tasks? You don't have to concentrate. Much. Except that I kept losing track, and backtracking to the last number I remembered saying. And my memory stinks, so I couldn't remember what I said, so had to start over three times. Around the 300 mark, I decided I needed theme music. The next 200 swings were a fruitless attempt to kill "It's a Small World," which thanks to storytime at school yesterday, was the only song that came to mind. I debated letting the sword fall on my head, but figured that probably wouldn't get me out of the krumphaus.

Ow. Ow. Ow. KrumpOW.

See? Works for that one too. OW. The reason I'm doing this is that my tongue got me in trouble again. The first time was in 6th grade, when Mrs. Dutrow (Deathrow) the art teacher gave me a bunch of demerits for talking sarcastically in class. I had to write a big apology letter, which ended up being the first and, up until now, only time I ever got in trouble for being a smart aleck. These days, I'm usually a lot more subtle. Usually. This time I ended up with my "punishment," having to do 1,000 zwerchauws and 500 krumphauws for... I don't even know now. Something I said in chat. I'm sure it was terribly clever. Or is zwerchau a verb? I had to zwerchau 1,000 times? Beats me. Either way, if I never see a helicopter or a bus again, I'll be good.

The puppy meanwhile, apparently decided my moving twenty feet further into the yard meant that I had obviously abandoned him, even though I was still in plain sight. I heard him jostling the door handle, a little trick that he learned at school would usually grant him freedom from my office. Luckily, he forgets that I know his tricks, and I'd locked the storm door behind me. After he realized that escape was not imminent, he sprawled morosely in the entryway, smushed his face up against the glass door, and began to make a weird, high-pitched keening sound. I turned and yelled back to him in exasperation, something like "Cripes, I'm right here!" Apparently he took this as an invitation to up the ante, and gave a huge sigh that fogged up the glass. Then he began to bark.

Now in order to properly appreciate the true horror of my darling fuzzy boy's voice, imagine the most piercing, high-pitched, obnoxious bark you can think of, add an echo and an amplifier, then multiply that by the sound of pain and the color 3. It's awful, incredibly loud, and utterly incomprehensible. He's a decent sized pup, a husky/shar-pei mutt weighing about 60 pounds. He does have a big-boy voice, and it actually sounds a bit scary, but it only ever seems to come out when repairmen visit the house. But his normal voice, his hideously loud, ear-piercing shriek of a bark, can irritate like no other. So my darling pup began barking, and I went back to my zwerchauwing, trying to ignore the barking like the trainer had told me to. But horrendously loud yipping barks can play havoc with your concentration, and I had lost count again. I glared at the dog through the door, but he wasn't even looking at me any more. What had begun with an attempt to induce guilt in me for abandoning him had apparently turned into a noise-making frenzy of ecstasy as he bounced around the entryway, enthusiastically barking his fool head off, rubbing nose-prints all over the glass, and pouncing and chasing his tail while emitting the high-pitched shrieks... until he saw that I was looking at him from twenty feet away. He then stopped mid-bark, lifted his head, and began to howl.

Because shouting at a noisy dog always works, I stomped over to the door, yelling at him to be quiet. Apparently this just gave him the notion that I wanted to participate in a duet, and he leaped up to put his paws on the door as if we were dancing. I was yelling, he was still howling, and his tail was wagging with glee- we were noise-making buddies singing the best duet ever. Just like that, the absurdity of the situation hit me. The dog was on one side of the door, howling like he was being tortured. I was on the other, with a sword in my hand, yelling through the glass at the fluffy idiot. The storm door was locked between us... and my keys were inside the house.