It's Hard to Admit You Have a Problem if You Can't Talk

It's the day before New Year's Eve. It's practically blizzarding outside. We're working from home. Perfect day to have a beer with lunch, right? So we're done with lunch and Mike runs up to his office to field a phone call, leaving half of his beer on the coffee table. After I took the plates over to the sink, I came back to find that Milo had spilled the beer onto its side and has slurped up all of what was left. He's not drunk yet. Please don't report us to the ASPCA.

Ivy Delves Into The World of Metaphysics

Can someone please tell me what this is? As far as I can tell, it is "black." Mike and I were going about our daily business and we kept finding a trail of slightly spongy/slightly crispy black chewings. Which led us to Ivy standing proudly by her pile of "black" looking as if she had just invented fire. It is absolutely unidentifiable and is limited to its very few visible characteristics. So evidently "black" is a Thing Great Danes Eat. I know, how very metaphysical. I believe the two questions striving to animate the metaphysical argument, i.e., 1) what is there? and 2) what is it like?, are definitively answered and satisfied by "black." Yes, that's Professor Ivy, if you please.

Things That Eat Great Danes

Evidently Great Danes are not as high up on the food chain as I once believed. Last week, while playing with her pals at the dog park and being just generally adorable and perfect, part of Ivy was turned into a light snack for an Akita. I don't have anything against Akitas as a breed in general, I just say this so that you, dear reader, can have a proper visual idea of what preyed upon my sweet girl. Ivy didn't make a sound when it happened, so when my friend Christine asked me how in the world Ivy had started bleeding spontaneously and I looked up and saw the Akita and his human running for the gate, I was befuddled. It was only after some friends told me that they had seen what had happened that I got a wee big angry at this display of degustationary gumption. Food chain, indeed.

Vengeance, Thy Name is Potato

Just today I was [sort of] lamenting the fact that the Danes haven't done anything of real interest lately, i.e., they haven't eaten anything off the counter, from the top of the refrigerator, etc., that warrants posting. I should have known that I would jinx myself in a most serious manner.

I have been super sick recently and Mike has taken very good care of me. So naturally I wanted to show him how much I appreciate his medical ministrations by making his favorite meal, which consists of homemade gnocchi and roasted kale. I made the gnocchi, which took about an hour and a half, then rolled it out and cut it on the counter. Have you ever made gnocchi?!? It's not one of the easiest or quickest meals to make. Then I trimmed the kale, and, thinking the chickens might like a leafy treat, ran down to the coop to give them the scraps. Upon my return to the kitchen - literally less than 30 seconds later - I found the counter top completely wiped clean and Ivy looking only slightly abashed. One solitary gnocchi remained.


So now I am vacillating between hoping that she experiences mild to medium discomfort and worrying that she experiences mild to medium discomfort. Luckily we had her preemptively gastropexied so I'm at least not worried that she is going to explode like an unforked potato in a microwave.

I am an Easy Mark

I said farewell to Astrid the Rooster a few weeks ago. After a fairly terrifying drive down to meet Aimee in Denver, during which time I literally feared for my life due to the way Astrid was staring me down, she now has a new home where I was promised she won't be eaten. As I was walking away from Aimee's car, I heard the seductive words that all animal lovers both crave and fear, aimed specifically at the target on my back that states I will take in any of your stray and/or unwanted animals: "These poor [insert animal species name here] sure do need a home." So I slowly turned around and saw two hens in the back of her car. How could I resist? Poor Mike. I came home that evening with two new chickens. Persephone is an easter egger and Athena is a dark brahma. I had never heard of a dark brahma. After some cursory research, it appears that I have adopted one of the largest breeds of chicken available. I am afraid that I may have a chickizilla on my hands.

Athena

Persephone

I get a lot of inquiries about chickens. Evidently the backyard chicken movement is a global phenomenon. In that spirit, here are my girls rockin' out to Cibo Mato's Know Your Chicken.

Note to self: refrain from feeding the chickens red bell pepper. It just makes them mad.

Heartbroken

Yesterday I drove to Southern Colorado to meet Andrea so that she could take Moses home with her and officially adopt him.

Milo and Moses have not been having an easy go of things lately, and Sunday night they got into a terrible fight. Milo did not win. As the emergency vet said, "Looks like Milo starts the fights and Moses ends them." That pretty much sums it up.

If Steve and Andrea weren't the wonderful people that they are and hadn't so readily agreed to take Moses back into their home, we may have been living in a split household, with Milo in one half of the house and Moses in the other. It would have been close to impossible to give Mosey up to people we didn't know and love. But we know that Steve and Andrea love Moses like he was their own, and there is no better home for him. When I called Andrea on Monday morning, she did not hesitate to say that they would love to have Moses again. Thank you, Andrea. You are my hero.

We are completely heartbroken over this, especially me. Milo is Mike's dog. Ivy is Milo's dog. And Mosey was truly my dog. He followed me everywhere I went, and either had his head in my lap or was laying at my feet. I don't know if I'll ever find another dog who I feel so connected to, but being an eternal optimist, I know I'll keep trying.

One of These Things is Not Like the Other

Counterclockwise from top right:

Pidgeon Red Flowering Kale;
Italian Flat-Leaf Parsley;
Italian Large-Leaf Basil;
Thai Lemon Basil;
French Lavender;
Dirt.

It takes a super long time to grow anything at this altitude, so when I see sprouts I get excited. When I see actual herbs I'm pretty much over the moon. When I see a giant dirt hole where the lovely Purple Sage used to be, it's not exactly a red-letter day for me. But it seems that it was for Ivy.

You Have Got to be Kidding Me

Last night I was hanging out with the chickens, sitting on my stump in their chicken run, getting pecked at by Vivian/Bitchian and loved on by Esmé and Marcheline, and I looked up to see Astrid coming out of the coop. She normally stays in the coop so I don’t see her that often. At any rate, I noticed that she has these looooong iridescent green feathers cascading down her neck, and curly feathers at her tail. She also has a notably red comb. And she is a BIG chicken. This at only three and a half months old. And so I think to myself, “Expletive! More expletives!”

Astrid doing her Sam the Eagle pose

Astrid is a rooster. Thus, she has to go. I can’t imagine the bloodshed we would have if both Ruthie and Astrid were to remain. Since Ruthie was here first, Astrid is the one who will have to leave us. And I’m really bummed because I saved that pretty name for a while and now after only three and a half months I have to let it go. Dammit. Luckily, the lovely lady who runs Manifested Wings always told me that if any of my hens turned out to be roosters, she would take him back. I think I’ll have to do this on the condition that he/she doesn’t get eaten. That would break my heart. And Moses would not approve. He’d rather eat her himself. I’ve seen him eyeing her.

Cannibalism in the Home

Readers may or may not remember when I was talking about getting really weird keyword searches and that it was only a matter of time before someone inquired whether Great Danes Eat Great Danes? Alas. They do. Great Danes do eat Great Danes.


Remember those disgustingly large turkey legs at the Renaissance Fair? This is the canine equivalent of those. Except that quality control forgot to separate the leg from the rest of the body. Shoddy oversight there. (I don’t mean to offend anyone who likes those things. This is coming from a vegetarian, so I’m just being consistent). Milo just lets Ivy gnaw away at his poor little legs. He is a tolerant dog. It’s a little bit sad.

Things Mosey Eats and Doesn't Eat

Now that Mosey has been coming out of his morphine fog, we're seeing some very cute sides to his personality. We are guessing that before living with his wonderful foster parents, he never even knew what a toy was, so now everything is a toy. He is still growling at Milo and Ivy in a seriously snappified manner, but we are hoping he is just fractious from not feeling well and that will pass.

We have never had a dog that won't eat, which is what Moses is doing. I'm afraid he's going to waste away so I fed him almost a whole loaf of bread this morning. When I asked my friend Kim how a starving, neglected, garbage-eating dog could be so picky, she wisely pointed out that he has probably gotten in to quite a few things that made him sick in the past, and perhaps that would explain his finicky nature. Helpful suggestions on how to get a picky dog to eat will gladly be taken. If you can find something he will eat, I will send you a super duper prize. Maybe a Great Dane.

Moses taking after Ivy (either an aspiring knitter or trying to
take down the knitting community one skein at a time)

Moses and Milo not eating each other

Moses helping us prepare for the carpet installers

Moses' idea of being on the bed is being in the bed frame -
less effort than actually jumping up on a bed

By the way, thank you to everyone for your well wishes and comments. I wish Blogger would allow reply to comments, but evidently that little widget expansion is beyond their ken.

Moses!

Moses

As of today, I am hoping the hiatus from the blog is over. We have a new addition in our house! We adopted an adorable, male, Harlequin Great Dane over the weekend from Big Dogs Huge Paws. It’s been a while in coming. Since we lost Charley, the house has felt a little empty, even with 10 chickens, 2 Danes, and 2 humans. Maybe it would have felt different if Mike had allowed the chickens in the house. Totally unreasonable in my opinion. I mean, it isn’t as if I can’t figure out how to sew diapers for them. At any rate. Moving on.

Moses came from the Dallas/Fort Worth area, and was first reported as a calf running loose. He was starving and grossly underweight, infested with heartworms and parasites, and has scars on just about every inch of his body. I am guessing that he was clearly on his own for a while, as well as being severely neglected and abused. I have a photo of him taken the day he was rescued, but it’s a bit graphic to post. Super sad.

After going to a lovely foster family in Fort Worth he has turned into a completely different dog. All he wants is to be loved. Unfortunately, we have had to treat him for heartworm, which entails a nasty long needle full of arsenic that deeply penetrates the back muscles on 3 separate occasions, so he is quite sore right now. But I am happy to report that we are done with the heartworm treatment as of Sunday! We have to keep him almost immobile for the next 3 months. Evidently, if the heart rate increases there is a possibility of him throwing an embolism. So he’ll pretty much be confined to the house and backyard until September. Then the neuter and gastropexy…. This poor dog – no doubt after this is all over he will never want to get in the car again.

Moses & Mike

The foster parents, Steve and Andrea, drove Moses up here all the way from Texas on Friday and stayed with us over the weekend. I can’t be entirely sure, but there is a strong possibility that I am speaking with a slight Texas accent since our guests left. They were both utterly charming, and Andrea’s lilt is evidently infectious.

Andrea, Moses & Steve

Mike and I are quite smitten with Moses, as is Ivy. Milo wants to eat him, thus possibly turning him into a potential keyword statistic on the Google: “do Great Danes eat Great Danes?”

In other news, here is a little video of Ivy at the dog park enjoying a ride on her friend Starbuck. Not unlike seeing those little kids at the grocery store on the fiberglass ponies. I suggest making sure the volume is turned up to get the full effect. The mount and dismount are particularly graceful. She is clearly a natural horsewoman.

Normally Starbuck is the one doing the, um, “harassing” shall we say? Seriously, he LURVES Ivy. He cannot get enough of her. So it’s nice to see the tables turned every once and a while.

The ladies are doing well. I finally got to take the baby girls out of the bathtub and put them into the coop last weekend. Did you know that chicken is a chicken’s favorite food? Mavis and Vivian are very intent on making dinner out of a couple of the little girls. Gross. Ruthie the Rooster is starting to go a little funny. My friend Tamara and her boyfriend Brian visited last week and while we were in the coop, Ruthie attacked us with great ferocity. I’ve never been so scared of something so small and fluffy in my entire life.

Other than the rooster attack, we are very happy and settling in as one big happy family.

Big Chicks*

Within the past 36 hours, I received this comment on the blog:

“No pressure, but could you post another blog soon? I'm jonesin. Thanks!”

Which simultaneously made me laugh and feel shame, as well as making me realize that my dogs are behaving totally appropriately for once and I really have nothing to complain about regarding their digestive habits as of late.

Ivy did destroy her outside bed, but I think she was just frustrated that it wasn’t drying out (we’ve had a LOT of spring snow). Who can blame a girl for getting violent with soggy bedding?

So it was suggested to me by my friend Valynne this afternoon, inspired while in the yoga position of downward-facing dog, to ask you, loyal readers, what, if anything, you would like to know about life with Great Danes and chickens. Anything? Really, our lives are open books here.

In the meantime, here is a little video of the girls. They are getting so big. I had planned on posting pictures of them that clearly prove the evolutionary link between dinosaurs and chickens, but that awkward phase didn’t last long, and as evidenced here, I am obviously not keeping up.

My girls have rhythm.

*Warning: In searching for my You Tube video so that I could post it here, I realized quite quickly that I should not have titled the video "Big Chicks." Fetishes abound, my friends. People post some funky stuff on You Tube.

I am taking an e-course with Marisa Haedike, a lovely artist living in Los Angeles. She was one of my instructors at Squam Art Workshops last year, and I am so happy to have a chance to be in another one of her classes. Since my fellow classmates are showing their beautiful artistic endeavors on their own websites/blogs/etc., I am going to take the plunge and post a picture of Charley that I painted last Spring. And yes, I do know he looks sad. He always looked sad. But underneath he was an always sweet, sometimes goofy, and generally happy boy.

Peepers!

We have new chicks! I got them from a wonderful woman in Byers, Colorado, who operates a hobby farm, Manifested Wings, specializing in breeding and hatching quality birds for people like me to love (no mass breeding here).

Mottled Bantam Cochins

Marcheline and Esme are mottled Cochin bantams, supposedly one of the friendliest breeds of chickens. I have what I believe to be a healthy suspicion of this claim after getting the Silkies based on the “friendliest of breeds” assertion. Calliope and Polly are terrified neurotics and Ruthie is a bit unpredictable and, quite frankly, more than just a little scary for a 3-pound rooster. We’ll see how these Cochins turn out. So far, so good.

Marcheline

This is Marcheline. I knew she was a Marcheline the minute I stuck my hand in the box. She is tiny, but she is mighty. Marcheline is French for “warrior like.” Look at that beak – it’s very spear-like, yes? And it comes at you at an alarming speed for her age. Once she’s in hand, however, she calms down.

Esme

Here is Esme. Esme if French for “to love.” Which is weird, because I named her that before I knew how cuddly and affectionate she is.

Easter Eggers

Astrid and Hannah are Easter Eggers. So far, they both look exactly like Coco did at this age. I am guessing they will look super similar to her, which is lovely, as Coco used to get many compliments from her adoring fans.

Astrid

So far, Astrid seems like a normal chicken. No surprises, a little jumpy, hungry, only slightly nervous.

Hannah

Hannah is a little rolling ball. She looks like a rolling windup toy – it’s pretty hilarious. She rolls right into my hand and doesn’t seem to mind just hanging out there.

Of course Ivy and Milo are interested in the chicks, but so far no frightening lunges or scattering of feathers. The chicks are living in a huge plastic tub in the bathtub for now.

I’m not exactly sure where they are going to live when they outgrow the tub but are still too little to be outside. Mike’s office is pretty warm, but then if I put the chicks in there, I have to weigh that against Mike going to live in a hotel. I’ll keep you posted.

And yes, I realize I am a horrible photographer. Baby animals move really fast! I think I need friend Rachel or friend Willie to come over some day and take good pictures of the babies. Rach? Willie?

Charley

We lost Charley this weekend. Mike found him collapsed in the snow on Friday night, and the vet said he most likely suffered a heart attack. We had to let him go Saturday morning, and the house feels very empty without him. He was a part of our lives for so long, and we lost him just days before his twelfth birthday.

Charley came to me in October of 1998 when I was in graduate school at the Art Institute in Chicago. He was just 7 months old -- awkward, big-nosed, and gangly. I lived on the top level of a two-flat in Chicago, and my landlords, Art and Barbara, lived on the bottom. They were breeders and rescuers of Rhodesian Ridgebacks. At any given time they had between six and nineteen dogs, depending upon whether it was puppy season. We often left our back doors open and their dogs and my Great Dane, Claire, would come and go as they pleased. One late evening when I returned home from school, I noticed a rather odd looking Ridgeback in my apartment. Thinking that Art and Barbara had accidentally locked a pup out of their flat, I attempted to return him. I believe the response I got was, “Nope, not our dog. Must be yours.” And Charley was with me ever since.


Charley was abused by his former family, so there were a lot of preexisting conditions and issues that needed attention. He always accepted that I was his new caretaker, but he growled and barked at Mike for 3 months when he first moved in, and for years he would do the same to anyone else who stepped foot in our apartment. He seemed to dislike and mistrust everyone he came into contact with, but at the same time you just couldn't help loving him, and everyone did. I remember our friend Chris once whispering to me, "Don't tell the Danes, but Charley's my favorite."

Somewhere along the way, Dan and Chris gave Charley his own slogan: “I’m not gonna bite ya, but I don’t like ya.” So true.

Charley was extraordinarily strong, and could jump 6 feet into the air from a sitting position. I guess that trait came in handy when hunting the grand lions of Chicago. His neck was massive, hence his mafia name, “Charley the Neck.”

When we would walk Charley around Chicago without the Great Danes, we unfailingly got comments such as “Good Lord, that is a big dog!” And Mike and I would turn and look around for the big dog. Since we had the Danes, we always thought Charley was more of a lap dog. But at 90 muscular pounds, I guess he wasn’t really all that small.

His later years were marked with mountain activities. When we moved to Colorado we took him hiking, walking, doggie sledding down the driveway – he loved it all. Once when our friends Kevin and Kelly were visiting, we took Charley on a fairly long hike. At the destination waterfalls, he played with another young dog, and unfortunately stepped on some small pieces of glass. We didn’t realize this until we were on our way back down the trail and he just stopped. Literally dug his heels in and wouldn’t budge. We tried pulling him. We put Kevin’s socks on his paws, which lasted all of 10 seconds. We tried fashioning a stretcher out of those same socks and large branches. None of those solutions worked, so Mike and I ran to the trailhead, got into our car and drove home to get the Jeep, which we proceeded to illegally drive onto National Forest property for a few miles (surely the statue of limitations on that crime has expired – fingers crossed) and picked up Charley, Kevin and Kelly. My heart still races a little bit at the thought. We may still be rotting in a federal prison had we been caught.


Charley had a special fondness for my mom and my brother, Matt. Matt thinks it’s because Charley knew we are siblings. Just last week Charley got up on the couch and put his head in Matt’s lap, which he never does with anyone else. He would sleep in bed with my mom when she visited – they were perfect bedfellows – neither moved an inch during the night. As he got older, he seemed to love everybody in his own way.

We’ll miss Charley’s quiet, unassuming nature. When he loved you, it really made you feel special. We have holes in our hearts, but I just know he’s chasing the lions now.

Why yes, Virginia, we ARE made of money

I can’t even count how many times people have asked me how much it costs to feed 350 pounds of dog. I normally just give some sort of vague answer, implying that it’s a lot, simultaneously refraining from panicking while thinking of just exactly how much the next trip to the food store is going to cost me.

Things are costing a bit more since we got Ivy. She evidently likes money, as illustrated below where she stole and is eating a dollar bill from my brother's wallet. Thus, we’ve decided it’s just easier to feed her the money rather than go to the pet food store and purchase actual dog food. Cuts out the middleman.

Have You Seen Us?

Lost/Missing:

• 1 avocado;
• 1 tin of Christmas cookies;
• One half dozen eggs, plus shells;
• Three empty egg cartons;
• 1/2 tomato;
  
• 1 large bunch broccoli florets;
• 1 freshly washed, empty Tupperware container.

In the past couple of weeks, various items from the kitchen have gone curiously missing. Also within the past couple of weeks our vet recently told us that Milo needs to lose about ten pounds. Coincidence? Doubtful. So this week we have officially submitted Milo's application to doggie fat camp. Upon further inspection, he does look like he swallowed a basketball. So we cut his food by about 1/2 a cup per day, and I think he believes that we are starving him, hence the above-referenced indiscretions.


As you can see, he's overflowing in his own chair.

Legend*:

1. Avocado
2. Eggs
3. Egg cartons
4. Cookies
5. Half tomato
6. Broccoli
7. Tupperware

*It is more difficult than you might think to draw on a glossy photo with a white marker. You would never guess that I went to art school. I apologize.

Good Trade

I'm not going to eat you, but I am going to sit on you
(Sometimes emily has good luck being in the right place at the right time with the camera)

So maybe that's the trade-off. We basically let our 150+ pound dogs walk all over us, thus avoiding becoming a news headline or a creepy Google search (see post below). We have bruises. Scrapes. A puncture wound or two. And scars. Lots of scars. But we are, proudly, Things Great Danes Don't Eat.

My Great Danes do not, in fact, eat babies

As evidentiary offers of proof, please see Exhibits A and B, below.

I have a little feature that lets me see what keywords people type in to get to this blog, which is more often than not pretty amusing. My favorite entry comes from someone who is clearly thinking of getting a Great Dane but has small children and/or infants, or is possibly pregnant: "do Great Danes eat babies?" I would say that if you are worried a 160-pound dog will eat your babies you might be better off getting a cat.

As you can see here, the eating of children and babies is highly discouraged in this house:

Milo and Austin (Exhibit A)

Mitchell and Charley (Exhibit B)

Although Charley is not a Great Dane, he is at least as big as a five-year-old and can be particularly fractious on occasion.

Some of my favorite keyword entries that have directed people to the site:

• Great Dane eats owner;
• Bad things about Great Danes;
• Great Dane eats rocks [yes, I am well aware];
• Why does my Ridgeback puppy eat rocks [believe me, I wish I knew]; and
• Dog ate crazy silkie chicken stuffed animal [not just a normal chicken stuffed animal, but a "crazy" one].

And then there was this poor person who was probably looking for Red Hot Chili Peppers song lyrics:

• Thoity Doity Boids.

I do feel a little bit bad about that one.

Bye bye, pretty girl

Coco
June 8, 2009 - January 20, 2010
Such a good little girl

Someone is in denial

So apparently this is how Mike goes about not liking the chickens.* It has become abundantly evident to me this week that Coco is somewhat in love with Mike. On the days that he has been home, she eats like a small horse, winks and flirts a little, and tries unsuccessfully to fly out of her pen and into what she believes are his waiting arms (which doesn't actually work because she is so weak. And because his arms are not, in fact, waiting). On the days when he is at work, she pouts.

This seems to be the way of the world. The one who takes care of the animals gets crapped on (literally) and the one who couldn't care less is the one upon whom they bestow their unwavering love. Has anyone else noticed this?!?

Coco is still living in her pen in the guest room.** She'll probably be there for the duration of the winter, so if you want to come visit you may have to learn the love the poultry.

*Mike still firmly asserting that he does not like the chickens, and I do actually believe him.

**Forgive me this little rant, but please don't leave comments telling me that I am crazy for keeping a chicken in the house. Contrary to what some seem to believe, I am not a complete idiot and do practice sanitary and hygienic methods when dealing with Coco. And also, there is no other alternative. And in my own passive aggressive manner, I will delete those comments because they make me feel bad.

Um, I may have a bit of a problem

Coco, my very favorite and lovingest chicken, is temporarily an indoor bird. She has what we suspect is hepatitis, but a visit to Colorado State University College of Veterinary Medicine will either confirm or deny that tomorrow.

Because she needs to be isolated from the other birds, I am a little overjoyed that she has become a house-chicken. I am simultaneously a little worried that Mike is going to move to a hotel until I put her back in the coop. Alas, trade-offs.

Up until yesterday, Coco had the run of the guest room (sorry Cara - I know how you feel about animals in your room). So I decided that to cut down on the mess I would sew her a diaper. But I'm not calling it a diaper. It's her "backpack." I mean, how embarrassing to be a teenager in a diaper.

But I digress. I spent about an hour making it. A pattern-maker I am not. This thing is contrapted to within an inch of its life. When I showed Mike, he said, "I would have just set up a dog crate for her." Well duh. Why didn't I think of that? Probably because I don't work for a government think tank.

At any rate, the backpack has been retired and Coco seems pretty happy in her enormous Great Dane-sized crate.

Not even surprised

This post is probably going to pop up on Google for those people typing in search terms such as “dog ate chocolate,” “chocolate poisoning in dogs” and “oh my god why is my dog trying to kill himself by eating chocolate?”

Ivy and Milo recently ate a 5-pound batch of brownies. I'm not kidding - it was at least 5 pounds of German chocolate cake mix, 60 caramels, a can of condensed milk, an entire bag of chocolate chips, and a bag of coconut in an already-heavy glass pan. Actually, it was about as heavy as a large chicken, so maybe 8 pounds.

I would have taken a picture, but my mind was racing trying to figure out the best way to sweep up the tiny slivers of glass from the pan while simultaneously figuring out the mathematical equation for how much hydrogen peroxide to give a 160-pound-dog.

Trust me, I understand the perils of dogs ingesting chocolate. Which would explain the copious amounts of hydrogen peroxide we were pouring down their throats. One would think that by storing the brownies in the microwave that rests way above the stove, dogs would not be able to access said brownies. Wrong. Evidently these particular dogs have opposable thumbs.

It all worked out in the end, but I would highly recommend storing chocolate comestibles way out of the reach of 6-foot-tall dogs. Maybe try suspending them a few inches from the ceiling surrounded by elaborate booby traps. I'll let you know what I come up with.