Here it is. Halloween. This day scares the little dog poop right out of me.

Let me explain.

It starts out as a nice autumn day like any other. Then BAM! Out of the blue there’s someone banging on our front door. My mom jumps out of wherever she’s been, and one of two things tends to happen.

She yells at me not to bark, yells again that I shouldn’t get excited (I know she’s looking out for the carpet, but I’m just doing my job, okay?), pushes me away from the door with her foot, and hands out snack-sized pieces of poisonous chocolate delights to whoever made all that racket.

Other times she grabs me and lets me answer the door. She makes me wave my paws “hello” to whomever is knocking, and they get to choose their own piece of chocolate poison.

Scary? Yes. Embarrassing? Totally.

Oh, and forget the panic that sets in if she finds an empty chocolate wrapper on the floor. You know, from one of the dozen bags of Fun-Size Snickers and Twix she bought when she KNOWS only five kids come to the door each year. She’s got Veterinary Poison Control on speed-dial for that very scenario.

Yeah, I can do without Halloween.

Creepy Clowns – and Other Irrational Fears

As far as I’m concerned, you don’t need one day out of the year to be afraid of things. There are a bunch of things which scare me. And really frighten my mom.

For example, the vet scares me. She’s actually pretty nice and, if I think about it, she is keeping me alive. But you know the score. Every trip I take to visit her might be my last.

The other thing I’m afraid of, 365 days of the year? That cat. And why my mom and dad keep defending her, I have no idea.

Just look at the picture at the top of this post.

It speaks for itself.

I have nothing more to say. Well, nothing more to say about the cat. I have plenty to say about my mom and some of her weird fears.

For one, she isn’t too fond of clowns and mimes. My dad agrees.

Let me give you a little backstory before you weigh in on this riveting topic.

My dad told me a tale about how he was once in Times Square and, for no reason at all, he wanted to punch a mime in the face. He said it was because the mime was creepy and looking at him funny. We all think it was because the mime was blocking the entrance to the Times Square Brewery.

Makes sense.

As for clowns, I think my mom watched Stephen King’s “It” one too many times.

Late at night.

With a bottle of Creativity Juice.

Frankly, I don’t think clowns are that bad. Especially if the reason they’re clowns is that they’re the mascots for a company that sells circus-themed-shaped biscuits. But the other things that give her the shivers?  Whoa.

Children’s Bedtime Stories: The Stuff that Nightmares are Made Of

As a little pup my Chihuahua mom used to tell me stories.  Most ended with, “And they said ‘Oh, what a good, good dog you are!’ and little Lassie was smothered in kisses and given more biscuits than he could eat in a year.”

Now that’s a good story.

But that’s not the kind of bedtime story my grandpa read my mom. In her stories:

– little girls and boys who forgot to wash behind their ears or brush their hair were brutally attacked by angry scissors and bars of soap.  And they die.

(You can still buy these books. Seriously. Der StuwwelPeter und Die StruwwelLiese)

– a kid on a pony ride gets chased by death, while his dad tells him he’s imagining things.  And he dies.

(Maybe this is why so many people hate opera. The Creepy Erlkoenig)

– a guy plays chess with death. Death wins. The guy dies. Wait a minute. That’s a creepy Ingmar Bergman movie. Although I do think my mom heard the plot as a bedtime story.

(I think it won an Oscar. The Seventh Seal)

And you wonder why she’s so weird.

Knock, Knock. Who’s There?

I know you won’t believe this, but another thing my mom’s afraid of is the mailman. Yup. The mailman.

Deep down he might be a very nice guy. We’ll never really know. You see, it’s okay when he just minds his own business and sticks stuff in our mailbox (like coupons for 20% off a bag of my favorite kibble) and drives away. No problem. But when he hangs around? Knocks on the front door?

Now that’s another story.

When she sees him park his little truck and walk up to the front door, that means only one thing.

He needs a signature.  Which is never a good thing.

Occasionally you might need to sign for a package that’s filled with something good. Like two months worth of Omaha Steaks. But it’s more likely you have to sign for something not so good.  Sent by someone not so good.

Like a bill collector.

Or a revenuer.

Yes, a revenuer. Someone from the I.R.S.

That’ll make anyone run and hide.

Just seeing me type those three letters made my mom dive under the bed.

So what does this mean for you?

Probably not a whole lot. If you have any irrational fears of your own, you can take comfort in the fact that you’re not the only one.

Oh, and if you dress as an I.R.S. agent at your next Halloween party you’ll probably win the prize for scariest costume. Trust me on that one.