My Dog Safe With Buddha

(Not part of the Paranoia series)

When they came out with the latest virus, naturally I was concerned. What am I going to do, drop dead with all the other losers? I always heard it growing up, “Get your exercise. If you don’t, you’ll deserve what you get.” By which they didn’t mean all the boys, but a short life, a sudden death, maybe dangling from a rope, depending on the crime.

My concerns are like everyone’s. I came into the world a few years back, relatively speaking. My memory’s hazy on the subject, but there were apparently 15 billion years when I wasn’t here. Then at the end of that vast span, I popped into the world like clockwork and since then have hung on for dear life. Saying, “I will not willingly go back into the void. I’m here, deal with it.” I said this through times of war and peace, although I didn't serve in either. With some regret, though, because I think it would've been great to serve in the war. Maybe you remember my pitiful longing for the service in my post, “Sarge: Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.”

My big problem with the Corona virus these days is, "What’s going to happen to my dog if it happens to me?” My dog I got on a fluke. Her mother was in the yard minding her business when a smaller dog got through a crawlspace in the fence and consummated a brief relationship. Yielding five puppies, one of which became mine. So it was someone else’s problem and we’ve been joined at the hip now all these years. Had I been a block away, had I not answered the phone that day, we would’ve never met.

But we did meet, and we’ve had a special bond ever since. I’ve seen her through many things, learning to love dog food, etc., and I get her only the best. We have to keep going. I’m all she’s got, but with my advanced years naturally I worry what could happen. Now, all of a sudden, there’s a virus going around that threatens people of my demographic, older gentlemen who breathe and touch their faces. The store’s even out of paper towels, that’s how hard up we are. Because I use paper towels to clean up my dog’s poop. And suddenly they’re more precious than gold...

Anyway, have I mentioned, I can’t die! Because what would become of her? She’d wake up and not get her expensive food, not go out to poop, etc., She’s already kind of upset about the paper towel shortage. This other thing, my demise, I don’t want to have to lay that on her too. She might stroke out and I’d be left alone, with my last roll of paper towels that I was holding on to for special times, her birthday, the day she was spayed, etc.

Beyond the frills of paper towels and things, there’s the sorrow she would feel if I were suddenly stricken by viruses and died. “Why'd he have to abandon me? Was he thinking of the time I accidentally peed on the kitchen floor?” That’s terrible, I don’t want this dog to have one ounce of troubles or sorrows. You might remember, that’s how Buddha started out. His dad kept him from troubles and sorrows. Then he discovered suffering and found out, “Shit happens.” He sat under the bodhi tree and was enlightened. If I die, my dog will have things to deal with, heavy stuff, and might even be peeing at the base of a similar tree and come to a place of inner knowledge. I hope to impart enlightenment to her, but so far my attempts have been met with resistance. She'd rather play with dog toys than meditate. So I just breathe and wait.

But so far I’m still alive, so Buddha can meditate and keep his gentle arms and hands folded until that day, if ever, when I'm not.

Veterans Day -- Sarge Enjoys Free Meals

If you run a restaurant, and a veteran shows up for his free steak, but is unfortunately missing his manhood, and you're somehow able to realize this, either by sight or his higher voice, you might wonder, Could this be the guy? Let me tell you about him, because his discharge papers are perhaps not up to snuff. He's a guy Sarge had to deal with...

It just so happens that I have a friend in the neighborhood, called Sarge (Walter), who's now a handyman, but in prior years was a sergeant in Vietnam. He was just recently over at my place; I think it was last Wednesday -- could've been Thursday -- no, it was Wednesday. Several years ago he made me one of those boards that has a row of jars nailed to it in which you store screws and nails. Well, I'll be damned, but some moisture got in there and rusted the lids shut! So there I was, actually breaking one of the jars for a quick screw.

Sarge came over to make it right, since it was still under warranty. In talking, we got on the subject of free food for veterans on Veterans Day, and I know he's definitely all set. By now, at this writing, he's surely had free breakfast at one of the grocery stores. And in a little bit he'll have lunch at one of the diners, since they've also jumped on the bandwagon. Then tonight, my warrior friend will sit down for a much finer meal at the steak house. The steak house is a very patriotic bunch and they've really led the way in free meals, with the only downside being a long line. Some of our older vets have been known to pass out waiting; one year one cut his head, but insisted on his steak before getting treatment. That's the way they're trained: Mission first, personal safety last.

Anyway, Sarge was over, and I thought, "No, I'm not gonna get him reminiscing about Vietnam. Let old wounds die." But as luck would have it, we got to talking about the tables at the steak house, quite innocently, how they're always loaded down on Veterans Day, literally to the point that they'd collapse if they weren't so sturdy. This led to him telling me about another table, the desk he had in Vietnam, under which he had duct-taped a gun, pointed outward at whoever sat across from him. I can't imagine, but that's the way they did things! Because Sarge is wise.

Day and weeks passed, when, lo and behold, who comes in but this one totally crazed son of a bitch, a guy no one could figure out, just loony bins, total bananas, hopped up on who knows what, caffeine, stronger drugs, illegal drugs, killer drugs... He also had what could only be called a general spirit of cussedness. This guy had no reverence for authority, being whack, either half out of his son-of-a-bitch mind or completely. I can barely stand to hear it, let alone put myself in Sarge's shoes, when that crazy idiot came in there loaded for bear, and every authority figure he saw -- whether he knew it or not -- was bear.

The way Sarge tells it, he immediately recognized the guy for the total bad news he was, and tried his best in the precious few seconds he had to bring him to heel. But then there's that flash in your brain, that trigger that once triggered tells you you have about three seconds to live, unless... unless you're prepared to defend yourself. I looked in Sarge's eyes as he recalled the incident and I could see fire where the whites should've been. In that split second Sarge knew it was him or the other guy... And just as that bastard was coming up, as if to strangle the life out of him, in a split second, Sarge reached down and pulled the trigger, and essentially blew the guy away, from the crotch down. He still had legs, that's not what I'm saying, but ... he was subdued. They carried him out and that was it. Sarge was cleared, and now here he is, my hero. And handyman.

With Veterans Day looming, as he was leaving, I did as instinct compelled: I snapped my feet, made my posture erect, and gave him a more or less convincing salute. Gotta love 'em, veterans!

Sarge: Chitty Chitty Bang Bang

I wrote about Sarge a couple times already. Once a little over a year ago. And a second time, toward the end of last year. He's a great guy, and in my humble opinion it's guys like this that give the military a good name and make me want to stand up and salute. Honestly, I'd rather see a one single ex-military humble handyman tinkering with broken stuff in my garage than a thousand old guys on top of green trucks rolling down the road at the July 4th parade to wild acclaim.

Another name for Sarge is Walt. But Sarge is good, since it tells something of the guy, that he was able to ascend all the ranks to sergeant. I'm not sure how high that is, but I'm thinking it's pretty far. Mostly what I know about the service is what I remember from Gomer Pyle, that one guy comes in and is a private the whole series and one guy's already there and he's a sergeant the whole time.

But what happened with my Sarge is different from Sgt. Carter, in that he had to serve overseas in a war, namely Vietnam. It's hard now to realize what kind of turmoil we were in when it came to Vietnam. I suppose it was similar to Iraq and Afghanistan, at least in length, but the big difference was that the people back home here really cared about it. To the point of going ballistic. Those were my formative years, so I pretty much stayed on the sidelines and thought about other things.

OK, here's the set-up ... Once again I needed a handyman. For something I saw on Pinterest, basically baby food jars with the lids nailed to a board, then they hang down and you put nails in them, and twist them back to the lid when you don't need them. Damn! This seemed like the kind of thing I should be able to do on my own. It's just a farking nail! But every time I tried it, the nail either went through the board at the top, being too long, or wouldn't hold the lid because it was too short. Then I was messing up too many boards and too many lids (I traded a half dozen Easter bunnies for a box of baby food jars.)

Anyway, to cut it short, I called Sarge, who hightailed it over. He took one look at my mess and said, "Screw it!" I go, "What?!" And he explained, you need to use screws; even if they're short they'll still hold, and they won't poke through the board. Then he did it for me and now I have a nice display, a bunch of jars full of nails I'll never need ... since screws are really what I needed.

Then we were sitting there and I started hinting around about the military: "Ya vol, mein Furher ... From the halls of Montezuma ... C rations ... Mess kit ... Stalag 13 ... A few good men ... The History Channel ... Hut two ... Atten-HUT ... IED ... The smell of napalm ... Enola Gay ... Beetle Bailey ... Uncle Sam Wants You ... My Lai ... Custer ... D-Day ... Dickless Wonder ... Chitty Chitty Bang Bang ... Bilko ... Foreign Legion ... " For most of this, spaced over 10 minutes of otherwise silence, he just sat there looking down at the garage floor, shaking his head, not saying NO precisely, but merely like he was in some sort of daze. When I said "Foreign Legion," he raised his head and said with authority, "Back up!" I said, "Bilko?" No. "Chitty Chitty Bang Bang?" No. Then he said it himself and smiled, "Dickless Wonder."

OK, OK, OK, now we're on to something! Ha ha, I'm a genius! This is exactly what I wanted -- see, I was playing dumb! But God, I'm smart! Dickless Wonder, he couldn't help but pick up on that, and we were off to the races, with him telling the one story I love best. About the time ... God help me ... how he ... oh crap, let him tell it:

"I was a Sarge at a desk. It was a day very much like today, sunny and nice. We had so many dipshits in our outfit, spaced out, stoned half the time, out of their F-ing minds the rest. Me and a couple other guys were the only guys I could trust. Anyway, these dipshits had to keep coming in my office for something, paperwork, and none of them had any discipline or any sense. This is why we lost the war, drugs. Well, I had to protect myself against our own guys the best way I could. So I put a gun up under my desk, screwed it up there a lot like I just now screwed in your baby food jars." I had to smile, he hadn't lost the touch! And it's great he had that experience in the war that later had real life benefits!

"So, anyway, one day in comes this crazy guy, one of the biggest nuts, the biggest losers we had. So screwed up! An ugly guy, too. Butt ugly. And out of his F-ing gourd! Shake him, you'd hear the seeds. He comes in, I don't know what for, but he busted through the door and yanked the chair out of his way and looked at me like bloody murder -- daggers in his eyes. I was a dead man. He was coming up over the desk and I usually kept my finger on that gun but didn't shoot it too often ... mostly just to keep the action loose. This time, Jesus, I haven't thought of this in years! [I didn't contradict him here, that he'd told the story to me several times in the last one year plus.] That F-ing gun went off and blew the guy's crotch all to hell... There was dead silence. The guy's face goes from berserk to the face of a helpless baby. He backs up and smashes against the door and falls to the floor..."

Wow, that's exciting. Sarge was laughing, and I was laughing. "The face of a helpless baby ... You don't mess with me!" he says, a lot of his old strength returning to the fore. I said, "That's right, that F-ing guy got what he deserved! Chitty chitty bang bang!" What a story!

Sometimes I wonder if that crazy guy's still out there, now mellowed out, but even after these years, nothing down there... That'd be a weird feeling, just a bunch of tissue, whatever they could save, all sewn together and stitched to his legs. Would be rough.