My Dog Safe With Buddha

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 girls or boys, but a short life, a sudden death, maybe dangling from a rope.

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, but which had already completely ended. Then, after that vast span, I popped into the world and since then have hung on for dear life. Saying, “I will not go willingly back into the void. I’m here, deal with it!” This I’ve said through times of war and peace, and I turned out to be such a good draft dodger that I was able to dodge all the charges. With some regret, if you remember my pitiful longing for the service in my post, “The Drill Sergeant I Never Had.”

My big problem with the virus these days is, What’s going to happen to my dog if it happens to me?” My current 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 their brief relationship. Yielding five puppies, one of which was 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, and we’ve had a special bond since then. I’ve seen her through many things, learning to love dog food, etc., and I get her 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, then, 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 saving 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 did 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 it. Then he discovered, “Shit happens,” 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 found peeing at the base of a similar tree and thereby come to a place of inner knowledge.

So far, though, I’m still alive.

A Few Missed Bills

Paranoia

Part 26 of 30

You’d be suffering extensive, great, and persistent paranoia, too, if it cycled through your mind day and night, everyday, how things could still work out for you. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt 100% secure, but these days are ridiculous. It bounces up once in a while, but it always nosedives a little, with a strange nosedive that levels out before the final disaster, as though they're toying with me, stringing me along, never allowing me to get a firm grip on security and yet allowing me to keep enough hope and success so hitting rock bottom is that much more painful.

Naturally, winter’s the toughest time of year for picturing in your mind what could happen. I’ve been staying in my own place -- things aren’t terrible -- but any one of many different scenarios could burst on the scene. I’ve known guys better off who’ve had it all yanked away from them. They were foolish. They thought they had security, but I'd have the whole experience, security gone, knowing the depths a guy can sink. And it doesn’t necessarily get better. There’s no rule that things have to get better.

Let me tell you this, too, I have responsibilities, number one being my dog. She’s never been in the lap of luxury, but she’s never been hungry either. The day I took my dog from her mother’s teat, I promised her, “Underbrush, you’ll be all right with me. Put 'er there, pal,” and we shook on it. Which is a great trick she taught me, since I’ve long had a fear of touching animals or people. It goes back a long way, when I heard you could catch germs from everyone. Changing me from the gladhandiest kid to being completely mentally stoved up adult, tight as a tick. The dog also loosened me up quite a bit on that front, presenting her papers proving she’s had the next 50 years worth of shots.

Of course there’s no explanation other creatures really understand -- I barely understand it -- about money and being hard up. How can we be the so-called crown of creation, creatures of intelligence and sense -- and allow ourselves such a worrisome frame of mind, cutting off the legs of one another, our fellow citizens, our brothers and sisters. The country brags about what a great country it is, while half of us goes to bed nervous, teeth-chattering, having nightmares about our shots? Could their dog eat them tomorrow?

There’s a grove of trees up the street, I’ve mentioned it before, when some homeless folks were living there. Then they came and drove them off and put up a sign: “This property is monitored by satellites in space.” You see that and think, “This little two-bit sliver of land has its own satellite eye in the sky?!!” I laughed at first, then thought, “Where would I go to escape the satellites? I need a decent night's sleep...”

Neighbors Talking About Me

Paranoia

Part 19 of 30

If you’ve been with me so far -- and I don’t suppose you’d tune in midstream since it's seven years bad luck -- you’re probably afflicted with an above average case of paranoia. Which is another way of saying a below average disposition, because -- I discerned this by a show of hands at the last meeting -- none of us is particularly proud of it.

Just to show you that pride is a non-existent thing for the truly bereft in the attitude department, the day these people hushed themselves -- a congeries of whisperers -- I went home and hung my head in shame and cried till I was howling. Which got my dog in on the act so I softened. I thought, “Oh no, not the dog, too.” But she nodded her head, then let it hang low, the exact technique I’m known for. And immediately howled up at the basement ceiling and I joined in, saying affectionately, “From one old dog to another!” We high-fived and I poured her a little dish of beer, saying, “I know you’re only 3, but in dog years that's 21.”

But probably most of us hate being talked about like this, so it’s always better to avoid crowds and making a spectacle of yourself. But, again, thanks to the dog, I always have to be out and about. I try to hurry up the process but some things are hard to hurry, dogs and their cycles being one such thing. Then what? You haven’t got a crowd surrounding you, but there’s no question they’re out there in their houses, wherever. And with communications being what they are, free phone calls, unlimited messages, blogs like this, it’s indisputable that they’re talking about me wherever I am: “He’s out with the dog again! Yes, the same dog, he only has the one!” Or, “Look what he’s wearing, a sweatshirt and insulated jogging pants.

Here’s a little free advice, neighbor folk. You’re a bunch of brainless simpletons, locked away in your idiotic houses getting your jollies, getting your rocks off worrying about me and my dog. How about keeping your mouth shut? Such an easy question, how about an answer, as Elvis once sang. And hold down the Elvis jokes, because I’m sensitive in that area too. Although in this context, him singing “You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog” would be apropos, except you as neighbors don’t even reach to dog-level, mostly scoundrels. And I’ve helped most of you before, too, picking up litter. Speaking of dogs.

I don’t want my misery to become your misery, OK? Assuming you’re a friendly sort, and feeling naturally sorry for me and my dog, I thank you. Anyone who discounts this torment, though -- you, I can’t even say it -- Come on, buddy, walk a mile in my shoes, OK? Yes, they’ve been chewed by the dog, but try your best to walk in them. Betcha can't!

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.

Paranoia: Greatly Challenged

 

Paranoia

Part 2 of 30

No, not ill, haven’t coughed all day, except for the bacon I swallowed wrong. Am I right? What is it with bacon? How come it’s so hard to cook it so the meat of the goodie -- the non-fatty parts -- aren’t hard as hell? I don’t remember this growing up back when Grandma used to cook it. It was uniformly soft, from stem to stern, particularly if you were taking extra care while it was in the pan. But these days, whether they’ve changed bacon's secret formula to compensate for tougher times, it’s always hard. And all the trying I do, my level best, nothing I do makes a difference.

But that’s one for my cookbook series, not yet planned. There is, though, an element of paranoia that goes with it. And if the problem originates with me, I’d like to know it. But there’s no way to know it unless a huge group has the same experience. And I know a lot of people have given up bacon entirely for health reasons. Was it the impact on their health from the weird hard bits that you really can’t give your dog?

I’ve gotten real sensitive about what I give my dog, real careful, that is. Because she had some bowel obstructions that I was a slow to realize. And here I am, her only full-time caregiver. I definitely don’t want her death on my conscience, even though, yes, it would be mostly her fault. Because she’s extremely undiscerning about what’s good for her and what’s not. Anyway, the bowel obstructions: Those came from dog treats and the fact that some of the ingredients of dog treats are relatively hard. And they get harder over the course of a month or so, especially if they’re exposed to the air on a daily basis. For some reason they don’t tell you that. And it’s not in the fine print on the bag like we’d expect human food to come with warnings if it were so dangerous.

It’s funny I haven’t even lifted a finger for my cookbook series; I’m sure there’d be all kinds of stuff that'd appeal to the average person. Like my Grandpa used to say -- I think it was him, maybe some other guy entirely, “Everyone’s gotta eat.” That’d be a decent series for that reason alone, I'd be getting the traffic from the vast pool of people who have to eat. Whereas with paranoia, they say not everyone has it, and most are too paranoid to admit it. It's just the unfortunate few, I guess, like me and a few other guys I know who not only have it but explore it. Not that that makes it anything to be proud of. I’m not proud, and if I were I’d be afraid to admit it, because how much grief can an innocent guy stand?

About these dog treats, though, I took her to the vet a couple times. And the last time they kept her overnight. Then I paid my $100 and got her home. They told me only, “She had a bowel obstruction.” No word about what the obstruction was, and I didn’t ask. And she went back to pooping like normal. I resumed her normal diet, including the dog treats. And after a couple weeks, guess what, the same signs of a bowel obstruction started in. Then I thought, What could it possibly be? She gets her normal food and two dog treats a day, nothing else. Wait! Replay that last piece, “and two dog treats a day.” I grabbed a dog treat and examined it. As the month goes on, they become very hard.

How did I fail so badly on that? What other problems are coming that I should know about? One interesting thing about the bowel obstruction is it wasn't all bad. I had to walk her farther to get her to go. Which led one day to me finding $100 on the ground. I was happy with that, but the vet was over $100. Meaning I nearly broke even, just a little short. About how my luck goes, better than nothing, but nothing worth writing home about either.

Self-Esteem Thru The Ages

 

Part 21 of 30

My Fragile Self-Esteem

That’s an interesting summary of a life poorly lived in terms of self-esteem, “That was a lie then, it’s a lie now.” When you're old, you may as well be honest. Frames it in one nasty little package, in perfect focus. Like Veni Vidi Vici, “I came, I saw, I itched.” And itching's good if it’s incidental, but bad if it’s constant since it only breaks the skin and makes you bleed, leading to infection.

Either one of those would be fitting for my final words, with the itching being not as bad in the fall when it’s easier to stay dry. So itching’s one problem, and fragile self-esteem’s another. And for self-esteem it doesn’t matter if it's summer, winter, whatever, it gets you down and keeps you down, whether you’re 3 or 303. The downside for me being, I haven’t even cracked 100 yet, so if I go through two more centuries of this crap, I'm not sure I'll make it.

Yet, as much as I admit the problem -- unlike some people, I didn’t ask to be born -- I refuse to do anything else about it. I wake up and if it’s there I go back to sleep. Which has an interesting side effect, the passing of time of course, but additionally the things that accrue, it’s mad. I didn’t open my birthday presents from my teen years till I woke up sometime around 24. Which meant I had a lot of catching up to do on model airplanes and cars. I still have some in unopened condition but their value's lower because of minor scuffing on the cellophane.

Then self-esteem also got mixed in with too much grieving. You wake from a coma and half your family’s dead; it affects you. I woke up in time for Christmas one year and was surprised how much room there was around the table. I can only say now, Don’t make that same mistake. On the bright side there was a lot more room around the table, elbow room, yes. But a downer was the food was reduced proportionately so the portions were the same or even less.

Then I had to catch up with emotional stuff, which was painful. “Did Grandpa have any last words for me?” I hung on their reply, figuring it’d be something tender, some last piece of advice for me, a lesson I’d never forget. His last words were indistinct gurgling, plus a cry for his childhood coon-hunting dog Jedekiah to come, “Yip, Jed!” I remember the old story from years before, how Jed got in with a skunk and got the skunk's spray. So Grandpa put out a coat and bar of soap for him and left. And Jed -- faithful Jed -- was there the next day waiting, good as new, having meticulously bathed overnight in a nearby creek.

O the things I missed! And part of me wishes it’d never happened. But once again there’s the bright side. My self-esteem was so fragile -- with the consistency of a fried cracker, easy to break and crumbling everywhere -- I couldn’t have stood it. If you have self-esteem like that, the absolute pits, sleeping or a coma's the best thing for you.

Neglectful In Negligee

 

No. 10 of 30 -- Speaking Ill of The Dead

I don’t care who you are, a two-bit hustling chick on the sidewalk or Mrs. Worthington herself (!), the self-absorbed heiress killed a few years ago, it pays to maintain at least a passing awareness of your surroundings. You're looking in a mirror at your great beauty, maybe also think, "How am I going to maintain my beauty if an idiot rushes in with a knife?"

We know well these days -- I've known it since the time I peed my pants in 4th grade -- anything can happen to anyone at any time. I like the example of chipmunks, which you don’t see very often. There's a good reason for that; they had the good sense to move to the wilderness for self preservation. When we used to see them they were constantly on the lookout. Are any predators nearby? They’d duck in their hole. Kids passing through? Down they went. Sometimes I find myself a little neglectful. I’m walking the dog and there’s a close call, someone squealing their tires around the corner too fast and they just miss me. But usually I'm very alert, like a chipmunk.

When Mrs. Worthington was killed, no judge or jury could ask her if she was in any way to blame. No, of course not, she would've said, it was all the fault of the gardener and his fool dog. But, really? Fool dog, idiot gardener? Is that right? I don’t think so. Yes, Corky could’ve left the dog home that day. But hindsight’s like assholes, and if you’ve ever stood behind a dog with its tail up, you know that’s true. And even if you're smarter than Corky, accidents still happen. I take my dog out and I don’t know what might happen. But at a minimum we don’t dawdle.

So look at her: Mrs. Worthington was obviously a snooty woman very self-absorbed and hence a sitting duck. It wasn't a priority, she didn't have it on her list to monitor her surroundings. Big mistake! Because being aware of your surroundings is not a contradiction of dedicated self-absorption. Just the opposite. Self-absorption demands awareness of your surroundings for purposes of validation. You’re Number One and you're going to stay that way! If riff raff's anywhere near, your mind focuses on all looming threats. But look, she even had a rear view mirror and didn't use it for her survival. Maybe she wouldn't have seen the dog, but that big lunk Corky's always big enough to detect.

So here he comes with a knife, chasing his dog! It’s Oswald all over! The threat was obvious, even the barest bones laziest half-assed security plan pieced together by blind morons or monkeys hanging upside down could've seen at a glance the security threat he posed. But no! Then there’s Corky and his dog. Corky had the right idea, chase down a security threat with his knife. He may have failed but he was still better than the entire Secret Service of the United States of America. Just not good enough to keep the dog from clawing its way up Mrs. Worthington’s gown. And the fact that he stabbed her to death, that was pure mindlessness...

Mrs. Worthington, alas, is gone. Stupid high society dunce, wasn't she? Should’ve been watching better...

Timmy's Doing Well

The other day someone reminded me of one of my favorite TV shows when I was a kid. Which was very long ago, making the show an oldie but a goodie. About a boy named Timmy and his dog, whose name isn't coming to me, wait, it's Dane! Thought I had it on the tip of my tongue, but I had to think about it for a minute and there it was.

I was thinking, Was it Digby? Delbert? Great Delbert? I thought it started with a D. The picture I found online said Dignified, but that couldn't be right. I knew right away it couldn't be Dignified. Then Dane came to me. One thing I know for sure, Dane wasn't a collie; my first dog was a collie and they're a lot bushier.

Timmy, though, that's the kid's name for sure. Because I've often heard Timmy mentioned over the years. Let's say he came close to falling in a well. Or came close to being lost in the haymow. I had that happen a few times. One of my favorite activities as a kid, actually, was playing in barns. Haymows feel dangerous. I was genuinely afraid and excited. You're stepping around the cracks of the bales, the hay, and it feels like you could be swallowed up. But no kid was ever swallowed up, not while the dog was around.

Dane could be counted on -- and I'm talking about the show now -- to rescue Timmy before anything bad happened. You might think, That's not much of a show, since you need a plot, you need conflict to have a show. True, there's lots of shows like that. Those are the ones I hated. I never wanted conflict, and yet I didn't want shows to be documentaries where nothing happened. The only conflict I wanted, just for the sake of argument, was this: The fear that something might happen. That was my true life story: Something might happen at any minute, but if I'm smart -- smart and careful -- it won't.

OK, the plot of the Dane show is coming back to me. Timmy's parents would be playing cards with a neighbor couple. The kids would be running wild, although they were good kids. They made up adventures that took place in the haymow, for instance. There was always some danger, but Dane would growl, and everyone would know they were doing something wrong. Once they had Dane's warning -- Knock it off -- they changed their behavior and were good.

Toward the end, everyone would go back to the house, the kids and Dane. The family up the road would throw in the towel on the card game and head home too. Mom and Dad would be wondering how thing were going with Timmy and Dane, and how it went with the other people's kids, and it was always the same: Thanks to Dane, nothing bad every happened. The perfect show.

Dane would bark, a couple of quick barks, his nose in the air, seeking Timmy's Dad and Mom's praise. "You did good!" Mr. Douglas would say, lightly scratching Dane's nose and offering praise, "Timmy's doing well! Good boy! You, too, Dane!" And mother, Jacqueline Douglas, would offer the same sort of praise, said in that soft, sensual purring style that she was known for, "Such a good boy, yes you are, good Dane... Keeping Timmy well!"

Everyone would enjoy an evening biscuit, brush their teeth, and hit the hay, so to speak.

The Dog Bill of Rights

Superior Man and Dumb Dog

Who among us isn't completely cheesed off at dogs, the way they act, their behavior? It's my constant complaint, that's for sure. Obviously, I'm not ready for the new way of doing things, mollycoddling animals to excess. This bending over backwards to cater to their every wish and desire, it's all too much. They used to put a plate of food on the table for us kids -- we loved food -- and we about killed each other, fighting for every morsel we could grab. If it was good enough for me, it's good enough for the dog; they don't need babied.

Back then and ever since, I've had dogs. I miss the dogs of those days. Grateful for every little scrap, always doing their bathroom duties where they stood. You didn't have to make a plea or say a prayer. Just bang, they went, a grunt or a whiz. Drop and give us a gallon. No questions asked, no prancing, no mincing, no searching for a better spot, no putting it off for later.

Of course I've tried to keep up with the times, and I'm sorry to say, it's not pretty. Every guy I run into, they're also spoiled, because, "I know my rights...," always said in that wheedling, weak, ineffectual tone of voice, how everything's said these days. You see someone like that, if you have any strength at all, you're tempted to put their arm behind their back and hoist it, till they cry bloody murder, or at least come to their senses. I'd be great to get back to that dog-eat-dog world. It'd certainly save time. I grunt, you move! You don't ask why. Here! Now! 50 pushups, mister! Faster, buddy!

But who am I kidding? We know the way it is today. Men, you can push 'em over with a feather. Women, the same old story. Dogs, they're entitled and they know it. The only thing that isn't fully domesticated in modern times is the cat. But they're well on the way, on the couch, getting fat, looking like a pillow gone bad. But there's a cat here in the Big City I know. It's holed up in a basement window with bars on it, taking care of a little cat. Getting snowed on, blown on, rained on. No one helps that cat; it helps itself. I saw it yesterday heading back there and I didn't give it any encouragement. Just turned my head and forgot about it. I got troubles of my own.

That cat's a lot different than my dog. Yes, I spoiled my dog, back home. And now we're in a rougher world, the Big City. So what's the trouble? This business of doing her business! We go out so many times in a day, then she gives me the runaround on finding a suitable place! I think what any disgruntled tough guy'd think: Squat, dammit! We need more panthers, less pussycats. If a panther jumped out and took a piece out of my dog's hindquarters, she'd think twice next time about not pooping pronto! Believe it, that's on my bond.

But she obviously thinks we are going by the Animal Bill of Rights here, even when my brain is crawling like a pie of worms or snakes, and my thoughts are so tortured that I'm about to bust: I got problems of my own, dog! You think I'm personally taking stool softener 'cause I want to? No, I don't dare delay either. When it's time to drop and do it, it's time! Instead, what do I get from her? Another hour in the frigid winter's night... Creepy crawling around town, passing many a good snow drift, looking instead for those rare places where the snow has melted, like manhole covers on the streets, just so she can tinkle or poo poo. Give me a break!

It really gets me. I'm shaking my head even now, hours later! These domesticated animals, so soft, and so thankless, unfeeling, uncaring. They get that bold attitude of "You adopted me, stupid, you're stuck with me!" O, I hate to lower the boom on you, sister, but maybe you've noticed, We're in the Big City now! They do things different here. Part of it's my own survival. I haven't got hours to give you. Guys are coming up the street and going down the street. They'd knife me for a dime. But does the dog care?

Finally, then, she does something. On the fifth time we've been out in the last two hours! Then she looks at me like it's accomplished, time for a treat! The attitude really sucks, my dear! How about this, you scratch my back, I'll scratch yours. Do the task with the urgency it demands -- Drop! Go now! And back in! -- and maybe I can see my way clear to lay a little treat morsel on you. Yeah, that's how it works. Makes more sense than, "I wasted two or three hours of your time, risked your life for the effort, and finally passed a small one. Give me a big treat..." It's sickening, I'm waving it off...

The only thing she's fast with is the false claim that she's ready to go out. I know how it is, the psychology. The more she demands, the more I give in. But this is the Big City! We used to live in a little burg that lulled us into a slumber, with no fear of security. And she hasn't made the shift, out of ignorance. If only I could be that blind to the environment! To the times.

Well, one of these days, my dear, you'll get yours... So sleep on, little one, take your rest. May as well not wake you. Too late to change your attitude from uncaring to hair-on-fire. Too late to go from soft as Grandma's underarm to tough-as-nails, nail tough... Just know this, when the wolf comes knocking at the door, it's you he'll be looking for.

Re-Elect Gus Grissle Dog Catcher

In these troubled times, with the Republican party the scum of the earth, it's hard to keep a civil society. Life is hard enough, as everyone knows, but these rabid fiends -- no friend of man or beast -- add to the general sense of misery. There's no easy solution, short of 40 million moonshots, which would take a lot of work. So we're stuck simply trying to get along.

Of course I personally never vote for Republicans, ever, with one lone exception, and that's Gus Grissle for Dog Catcher.

Gus is an old neighbor of mine, and, by god, I know he's more or less good with dogs. As I've heard at the coffee shop a million times, Gus keeps the loose feral population down within manageable limits. According to the Daily News, attacks by loose rabid dogs on children as well as adults are down to a respectable average of only 160 a year. A stat to be celebrated in a small town. I was personally attacked twice, but if you attend to it right away -- skip the hospital, there's cheaper antibiotics on the black market -- you'll usually recover sufficiently to limp along and recognize family members, although it’s often intermittent.

Naturally, the best remedy is prevention. An ounce of prevention definitely feels better than a ton of painful injections. And that's why we need Gus Grissle. He's our man! Because it's important to have a guy who's not afraid to get his butt out there, patrol, and bring these monsters in. As to the few healthy dogs that are loose, he's also the man to get them back to their families. Although I wish we didn't have to waste time and resources doing so much of that, because it's eradicating the attack dogs that has to be number one.

Obviously, we need a good man for dog catcher, a man sensitive to the needs of dogs as well as dog-owners/parents. As a dog parent myself, I want a dog catcher who won’t necessarily take my dog right to the pound, let alone shoot her without at least the courtesy of a phone call. Dogs are funny though. They don't know Gus is only helping them. My dog's been nabbed a few times, so now if I want her to behave, I just have to say, "I'm gonna call Gus Grissle, and he's gonna come get you," or just the word "Grissle." She growls, then goes to her crate and cowers. I coax her out with a doggy treat and we're back on good terms.

Gus knows a thing or two about dogs. But it’s not just his knowledge of dogs that makes him the best candidate. The best thing about Gus is that he actually wants to do it and does it. He's diligent. And think of it, it's a dirty job, thankless, most of the dogs you snag hate you, and you stand a good chance of getting bitten every single day. This isn't a cushy office job; these aren't office dogs, they're mean street dogs. The kind that talk back and take no crap.

This year, friends, I had to vote absentee for Gus Grissle. Because I’m presently in the Big City while they work on Grandma’s house. And the house is basically open, with protective tarps. A big concern is that anyone could get in if they wanted. Say a bunch of tramps were living there with their tramp dogs, it’s to my benefit to have Gus just up the street, looking out for me. And to send those tramp dogs packing.

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Older post: Gus Grissle for Dogcatcher, 2015 election

Mute Invisible Guard Dogs

I’ve been living in “The Big City” while they work on Grandma’s house — fumigation is the least of its problems — so I’ve been out cattin' around everyday. Checking out things. Plus, I’m actually a minor player in the recycling industry, in that I pick up and cash in aluminum cans. I’ll make a post about it some time.

I see myself also as patrolling the ‘hood. But most of the vandalism I see appears to have happened years ago. With the bad guys long gone. Windows are out, broken glass is everywhere, and some of the buildings are on their last legs. Makes me rethink Grandma’s house; it's not too far gone.

In all this patrolling and can rummaging, I’ve been interested in the obligatory signs warning thieves, burglars, vandals, and squatters. There’s a small tree-covered area nearby, and I discerned right away some homeless folks were living there. Which was cool with me, so I didn’t do anything to disturb them, just kept my distance. After a while, though — and obviously it would’ve been better if they’d stayed there only briefly — their presence was discovered by the authorities or owners. Who went in, piled up all their stuff on the curb, then hauled most of it away. Now there's blinking light posts at the various entrances to the wooded area.

The other thing they have, to keep folks out, are warning signs. Yes, yes, in “The Big City” warning signs are very common. At the wooded area, the warning signs tell of “Video Surveillance,” which would seem to be false; wouldn’t you see an occasional camera somewhere? Or are they spending big bucks on a satellite system, a joint effort with NASA? Still, I don’t go in there, mostly because I already have a place to flop, and also I’m careful about crossing boundaries. There used to be an old guy in my neighborhood rumored to shoot kids with rock salt.

OK, the signs. That’s what I’m on about today. While searching for beer cans (and other aluminum goodies), I’m always seeing warning signs. A bunch of them are posted on buildings that have been ransacked so many times, it’s obvious no one takes them seriously. Actually, my biggest fear would be to have other ransackers there when I went in, then they’d ransack me... Anyway, the chances of these old buildings having anything of huge value in them now are pretty low.

Thinking it over, though, I had a great idea, which would be to make signs saying, “THIS BUILDING IS PROTECTED BY MUTE INVISIBLE GUARD DOGS.” Is it true? I mean, really, someone could diligently search and find actual non-vocal dogs who’ve also had the added misfortune of being born invisible. When it rains, it pours, right? So there they are, a big bowl of food and water keeping body and soul together, the whole works. They're healthy, they usually get decent sleep ... until the big night comes.

Finally someone's stupid enough to enter. Some guys, looking for metal bathtub fixtures and wanting to strip the precious wiring out of the walls, show up one night. They’re drinking up a storm just before this, getting up their nerve. Because a sign about mute invisible guard dogs truly is intimidating. But they convince themselves, "This sign’s just like that one at the wooded area, a big fat fake!” Then they go in, and these dogs — vicious bastards when provoked — get hold of their legs; one nearly escapes but the dog takes a chunk out of his ass. Exciting stuff.

Pretty soon the dogs have the bastards cornered — who by now have dropped the bathtub pipes — and they make their final merciless lunge, right for the jugular! Blood’s spurting out everywhere, it’s a mess for the ages. Enough blood to make you sick. The perps go on to meet their reward in hell. The next day the dogs aren’t all that hungry. I come along on my bike, find the cans outside that the guys drank from (who were also litterbugs), catch a glimpse of the sign about the invisible dogs, shiver to myself in fear, grab the cans, and get the hell out of there.

For The Love Of A Good Sore

We all remember the story of poor Lazarus in the Bible -- poorer even than me -- dogs came and licked his sores. I heard the old preachers of old expound on this passage at some length. By the time they were done, he'd suffered long and they were terrible sores, with one brutal sore right at the nucleus. Of course it took three or four sore points to finish the soremon. Ah, for the love of a good sore!

One of my favorite jingles in advertising is, "Dog’s don’t know it’s not bacon!" Let's say we have a guy carrying bacon in his back pocket. The dog comes running up and bites his ass. Because, "Dog’s don’t know it’s backend!" Now I got another hole where the good Lord folded me, very holistic. My dog’s never been picky either when it comes to food. If it’s related to the meat family, it’s 10 times better than the world’s finest grain.

You get a sore, the sore has to heal. Dog’s also heel, eh? I have a few little sores. Who doesn't. You scratch too much, there's one, then another. And sometimes I get banged up. A cut. And I always hope the same thing, that the tetanus shot I got in 4th grade is still working its magic.

Other than that, there’s always dogs. Just take your mind off your problems. Watch TV, lay back, relax, and let the dog lick you, like Lazarus. It gets so comforting, you might set an alarm. I had a sore on my leg one time and the dog started licking me. Naturally I went to sleep. I woke up and there it was, all the color out of it, like a bit of ham fat from a can of soup after it’s processed in the soup factory. Hanging there, no substance, no strength, just dead tissue. Two minutes later the dog would’ve been bitten it off and I'd've never known.

Pa, is that dog still licking you? Cover that thing up or it’ll never heal! The dog hears heel and dives to the floor. Dives, of course, being the name of the rich master in the story of Lazarus. He had enough of life here — overdosed, I’d say — and had to go to hell, took a dive, dove right in, to a place where dog’s don’t heel, including Cerberus, the hound of hell. He’ll never heel in hell. I’d rather kneel in heaven than heel in hell, amen? For the love of a good sore.

A sore can be useful. It's nature’s bandage, an organic arrangement of blood and evaporation.

Dogs get so they understand the word sore, depending how accident-prone you are. Especially way back when, when they didn’t get treats like today. It's just like you say ‘You wanna go bye bye?’ They know bye bye means a car ride. You wanna go to the park? They know park. One of my dogs knew the word squirrel. I’d tell her “Squirrel!” Her ears perked up like satellite antennae. She’d look for my finger to point the way, even though if she wasn’t so dependent on me she could’ve just discerned it. Then she was off, blazing speed. Even caught one one time, but I didn’t want her tasting wild blood, so I called her off, letting the squirrel live. There was, however, a time when I came around the bandstand and there was a dead squirrel at her feet. It looked fresh with some fresh sores, and naturally I didn’t let her have it. A squirrel’s a rodent, and rodent’s carry disease. That’s why I don’t allow mice in my home, even if they are good for keeping roaches at a decent level.

Milton, he milt hell for all it was worth. Besides him, mythology has Long Schlong Silver (his distinguished appendage tastefully censored with a dime) with Cerberus appearing on the vast hellscape, that three-headed dog pissing on Satan to help relieve his pain. Or something. 

Sometimes, though, as Kenny Rogers said, the hurting won’t heal. You get a sore, it gets worse, other sores pop up, things run, things get pusy and drip, and the whole thing degenerates into a mass of coagulation, looking a sight. There's purpose in that, too. A good sore sets things right, if you tend to it right. Or not, either way a good sore does its thing. Finally in the end, we fall on our sore and die a noble death.

No Pure Place On Earth

I’ve been doing some camping lately while they start working on my house (a complete gutting, fumigating, exterminating, re-boarding, paneling, shingling, from the ground up). Being away from the old place — with all the associated illnesses, allergies, and pure phobias that go along with vermin, their foulness and even the thought of them — had cleared my head, to the extent it can be.

Stepping out this morning, for example, I took a deep, very contented breath of morning air. Which, just when I’d done so, was spoiled when I looked over and saw a monster of some sort — perhaps a skunk, otter, or groundhog, etc. — moving its way from the outside air to the confined security of a culvert. Seriously, that’s one culvert I won’t get near! One, I don’t believe in disturbing the peace of another creature; two, yes, it disturbed my peace, but I chalked it up as unintentional.

It made me think what anyone in my position would think: You never know what’s going on around you, not fully. But we definitely share this world with all kinds of things, right under our feet, with no way of escape. As it is, ever since I saw Neil Shuban’s “Your Inner Fish” I know how these creatures and I are intimately related. We could sit in peace and break bread if somehow I could make them watch the same documentary and understand it. My brain, as it turns out, as feeble as it is compared to other human brains, is pretty sophisticated compared to the average creeping rodent.

I promptly put rodent-guy out of my mind as to any fear, let’s say, and thought of the impurity of the grass vis-a-vis piss and animal droppings, including my own dog’s, whom I was just taking for a walk for her morning bathroom break. Sure enough, she arches up and poops. Sure enough, she squats broadly and pees, all in the open, never thinking of it again, never caring.

Right away, though, I — much more self-conscious as to the impurity scale — pictured some irate trailer wife rushing over to complain, “You let your dog pee and poop right there?! Where people spread their blankets for picnics and family affairs?!” This didn’t happen, no one came out. But I had a retort ready, just in case. “Ma’am, may I instruct you in the ways of life? There is no pure place on earth that hasn't been defiled by the droppings of man or beast!” I would've gone on to add that if it wasn’t a defilement from the hind end, I’ve seen countless men and a few women spitting to beat the band.

My grandpa was the classic tobacco chewer and spitter. He even did the spitting-out-the-car-window thing, now something of a cliche, where it returns through the back window. Naturally a lot of his spit made it to the ground. So if you were going to have a picnic nearby you’d probably need not just a blanket but a tarp. I myself spit sunflower seed hulls, which bothers me not just for the unsanitary nature of spit but for DNA purposes. I’d hate to have an evil scientist cloning me, and frankly I'm not sure it hasn't already happened.

Anyway, right here as I camp, I’ve seen every kind of dropping from animals. There can’t be one square inch around here — of course the earth has been here since 4004 BC — that hasn’t been dumped on, drooled over or worse. And that's just the deer! No, you have to figure, this is the New World, and Adam and Eve didn’t travel far, but the animals were running riot. Pee parties on a presidential scale, enough scat to shame a Crothers.

But what about the Himalayas? Well, yes, there too. Since it was essentially the same level before continental drift thought of moving. And more recently, there’s all the backpackers, with plenty packed in their backside, and having to unload it somewhere. You ever seen the top of Everest? It’s so slick with offal that's the source of most fatal accidents. And they say you can’t breathe at those heights, that’s why.

Friends — fellow men and complaining ladies — there is no pure place on earth. Maybe there once was, but it’s long since been hopelessly defiled.

---You can't spell PURE without PU! -- That's Earl, folks!---

My Huge Dog Is Out Of Control

I’ve always been a person grounded in reality. So it’s not a case of denial here, despite what the veterinarian says. To those clowns, it’s always your fault, never the animal. Which is clearly false. I don’t force feed her, she could refuse. I put the food out there, she eats it. There’s no funnel. There’s no mouth brace under the meat grinder.

Whew, glad I got that off my chest. I have such RAGE against veterinarians, which, I suppose you share. Veterinarians are like psychologists, in a way. Psychologists know people and we are people, so we know if they’re right or not. But dogs aren’t people. So veterinarians read their psychology, then think “You’re not a dog,” so you should take their word for it and pay through the nose.

Well, no more! This dog knows what she’s doing when she eats and drinks. And if she didn’t want it, she wouldn’t browbeat me to give it to her.

Actually, the browbeating began when she was tiny. That look in her little eyes was “You give me what I want or you die.” I didn’t give it much thought then because she was so small; what’s she going to do, nip my heels? But we compromised. I’d go halfway on her demands, a little bacon, a little hamburger, a sip of whiskey; that’s reasonable. Once she put on a little weight the browbeating got worse. Pushing me in my chair to face the pantry. Pushing me to the fridge. Nudging me toward the hutch where I keep the whiskey. Then — and we’re skipping some months, probably a year and a half — the pressure was greater. Picking me up by the scruff of the neck and setting me by the pantry, flipping me on my back and pulling me by the foot to the fridge, and demanding whiskey with bared fangs. Leading me to observe, “Jeez, all that food and no dental hygiene and her fangs white as pearl. Has to be the whiskey.”

OK, now I’m on my own. The vet said don’t come back till I’m ready to “face facts.” I suppose I didn’t help myself when I dressed him down, calling him a dog- and cat-killer for all the old crippled dogs and cats that are put down on a regular basis. I even tinkered with the idea of sending him a card on Hitler’s birthday; I couldn’t find much at the card store that was to the point.

I went home, dedicated to making my dog face facts. The first day went OK. She grumbled but I cut the portions way down, a pound of bacon and a pound of hamburger and a cup of whiskey. She looked at me like “OK,” very tentative. But the next day the look was worse, then worse yet. Until she took matters into her own paws, and that’s when the pushing and dragging started. Now I’m compliant, because, really, she’s so insistent, I might be her next meal if I’m not.

Still, you know, I’m proud of her. She’s a like a body builder, only you have to flip the picture. She’s a body bloater, with my hope that at some point she’ll take up a healthy exercise regimen and keep her size but be so muscular that they take her into the service, exactly what happened to a dog in my hometown that was mean as hell. He went to Vietnam. Whether he got hooked on Vietnamese food and booze, they never said. Doesn’t it have a lot of soy?

So that’s how it stands. But how about the veterinarian? He’s a loser. He gave up without a fight. He “knew better,” but couldn’t convince me or the dog with reason. Therefore he was just a bully. And there’s only one way to handle a bully. Go the other direction, leave him in his misery. Maybe he’ll come around with age or die trying, I don’t know.

Yet I still insist it’s not my fault. The dog’s the one that allowed herself to spiral out of control. She got hungry, and instead of rationally saying, “I don’t need these larger portions, I think I’ll look after myself,” she threatened me. Strike 1. I blame her for even wanting bacon, hamburger, and whiskey. Although they are all delicious, and they make dog food to resemble bacon and hamburger. And there’s a phrase, “You old booze hound;” that had to come from somewhere.

It’s hitting me hard for the simple inconvenience (1) and (2) the money. There’s nowhere to move in the house, almost. And the money’s going down the drain. I only have money from Social Security and the disability checks from my game toe. I can’t be in economic thrall to her appetites forever!

All that said, it’s still something of a source of pride that I have the largest chihuahua mix on the planet. I have to laugh. We were home one day when the Cancer Lady stopped by for her annual check. She goes, “Oh, where’s your dog?” I go, “See that couch in there?” “Yes,” she said. “I don’t have a couch...”

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Artwork credit: Tony

My Dogs In Heaven

 

Every once in a while I like to publicly profess my love for dogs. You know how it goes, nothing softens your image and puts you in the good graces of others than your love for dogs and showing a soft spot for their cute antics.

Which I don't say cynically; it's just a side benefit deriving from My True Feelings about those great, human-like (without all the bad parts) creatures. Do I love every dog there is? I haven't met every dog and I know there are some that aren't great. There used to be a dog in my neighborhood named Sarge. He was so mean they sent him to Vietnam. He was tough to like, one of the reasons he went to war.

OK, as old as I'm getting, nearly 65(!), of course I'm thinking more and more about my future. Which is relatively limited in this life. I could do a whole thing just on that subject. I'm forever figuring up what percentage is left based on ideal factors. 100 is reasonable, but not likely. Some of my male forebears didn't do so well. Anyway, today I want to write about dogs AND the afterlife. In Heaven.

I enter the Glorious Gates, and my dogs from the years come walking in a group toward me, greeting me. I won't mention each one. Just one representative from my childhood and one from adulthood. From childhood is my first dog, Eggard. And from adulthood is Fritz. Eggard I had probably under three years, and Fritz died a week after I got him.

Here they come! Eggard I can barely remember what he looked like. His mom was a Collie and his dad was something else. Fritz had generally a German Shepherd look without being precisely a G.S. So here they come! Welcoming me to my heavenly home, eternal life. They're joyous as they watch the look of amazement on my face at all the beauty in that great place. I haven't seen anything this impressive since the home shows of the '60s, when they showed us the All Electric Homes of the Future!

I can barely take in the glory. I've been overwhelmed before, but this is the entire panoply of wonders. If you can picture the amazement and activity of the State Fair but it's made of glass and diamonds, you'll have a good idea of the beauty. But the true glory is to bend down and become reacquainted with Eggard. Eggard! What a great name for a great dog! "You were so little when Poohie had you! And look at you now!" Even though my memories are limited, they come flooding back in my mind's expansion.

Eggard knows it's me, even though of course I've grown. Was I too rough with him in life? I don't think so. I surely was gentle. I was very proud of his name, Eggard. My brother and I used to laugh. His dog's name was a plain old name, Rats. But mine had an elegant name, Eggard! What a pair of brothers we were. Then Rats ran away. And Eggard at some point died and I personally buried him by the fence. I can't drive by that old house without thinking of his grave somewhere down there.

Here comes another dog in glory, the already-mentioned Fritz. They say there's no tears in heaven, but I'm crying when I see Fritz. I was crying when we parted. I had gotten Fritz at a pound, a rescue place where they had unwanted dogs. And it turned out his health was bad. I had Fritz only a week, when he crawled under the back stairs and died. I brought him out and carried him across my arms to a grave, like a hero in an opera. I was crying like a baby.

In the years since Fritz, I've used his story lots of times to express my own philosophy that death ought to be like that. When you sense it's time for your death -- and with humans it'd mean you know in your core that this is it, say you had late stage cancer -- you simply crawl under something and die. It's admirable. Whether I could actually do it, that is the question.

Fritz jumps up on me (back in Heaven here), as if to say he also remembers that day. How do dogs say goodbye? With Fritz, it was like in the song, "I'm late, I'm late, for a very important date. No time to say hello, goodbye! I'm late." Such an admirable act at the end -- instinct is beautiful -- to crawl under the stairs and simply die! I've never gotten over the act of that. It impressed me beyond anything any other dog's ever done.

So we have a nice reunion in Glory. His worms are all gone, his heart is good, he's shaken off the dirt of the grave, he's radiant. And he was an unwanted dog at the time, too!

OK, beyond that, the other dogs showed up, though I won't mention each by name. Eggard said, "I was his first." My current dog said, "I was his last." Which got old, since they were repeating it over and over. I finally get fed up with it and say, "There's room and time for all at my glorious table!"

"Gather with me, my fantastic dogs, and let us sup!" So there we are, like in the Last Supper, me in the middle, surrounded by dogs. As all this is going on, my great relatives (humans) start filing in. They welcome me, and I'm friendly, but I have to ask them to come back later. "As you can see, my dear family, I'm still dealing with my dogs."

A Stranger In My Own Home

I have a beef today, as well as an interesting principle about coming back from the dead. Or being away a long time, like Tom Sawyer. Didn't he walk in on his own funeral?

I have my routine in the morning. Sitting doing meditation and considering spiritual lit, including the Bible and various things on yoga, Sri Aurobindo, etc. Then it's time to take Roughage (my dog) out. Then breakfast. It's a clean, good, effortless routine. God forbid it change!

Today it changed. Thanks to an inopportune phone call plus my Cousin Deb visiting from Missouri. She's been here a couple weeks, sleeping in all those mornings, then getting up and seeing how I do it here. Today, though, I got an urgent call from a guy I've known for 40+ years, Melvin, who parks by the water tower and has his own taxi service, one car.

My time of meditation was just coming to a close when Melvin called. His key was locked in the car, do I still have the extra key? In the last five or six years he hasn't needed it at all. But it's been in my bedroom with a full layer of dust on it. Could I bring it to him?

Cousin Deb was getting up and around. I told her what I had to do, that it'd take 10-12 minutes, Roughage is in the crate, she'll be OK till I get back. Then we'll make breakfast, etc.

I got downtown right away, Melvin had his hand out, I rolled down the window and gave him the key and sped home. Now, what has Cousin been doing in the meantime? Wellllll, Roughage whined a little bit with me gone, so she let her out to do her business. Leaving enough time to start the breakfast, get the plates out, etc., and push my meditation books up against some other crap at the edge of the table. Page crunch. And she was busying around.

I was a little pissed off, but didn't spill it with the full force, just some gentle, "I said I'd take care of the dog when I got back. And there was no hurry on the breakfast; I was gone 10-12 minutes, there's nothing I need to do this morning, it was fine." Well, like she said, Roughage was whining, and there was no reason to wait on breakfast, apparently, because I was gone. I was barely gone, but the whole world had to change!

That's something worth considering. If you can be gone 10-12 minutes and everything has to change, imagine you went somewhere near the ends of the world for a half hour! She'd change the locks, paint the house, and maybe donate my freezer of bacon to the poor. "It's not good for you anyway." Oh! But it's good enough for the poor, I see! And that's just a half hour! A whole hour and they'd be reading my will...

What if I were suddenly called to Center City for a whole day? Not only would the bacon be gone, the dog wouldn't recognize me. The crate would be gone, she'd be sleeping in my bed, and growling when I crawled in to sleep. Possession is 9/10s of the law, they say, you abandoned the bed, you're outta here!

Multiply it out. You're gone a week? A week is like a thousand years. Your house was condemned, the high rise apartment complex in its place was planned and contracted out in four days, and when they decided you weren't coming back they built it. And that freezer was getting old anyway. The bacon had the accumulated frost damage of a whole seven days!

The interesting principle is, You can be a stranger in your own home within minutes. You gave your last wishes -- keep the dog in and don't start the bacon -- but if you've been gone 10 minutes all bets are off! In short, if you can't depend on your life maintaining its stability for 10-12 minutes, don't be gone any longer. Life is quicksand. Time waits for no man, as they say, but you'd think it'd take at least a month to fully rear its ugly encroaching head... You're gone a couple hours, though, you're not coming back.

Sheesh! That's Earl, brother!

The Mysteries of Outer Space

I watch a lot of space documentaries, a lot. Basically, if I see a space documentary listed, I turn it on immediately. For lots of reasons, of course, curiosity about what's "out there," about humanity's place in the universe, and even spiritual reasons. To me, there is no division between nature and us, which I think should go without saying, but we so often seem to make a differentiation between ourselves and everything else. The vastness of space is an awesome thing, and, in my opinion, makes any distinction between us and existence itself tenuous.

Ah, who am I kidding? It all has to do with my dog. The biggest reason I watch space documentaries is to give me something to think about when I take my dog out to do her business. We're out in the morning and I see whatever's left of the night, the morning star usually. She also goes out at night, and that's when it's really happening. On a clear night, such as recently, Venus is bright; the other night it was real close in the sky to the waxing moon. So I'm thinking, "You may be bright, but not bright enough for me to see her business." Yes, what I'm saying is my flashlight's brighter than Venus!

Of course Venus can't help it. It's far away, and my flashlight's right in my hand. You can't aim Venus. It's unidirectional, not fit to shed light on anything locally according to your will. It's just reflecting sunlight anyway, which if I want sunlight I can just wait till it's up and use it directly. The distinction is I can stare at Venus all I want, but I can't stare at the sun. You look at the sun long enough and you won't look at anything else! I don't recommend it...

In my own particular neighborhood, there's trees to the north, so I never get a good view of the North Star, the Big Dipper, the Little Dipper, and whatever else is up there. When I see these sights, it reminds me of Grandpa Slump, who, they say, used the stars to help him never get lost. Let's say he was maybe lost, all he had to do was wait till night, and having looked at the stars so long, he knew which way to go. Which obviously would work. If you find the Dippers and the North Star, I guess you just walk that general direction. If you want to go south you need a rear-view mirror.

Wouldn't it be great to learn a language from a civilization on another planet? If they have civilizations like us, that'd be hundreds of languages. I remember in church, back when we had missionaries come around and tell about their work, they were translating the Bible even these days into languages that didn't yet have it. If we landed on other planets, imagine the work missionaries would have! Of course up there they might not care about Abraham, Isaiah, and all the rest. Their loss, because the Bible's great. But they might have someone similar, and that'd be interesting to read too.

As I write this, it's about time to take the dog out. But I'm afraid that tonight it's likely to be cloudy. It's been a royal pain in the ass winter day, which will probably continue to screw up the sky tonight.

New Year: Circle The Wagons

Friends, I've taken a big step for myself. After all these years of being at everyone's mercy, being tugged and pulled, rather relentlessly, and being all things to all people, I've resolved at long last to "Circle the Wagons." From this point forward, everything changes. I'm going to make soul progress, find my perfect place.

This is a rather personal, spiritual statement, I realize. But having spilled my guts so often on the blog as to my dissatisfaction and dissolution, I feel it helpful also to note my progress, the things that will make for satisfaction and perhaps even healing. Maybe it will be of benefit to others also deciding to Circle the Wagons. I feel I owe everyone that chance.

The Wagons is my term for That Realm above. According to sources, you can profitably visualize it directly at the top of your head proper, or, as I've chosen, between two and four inches above the head. The connector, as it were, is said not to be merely imaginary, but an actual (unseen with the eyes) channel of the subtle currents of the body. Being seen in artwork as a circle made up of petals, and everything in wonderful order, containing currents/energy, those are my "Wagons," not just unconsciously but consciously Circled. Protecting and providing.

Sounds weird, I know. But, seriously, you wouldn't expect me to carry on the way I've been, not if I can make things better, whether it's weird or not. I look at it this way: Either you've got the tail wagon the dog or the dog wagon the tail. It's not just a case of six-of-one half-dozen-of-the-other; it makes a difference to the dog who's wagon who. If the tail's wagon the dog, the dog could end up permanently propped against a tree, the elimination instinct never satisfied. Whereas if the dog's wagon the tail, he'll pee and get on with his day. My dad used to say, "Piss or get off the pot," and that's good enough for me.

There is, however, a time for everything. Who knows the adjustments we go through? When it's mid-year, I might be mired down with the tail wagon the dog. But New Year is a time for a new start, and hopefully with a determined follow-through it will be so. And so, let it be stated: From hence forth, from this day, this dog's wagon the tail, the Wagons being decidedly Circled! I believe it shall be done.

I started it this morning, visualizing a thousand (alternately 10,000) Wagons in a perfect circular arrangement, a lot like in old westerns, holding off the slings and arrows -- mostly arrows -- of the enemy. "I am impervious behind my Circle of Wagons! No man -- regular guy or savage -- can pierce this line, this Circle!" (If you remember one of my earlier resolutions -- I believe it was 2009 -- I had much the same scenario, except it was based on the Gingerbread Man ("Can't touch me, I'm the Gingerbread Man!"), but this time I hope to keep it. And, frankly, I like a Circle of Wagons more than 10,000 Gingerbread Men; that daily suggestion led to substantial weight gain.)

There are wonderful truths at work here, much like Horatio or someone said in Shakespeare, "Something something something dreamed of in heaven and earth." Right there's the validation, all the validation I need, to press on, Circling the Wagons, and having all the defense/offense I need ... for January 1, January 2, January 3, and beyond.

Gus Grissle For Dogcatcher

Of course I'm not beholding to Gus Grissle in any way, shape, or form. That's not why I'm for him for dogcatcher. Hell, Gus isn't even from my party, the Democratic party. He's a Republican, usually the kiss of death for me. Those bastards, I wouldn't be for them if they handed out half dollars on the square. No way. But Gus ... I know Gus ... and I know Gus is more or less good with dogs. So I'm for him.

The fact of the matter is, Gus Grissle lives right up the street from me. On the other side of the Butlers' house. He drives by my place on the way to town or wherever, and he always waves. He's a good man, and if he says he can handle the dogs of our town, I basically believe him. He's more or less good with them.

This is a tough endorsement for one reason, and one reason only. I don't know how many of you have noticed yet, but thanks to some grumbling, I've sworn off politics online completely, that is, under my own name. Facebook and here on the blog. I've found that friends are very high maintenance when it comes to politics, and they're easily disturbed. And I can be very quick with the insults, the put-downs on everything in the putrid Republican universe. Leading some of these idiots -- my friends -- to dislike me. Block me, whatever. So I'm out of politics.

But ... dogcatcher? Surely even my namby pamby touchy-nerved wilting flower friends with their finger poised tremulously against the dislike/block button can't hold it too much against me for coming out for Gus Grissle for dogcatcher. Especially when they realize, this is the one Republican in the whole world I'm willing to endorse. Of course not for a job that is of any great value. It's dogcatcher. How bad could he screw it up? He's more or less good with dogs, I've seen how he is.

The job of dogcatcher came open when Merle Peaver died, and no one really wanted it, and Gus Grissle stepped forward. I'd say he deserves our respect for taking it on, and if he personally asks for my vote, being a neighbor and all, I'm not going to withhold it. People think dogcatcher's an easy job, but it isn't. You're not just chasing dogs till they disappear from sight. You've got them cornered, you're looking at snarling teeth and listening to a low growl. And this isn't your mother-in-law, they can't be tamed with chocolates.

Then there's the whole modern situation with friendly dogs. I know some of the dogcatchers we had back in the good old days. They were basically bag men. If a dog got loose, it was fair game. The law was the law. But that doesn't apply these days. Those guys are out. People baby their dogs now. Dogs are their babies. You try to bag one now and you're looking at being bagged yourself. That's how crazy people are. Don't write in, please, I like dogs. I'm just saying Gus is up against some regulations the old guys never faced.

Anyway ... And have you heard of drug runner dogs? They're trained in anatomy. They're trained to go for the jugular. Drug runners use every dirty trick in the book not to be apprehended. For them, the more feral a dog is, the better. They come through on the interstate. The cops pull one over, the dog goes ballistic and tears the patrolmen apart, then they head for the hills. They literally could come up over that hill right there, just south of here, from the interstate, and take me down. Maybe Gus is thinking of that. He's my first line of defense.

Those are the dogs that are very far removed from our cuddly ones. Or the higher class dogs like at dog shows. Do I think Gus would make a good dog show judge? No. He's more or less good with dogs, like I said, but to have to run his hand over their silky fur, then reach around and feel their bottoms, I can't see him doing that. Fortunately, that's not even in the cards. That's for someone else.

I guess I've probably given enough evidence as to why Gus Grissle would make a great dogcatcher. If you feel like crossing party lines and voting for a Republican, I know he'd appreciate your vote. Your vote, like mine, will be a token of trust in a good man, more or less good with dogs, who I believe can get the job done. Find the dogs, see that they get back to their owners. Or, if they're drug dogs, at the very least run them out of the county, and hopefully catch them and do whatever you do with a feral dog. Nothing good, I'm guessing.

Vote Grissle!

The Slovenly Family

There was a slovenly woman who had a slovenly husband, and they lived in a house that was also slovenly. They had a slovenly dog, upset that there was very little to mess up.

They had three slovenly friends who often dropped by. One spat, one drooled, and one regurgitated.

The family's slovenly dog would carry out his food and drop it in the mess. The slovenly wife saw it all and burped, worth her weight in garbage. The slovenly husband listened to her burp and also managed an emission.

The slovenly husband often thought, "Why are we living like this, so slovenly?" He said to his slovenly wife, "We could do better. We're careful enough to keep our popsicles cold in the fridge, the wrappers could go in the can, not on the floor." But that passed.

The three slovenly friends came over, one spitting and one drooling. All eyes were on the third, who had a sudden look of queasiness. It couldn't be long now, and ... there it is, a recent bite regurgitated. The slovenly dog was happy.

The slovenly wife felt the need to burp and scratch. Being so slovenly, she scratched so much that when she wasn't scratching, she was burping. She dismissed her slovenly husband's question with a shrug, tossing a popsicle wrapper to the floor, burping and scratching as well. Bugs were afraid to land on her.

Their TV was always on, also a slovenly mess. The slovenly dog chewed the remote, so it was stuck on one channel. All its colors were drained, so the flickering picture was forever green. Once a green cartoon was clear, causing one friend to spit with happiness, the second to drool with joy, and the third to lose his lunch.

One day, the slovenly house, having lost its will to remain, collapsed around them. The slovenly family and friends sat in the open air, burping, scratching, spitting, drooling, and regurgitating. The dog ran to the bush and peed. A powerful wind stirred and blew the house clean of popsicle wrappers.

And there the slovenly family sits, to this day, hoping against hope for whatever.