Wednesday, May 24, 2017

Faults in Our Stars; Faults in Ourselves

     Michelle Malkin and friends explode in mockery over Katy Perry (a singer) seeming to suggest "no borders" and "co-existence" as answer to terrorism. "No!" shriek KP fans. "Listen to the whole interview!" I did. She was mostly incoherent about "fanbases" uniting and not being nasty to each other on Twitter-- I think-- but it was in response to a question about the bombing of an Ariana Grande (another singer) concert in England. So, MM was maybe too quick to ridicule, but it wasn't all that far-fetched, given the context and KP's use of heavily-loaded terms like "no borders" and "co-exist." Verdict: both wrong.
     Meanwhile, some are lambasting Ariana (the singer) for failing to dash to the hospital to comfort injured fans while condemning Islamist terrorism. Why does anyone think she would have anything useful to say beyond "This is horrible"? And are patients and their families sitting there asking "Where the heck is Ariana?" And just why, exactly, does anyone look for cogent political, religious or sociological analysis from people who sing and prance around in odd costumes for a living? And why do such people keep trying to give it?
     Mean-meanwhile, others berate Demi Lovato (a singer), who was accused of the sin of "cultural appropriation" for wearing her hair in dreadlocks, only they weren't dreadlocks, but they're still mad at her for failing to thrash herself with sharp barrettes over the very possibility that she might have ever even allowed the notion of dreadlocks to enter her fashionable head, and of course she wouldn't because that would be just intolerable. My head hurts. Maybe my cornrows are too tight. Anyway, a disillusioned fan illustrated what the problem is with all of this. He said Demi's flippant response was rude to "fans that rely on you to provide them an up-lifting attitude to the world." Good grief, lad, she's a performer. Provide your own attitude. 
     I recall really liking the Moody Blues. Eric Clapton. Smokey Robinson, both the Beatles and the Stones (there were militant camps back then). I might have nodded sagely to Buffalo Springfield and "There's somethin' happenin' here; what it is ain't exactly clear..." They could be pretty deep, man. But relying on any of them for anything more than cool music would have been dumb.
     It was also dumb for people to burn piles of Beatle records (those flat, round, vinyl things) after John Lennon said, "We're more popular than Jesus." At the time, I thought I got his point. Teenyboppers were much more likely to scream and proclaim their adoration at Beatle concerts than at church. He wasn’t claiming to be better or more important than Jesus… but he probably shouldn't have said it. And certainly no one should ask. 

Monday, May 15, 2017

No One Escapes the Cone of Shame

     Our yard is full of raised garden beds, trellises, poles and pegs and pineapples, any number of things that might slash the legs of a dog whose only speed is full tilt. When the Incredibly Speedy High-Jumping Shelter Dog got a little gouge on her ankle while chasing her Kong fetching-ball, which bounces like a Super Ball, through the far reaches, I figured I'd better find some place wider-open for our fetch sessions. I started loading dog, youngest grandchild and new Chuck-It ball launcher, a sort of atlatl for the suburban dog-owner whose arm isn't quite up to the distances this dog loves to run, into the trusty Subaru Forester and zipping off to the vast rear of our church property-- wide open, mowed, frequently played upon by school kids. 
     One day, we inadvertently crashed the school's break time, and the child-loving Tiger Lily was a hit with the students. They petted her and took turns throwing her ball. The schoolmarm pronounced her the school mascot. Great fun, until one day...
     I suppose it was a good thing no children were about when she returned from a long fetch with a gash on her leg, a good inch long, and a quarter-inch or so deep. As I moaned, "This isn't supposed to happen! There's nothing out there to cut yourself on!" she went on nudging the ball to induce another throw. Instead, I rinsed the cut with some of her drinking water and loaded up to return home. 
     "What do I do?" I asked assembled family. Husband's family dogs had never bothered with cuts; they just got hit by trucks. Son-in-law, most experienced with dogs said, "It'll be all right; I wouldn't worry about it." (Or, as they say in Wyoming, "Just rub some dirt on it.") Online dog-care sites had advice aplenty about bandaging dog wounds, and ways to keep bandages on in spite of teeth. I tried. Neosporin. Gauze. Butterfly bandages. That rubber tape stuff that sticks to itself and not skin. Finally, Sunday afternoon: Steri-strips, layer of rubber tape, rings of first-aid tape, and several more layers of the rubber stuff. She licked, but didn't chew. Only, by morning, she had somehow shifted the bandage bracelet up her leg and uncovered the hideous gaping wound, which looked for all the world like we'd cut into a rare steak to test for doneness. Where the Steri-strips went, I know not. I called the vet's office. They said to bring her in. 
     "That's quite a gash," said the vet. And here's what he would do: sedate her, clear out the "granulation" in the cut, which had been made worse by her licking, stitch it closed, and put her in a cone. The Cone of Shame. Come back in two hours. 
     I carried her collar and leash to the car. I went to Trader Joe's and bought coffee beans and cookies and mesquite-smoked almonds. I drove around to all the Poke'-stops I could think of. And after the last one, on the straightaway toward home, the heretofore distracted part of my psyche began to shout, "You are a dope. You failed that poor dog utterly. How could you think you could doctor her yourself?" And so on. Back home, I carried the shopping bag in and made ready to head back to the vet's. The hubs tried to comfort me. I had to stop him because it made me cry, as sympathetic reassurance does, and I still had to to retrieve her. 
    














     Back at the office, I told the doc I felt I should be wearing the Cone of Shame. Well, said he, even if you'd brought her in two days earlier, given her, ahem, reluctance to participate in medical procedures-- it took two attendants to hold her still enough to give her the anesthesia-- he might have had to do pretty much the same things anyway. I told him I felt a little less miserable. 



     She's home, with her pain meds and antibiotics, navigating the house with some difficulty. That darn cone. But her stub of a tail is wagging again. She's more reluctant than usual to let me out of her sight, because LOOK WHAT THEY DID WHEN YOU LEFT ME THE LAST TIME. I promise, girl, in future, my mommy instincts will outweigh all other concerns, and if I'd take a child with the same symptoms to the doctor, I'll take you to the doctor. Because, darn it, I love you. 

Friday, March 24, 2017

Sciurus Scurrilous

     My father told the story of enlisted men on an Air Force base who, when they saw a certain officer whom they disliked approaching on the sidewalk, would quickly spread out to eight or so feet apart. The officer had to return the first man's salute, the second man's, the third man's, and so on, until his arm was ready to drop off. I suspect the squirrels of Sand Lake Hills have worked out such a plan for my poor dog. "Chitter, chitter. Here she comes. Places, everyone," they chirrup. 
     Two in every yard, one devious little rodent stations itself at the tree in the right-of-way while the other slithers to the center of the front yard. Tiger Lily spots the first one and snaps into stalking mode. I take a firmer grip on the leash and remind her, "No." That's usually enough to get her past the one in the yard, but the other climbs just a foot or so up the tree and sticks its insouciant little head out at her. Instinct betrays discipline, and she lunges. I yank on the leash and blast "No!" in my most imperious tone. Now, at least, she lunges only once where she used to spin me right around for a second try at the little bleep, which is now six feet above the ground. Tiger Lily is learning. But I think the squirrels are too. Seemed like this routine repeated in every yard for a good (well, bad) half hour. You can almost hear the rodents sneering, "Na na, nanana. You're on a lee-eash."
     
In our back yard, it's a different story. The rats with bushy tails keep their distance. No leash. No reticence. They eat my food plants. My neck is still stiff from this morning's walk. Sic 'em, girl.

Saturday, March 18, 2017

A Snake in the Bucket

     Furious barking from the porch went on so long, youngest son stepped out to investigate. "Oh!" I heard him say. He came back in to report, "There's a snake on the porch. It's in a bucket." Three buckets catch rain water that blows in through the screen during our Florida frog-drownders. The third one, tucked farthest in the corner, contained a youngish black snake, maybe eighteen inches long, thrashing its tail like a turbo metronome and vibrating its tongue at full extension and top speed. Tiger Lily the Amazing Shelter Dog feinted a time or two, barked some more, and looked up at me like "What do we do with this thing?"
     The humans conferred. I grabbed a broom. No, too soft to disable the critter. Hoe? Shovel? Bloody mess on the nice blue tile? No. Something to cover the bucket? Aha. I dashed to the garage and snatched the cardboard tray from a flat of Coke from the recycle bin. Garden gloves caught my eye, and I pulled them on. No time to change out of flipflops to real shoes. Back on the porch, I advanced with the cardboard while the menfolk heroically persuaded Tiger Lily to retreat to the kitchen. The snake struck at the cardboard and flipped itself out of the bucket. Crap. 
     All manliness, the Hubs went for the long-handled grabber-thingie that usually retrieves small items that fall behind the furniture. It has two little suction cups on the end. I swear I did not roll my eyes as he crept toward the snake, made a grab and smacked his arm so hard on the corner of the cement counter that houses our grills, it instantly raised a bluish lump from a no-doubt busted blood vessel. 
Diana the hunter

My brain finally clicked on the specimen net I keep in the foyer closet for just such occasions. Really, every Floridian should have one. I slipped the business end between the bucket and the undulating body perched on the aluminum "curb" that anchors the screen. One scaly loop extended over the ledge, so I worked the net under it and nudged. The snake jumped into the net. With frogs and lizards, I squeeze the top of the net to keep the little blighters in. For a snake... even with gloves, I decided instead to swing the net back and forth to keep it from climbing out. I kept it swinging until I reached the back fence and found the silver lining to its dilapidation. Dumped from the net, the snake scooted under the fence into the domain of the obnoxious little yappy dogs which have been annoying passers-by for years.      
It's hard work keeping my people safe. 
Allowed out again, Tiger Lily jumped and snuffled at the screen door. "I'll get that snake. I will." What the heck, let her try. She rocketed out the door, but didn't make it past the rubber-tire chew toy in the grass. She picked it up and turned toward the door. "Let's play." The Hubs rewarded her vigilance with a nice long session of fetch. I eschewed my fainting couch to fix dinner. (Leftover colcannon with bits of corned beef and a fried egg.) Then, fortified with the last of the shortbread, I composed this account for posterity. 

Thursday, March 9, 2017

No Jeans for You

      Always up on the latest in political correctness, I am woked and stoked about cultural appropriation. Brown girls invented the circle, you know, so no hoop earrings for white women. Or men, I reckon. No choker necklaces, since that appropriates a style from some eastern European place. Certainly no sombreros, corn rows or stir-fry either. (Wait. Can you have a tattoo if you're not Polynesian? This requires more research.) But I rise today to spread the demand that no one who is female of any color or male without being an immigrant to the US from either Bavaria or Latvia may wear jeans without Incurring the Wrath. I'm pretty sure you have to be Jewish too. Because here's the guy who invented jeans back in the 1870s: 


Yessiree, that is Jacob W. Davis, a Jewish tailor who came to the US from Latvia and wound up in San Francisco. With a wife and a bunch of kids. You know, straight. So that's another group out. Anyway, a woman asked him to make some indestructible pants for her lumberman husband. He thought of putting rivets on the stress points of denim trousers. The garment we know as "jeans" was born. They were way popular with men who worked hard outdoors. Gold miners liked them. So maaaaybe that extends their acceptability to some Gentile men, but, still, only ones who work really hard outdoors. 


Mr. Davis bought his denim from Levi Strauss's dry goods store. A partnership was just the thing for marketing the pants and making a pile of money, so he asked Mr. Strauss to share the patent with him. Check out Levi Strauss:        
Oy vey, another Jewish white guy. Oops. I guess I can't say that. Of course, I meant, "Goodness gracious." He came from Bavaria. (I could probably get away with a dirndl, since my forebears are German. There's a Danish great-grandfather in there too, so I can knock myself out at breakfast. I prefer cheese or apricot to prune, thanks.) 
The spirit of the age has spoke, so get woke, all you black, brown, Caucasian, Asian, native and Methodist girls, and men, or however you identify, unless you are white and Jewish, or maaaybe a miner or a logger, unless you want to be yelled at in public by an old white lady, you get out of those jeans. Now. 

Monday, March 6, 2017

The Dogwalker's Dilemma

     "Your dogs are coming through the gaps in your fence and pooping in our yard," I told the owner of the house behind us.
     "Good thing they're not big dogs," he said. I don't think I got my chin back to its normal height for a good hour and a half. Not big dogs?!? THEY ARE POOPING IN OUR YARD. Over the course of years-- years, do you hear me?-- I asked over and over whether he would be replacing the falling-down fence. "I just can't afford it," he said, with a pitiful expression. I even tried telling him he might get in trouble with the code enforcement people for failing to maintain a proper fence around their backyard pool and their three utterly undisciplined, yappy little dogs. "Who's going to tell them?" said he, with pretty close to a wink, like, har har, who cares about the law? 
     The man died a couple of years ago, and his widow and resident grown children have kept up the tradition: it's not their fault. They're not responsible. And how dare we call Animal Control when we find the dogs lounging in our yard, having thoroughly relieved themselves, and they growl and snarl at us. In our own yard. Don't you know our father died? I didn't quite grasp the connection. But they did make a little more effort to block some of the gaps with cooler lids and old garden fencing and a couple of boards. Then one of the little rodents got out of their yard by some other way and slithered under our gate. To poop. To bark at me. I blocked under the gate with bricks. We gained some respite. 
     Then Tiger Lily, our first dog, 50 pounds of muscle packed in a remarkable tiger-striped coat, came to live. She owns the yard, and she finds the obnoxious yappers to be beneath her notice. 
     At the end of a long walk, we came past their house. She pulled resolutely onto the strip between the sidewalk and the street in front of their house and deposited one of the biggest loads of doggie calling card she's ever produced. She'd already gone earlier in the day, and I hadn't thought to bring a bag. My first thought was, "That's my girl." I kicked some leaves and dirt over the pile and headed home. Into a moral dilemma. 
     It served 'em right. She'd scarcely matched the quantity their dogs had left in our very back yard, and it was on the right-of-way, so it wasn't even as bad. Let 'em see how they like it. But, dang it, I'm a Christian. And our pastor has been preaching on the characteristics of love for a couple weeks. Love doesn't take into account a wrong suffered. I could just about feel the Holy Spirit shaking His finger in my head. Do not return evil for evil. Do good to those who persecute you. I told the Hubs my dilemma. "You have to go pick it up," he said. Yeah. It would probably bug me for the rest of my life if I didn't. So I grabbed a bag, sought out the camouflaged pile and carried it back to our outside garbage can. 
     Now I'm a better person. Hahahahahaha. Not really. But I was kind of obedient. And if that's what I expect from the dog, I'd better be like that myself. Woof. 

Sunday, February 26, 2017

Tiger Lily Takes Off

Former blinds on window
next to front door
New pooch Tiger Lily lulled us into thinking she was all right with the crate, but going in on Sunday morning after spending a few hours there the evening before while we went to a wedding was, shall we say, unacceptable. Usually, we run her to a frazzle before incarceration. This dog will fetch until she can't move, or the thrower's arm falls off, whichever comes first. There wasn't time before church. Home again, we tried to enter the house through the door from the garage, but found it bolted. This is not possible. You can't bolt it from the outside. "Huh," said we. "Must have slipped somehow." So we went to the front door. We found the blinds next to the door smashed and her crate overturned and empty. We still had our mouths open when she dashed past us, out the front door and around the corner like the Incredible Flying Shelter Dog shot from a cannon. 

I'm innocent, I tell ya. 

I hustled down to the corner, but saw neither tiger stripe nor stubby tail. Changed into trekking clothes, grabbed her leash and set out on foot while the hubs eased his aching spine back into the driver's seat. Walked, called, peered into yards, inquired of everyone I saw, walked and called some more until a man in a car asked "Are you looking for a dog?" He'd seen the very one running like fury up Sand Lake Road toward the terrifyingly busy Dr. Phillips Blvd. He drove me to the spot where he'd seen her last. Several people had tried to stop her, he said, but she was too fast. And a dog of his had run off last year, so he was glad to help. I hiked up and down side streets, found someone who'd spotted her. "She ran that way, really fast." And another group reported she ran to the end of the street and turned left. By this time, son-in-law, the Dog Imperator, had driven out to join the search. He picked me up, but we lost the trail. Back home, I quickly signed up on a nifty site called Nextdoor, on which neighbors can post all sort of messages, and posted a plea with photos. One man called to say she'd run past his house, but that was early on. Lots of others posted good wishes and promises to keep an eye peeled. Positively heart-warming. Posted a prayer request on Facebook, and lots of lovely friends promised to pray for her and offered "lost dog" hints. I had just printed out some photos and phone numbers when the phone rang. A young man's voice: "I have your dog." He and a young lady were driving on Turkey Lake Rd. near Universal, about three miles away, when they saw this tiger-striped dog in traffic, being honked at and near-missed. They and another man who stopped pulled her to safety, and she hopped happily into his car. They called the number on her rabies tag and got our number. They even drove her home-- and called her sweet. Which she is. When she isn't hellbent on getting out of the house and following us wherever the heck we went. 
What dog teeth may do
to a window-blind slat

She apparently managed to jimmy only the top latch on her crate door open and pushed through that half of the door, tipping the whole crate over in the process. In unknown order, she jumped up on the door to the garage, turning the bolt handle; bit through a thick slat on the dining room blinds, trying to exit the window; ripped off the little blinds next to the front door, and even tried the blinds on the bathroom window, leaving a couple of metal slats bent. And even though getting to us was apparently her goal, when we appeared, she disappeared. 
When I knew she was on the way home, I ran outside to wait and actually cried a little. From happiness. When the dear young things delivered the silly dog, I hugged them both, and the hubs came out to shake their hands. I gave them the best blessing I could think of: "May your dog never stray."