A Brown Dog Democrat

My dog, Dixie…excuse me..Svatchime is rapidly becoming a nuisance. This morning, even before I had coffee, she pounced on me with a political discussion.

“Donald Trump must leave the race”, she solemnly intoned as she executed a very aggressive crotch sniff.

“What?”, I asked.

 “Donald Trump simply must get out of the primary race. He insulted a war hero, and frankly, I am offended” She said as she raised her head a little, and sniffed the air a bit. “I smell bacon”, she added.

“You’re going to jump off the Trump bandwagon because he talked disrespected Senator McCain?” I asked incredulously.

“I have never supported Donald Trump, and what in the hell does Senior McCain have to do with it? Is it the Mexican thing again?” she hissed. Again she sniffed the air, “Someone is cooking bacon.”

I didn’t even know dogs could hiss. “What do you mean you never supported him? If you didn’t like him in the first place, why are you saying that he must drop out? Why do you care?” I asked, somewhat stunned.

“Trump is a money grubbing capitalist real estate mogul. He represents everything that is wrong with this country. He glorifies and personifies greed. He offends me on so many levels. He is a duopolistic liar. He has made millions on dirty little backroom deals with foreign despots all across the world. He is an privileged autocratic monster with absolutely no empathy for the common man. He seems to be politically tone deaf, and has zero in the way of political accomplishments” , Svatchime explained just before she began attending to a urgent personal hygienic matter.

No one can sound quite as smug and condescending as a chocolate Labrador who has recently acquired the gift of speech.

“So, just so I understand….You say Donald Trump is a man you have never supported, and whom you say personifies everything you are against. You say he must withdraw from the primary race because he said something that offended you? Have I got that right?, I asked.

“Yes. Do I smell bacon?”, came the reply.

“So, your position is that any politician with whom you have disagreements should not be running for office”

“Finally, you get it! We simply cannot have a cold, soulless, ego-maniacal power freak running the country.” Svatchime said.

“So”, I asked, “Who are you supporting?”

“Hillary”

Attacked By My Own Dog

I am distraught.

My chocolate lab, Dixie whom we have raised from a pup, came to me this morning and informed me that due to the racist connotations of her name, she will no longer answer to that name, preferring to be addressed as “Svatchime”.

“What?  Why are you offended?  Did someone mistreat you?”  I asked as I scratched her behind her ear.

“Someone told me that I was named after a horrible racist song that glorifies slavery and oppression and that I have always been horribly oppressed my entire life by the man, you bigot”, she growled.

“Who told you that?  Was it Isadore?”, I asked as I offered her a piece of bacon.  Isadore is a mean little terrior/poodle mix who lives behind us.  She doesn’t like me and barks a lot.

Dixie nodded as she devoured the bacon, and paused just for a second to ask "What's a song?"

Of course, I was shocked, and not just because my dog speaking with me, or because she was offended by her own name, but also because of her new name.  “Svatchime” is what conservative radio host Bud Grant used to call Mario Cumuo when he was governor of New York…it’s Greek for “The Impotent one”.

“Do you know what “Svatchime” means?” I asked

“No, but I like it and Isador says that it can mean whatever I want it to mean”, came the reply.

While trying to wrap my brain around all this, I heard a loud ruckus erupt outside the house.  I looked out the window, and small but loud band of feral cats were in the front yard singing ‘Dixie’, and waving dead mice and Confederate flags.

“Who are they?”,  I asked.

“They are your allies, you hateful bigot.  Can I have some more bacon?”, came the reply.

“No more bacon for you.  Why are they here?”

“Isadore invited them”, Dixie replied. “She said that you racists should hang out together.  I really want some more bacon, fascist pig.”

“They are feral cats, you stupid dog, and I’m not a racist!  No bacon for you.” I reminded her.

“You’re a mean spirited, white supremacist racist zionist because you won't give me more bacon, Look at your friends and look what you named me, you race baiting skunk!” said Dixie angerly.

Using my Airsoft rifle, I persuaded each cat to leave.

I knew Dixie was angry, but I was too.  I pointed my Airsoft gun at Dixie and said softly “They are not my friends, Dixie is your name, and …”

“SQUIRREL!”, Dixie screamed as she leaped at the sliding glass door and began to bark madly.

Insanity isn't about a talking to a mad dog.  It's about trying to reason with one.

Yet Another Life Lesson

Sometimes Landi still has to travel for work.  Traveling has never been her favorite work activity, and when she has to travel, my whole world changes.  Not so much in dealing with the kids, the fish (actual fish, not the boy) or the dogs.  That’s pretty much unchanged.  You just feed them and make sure they have water, and you’re good.  I just miss her.  I miss her a lot.

Sometimes when I’m supposed to be working or doing something useful, I just pause and think about her.  I’ll close my eyes and I can almost hear her cussing at her computer because it can’t find data she just put there…RIGHT THERE….WHERE THE HELL IS THE DAMN DATA?????  ….and we’re off.  When she is home, she eventually either finds the data, or we go to lunch at KCs, but when she’s gone I open my eyes to an empty and quiet room.  It's amazing how empty my world is when she's gone.

Other times, I think about how we always end summer days at the pool, with a glass of red wine and our feet cooling in the water, talking and laughing.  Sometimes Dixie, our meth lab,  feels the need to get in the pool which means that we both will get splashed soon.  I think about cooking sausages on the gas grill, or chicken on the Big Green Egg.  If I close my eyes right now and I can almost smell wet dogs and barbeque.

Several years ago, when ‘Chat’ was new, I started to message her on her computer when she was away.    I thought it was so cool how chat would just pop the message up right on the screen over whatever a person was doing.  I started off being careful when I ‘chatted’ to her because I didn’t want to screw up whatever it was she was doing.  Eventually we both got comfortable with ‘chat’ and we’d chat off and on all day while we worked.  It made for a nice workday.  It wasn’t as good as sitting by the pool drinking wine and soaking our feet, but it was nice.  You can be witty and sometimes a little naughty via chat.  It was all good fun.

One time when she was at Honda out in California, I saw that she was on line, and I was feeling witty so rather than starting off with a “Hey Baby!”, or “Knock Knock” like I usually did, I thought I’d be funny and say something semi-naughty.  She had been gone about 3 or 4 days, and I knew she was as tired of being there as I was of having her gone, and I though it would be nice to make her smile before her long flight home.  Suddenly, I had a stroke of inspiration, sweet inspiration!

I quickly typed my greeting while snickering to myself and hit enter to send my greeting. A fraction of a second after I sent my greeting, she disappeared offline without a response.  Silence.  Nothing.  “Hmmmm….wonder what’s up with that?  Guess the her network went down.”, I though and I went back to work on whatever it was I had been doing.  Little did I know that in a conference room at the Honda Motor Company in California, my message had been received.

There are moments of inspiration, and then there are life lessons.  Don't confuse the two.

If your wife is working at a client site, and occasionally does technical presentations on a big screen using her computer in front of 25-30 senior management and technical personnel, never begin a chat session with her using the phrase “I’m naked.  Are you?”

We don’t chat anymore,and I still miss my wife.

Just Another Dad.....for a day

It was ten years ago, and it was hot.  Even for Fall Fair, it was a hot day.  I was cooking ribs on my smoker, and I saw him.  Something made me look up, and I saw him park his Range Rover and get out.  He was in jeans and a t-shirt and he wore a ball cap.  He wasn’t in disguise. I knew who he was the instant I saw him.  He got a worn folding chair from the back of the dusty Range Rover, and walked slowly, nonchalantly across the parking lot to the soccer field.  He didn’t look about.  He didn’t greet anyone.  He didn’t have an entourage.  It was just him, and he didn’t stop for a coke, or a hotdog.  He just went to the soccer field.  Others saw him, too, and they looked briefly so as not to be rude, and then looked away and went back to what they were doing.

It was a good soccer match.  I don’t remember who won.  I took a break from cooking ribs so I could watch the game.  In all, there were probably 75 parents watching.  We cheered and groaned as dictated by the game.  The boys played hard, and then the game was over.

He folded his chair, and waited unnoticed in a small crowd of parents waiting for his son to come over for a post-game greeting.  Other parents milled about some waiting for the same purpose.   The coaches did their post-game commentary, and the players of both teams trotted over to their parents.  By this time, word had spread that he was here, but still he stood alone in a crowd.  His son and a couple of friends came to him.  They spoke, and laughed, and smiled, and then the boys trotted back over to the bench, and he walked slowly across the field to the parking lot.  He put his folding chair in the back of his Range Rover and got in.  He drove away.

Sometimes we forget that even rock stars have kids, and sometimes they need to be just another  ‘dad’.  On this day, Wardlaw’s whole community of baby boomers and aging hippies stood back and let a rock star be just another dad for a day.  The man got to watch his kid play soccer and no one bothered him.  No one asked him for a photo.  No one asked him for an autograph.  No one spoke to him at all.  That was the day Bruce Springsteen came to The Wardlaw Hartridge School, and if only for that day, got to be just another dad watching his kid play soccer.

Life is Better at the Sea

After being on Perdido Key for a week, enough time has passed for me to become acclimated to the sun, and the sand, the sounds of the sea, and plaintive calls of the sea birds.  The water is warm here, and the people are nice.  The sky is blue, and the breeze off the gulf carries your troubles away.  Perdido Key is indeed a paradise.  As I look across the water of the gulf, the light from the sun hurts my eyes.  I think back to other visits to the gulf, and to the wonderful times we’ve had here.

In early March, the water is warmer here than it has ever been on the Jersey Shore.  That particular thought drags me away.  The Jersey shore is the Jersey Shore.  Some friends of ours found a corner of sanity down at the shore a few years ago.  A place that was as lazy and laid back as the gulf coast.  Landi and Darlene went bar hopping on bicycles once.  Our friends bought a condo on the mainland side of the bay, and it was feet off the water.  You could sit on the front porch and watch the water much like we do here on Perdido Key.

We were visiting once, a couple of years ago down at their condo.  It was a perfect day.  The sky was as blue as it could possibly be.  The sun was bright and warm.  The beach, conviently located maybe 50 feet from their condo, wasn’t crowded or loud.   Joanie and Darlene at some time in the recent past, had made a very wise investment in a Jimmy Buffet Margarita Maker.   We didn’t make margaritas, but we made a hell of a lot of Daiquiris. 

At some point, someone’s cousins’ niece showed up with a friend.  The niece was in her early 20s, as way her friend.  They both worked for a delivery company so they got a lot of exercise every day, and thanks to their string bikinis, it showed.  I was ever so thankful for my sunglasses. 

The nieces enjoyed the daiquiris and the beach.   In all, there were about 7 of us enjoying the beach, and the sun, and the water.  The niece and friend applied suntan lotion to each other, which caused Catfish to stop breathing.

After some time in the sun, one of the nieces decided it was hot, and the two of them dashed down the pier and leaped off the end into the ‘refreshing’ water.  We could hear them squeal, as could everyone else for a mile or two around.  “The water must be really cold out there.”, I thought. 

The nieces both swam quickly back to the beach.  I watched them.  They seemed to be racing.  This is going to be interesting, I thought to myself.    They neared the beach, and began to run through the water.  I was frozen in time.  It was almost like the scene from ‘10’.  I felt dizzy, but thanks to my sunglasses, my gaze never broke from the two shapely young women in string bikinis racing toward me through the serf.  I love the shore.

When at last they reached us,  we learned that when they jumped off the end of the pier, they had actually jumped into a mass of jelly fish, and they had been very badly, and very painfully stung all over their bodies.  You could see the marks where they had been hit.  Read whelps were raising everywhere.  The girls sprinted to the condo and began spraying each other with cold water from the garden hose, and rubbing the affected areas very vigoursly.  Catfish was transfixed. 

As part of your training when you become a Scuba Diving Instructor, you are taught how to deal with injuries common to an aquatic environment, among these, jelly fish stings.  Jelly fish stings are very painful.  When you are stung, tiny pod of ‘toxin’ are stuck to your skin.  First Aid consists of dousing the area with a mild acid, or ammonia, and rinsing with warm salt water, never fresh water.  Fresh water will cause the ‘pod’s to ‘fire’ again, depositing more painful toxin into the victim.

I went to my car, and got the large bottle of vinegar from my first aid kit.

I approached the screaming girls.  I told them I could help relieve the pain, but they would need to do exactly as I instructed them.  Both eagerly agreed.

I explained that to ease the pain, we needed to slowly pour the vinegar on each of them, and that they should smear it around to ensure that all areas were heavily coated with vinegar.    I took the top off of the vinegar, and began slowly pouring it on the chests and shoulders of the nieces.  All sense of modesty was lost as they assisted  each other in smearing the vinegar everywhere.  EVERYWHERE.  At this point, Catfish had not blinked in close to five minutes, and I’m pretty sure I hadn’t taken a breath in close to eight minutes.

As the last of the vinegar was expended, and the girls were much relieved from their pain, I finally breathed again.  I looked at the small crowd that had gathered to watch the spectacle.  A big, biker looking guy smiled at me.  He glanced at the girls, and looked back at me.

“Some people would pay good money to do that.”, he said, and he turned and walked away.

Aunt Dorthey and the Wedding

Just last month, my nephew married a wonderful young lady in an incredible ceremony in my hometown, Jonesboro, Arkansas.  Despite a raging thunderstorm during the rehearsal dinner, the whole weekend went off like clockwork.  It was incredible.  On our flight back to New Jersey, I had time to think about the wedding, and about the impending wedding of my daughter.  I anticipate all sorts of madness, as Jordan’s wedding will be in New Orleans.  A couple of years ago, one of my nieces had a wedding in New Orleans and it was a fantastic event.  As the jet flew me home to Jersey, I looked down on the passing countryside, and slowly, another wedding came to mind.

Roughly 10 years ago another niece, Ashley, held her wedding on a sweltering evening in mid-August. Everyone thinks they know hot.  Everyone thinks they know humid.  If you haven’t spent an August in Jonesboro, Arkansas you know neither hot nor humid.  In August, if the air moves at all, you feel more like a dog panting on you than anything else.  The warm and oh-so-humid dog breath breeze does more than make you uncomfortable.  It makes you miserable because it usually is just enough breeze to bring airborne visitors from the rice fields south of Jonesboro into Jonesboro.  At the last puff of a  breeze, mosquitoes the size of sparrows swarm like flying vampire biker gangs and immediately begin sucking blood, bone marrow and the very life force from those unfortunate enough to get caught in either darkness or shade.  Home sweet home.  

On the day of the wedding, my wife and I were supposed to make sure Mom was at the Church on time.  That was our mission.  Get mom, and get her to the church with time to spare because Momma’s not happy when Momma has to hurry.  Mom likes to take her time getting ready, and so Landi and I enjoyed a couple of cocktails while mom finished getting ready.  Landi was as beautiful as she has ever been with every hair in it’s place, and perfect makeup.  I was wearing my freshly pressed suit.  I had my crisply starched, white shirt with the French cuffs sporting my gold Ole Miss cuff-links.  My freshly cut hair was neatly combed.  We were a sharp looking couple.  Ten minutes before we were going to leave for the church, and a full 25 minutes before the wedding, the phone rang.  It was my sister.  

“You’ve got Aunt Dorthy?”, she asked.

“No”, I replied.  “Am I supposed to?” I asked.

“Mother was supposed to get Aunt Dorthy from the nursing home.”, came the response. 

“Shit….Ok, no sweat.  I’ll take care of it.”, I assured her, and I hung up.  I told Mom that we had to get Aunt Dorthy.  After a brief discussion, it was decided that Mom would drive herself to the ceremony, and that Landi and I would go get Aunt Dorthy from the nursing home and take her to the wedding. We fixed fresh cocktails, and headed out.  It was a ten minute drive to the Nursing Home.   On the way there,  I explained to Landi just how big a role Aunt Dorthy had played in our family for so many years.  First, I explained that Aunt Dorthy wasn’t really an aunt, but that’s what dad had always called her.  She had worked for Mom, and later for my sister, for many years.  She had a big part in raising all of my sister’s kids.  I hadn’t seen Aunt Dorthy in some years.  It crossed my mind as we sped through Jonesboro streets to the Nursing Home, that this might be a very fortuitious event because we’d get to spend some time with Aunt Dorthy.  We pulled up in the parking lot of the Nursing Home and I walked quickly in to get Aunt Dorthy out.  I had parked as close as I could to the door so she wouldn’t have to walk far.

Having not seen Aunt Dorthy in several years, I was somewhat unprepared to see her.  She was dressed to the nines.  Her hair was perfect, as was her makeup.  Sitting there in her wheel chair, she was absolutely glowing.  ….In her wheel chair…..

An orderly helped me wheel Aunt Dorthy out to the Van.  In the late afternoon heat, I was already starting to sweat.  At the Van, the orderly, citing some rule, decided he could help no more, and retreated into the Nursing Home.  Landi and I set about getting Aunt Dorthy into the Van.  The Van, I should mention, was fairly high.  It had a running board the everyone stepped on to climb up into the van.  It’s not too difficult….unless you weigh 400 lbs and have two artificial knees. 

Aunt Dorthy slowly and painfully stood up.  The wheel chair started to roll away, and I reached to grab it incase Aunt Dorthy needed to sit again, and as I stretched to grab it, I heard the tearing of fabric and felt the shoulder of my suit jacket..give..a little.  Damn…but I caught the chair, which was a good thing, because, with a pained groan, Aunt Dorthy sat back down.  We locked the wheels of the wheel chair, and tried again.  Slowly and wobbly, Aunt Dorthy stood.  With her right hand, she grasped the handle at the top of the sliding door of the van.  She was making a 100% effort, and it was painful, but she was going to make it!   Then, she started to fade.  All sense of modesty lost, I shifted my position so that I could get my shoulder under her butt.  I squatted down, and again, I heard the tearing of fabric, and felt a new looseness in my pants.  I get my shoulder under her and lifted as hard as I could, but made little progress until I reached with my left hand to grab the frame of the captains chair we were trying to get her in.  Again, the sound of tearing fabric and a new freedom in my left shoulder told me I had torn out that sleeve too, but not for nothing, Aunt Dorthey was sitting peacefully in the captain's chair in the van.

I looked at Landi.  Sweat was running down both her cheeks.  Her beautiful dress was marked with sweat and wrinkled beyond belief.  Her hair was…interesting.  I was covered in sweat.  I could feel my shirt sticking to my chest and I had torn the shoulder out of both of the arms of my suit, and split the seat of my pants but in the rear view mirror I could see Aunt Dorthy smiling in the back seat.  I looked at Landi, and she looked at me, we laughed a little and with the air conditioner going full blast, we headed to the wedding.

At the church, I stopped the var right at the handicap entrance.  I would pay the ticket if I got one, but I wanted Aunt Dorthy as close to the door as possible.  Getting Aunt Dorthy out of the van was much less trouble than getting her in.  With Aunt Dorthy safely in her wheel chair, Landi and I began trying to navigate to the sanctuary of the church.  The signs directed us to an elevator.  Emerging from the elevator, we saw a door marked ‘Sanctuary’.  Landi pulled the door open, and I pushed Aunt Dorthy through the door…..into the sanctuary…..the front of the sanctuary…..behind the wedding party…..during the ceremony.  As inconspicuously and quickly as possible, I wheeled Aunt Dorthy off the stage.  With the ceremony in full swing, all eyes were on us as we slipped down the groaning handicap ramp and into the handicap space.   I could feel my sister’s gaze burning my skin.  Landi sat down beside me.  We were watched the rest of the ceremony and marshaled our strength.

After the ceremony, I asked Mom if she would ride to the reception with Landi in the van so I could put Aunt Dorthy in her Lincoln, and Mom was agreeable, so that’s what we did.  Hoping to beat the crowd, Aunt Dorthy and I went directly to my sister’s house.  I hoped that I’d be able to get a close parking place,but that plan didn’t work out so well.  Cars were backed up all the way down the driveway, so I drove past the house, and parked a couple of blocks away.  I helped Aunt Dorthy out of the car and into her wheel chair and began slowly pushing a 400lb lady back up the road in the smothering heat of a mid-August evening wearing the remnants of what once was a fine suit.  The last leg of the journey was up the hill of the driveway.  I had to really lean into it to get her up the hill because the leather soles of my shoes slipped easily on the polished concrete driveway.    I was sweating like mad.  My shirt was completely stuck to my back, and as the sweat ran down my face, and into my eyes, blinding me, I had to dodge a couple of cars that came flying down the drive, apparently driven by the ‘valet’ parking guys.  Valet parking? 

Finally, we entered the reception.  Aunt Dorthy was in her prime.  She knew everyone there, and probably for the first time in her life, she held court.  Everyone had to visit Aunt Dorthy!  She knew everyone because she had watched them all grow up.  While she was visiting with someone, she mentioned to me that she was a little hungry.  Landi  got her a fresh glass of wine, and I went into the dining room to fix her a plate from the buffet.  My sister’s dining room table is huge.  It will comfortably set 25 people.  On this massive table the caterer had done a magnificent job presenting an absolute abundance of wonderful food.  It was incredible.  As I surveyed the beautiful scene, in the corner of my eye, I noticed someone bump a tall cabinet.  The tall candle wobbled back and forth a couple of time, finally teetering just a smidgeon too far and falling only to come to rest against the antique tapestry hanging on the wall.  I shouted to the person beside the cabinet, but in the low rumble of the crowd they didn’t hear me.  I moved close, but the crowd, all waiting to get to the food, was slow to part.  “That’s on fire!”, I said as I pointed excitedly and pushed my way through.  I was almost there, when with a muffled ‘whoomp’, the tapestry burst into flames.  It was a real fire, with flames a foot tall.  The room went oddly quiet, and someone said “Hey…that’s on fire!”,  and now the crowd parted for me.  I jumped up on top of the cabinet, and began pounding the flames trying to knock the fire down.  ‘Get me a towel’, I shouted…and someone handed me a paper napkin.  “I need water!!”, I shouted, to which a second someone observed “Hey…that’s on fire.”  Still, no one moved.  No one put a plate down.  I was pounding the fire with paper napkins, and a plastic cup sparks and smoke were filling the room.  “Get me some water!”, I shouted to which no one moved.  Finally, the chef ran out of the kitchen with a wet towel, and we got the fire out leaving a huge hole burned in the tapestry, and an ominous black smudge on the wall, with those creeps smoke stains going up to the ceiling.

I climbed down off the cabinet and fixed Aunt Dorthy a plate all the while listening to the murmured comments about the fire.  I took Aunt Dorthy’s plate to her.  She was still holding court and having the time of her life.  Landi looked at me with horror….and that ‘What the hell happened to you?’ look in her eyes.

I went to the bar. 

The bar tender was facing away when I approached.  He turned and looked at me.  Startled, he recovered and  slowly he took in the whole state of my disrepair.  My coat had both the shoulders torn out and the front pocket was torn half off.  My shirt tail was out, and my face was covered in black soot.  Sweat had run down my face drawing clear lines in the soot, and my shirt was stuck to me.  My tie and one eyebrow were severely singed, and my hair was probably still smoking some.  He sniffed the air, obviously taking in the aroma of burnt hair, sweat and wet plaster.

 
The bartender smiled, reached for the bourbon, and said “You must be Uncle Bill.  They warned me about you."