Sunday, May 30, 2004
Sunday Morning
Ozzie and the cats seem to have reached an impasse. If I could get the cats in the same room with Ozz, pet the cats, show affection, and demonstrate to Ozz that they're part of the family, then the process of acceptance might begin. But the cats have been hiding since Ozz got here.
Boots, the bravest of the felines, appears furtive and afraid, slinking around the edges of the walls when she sneaks in the room to look at Ozzie. Then Ozzie sees her and takes off chasing Boots as if she were a rat or other unwanted visiting pest. I guess Ozz figures he's doing the house a service...
Ozzie himself is doing great. He's gaining weight and is past his diarrhea. He plays with his chew-toy by himself, and is much less insecure and demanding now, often content to nap or look out the window to pass the time. His humping problem is just about history, and today he put his front paws across my legs and rested his head on my lap without a hint of the ol' mounting urge.
Ozzie's muscley shoulders and neck taper like a 'V' down to his snout, so he can slip any collar at will. He really needs a harness so he can be left outside on a chain without fear of him getting bored, running off and playing in traffic.
He decided to snack on an old overstuffed chair this morning, tearing a chunk out of the cushion with his powerful jaws before I noticed what he was up to. But luckily, a cheap water spray bottle is the absolute bain of Ozzie's existence. One squirt in the face will dissuade him from any unwanted behavior, usually permanently, since he seems to have quite a good memory.
Having been through some starvation in his childhood, Ozzie LOVES food. Therefore I've avoided giving him human food, which would quickly turn him into an incurable, persistent table scrap beggar.
It's looking more and more as if I won't be able to keep Ozz, but I'm taking notes like this on his behavior, so his (hopefully!) next owner will be well-informed.
I'm meeting some great people in the local animal rescue networks, too. One of them has over 200 cats out on some farmland. We're talking about getting her a website set up for adoption, possibly maintained by me and created by myself and one of my friends.
Anything I can do to help these folks gives me an immense feeling of satisfaction and fullfillment. I've realized I need to volunteer my time to do work that really matters. Nothing feels right until I do.
~
5/30/2004 11:49:00 AM
Saturday, May 29, 2004
More on the OzzPup
Ozzie seems to sense I can't keep him, so he kicked my ass off the computer and made his own 'blog. Check him out. You might fall in love and take him home with you:
The OzzBlog!
~
5/29/2004 10:12:00 PM
Ozzie Update
The monstrous canine visitor known for some reason as "Ozzie" has settled down a bit. Maybe his hormones are diminishing somewhat. Maybe he's over the initial excitement of entering the house. Maybe he's ever-so-slightly tired by the two "walks" we've taken, which of course have left me with burning, stinging lungs and aching hamstrings. And here I thought I was in good shape.
The cats, however, are still living in exile. Widget has snuck up to my room, so at least he's out of the basement, but now he's sitting on my bed staring constantly and anxiously at the stairs, as if at any moment the giant furry ogre might bound up to eat him.
"Fee fi fo fum, I smell the blood of a Widget cat!"
That's exactly what's going through Widge's mind. Poor kid. Ozzie's the troll and now Widget reckons he's on the bridge.
I can't help but wonder where they got the name "Ozzie," though. If anyone asks, I'm saying it's short for "Ozymandias."
I've never been an Ozzie Osbourne fan. I guess I never got over him biting the head off that live bat in a drug-induced concert publicity stunt. Cruelty to animals, don'tcha know. Somewhere in Karma Land a giant flying mammal waits to bite Ozzie's head off. Or at least I hope that's been the theme of several bad acid trips for ol' Black Sabbath Ozzie.
If you're going to name an animal after a rock star, you really need to dig deeper for cool. My old friend Johhny named his dog "Henry," a huge pup who reminds me of Ozzie, way back in the day of the punk band Black Flag. There was a connection there, too, as Johhny was bartending at a little punk dive-bar called JB's when Black Flag played there way back when. Johhny was even in the middle of the biker/punk/band brawl that spilled out into the street after the show, which was later mentioned in the memoirs of one former Black Flag frontman Mister Henry Rollins.
Henry the pooch and Johnny, walking through the streets of Kent every day, back in the day. Back in the day of Johhny's band Starvation Army, too, the source of the "SA" graffiti left by fans all over Akron and Kent and even Cleveland. Most of their fans were serious punks and bikers. The band didn't like the skinhead punks much, though, so the band made a regular ritual of kicking the punks down when they jumped out of the audience mosh and onto the stage, sometimes even bashing them away with the butts of their guitars. It was all good fun, especially in the kind of bars SA played.
I'm not sure why Starvation Army finally faded away, but they did. Personality conflicts, I suppose. I know they had a hard time finding and keeping drummers. Not that they weren't tolerant; they kept one drummer for weeks as he slowly sold his drumkit, piece by piece, to pay for his heroin addiction. When he finally had nothing left but a cymbal and a snare, they kicked him out. You can't say they didn't try.
I mostly knew Johnny after the days of Starvation Army, when he and I were both living in Kent, me with my beloved crazed feral cat Beggar and Johnny with his big best pal Henry. Johnny would come into the coffeeshop I worked in every day, and eventually I decided he was my friend and deserved free java by rights of being one of the coolest and nicest people I've ever known.
So Johnny would come in around 1:00 or two after walking Henry, then he'd get coffeed up while I finished my shift, then we'd hang out and talk with the regulars, sitting around reading the comics and doing the crossword with the bizarre and wonderful variety of misfits who lived in that coffeeshop.
Sometimes we'd walk over to the burrito shop below a local bar, especially if it were $3 Large Pizza Day. We'd order a massive burrito and a pizza apiece, coat them both thick with fiery orange hot sauce, then laugh as we sweated and our scalps caught fire and our eyes watered. Then it was upstairs to the bar for a slice of peanut butter pie, washed down with pitchers of Guinness. Sometimes we didn't bother with glasses, we just drank straight from the pitchers, one pitcher apiece. Then we'd stagger home happily in the summer sun, presumably to pass out, full and buzzed and contented, for an afternoon nap. I know that's what I usually did.
*sigh*
Back in the day, you know?
Good coffee and Guinness and pizza and Mexican. And chocolate. Who needed drugs? Happy times.
For a while, though, Johnny was diagnosed with Meniere's Disease. He'd be walking Henry and suddenly his inner ear gyroscope would fail, causing the sidewalk to fly up and smack Johnny in the face. The doctor told Johnny he had to give up salty foods, caffeine and alcohol:
Good coffee and Guinness and pizza and Mexican. And chocolate.
Johnny was nearly suicidal. Luckily he had a girlfriend at the time, but with his luck he was sure the next thing his doc would prohibit was sex. At that point I don't think I could have kept Johnny away from the nearest cliff.
But the Meniere's subsided, and Johnny eventually went back to consuming all good things in moderation.
I haven't seen Johnny in ages, since we both moved out of Kent. We did a little reunion thing a while back, trying to form a band for fun, but that resulted in conflict when the guitar player I had already been playing with insisted on coming to a session with Johnny.
Only one lead guitar in the room at a time: This is a wise rule of thumb, and I'll remember it in the future.
It was my fault for letting Guitar Player B show up without telling Johnny, just like it was my fault ages ago when one of Johnny's girlfriends tricked it out of me that he had dated someone else when she was being a bitch to him. I still feel bad about that.
Friendship, eh? There are always regrets.
But when I think of him now, I think of Johnny and Henry walking down the street, and Johnny's big friendly idiot grin, so much like my own, as he saw me and waved. I'm sure Henry is gone by now, and I shudder to think of Johnny's loss.
But wherever Johnny is today, I hope he's doing well.
Johnny, man, you and Henry were the best. You kicked ass, and every time I think of you, I wish you the world. I was privileged to be your friend
~
5/29/2004 01:20:00 PM
Friday, May 28, 2004
The Doggie Soap Opera Continues
Is this boring? Please tell me if it is. It seems humorous to me, but then again I was the one saying "NO!" to a sex-crazed, monstrous, muscley doberman while he tried to hump my leg (and back and front and arms and butt) for 20 minutes straight at a time, several times, last night. Considering I'm the one being humped, theoretically you should find this much more funny than I do.
I went out to meet Ozzie last night, not quite realizing I was supposed to be taking him home as well. He's twice the size that he looks in his photos, although he probably seems much taller when he's standing on his hind legs thrusting his pelvis at my thigh.
His foster Mom Laurie seemed pretty happy to be rid of him. He was just neutered two days ago so his hormones should subside soon... but right now he's in passionate lust with anything alive. Laurie has the sweetest tiny little pup that puts up with Ozzie's amorous advances as if it's all just funtime. Whotta great pooch, rolling and rollicking playfully and amiably while Ozzie tries desperately to rub himself on her back or leg or face.
I guess I could have guessed how bad Ozzie was, judging by his behavior with the puppy, and also from the comment Laurie made: "I sure hope he likes you less than he likes me..."
But I'm an idiot, so I loaded Ozzie into my car and laughed as he slobbered all over me. Hey, I thought, I slobber sometimes too, when I'm asleep at night. And if I had a quarter less brains, I might have a humping problem myself. Who knows? Wouldn't we all?
My cats are terrified again, despite the fact that Ozzie is harmless and friendly (if a little too friendly.) I think the previous Tucker incident (dog sees cat, thinks "lunch", bares fangs and shoots after cat like greased lightning; rinse lather repeat...) has them in a state of fear over any canine that is moderately large, or maybe they are now afraid of any dog that is not their dear departed Sheena.
In any case, Widget has been in hiding since Ozzie came inside. And Widget is usually very friendly to dogs. My aunt's neurotic Pomeranian, Pepper, who sees any other animal as competition and refuses to get along, visits often. Widget begged Pepper to be friends at first, following him and whining and looking dejected, rejected and hurt, but all Pepper the Pomeranian ever did was growl and bark.
But Widget knows, or used to know, bark from bite, and so Widget quickly recovered his dignity and decided to heckle the seemingly snobby Pepper as revenge. Now, when Pepper visits, Widget sneaks around the house, creeping up on Pepper and swatting or taunting him. Widget just downright likes to be liked or else he holds a grudge...
But now poor Widge is cowering upstairs or in the basement. Despite all his sinewy pantherish bulk and his occasional bullying of the other cats he is, at heart, a big baby.
I don't know. I need to give Ozzie a chance. AND a bath, ASAP. Phew! Man, did I stink last night after playing with that pooch. I had to keep Oz in his cage last night, and I'm a softy so it broke my heart. Ozzie settled down just fine and slept well, but at first he scratched and whined, causing me to go into an empathetic depression and plug my ears with tissue before going to bed.
It's amazing what a complex social unit, what an intense, sensitive family, a group of pets can be. Any change in the roster of characters is like dropping ten tons of cargo on a tugboat that is already on rough seas.
We'll have to see what happens. I'm not giving up too quickly. I've been feeding the malnourished Oz plenty of good food, and last night I took him for a run, probably the first real jaunt he's had. A simple trot for Ozzie keeps me at a run, and the slightest beginning of a greyhound-like gallop, no matter how slow on his part, puts me at a dire sprint. I swear he looked back at me piteously a few times as I struggled to keep up. "Um, are you sick or something, Shane? 'Cuz I'm barely moving..."
We'll see. I'm doing my best, but the cats come first. And my Mom is going to have a heckuva time feeding and taking Oz out to do his business while I'm at work. Mom is tough but, like my grandmother, she has thin skin that bruises and tears at a touch. I'll feel awful if I can't give Oz a home, I'll kick myself as a total idiot, but I have to remember I already give a home and plenty of attention to four cats. I think that's well above the national average, heh.
I feel really bad. I'm an idiot. Why are things so complicated? I was spoiled with Sheena, whom the cats trusted completely, and who only chased Widget when Widget chased the shy, sweet, tiny little Buffy (which served Widge right!) Buffy loved Sheena, her big protector. When Buffy stares at something I can't see, I'd imagine that's just Sheena visiting to say hello. It certainly feels that way.
Wish me luck.
~
5/28/2004 12:25:00 PM
Wednesday, May 26, 2004
DOGS-n-CATS-n-CATS-n-DOGS!
(Oh my.)
I adopted a dog a while back, Tucker, who had a problem with my cats. She wanted to eat them.
It wasn't that she didn't like them, it was more that she liked them like lunch.
That's probably not true. She was actually just a sweet, affectionate, wonderful pup, albeit with intense hunting instincts. If she had cornered one of those cats, I'm not convinced she would have know what to do with it, other than growl and bare her fangs till the cat's hair stood on end as if from electric shock.
Still, it all amounted to a bad situation: my cats were hiding terrified upstairs, slinking down only at night to reclaim the house.
I had to return Tucker to the shelter. There was just nothing else to do.
The cats came downstairs right away and stretched out on the furniture, luxuriating and lolling in the space that belonged to them again. They knew immediately that the house was theirs once more.
Of course, by the time I returned the dog, we had already grown close. I'm not sure there is any bonding period between myself and animals, I think the bond is just already there. Maybe the same is true for what few people I count as my friends and kindred spirits. In any case, I missed that pup as soon as she was gone.
Like most animals, she was special. When I first brought her home, we played for a while on the floor, then she jumped up on the couch for a rest. She was at home in the house as soon as she stepped in. And as she napped on the couch, I suddenly felt overwhelmingly sad. Romping with her had reminded me of the physical absence of every pet I'd ever lost. Spirits are never truly gone, but suddenly I felt their missing physical presences, and I was very sad.
But as soon as I felt this, that pooch on the couch looked up, jumped down, and rolled all over me, licking my face.
Animals know.
I'm reminded by this of so many other animals. Sheena, who just recently passed away. And my first dog, Heidi, who positively doted on my Mom when my grandfather died. You never get over your first childhood dog.
Then there was Foxy, who looked like a yellow fox, who would shake and cry with joy when I got home from work. A simple hello bark was never quite enough for her. I'd hug her and make whining, crying noises back, just to let her know. If I came home with a bruise under my shirt, Foxy would lick it immediately. She couldn't see it, and there was no blood for her to smell . . . but she always knew where I hurt.
I always wished Foxy could have known a dog I knew in Arkansas, another of the smartest, most special dogs I've ever known. I've never known his name, although he had plenty of nicknames from the people who regularly fed him. He was a mutt, but part Collie from the look of him. He lived at a campsite/retreat owned by a group of people. I visited there for about a month, during which time that pooch was my best friend. We'd go for walk-jogs late at night, and he would occasionally leave me to bound like a deer up and over the waist-high brush surrounding the dirt road. He'd romp in the woods for a few minutes, then bound suddenly back onto the road right beside me to rejoin our walk.
One night I was walking back to camp and the dog was lagging behind me, probably distracted by the noise of a deer in the trees or something else his ears picked up but mine could not. I passed someone walking the other way who said hello and asked me if the dog was with me. I joked, "Yes, but he's tired and he can't keep up with me." The absolute second I said that, that dog took off running at full gallop ahead of me, and I ran desperately to catch up while the person watching laughed hysterically.
Dogs know, and that one wasn't putting up with any insults to its abilities.
The same dog used to regularly approach the campsite cats, who submitted gratefully as he turned them on their backs and bit the ticks off their stomachs.
He was just one hell of a dog.
Aren't they all?
Who knows what animal eyes truly see? I'm convinced they see things that human eyes cannot, in ways that we humans will never understand. Their experience of life is much more intense and connected than ours will ever be.
I probably shouldn't have felt so bad about returning Tucker to the shelter. The shelters are reporting fast turnaround rates lately in my area, and Tucker was sure to make bright soft eyes at some good person and end up in a fine home in no time. And she seemed to understand, too, that her stay with me was temporary. Once it became apparent that she would not tolerate my cats, I became a little more distanced, and I could tell Tucker sensed this. She knew then that the house was a weekend spa retreat, not a permanent home. She was in fine sprits when I took her back to the shelter, happily grabbing a doggy snack from a shelf when we walked in, greeting her handler with licks and jumps.
She had a nice vacation with me, a good long walk and a few table scraps. I was the one who ended up sad when she was gone.
But now it's time to try again. The County Shelter put me in touch with an incredible local network of caring people, Dogs Hope, who foster dogs until permanent homes can be found. They know the dogs well and have tested them with cats and other dogs and small children.
Ozzie and I are due to meet later this week. He's had a tough life so far. He's part doberman, and some idiot clipped his ears and tail so he'd look more dobe. It didn't work. Then he seems to have been homeless and severely malnourished for a time. He's doing well, but he's still not even up to his full healthy weight.
I'm looking forward to meeting him. They tell me he likes cats (but not like lunch.) I could be wrong, but I imagine he'll know right away that he's headed for a good home with plenty of jogs through the neighborhood.
My cat Widget was like that when I adopted him from the Cleveland APL shelter. As soon as he saw me he started whining and scratching at the cage, and I immediately filled out the paperwork. Widget clung to my shoulder as I carried him to the car. He was sickly and underweight and his hair stuck up every-which-way like a soaken-wet rat, and it turned out he was probably younger than the shelter thought and could not even handle solid food. He had diahrrea regularly until I started him on KMR, kitty milk replacement formula, which he consumed in amazing quantities until he was healthy and well.
Now he's like a little panther, huge and full of mischief, but, like a big baby, he still insists on being picked up and held and carried, after which he climbs up on my shoulder or back, just like the day I carried him away from the shelter on my shoulder to the car.
He never forgets, and he loves to remind me. He knows.
Ozzie, meet Widget. Maybe, while soaking up the sun on the couch by the window, you can trade stories of rough childhoods spent abandoned on the streets. I hope you fast become friends.
~
5/26/2004 11:58:00 AM
Monday, May 24, 2004
Green Glass
5/24/2004 08:35:00 PM
Sunday, May 23, 2004
Big Hollywood Asses, Unibrows, and "Vin-D"
I can't help it. We all have our own mental short-hand, and mine thinks of Jennifer Lopez as "Big Ass Woman." I do not feel guilty about this in the way that I feel guilty when I think of Frida Kahlo as "Unibrow Woman." I mean, that unibrow suited the talented Frida, I give her props for not shaving it, and it looked even better when Salma Hayek portrayed her:
But (butt?), back to J-Lo. It's a cheap shot, me making fun of the famous. But this persistent thought keeps entering my head, that one day J-Lo will complain because she's not taken seriously enough as an actress. At which point I will scream, "THAT'S BECAUSE YOU HAD YOUR BACK TURNED TO THE CAMERA IN EVERY PHOTO YOU EVER TOOK!"
Damn, J-Lo, it's not like you advertised acting chops as your biggest asset (pun intended on both "biggest" and "asset.")
But, someday she WILL complain about not being taken seriously. Mark my words.
I'll admit the lyrics to "Jenny From The Block" irk me a little too:
We off the block this yearLet me get this straight, she's bragging about her diamonds and loot and insisting she's still a common, down-to-earth Bronx person in the same line? Argh. What the hell. I hear she doesn't even speak Spanish as well as Salma, anyway.
Went from a little to a lot this year
Everybody mad at the rocks that I wear
I know where I'm goin' and I know where I'm from
You hear LOX in your ear
Yea, we're at the airport out decline from the block
Where everybody air-forced-out
With a new white Tee, you fresh
Nothin' phony with us, make the money, get the mansion, bring the homies with us
Don't be fooled by the rocks that I got
I'm still, I'm still Jenny from the block
Used to have a little, now I have a lot
No matter where I go, I know where I came from (from the Bronx!)
Don't be fooled by the rocks that I got
I'm still, I'm still Jenny from the block
Used to have a little, now I have a lot
No matter where I go, I know where I came from (from the Bronx!)
But this whole not-taken-seriously-as-an-actor thing is probably even more sad when applied to Vin Diesel:
... who actually strives to be a serious actor and has some ability. Vin, Hollywood has you slated as the next muscle-bound-muscle-mound action hero, the next Stallone or Schwarzenegger. This is all they want from you. Your choice of flicks (um, Fast and the Furious?), your bodybuilding obsession, your macho gravelly voice, and the fact that you named yourself after a carcinogenic and highly polluting truck fuel are not helping matters.
Keep this up, Vin, and in ten years your roles as Chris in Boiler Room and Private Adrian Caparzo in Saving Private Ryan and even your great voice work as the animated The Iron Giant will be forgotten.
Wanna be a serious actor, Vin? When Hollywood starts referring to you as "Vin-D" and offers you the lead in the Son of Rambo trilogy, then run like hell for a role in a Jim Jarmusch film. Do a Parker Posie. After all, these days you can go "indy" and still make good bucks.
It's either that, or start smoking cigars and prepare for a future in California politics.
For God's sake, man: have some substance. And, if I ever meet you, don't kick my ass. I'm just trying to help.
~
5/23/2004 09:41:00 PM
Otto Perforantes
It might make a good nom de plum, if you make it rhyme with Cervantes.
It's actually "Auto Perforantes." Everything sounds better in French. Self-drilling screws, the most brilliant human invention since the wheel. You see, these little screws have tiny drill-bits on their ends, which means they drill a pilot hole and screw right into it at the same time!
No, really.
Like, let's say you're kitty-proofing your screen door (with your own brilliant, inventive design, which you will post about later):
You can turn these little screws right into the aluminum of the door without drilling a hole first!
Genius. Sheer genius, these self-tappers are.
Oh, what, you're not impressed? Fine, be that way. Maybe you should have less of a life and be more of a loser, you non-handy condescending bastard. Yeah, I bet you check your own oil.
~
5/23/2004 08:49:00 PM
Saturday, May 22, 2004
...are now enabled here! Comments are fun for you and me. And this is their sole purpose.
That's right, you can now virtually talk to Argy. I promise to answer, and I promise not to make fun of you. Much. I like people. No, wait, that's a lie. I don't like most people these days. They just seem to breed, and buy SUVs. And drive like idiots.
BUT I PROMISE TO LIKE YOU! If you show your good taste and discerning nature by leaving comments. Hell, you'll instantly be in my inner-circle of friends. I don't have many friends, by choice, and by mutual agreement with the human race. So this is an exclusive deal!
Witty repartee is for everyone, after all. Not just geeky lonely Internet geeks (like you and me.)
Just click where it says "Comments" below any post, and add your thoughts, feelings, paranoid delusions and/or medicated ramblings. And be a part of ArgyBarple/Internet history!
(All comments are copyright their authors. I promise not to steal your ideas without express permission.)
5/22/2004 06:51:00 PM
Friday, May 21, 2004
A really, really short story...
I drank three espressos at midnight,
and five minutes later it was 4:00 a.m.
(Hey, it was a really, really short night. I guess.)
5/21/2004 10:03:00 AM
Tuesday, May 18, 2004
To go to ground.Best accomplished when said hole is well stocked with coffee, beer, food and paperbacks.
(a) To escape into a hole; -- said of a hunted fox.
Spread A Little Happiness~
Written by Vivian Ellis, Clifford Grey & Greatrex Newman
[To be sung with a somewhat sarcastic tone, in my opinion.]
Even when the darkest clouds are in the sky
You mustn't sigh and you mustn't cry
Spread a little happiness as you go by
Please try
What's the use of worrying and feeling blue
When days are long keep on smiling through
Spread a little happiness till dreams come true
Surely you'll be wise to make the best of every blues day
Don't you realise you'll find next monday or next Tuesday
Your golden shoes day
Even when the darkest clouds are in the sky
You mustn't sigh and you mustn't cry
Spread a little happiness as you go by
I've got a creed for every need
So easy that it must succeed
I'll set it down for you to read
So please, take heed
Keep out the gloom
Let in the sun
That's my advice for everyone
It's only once we pass this way
So day by day
Even when the darkest clouds are in the sky
You mustn't sigh and you mustn't cry
Spread a little happiness as you go by
Please try
What's the use of worrying and feeling blue?
When days are long keep on smiling through
Spread a little happiness till dreams come true
Surely you'll be wise to make the best of every blues day
Don't you realise you'll find next monday or next Tuesday
Your golden shoes day
Even when the darkest clouds are in the sky
You mustn't sigh and you mustn't cry
Spread a little happiness as you go by
Surely you'll be wise to make the best of every blues day
Don't you realise you'll find next monday or next Tuesday
Your golden shoes day
Even when the darkest clouds are in the sky
You mustn't sigh and you mustn't cry
Spread a little happiness as you go by
5/18/2004 09:55:00 PM
Saturday, May 15, 2004
Sheena
I have a young cousin who named his dog "Biscuit." This unlikely, odd name has always puzzled me. Until today. I finally figured that any intelligent dog will respond to the name "Biscuit" the way that many people will flock to a bar that advertises a band named "Free Beer."
I know very little about the Canadian band Barenaked Ladies other than that their music is loads of fun, but somehow I'd guess they took their name in a similar fashion.
Appearing tonight!Guaranteed good door receipts, eh? But did you know that the band Barenaked Ladies is the #1 Google result for a "barenaked ladies" search? Now THAT is truly amazing. I wonder how many disgruntled porn afficianados are disappointed at having to scroll past pages and pages of Barenaked Ladies band fan pages.
Barenaked Ladies!
Admission $5.
Then again, the most popular porn searches lately are more likely to involve one or more crude terms mixed with "Britney Spears" and/or "Paris Hilton" or even "the Olsen Twins." This confuses me too, as: I don't know what the deal is about Paris; I'll pass over the all-American Britney in favor of the gorgeously slutty Christina any day (um, you know... not that I pay any attention to these pop idols anyway...); and the still-too-young (except for Humbert Humbert) Olsen Twins, while they were undeniably (and absolutely sickenly) cute way back when on that Full House show, have always reminded me slightly of troll dolls.
I mean, c'mon! Separated at birth?:
I know, that's a little cruel, and I do feel a little guilty. But, Hey! ...they're millionaires. The Beautiful People can always take a joke.
By the way, have you ever played Bingo? I mean, Bingo-hall Bingo. It's worth playing, at least once, just to have the Bingo experience. Many people, especially the "regulars" (who are sometimes quite nearly compulsive gamblers whose addiction takes the form of B-I-N-G-O and the "instants" they sell there), fill their table area with good luck charms. Troll dolls are popular. It's common to see a person at a Bingo hall with a dozen crazy-haired troll dolls staring at them that presumably will the player to win. It's all quite beautifully surreal.
But, I'm procrastinating.
What this is leading up to, is that I adopted up a new dog out of the local shelter today.
Because my dear old dog passed away recently.
I haven't really been able to write about my dog's passing. It was a profound experience.
But, first off, her name was Sheena. Like "Sheena, Queen of the Jungle." I didn't name her. I always felt the need to tell people this, especially on our daily walks, when someone would sometimes ask to pet her.
"What a cute puppy! What's his name?" they'd say.
"Um, her name is "Sheena," and she's not a puppy. She's really getting pretty old, but she's in good shape. I didn't name her, I adopted her when she was a few years old."
I don't know why Sheena struck me as such a ridiculous name. Maybe because I thought people would think I named her after that terrible 1990s TV series, instead of maybe the classic 1930s Sheena or the '50s movies or pulp.
I take a certain amount of geeky pride in my pop-culture references, after all. Heh. I have a cat named Buffy and, while she is nothing like Sarah Gellar's vampire-slaying character, the sound of the name suits her soft, gentle nature, and also reminds me of another Buffy on a show called "Family Affair" I watched as a tiny tot. (Anyone remember Family Affair? Weren't Mrs Beasley and Mr French the real stars?)
(Buffy, Mrs Beasley, Mr French, and Jodie.)
I guess I'm avoiding the real subject again. Pardon me.
Sheena passed away recently. My Mom tells me it's been about a month, but I can't believe it has been that long. The experience was very personal, and in some ways it is still stuck in my mind like a cork pushed halfway down the neck of a wine bottle. It's not easy to get out. I feel her presence, her spirit, often, as I always do with loved ones who have passed on. But writing about her death is not easy. I'm only doing it now because, at some point, I guess I have to.
Anytime anyone close to me passes on, it affects me absolutely profoundly. Somehow I suddenly transcend all the petty cares of the world and I know exactly what matters. And I care nothing for the little things that don't matter.
Sheena, unknown to myself and her vet, had had kidney and liver problems for some time. Then, one weekend, her kidneys just suddenly failed. She made a quick decline over the course of a few days.
I took her to the vet and they put her on an IV to rehydrate her and I was scared to death she'd die alone there, thinking I'd abandoned her. It was quite possible the vet would recommend that I leave her there for a few days on that IV, alone and in the company of strangers as she struggled through her pain. This would have broken my heart, especially if she passed on without me there.
But the vet said she was well-hydrated at the end of the first day, and he suggested I take take her home and bring her back the next day. At first, though, I had to sit and wait for the vet to bring me this news, and I had no idea what to expect.
The waiting was surreal. If I had written it as fiction, you would think the symbolism was contrived. As I waited for news of my dog, I sat alone in a white tiled room where they stored supplies. It was a small room, but just big enough to feel very, very empty, making me feel very, very alone. It was the end of the day, nearing 5:00, and the vet's clinic was crowded with happy, noisy people, among them many kids, picking up happy, noisy, healthy pets. But I sat in hospital-white stillness alone, waiting for news that could not possibly be good.
The vet gave me the prognosis in Latin medical terms, going through her blood test results in minute detail that he must have thought I understood. Most of the vets at this clinic know me and know that I have a connection to and understanding of animals, although they must give me credit for much more physician's knowledge than I will ever have. The conclusion was simple, however: her kidneys were functioning at 10%, and she would not last long.
I took Sheena home, and she had a bad night. I slept on the floor downstairs with her. She slept soundly for a while, but then the whimpers and moans began, and finally violent seizures that shook her entire body and stretched her out from head to toe as if she were on a rack. These seizures eventually came hourly, and I would hold her as she pushed one paw against my arm to try to gain some purchase, some small leverage, to try to control her wildly rebelling body. She would moan and I would moan with her and our sounds would mingle and somehow this helped. Somehow I was there with her, right there, and she knew it.
This went on for hours, until I was praying for 9:00 to roll around and the vet's office to open. There was no longer any question about what needed to be done. She was suffering incredibly.
I will go more into the details of a vet putting an animal to sleep some other day, but for now I will tell you that it is painless and simple and merciful, and my wonderful vets showed every ounce of consideration possible. I held her, and I felt the last three beats of her heart.
Thump, thump...
thump.
She died in my arms. She didn't die alone, but instead had me as her friend to the end.
When it was over, the vet left me alone with her limp, peaceful form, and told me I could take as long as I wanted.
When I finally walked out, no one bothered me, asked me to sign anything, or questioned me.
In a situation like this, everything feels unreal, and the immediate need to help in any way possible keeps stoicism high and emotions in check. But at certain times reality hits undeniably home. Me, calling the vet that morning and mentioning the word "euthanasia," and the absolute finality of the answer "You can bring her in right now." At the vet, the doctor walking in and asking, "Do you want me to do it, or the other doctor who has been attending her? He won't be in for 15 minutes."
These are the moments that crack the shell of your resolve and threaten to break you down.
Other moments are bumpy milestones of a more positive nature. After I sprinkled her ashes, I began to stop reflexively looking for her in her usual spots in the house, in the morning when I got up, and after work when I came home. And I began to feel her presence more and more, somewhere close to my heart. Sometimes there really is something to be said for closure.
And of course, bringing the new dog home today was a sort of heartbreak too, as feeling her jump and paw at me made me suddenly aware of the physical absence of every pet I've ever had who has passed on.
But I'm skipping ahead of many details about Sheena now, especially my cat Buffy's reaction to Sheena's absence, and a vivid dream I had about letting Sheena in the house, after which Buffy suddenly became calm and accepting and stopped staring out the window waiting for Sheena to come home. Those are stories for another time.
Sheena came from a rough home to a good one, and I gave her a wonderful life.
The tough part now is the new dog. She's wonderful and affectionate. She looked timid at the shelter, and the workers told me she was shy and afraid to be touched around the head. Of course, as soon as I got her home she bolted inside, ran about "owning" every corner of the house, then played with me on the floor, rubbing her forehead against mine. Animals are rarely timid around me.
But this new dog, whom I have yet to name, has a major drawback: she's mostly spaniel and has very serious hunting instincts. When she sees a squirrel, her front paw lifts up, her head sticks straight foreward and her tail straight back in perfect imitation of a pointer, then she curls her lips open only at the back of her mouth, growls deeply, and gets ready to shoot forward like cannonshot.
She's a damn good hunter with deeply ingrained instincts.
She has already chased after three of my four cats, nearly catching one in a swift run that reminded me of the time I saw a friend's German shepherd catch a rabbit (leaving limbs, chunks of meat, and rabbit head complete with fluffy ears strewn all about the lawn.)
An animal is never to be blamed for survival instincts like this, but I have to look after my cats. No matter how well-trained she might eventually become, I do not trust those hunting insticts, and I couldn't bear to lose one of my cats.
So I'm stuck with this beautiful puppy to whom I become more attached every minute, despite my resolve to guard my feelings. And Monday morning she must go back to the shelter, which pains me even though she will find a new home in no time at all (turnaround rates at local shelters have been incredible this summer, and the Cleveland Kennel is even advertising waits of up to three months to adopt a dog!)
I have one slim chance: that my aunt who lives next-door might adopt the puppy, in which case I'll still go for daily runs with her as if she is my own dog. This will leave me free to find a dog whose previous owners must give her up but who can assure me the dog is good around cats. And two animals will have found good homes.
If all goes as planned.
More later.
(One further note: It still puzzles me that I feel the need to write this. To whom am I writing? To myself? I haven't been writing formal fiction here lately, as that needs be submitted directly elsewhere, and it's rare that I write here in typical weblog "diary" form. But maybe I'll do more of this, for no other reason than that I feel the need.)
5/15/2004 10:10:00 PM
Monday, May 10, 2004
5/10/2004 12:59:00 PM
Saturday, May 08, 2004
Several years ago the makers of SoBe iced tea began an ad campaign on the inside of their bottle caps. SoBe's logo features two lizards...
Of course, sooner or later a joker always shows up in the crowd...
The catchy slogans on the caps seemed to disappear very quickly after a certain point, as did SoBe's tea from the shelves of my local grocery store for a couple of months.
~
5/08/2004 10:54:00 PM
WWII, Okinawa, 1945: A Marine gives a cigarette to an Okinawan islander as he looks after her bandaged hand.
From History of the Sixth Marine Division, Infantry Journal Press, first edition 1948.
5/08/2004 09:58:00 PM
Saturday, May 01, 2004
The Beast That Walks Like a Man!
[Click image for full picture.]
Classic comic art makes me smile...
Art by Bernie Wrightson from the cover of Chamber of Darkness #8, Dec. 1970.
~
5/01/2004 03:39:00 PM
