TRAUMATIZED! by Doogie

This is Doogie the family dog filling in on behalf of Big Dave who was on a weekend retreat in Ohio with wife Wendy. Their eldest son Greg was charged with taking care of me. What follows now is a tale of terror and horror not for the squeamish. Read on if you wish but you have been warned.

Greg and his girlfriend Lindsay own a Boston Terr(or)ier named Simon. They say he's just a big hyper puppy. No! He's a ferocious brute-- constantly trying to pick a fight with me, shredding my chew toys and stealing my treats if I'm eating too daintily. So he was going to be my weekend companion. That's great, just great. What elderly toy poodle mix wouldn't want a hungry Cujo for a playmate.

At least they brought Cujo's, er, Simon's cage with them. He stayed there during the day while my dogsitters worked. I felt somewhat safer but I'd feel even better if the bars were reinforced with titanium, steel barbs, razor wire or something like that. Luckily for me, Lindsay stopped by in the afternoon to let us outside into the fenced-in backyard.

Maybe somebody should have told Lindsay that we have another occasional resident in our backyard. He's a big bunny who Big Dave and Wendy think was probably born in the ground cover by the patio and feels like home here in our yard with the squirrels, flowers and doves. It's like a Disney movie paradise where all the animals frolic together in harmony.

Unfortunately, Thumper was in the wrong place at the wrong time. So our Disney backyard morphed into an episode of Wild Kingdom. Actually, it was more like The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. And I a witness? Never was there more a candidate for doggie therapy afterwards.

It gets worse, trust me.

The screen in the patio door is occasionally loose to the point that dogs like myself can ingress and egress without troubling the masters to let us out and in during the summer. So Simon dragged his prize into the front room where Lindsay was watching television. And she didn't even notice! Hel-LO! Where is the supervision here?

Lindsay continued to watch TV with that brute at her feet. She knew that he had something there but figured it was just another of my chew toys. Uh lady, none of my chew toys are of the organic variety. Finally, Simon jumped up on her lap and she sees that he's been feeding on something (remember, I warned you). FINALLY, she looked down at her feet to see the remains of our poor resident rabbit.

That sent her fleeing from the house, taking her killer dog with her. She called for me to come out too. No thanks lady. Back out into the backyard? I don't think so. I've already seen Thumper assassinated. What's your attack dog going to do next--take down Bambi too? I'd just have my little psycho-meltdown inside.

Greg came by later and got rid of the evidence. No matter. I'm willing to testify in a capital case if any authorities are reading this blog. I'll even take a T-Bone or Beggin' Strip as my witness fee.

Next time Big Dave leaves for a weekend I hope he finds me better quarters. Even the Bates Motel would be an improvement.

Unfortunately, the only picture I have of the culprit is many months old. Don’t let the moony-eyed puppy stare fool you. Evil lurks within those eyes. If you see him, don’t take any chances. Get inside, lock the doors and call the police.

Chump Change?

I took a spill on my bike this weekend. Wasn't hurt really as it was just one of those embarrassing type of falls where you get up quickly hoping that nobody saw (or worse yet, recorded it on digital for YouTube). I had been trying to cut off one of those early morning power walkers who was aiming for the same stretch of sidewalk I was when I lost control. So it served me right too. Next time the power walker gets the right-of-way. He's probably faster walking than I am on my one-speed rustabout anyway.

What bummed me out more than the bump on my shin and my bruised ego was that I also bent my front wheel rim. So the bike is in repair now. I can't indulge my favorite hobby of late. Not bike-riding. Hunting for lost coins.

I was on my way over to my favorite coin-spotting venue, the parking lot at the high school. I've always found a few stray quarters or dimes courtesy of the loose pockets of high schoolers. It's a win-win situation for me. I get the exercise I promise my doctor as well as collect some extra coin for my retirement fund. I found two quarters one day, five dimes another. Sounds great, doesn't it?

So why do I get the feeling sometimes that others I know are not as, well, enthusiastic? A little over a week ago I came across a canister placed on my desk at work. Like one of those canisters you see at cashier's stations where they seek donations for charities and the like. Except this one was re-decorated junior high art class style with "$ Found on the Ground Fund " drawn in colored marker.

Turns out it was my son's girlfriend's gift to me. Oh, well. I've already put close to $2 in change in it after less than two weeks courtesy of my bike and my eagle eyes. Too bad I didn't have that can after the spring melt when I found a five-dollar bill stuck in the schoolyard grass, waving at me with the passing breeze. Some poor student missed lunch that day. Awww, kids eat too much these days anyway.

Then I e-mailed my sister-in-law the following, bragging a bit on my coin-spotting prowess:

"Yesterday I was doing some running around and had to go to Target. I love the popcorn there, but I only had three dollar bills and I know a small popcorn there comes to $1.05. I didn't want to break a second dollar, so I said to myself, if I find some money in the Target parking lot, I'll buy a popcorn. Otherwise not.

Found a dime. Darn I'm good. The popcorn was too."

My sister-in-law responded: "I would save that story, Dave. It's a winner. How about a book called 'Chump Change."'

Yeah, well, I ran it by my buddy who's a literature professor and he commented on the title, "Chump Change, that is so awesome on so many levels." I'm not so sure. Maybe--but don't look for it anytime soon at your local Border's.

Moving On

It's been three years since our eldest son moved into his own apartment. His small bedroom at the end of the upstairs hallway has sat empty since. Though we've been told as in a Steven King novel that "sometimes they come back", Wendy and I decided it was time to update the space.

Down came the football curtains. Down came the highway road signs that read "Speed Limit 45" and "No Parking." Boxed up were souvenirs from his teenaged and young twenty years: a Sega portable game system, some CDs apparently not on his listening list anymore, a bowling pin, a soccer trophy, etc. Greg did take his University of Michigan flag with him to his new apartment, classic decor always being en vogue.

We took out the desk where he spent many a long night doing homework (yeah, riiiiiiiiiiiiiiight). And we put in a bookcase I bought at Wal-Mart. With no kids at home presently, we need space for more books and other reading material. We have time now. I commented to Wendy that this is the first summer in a quarter century we'll be without kids, grown or ungrown. Our youngest son Scott is staying at East Lansing as he has an internship there this summer.

While we were working on the spare bedroom, I asked Wendy if we ever had the crib set up there as the room size seemed the perfect size. She said "no", adding that our youngest was about seven years old when we moved in.

"Oh yeah, right." I then remembered one reason we moved into a bigger house was that we'd have more room in case we wanted to add on another family member. But we kept postponing a try for a daughter until it was too late. Well, technically it's not too late but I'm not sure I want to be a father of a teenager when I'm in my 70s.

Time just has a way of slipping through your fingers like that. I remember thinking to myself once many, many years ago that one thing I wanted to do before I was 40 was run with the bulls in Spain. I haven't even made it out of North America yet and I'm going to be 55.

But I did take my first step in that direction. I got my passport this year. Watch out bulls, here I come. I just hope they take my HMO over there.

Birthday Milestones

Tomorrow is May 1st. It's my birthday month. I will be 55 on May 25th. Wow.

I figure this is a big one. Browsing through a magazine in the waiting room of my primary care doctor, I came across an advertisement for a retirement village that carried the tagline "Life Begins At 55." All right! I'm almost there. Rebirth awaits.

So I started working on my birthday wishlist earlier than usual figuring since this is a big one my presents should reflect that. But when I informed my sister-in-law, she responded in an e-mail, "Wendy said that '55' isn't considered a big one. Just old ;-) "

Ohhhhhh, et tu, Wendy? Stabbed in the back by the missus. Hea, the local Bob Evans restaurant recognizes 55 as a milestone. They have a couple special pages in their menu devoted to those of us (well, soon to be me) 55 and over.

Speaking of milestone birthdays, I took the family up to Bay City last Saturday night for my nephew's 30th birthday. He sometimes comments here on my blog as does his father, "The Enforcer."

My nephew is big on big parties, having long turned his garage into a kind of neighborhood pub, complete with a name--Mahoney's, and even a framed collage of the "bartenders of the month." I saw The Enforcer's picture there.

A big party it was, with catered Mexican food even. One of his gifts was a glass boot that held, I believe, two liters of beer. That's a lot. It was filled and passed around amongst the raucous party-goers which numbered in the dozens. I hear these parties can get plenty wild, though I suspect not really so until oldsters like myself leave.

Oh the stories you hear afterwards. My sister wrote to me later, "Did you know that our mother gave this guy a huge hug when he walked in when we were leaving? ...I asked her who that was and she said "Mason". (Mason has been my nephew's friend for many years) Somebody else immediately says Mason's behind the bar...the guy mom hugged was the neighbor."

Well, at least the neighbor was apparently coming to join the party. He wasn't coming to complain about the noise. He didn't mind the hug either.

Just before I left I remember seeing that my nephew had stripped off his shirt and was sandwiched between two young ladies, neither of whom was his wife, dancing together in the middle of the garage.

I can tell you one thing. If we go to Bob Evans for my birthday so I can get the special menu, the shirt stays on.

Stimulus Me Now

Where's my economic stimulus? I need it now. Actually, it's not so much for me. It's for all those people I pay money to. They all heard of this windfall I'm getting from the government.

Our latest dentist bill went up by about $20 a visit, even though we have insurance. This is what we pay after insurance. Last trip to the dog groomer cost Doogie $5 more. Oh, and Doogie's appetite has grown more finicky lately, requiring us to buy more expensive dog food. Maybe Doogie heard we're getting that economic stimulus too.

Our local grocery store certainly has heard. Bread is becoming a luxury item. Now when my doctor says I need to eat more fruits and vegetables in my diet I can tell him, "I can't afford to."

The oil companies definitely know we're getting this stimulus. The price of gas shot up to a uniform $3.65 and nine tenths a gallon throughout the Ann Arbor area this morning. It's almost as if a memo goes out overnight informing all the gas stations in the area what to charge the next day.

Sometimes you might find a pariah who is charging 20 or 30 cents less a gallon than his "competitors." That doesn't last long. Soon he falls into line, as if to say to his fellow gas sellers, "Sorry, I forgot to check my e-mail this morning."

Our mortgage company wants a chunk of my stimulus money, saying this month that their most recent estimate of our escrow shows we're a few hundred dollars short. That means our property taxes have gone up quite a bit despite the fact that our home value has DEcreased. Something to do with the Headlee Amendment in Michigan that was supposed to help protect us from unreasonable property tax hikes. Don't ask me to explain.

The mortgage company itself also wants a couple bucks more each month just to pay the mortgage bill. Something about increased bank fees. Again, don't ask me.

It's enough to make you want to escape to the movies. Except that the price of a video rental has gone up to $5 in our neighborhood. It was $3 not too long ago. That's why I discuss here Canadian-made documentaries about dying, like I did last week, but not the hottest new DVD releases.

Even the price of draft beer has gone up a quarter at our favorite watering hole this year. The cost of hops and barley has skyrocketed of late, I hear. So it costs more to drink your troubles away too.

Yet, there is one staple item whose cost has remain constant throughout. Three cheers for the hot 'n ready pizza. When the price of pizza starts rising, you know we're really in trouble as a nation.

But I have a word of advice for our country's leaders. Next time you want to give me an economic stimulus check, let's just keep it between you and me.

Death's Door

When I was in high school, my buddy Bob confided to me that he had figured out a way to cheat death. A big movie buff as well as someone concerned about his "eternal dirt nap", Bob had determined after watching numerous westerns that those mortally wounded seemed to be able to ward off the end long enough to say their last words to those gathered around.

It was as if their sheer clenched-teeth determination made the difference between life and death, Bob thought. So all Bob had to do was fight off dying for however long it took, just like they did in those westerns. Eventually, like a fever, death would relent and Bob could continue living as before.

Of course, the Hollywood-style of the ultimate fade-to-black is nothing like real life. Er, real death rather. While surfing the far realms of my digital TV channel line-up, I came across the movie, “Dying at Grace.” This Canadian-made documentary follows the final weeks, days, hours and minutes in the lives of five terminally ill patients in the palliative care ward at Grace Health Centre in Toronto. And records their deaths.

Most suffered from some form of advanced cancer. Though all accepted their fate, a few continued to cling to the hope of at least a few better days. One woman talked about moving out of the hospital into her own apartment if her latest bout of chemotherapy brought about a remission. It didn’t. Instead it sent her into a downward spiral that brought her to death’s doorway just as quickly as the other terminally ill patients featured in the movie.

Since I still correspond via e-mail with Bob, I had to give him a brief synopsis of the movie. In fact, death in real life is nothing like it’s portrayed in the movies, I explained. At least, in westerns. Death could be more like what you might see in a horror movie, I told him. And I told him why. While Bob knows now that he can't cheat death, he still becomes a bit anxious on the subject of death and dying.

Here’s how Bob responded:

“Damn, just when I thought this post couldn't get any worse you go totally morbid on me. No thanks on the movie; I've never wondered what death actually looked like. Of course, you probably have the Definitive DVD Collection of Faces of Death too. Damn Christopher Coffin, this is getting creepy. Sharing (medical issues) is one thing but I fail to see the audience value in watching people pass. Just Ghoulish, Dave Kevorkian, just ghoulish. BTW, some people like mystery. You should have included a spoiler alert with this post. I know some people like to read the end of a book first but most of us would prefer not to have the ending spoiled! And you a budding O. Henry should have known most readers like the strange, unexpected twists at the end.”

Sorry Bob. I'll be more careful with my movie critiques in the future.

Fair Weather, Fair Play

Finally, temperatures are in the 60s here in Ann Arbor. Crocuses blooming, tulips emerging, but the newscaster from the local Fox channel said it best: “Spring is officially here. There was a riot at Michigan State University.”

Those crazy, violent Spartans. Police in full riot gear fired tear gas, concussion grenades and arrested about 50 people including a couple dozen Spartan students early Sunday morning when “Cedar Fest”, an MSU spring-time ritual of drinking and debauchery, was resurrected in a big way.

My son Scott, a student there, was not involved but he e-mailed me about it. Scott sees the violence from the other side now as he supervises a maintenance crew at one of the dormitories. A week ago, when Memphis was mightily trouncing Michigan State in the NCAA basketball tournament, the call came over the radio that someone had just tossed a chair through the eighth story study lounge window. (Hea, if you’re a Spartan, you’ve got to learn to handle heartbreak.)

Now as a prominent Michigan Wolverine booster, I hear deriding comments from my Spartan counterparts often, even here in Ann Arbor, a place described by an observer recently as “the pocket of sanity in the Midwest”. I usually take it all in stride. For example, my supervisor, a misguided MSU booster who sits in the cubicle across from me, pinned a raft of newspaper clippings to the outside wall of his cubicle last October. These clippings all report on the same unfortunate one-in-a-million loss my beloved Wolverines suffered to a Division 2 school on the gridiron last fall.

Even though it’s now ancient history, the clippings remain, taunting me every time I get up and walk by. But I don’t touch them. It’s my supervisor’s cube, his tackboard, his property, his space.

But when the Detroit News front page banner headline screamed about MSU’s riot--ha!--now was my chance at a little tit for tat. After my boss left for the day, I prominently pinned up the article on my tackboard which faces him. Heh, heh.

So when I came in the next day, I expected some comment from the boss man. Instead I was in for a shock. My article was gone . . . replaced by an Ann Arbor News article about the “Hash Bash,” an innocent little pot-smoking gathering at the U of Michigan that coincidentally also took place this past weekend.

FOUL!! FOWELLLL!!! He can’t ravage my personal space like that, can he? I have a right to free expression at my work, right? This violates my Constitutional rights. I watch Judge Judy; I think I’m on pretty firm legal ground here. “You can’t do that,” as Judge Judy often says in her TV court.

I think I’ll sue. Not sure whether to just take him to small claims court or since it’s a Constitutional issue to go straight to the U.S. Supreme Court. Maybe I’ll just take him before Judge Judy since her rulings appear to be final regardless of the court or jurisdiction.

Lousy Spartans. They never play fair.