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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA



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I'm on a bit of a hiatus right now, but only to work on other projects -- one incredibly exciting example being the newly-released kids' science book series Things That Make You Go Yuck!
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The Mutt of a Thousand Maladies

Susie, looking regal between bouts of the plague.

Susie, looking regal between bouts of the plague.

My little dog Susie (pictured at right) is in the hospital.

Sadly enough, this is not especially news. The dog has made a veritable career of being sick and diseased. She’s contracted — and beaten — lymphoma, which involved eight months of chemo and sucking out her spleen.

Possibly through a straw. They didn’t let me watch. Or take it home and bronze it. Meanies.

Then her heart went wonky, and she got a pacemaker.

In between, she’s been on kidney medicine, incontinence pills, fish oil, glucosamine for arthritis, and occasionally antibiotics for various bugs, infections, bacteria, viruses and alien implants that she somehow manages to snurfle into her system.

(For gods’ sakes, she’s a house dog. We feed her from a bag or a can or — in the sickliest of times — a package of lunchmeat. She’s always got water, and we change it fourteen times a day. How in the shit this mutt gets infected with anything stronger than girl cooties from my wife is beyond me.

But she finds a way. Oh, yes. She finds a way.)

Personally, I think a lot of this bother is payback for the mousepad. Which wasn’t even my fault! But try explaining that to a dog who’s had her hoohah plastered on a piece of office decor. She won’t listen. Trust me. I tried.

Anyway, the pooch started acting glum a couple of days ago, so we took her to the vet.

How, you may ask, can you tell a ‘glum’ thirteen-and-a-half year old dog from a merely ‘decrepit’ thirteen-and-a-half year old dog? Fair question.

Mostly, it involves inputs and outputs. In computer networking terms, her upload speed is vastly decreased. Meanwhile, she’s downloading at an alarming rate, leaking bandwidth indiscriminately and dropping a high number of packets. Often in the middle of the kitchen floor. I’m starting to think she needs a new modem.

The puppy docs, for their part, say the problem could be her liver. I’m not sure whether that’s based on any diagnostics, or whether it’s just process of elimination because that’s the only organ left they haven’t putzed around with yet. Either way, the poor fuzzball is spending a couple of nights in the hound hospital, while they check what’s left of her for further problems.

Meanwhile, it’s really strange not having her around the place. I can’t say I missed tiptoeing around the house this morning when I woke up, so as not to squish into a pile of awful horror before I’d put my contacts in. But it’s weird knowing no accidents were had. I half-wished my wife had maybe peed in the foyer a little, just for old times’ sake.

Don’t tell her I said that. For all kinds of reasons.

Hopefully, we’ll get the pooch back home in a day or two — preferably complication-free, and a master again of her own extremities — but we’ll see what the vets tell us tonight. Meanwhile, I know — based on several previous visits to see her in the coolah — that the pup is currently miserable, and probably plotting her next bowel movement to occur on our doorstep. Or our couch. Or under our pillows, because that’ll teach us to try and fix her up. Again.

Hey, girl. I said I was sorry about the mousepad. You feel better, and we’ll talk about your poop revenge when you get home. One thing at a time, puppers.

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Of TiVos New, and TiVos Old

(Yo, Facepagers and comedy fans: my latest FB romp is up over at ZuG — Zolton’s Facebook Follies: Faaaaarm Livin’!. It’ll put hair on yer back forty!)

I got a bit of terrible news today. My wife told me Comcast had called up and told us that our DVR is going to explode on August 1st.

Only maybe they didn’t say “explode”. It could have been “stop working”, come to think of it. But that’s almost as bad. In my panic, I may have muddled a few of the details, but the gist is there. Come August, no TiVo. My world, she crumbles around me.

It’s not that I watch a lot of TV, or keep up with the latest shows. Most nights, the machine whirs away taping reruns of Big Bang Theory and Diners, Drive-Ins and Spiky-Haired Douche while we watch it, or don’t, or turn it on and mostly ignore it for a couple of hours. How I abuse my TiVo is not the point here. The point is rather that I have a TiVo to abuse in the first place.

See, that’s the thing. Comcast doesn’t do TiVo. They’ve cobbled together their own DVR system — a Frankensteinian monstrosity cobbled together from the worst rotting parts of obsolete and failed DVR systems, from all the reviews I’ve ever read — and they plop one of those in your house when they install your cable. Unless you ask for TiVo.

“That’s TiVo for you. Better than mailmen, and prettier in high def.”

Of course, when you ask, they say they’ll “check on it”. That’s cable installer speak for “Mister, you must be frigging high if you think that’s all it takes to get a decent set-top box in here.

So you’ll have to ask again. You’ll likely have to call the office, beg with someone there, plead with another installer, perhaps slip a twenty to one or two or five of them, but finally, mercifully, someone will show up at your house with a TV show record-o-majigger that tapes what you tell it to and whose menus weren’t designed by Coco the crack-addled orangutan.

At least, that’s how it was. And apparently only in Boston and a handful of other areas. If Comcast and TiVo were “in a relationship” when we managed to get our current box, they were hiding it awfully well. From what my wife relayed, I was afraid they’d broken up completely, before even hitting that awkward fumbling petting stage.

As it turns out, it’s just the opposite. Our TiVo is self-destructing in two weeks, apparently, because new improved Comcast honest-to-goodness TiVos are on the way.

Oh, yeah. Looks like Comcast just got to second base. Yowza.

So the “bad” news is actually “good” news, sort of, except it means another long and arduous cycle of scheduling installers and hooking up cables and missing re-re-re-rerun Futurama episodes running at three in the morning because the machine isn’t updated with all our preferences yet. That’s real work, and I’m not looking forward to it.

Maybe it’s possible — for some people — to not go through all the hassle, getting the settings and such just so. But not me. I wanted a TiVo — seriously, NINE years ago, I pined for my set-top savior — for one reason: to tell me what to watch.

I tell it what I like, and it tells me what to watch. The TiVo’s almost always taping something — so that’s what I watch. If it’s not taping, then there’s nothing remotely good on — and I dig into what it’s already recorded. Everything should work that way. I should be able to tell the mailman what sort of letters and magazines I like to receive, and that’s all he should bring. And if, on a given day, there’s nothing new in those categories, then he’ll bring back issues of the stuff I like. How cool would that be? That’s TiVo for you. Better than mailmen, and prettier in high def.

So i guess we’ll soon have a shiny new TiVo to get to know — our first since we moved into our condo in ’09. Maybe we’ll have a nice wake for the old one. Or a marathon to watch all the taped shows that are about to be blasted away, when this thing ignites itself or whatever. I’m a conservationist; I’d hate to waste all those stored pixels. It’s tragic.

Either way, there’s going to be an awful lot of configuration to do — shows to record, channels to check, save times to set — to ensure that the new TiVo approximates the current one as an entertainment provider. The first time that newfangled gizmo suggests a “Jersey Shore” or “So You Think You Can…” anything, it’s going back in the box and getting shipped to Comcast central for decommission. That shit don’t fly in this house, hombre.

I’ll get the ball rolling tomorrow. And maybe have the new machine up to speed in time to catch The Grinch on Christmas Eve. A man and his TiVo can dream, right? A man and his TiVo can dream.

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