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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
Well, it’s official. My dog is getting old.
It’s not completely unexpected, I suppose. We all age, at some rate or another. I know I have. Don’t let these stunningly boyish good looks fool you — I’m starting to wind down myself, as various bits of my body betray me, one by one. I have the liver of a sixty year old, the addled brain of an octagenarian, and the knees of a thirteenth-century floor-scrubbing serf. Who was stricken with polio. And born with wooden legs. On a termite farm.
Still, I manage to limp through life as best I can, and show some enthusiasm in the process. My melodramatic mutt, on the other hand, has all but given up the ghost, living out her final days amid the comfort of comfy pillows, chew toys, and three square kibbles a day.
The bitch is seven years old. Did I mention that? Seven.
Now, I understand that pooches don’t perservere quite the way we people do. The dog isn’t likely to be around to see the next ‘Roaring Twenties’, or to watch the polar ice caps finally melt, or to experience the reign of President Hilary Duff.
(I’m predicting she’ll beat out Paris Hilton and Ashley Olsen with a campaign platform of ‘Peace, Prosperity, and Prada for All’. She’ll be the cutest li’l electee since Grover Cleveland Alexander!)
“I have the liver of a sixty year old, the addled brain of an octagenarian, and the knees of a thirteenth-century floor-scrubbing serf.”
None of that explains — or excuses — the dog’s current behavior. She’s no spring chicken, sure. But that’s no reason to act as though she’s got two paws in the grave already. Some of the best bones of her life are still ahead of her, but she hardly seems interested.
Her latest old fart frailty involves cold weather. The chillier it gets outside, the less interested the pooch is in venturing out into the elements. In her puppier days, you couldn’t stop her. If might be four degrees Kelvin, with nine feet of snow on the ground, and she’d bound out the door and dig through the snowdrifts for the sheer joy of being outside.
These days, if the mercury dips below fifty, she’s having none of it. She’ll dangle one persnickety paw on the porch, feel the draft, and slink back into the house. Never mind that she’s missing a walk around the yard; she figures she can pee when she’s dead, apparently. It’s gotten so bad, last week I started dangling the mutt’s ass out the living room window to do her business.
That worked okay for a few days. Until last night, when I sneezed, accidentally squeezed her, and she shot a turd through the neighbor’s window. That wasn’t an easy situation to explain when the guy came to ask about it.
Neighbor: (holding the offending poo between thumb and forefinger) Hey, bub. This belong to you?
Me: Um… not exactly.
Neighbor: Well, did you just throw it through my window?
Me: Technically? No.
Neighbor: *blink*
Me: *blink*
Turd-Launching Dog: *blink* *blink*
Me: Look — how about I give you a hundred bucks for a new window — and a poop bag — and we pretend this never happened?
Neighbor: Make it one-fifty.
Me: Promise we’ll never speak of it again.
Neighbor: Done.
Me: I’ll get the checkbook.
Who knows how much more the dog will cost me with her premature geriactrification? All I know for now is that I’m out a hundred and fifty bucks, and there’s one more neighbor I can’t look in the eye. I could have accomplished that on my own. Damned dog. Bah.
Permalink | 9 CommentsSo. It’s another new year. And as the curtain opens on another jaunt around the sun, thoughts turn to a subject treasured by many of us, at least for a few days every January: New Years resolutions.
I made some resolutions this year. At least, I tried to. For the past decade or so, my wife has assumed veto power over my prospective resolutions. It’s for my own good, really — there was some unpleasantness a few years ago. Apparently, ‘finally sticking it to the man’ isn’t an appropriate goal for the year. Not if your definition of ‘sticking it’ involves fire hoses and flaming bags of horse poop, anyway.
So these days, I run my resolutions past the boss. And she has little patience for any New Years nonsense.
You can imagine how badly this goes.
This year, I decided I’d resolve to grow dimples.
She wasn’t having any of it. “Dimples? You can’t just grow dimples.”
I begged to differ. With a good screwdriver and a little patience, I could totally give myself dimples. It worked fine back in grade school, when little Tommy Donovan wanted us to turn his ‘outie’ into an ‘innie’. And he’s doing just fine without a spleen. It’s completely safe.
Vetoed.
“Apparently, ‘finally sticking it to the man’ isn’t an appropriate goal for the year. Not if your definition of ‘sticking it’ involves fire hoses and flaming bags of horse poop, anyway.”
My wife tried to soften the blow with a redirect:
“Why don’t you resolve to better yourself somehow? Take a class, or lose weight, or emulate a personal hero or something.”
“Those all seem like very reasonable ide- hey, did you just call me fat?”
“Well, who couldn’t stand to lose a few pounds after the holidays?”
“Good point. I’ll get the screwdriver; how much do you think a spleen weighs, anyway?”
She talked me out of that idea, too. What’s the point of owning screwdrivers if you never get to use them? Sheesh.
Gently, she steered me back to the ‘hero’ idea. I’m sure she was hoping I’d resolve to be more like Ghandi or Martin Luther King or that guy on Blues Clues who seems to get along with everybody. She’s so cute when she’s optimistic:
“So name a hero you could emulate.”
“I dunno. Ozzy Osbourne?”
“Try again.”
“Eric Cartman?”
“Lord, no.”
“Ford?”
“Gerald, or Henry?”
“Prefect.”
“Maybe we should try something else.”
Finally, she suggested that I might resolve to better the world around me. But she didn’t like any of those ideas, either. I don’t think she’s very philanthropic, when you get right down to it. Still, I tried:
“All that driving to work uses up a lot of gas. I could stop doing that.”
“You mean, start taking the bus?”
“No, I mean stop going to work.”
“Not a chance.”
“I could poop in the yard, to save on fertilizer.”
“We don’t use fertilizer.”
“But we could. I bet I’m chock full of phosphates.”
“No doubt. You’re still not pooping in the yard.”
“I can’t believe you’d waste all these phospates. Why do you hate Mother Earth so?”
“Look, I give up. Resolve whatever you want. I’m going to bed.”
So in the end, she was no real help. All those good ideas, shot down with vetos until she finally gave up. And now I can resolve whatever my little heart desires.
Looks like it’s back to fire hoses and horse poop. “The man” better watch his back in ’07, baby. It’s shaping up to be a good year.
Permalink | 1 CommentWell, I give up.
Clearly, in the pre-holiday brouhaha my daily near-daily weekdaily posting schedule just isn’t going to work out. I tried catching up on the weekends for a while, but it’s not easy writing two or three of these posts in one day. Spewing that much nonsense tends to chafe after a while.
It’s not surprising, really. I tend to shut down for a couple of weeks every year as late December looms. Call it the holiday blahs, if you like. A Christmas funk. The horror of the hoarfrost.
(No, I don’t actually know what ‘hoarfrost’ is. I always figured it was something that afflicts people in Eskimo cathouses.
And I imagine it’s very painful.)
At any rate, I end up spending most Decembers in autopilot mode. Surviving the holidays is a little like a trip to the doctor — I sit as quietly as possible, keep my mind occupied with other things, and hope no one asks me to bend over and say, ‘ahhhh‘.
(Don’t laugh. You’ve never met my Uncle Jerry.
That’s not a guy you want around if you drop your egg nog, if you know what I’m saying.)
“I tend to shut down for a couple of weeks every year as late December looms. Call it the holiday blahs, if you like. A Christmas funk. The horror of the hoarfrost.”
The point is, I’m calling a time out. Or at least acknowledging the pregnant between-post pauses of late, and chalking it up to a case of ’tis the season. I’m not saying I won’t post more nonsense before New Years; it’s just becoming clear that I won’t have the energy to bust my hump into a regular writing schedule before then.
And if you think that’s bad, you should see my email backlog. To everyone I haven’t responded to since, say, Halloween, I can only say: I’m sorry. I’ll reply soon. And, you know, happy Thanksgiving and holidays and such. I hope that rash of yours has cleared up.
I suppose this time of year is the season to do things we wouldn’t normally do. If it’s not neglecting to find time to write, it’s eating cookies and candies and rum-smothered fruitcakes. Or buying gifts for people we spent the past eleven months discouraging. Or sitting on fat bearded mens’ laps.
(I did mention my Uncle Jerry, right? That’s no candy cane in his pocket — but he is happy to see you.)
So with any luck, we’ll run into each other a few more times before Christmas. And with a little more luck, I’ll be back to a regular posting schedule before the end of the year. And with a lot of luck, maybe Uncle Jerry will stay home this year.
And if not, well… there’s always the fruitcake. Make mine a double.
Permalink | 6 CommentsSometimes, it just doesn’t pay to be greedy.
I worked late at the office tonight, and by eight o’clock, I was starving. I’d only had a puny salad and a hard-boiled egg for lunch, because… well, frankly, I have plenty of unhealthy things in my life already. If eating a bowl of rabbit food occasionally means that I don’t have to give up any of the other vices, then it’s worth it.
I said, ‘occasionally‘.
“I could hardly contain myself as I sprinted down the stairs to what I was sure would be a Wonka-esque wonderland of crispy chips, flavored popcorns, and other delicious, highly processed, overpreserved, and largely artificial treats.”
At any rate, that spinach and cucumber crap wasn’t doing me any good at half-past-dinnertime. I typically only use the company snack vending machines in emergencies — but this was an emergency, dammit. So I grabbed a fistful of quarters and hit the vending machines in search of rations.
This was my first trip to the new, improved, and reportedly breathtaking bank of vending machines in the upper lobby of our building. The management had recently seen fit to augment our single, lonely vending device with a whole second machine full of goodies, and marked the arrival with much pomp, in the form of a company-wide email. I could hardly contain myself as I sprinted down the stairs to what I was sure would be a Wonka-esque wonderland of crispy chips, flavored popcorns, and other delicious, highly processed, overpreserved, and largely artificial treats.
(Hey, I had a salad for lunch. I don’t want my stomach getting entirely used to that healthy garbage.
Don’t look at me that way. What are you, my mother?)
Finally, I arrived at the vending area, flushed with excitement — and exertion from running down two flights of stairs. Clearly, I needed something salty and fried to boost my energy. For medical reasons.
(It’s complicated; you probably wouldn’t understand.
I’m not a doctor, but I play one in my head sometimes.)
My first disappointment came as I peered into the goody machines, and found that they contained exactly the same products. Ruffles over here, Ruffles over there. Popcorn over here, popcorn over there. Fritos here, Fritos there, everywhere a Freet-Freet. I could double my DoubleMint if I wanted, but as tempting as QuadrupleMint gum might sound, I was in the market for something more substantial. And preferably, a larger selection. I guess they figured if the machines were identical, they might actually manage to keep one of them full of crap occasionally, unlike the solo one that stays empty six days a week. It’s a theory, I guess.
But there was no time for waxing philosophical; the pocket change was shaking in my hand as I lay there in the lobby, gasping my last starving breaths. That’s where our resident rent-a-cop found me, when he walked in to freshen up his coffee.
Me: *gasp* *pant* Unnnhh…
Security Guard: You gettin’ food there, bub?
Me: Oh. Um, yeah. Just getting some food.
Security Guard: You wanna get out of the floor?
Me: Uhh, sure. Yeah, I can do that.
Security Guard: Good. How about not hamming it up so much next time?
Me: Hey, you got it. I’ll do that.
Security Guard: All right, then. Carry on.
(Yes, I have to kiss our rent-a-cop’s ass. They give the guy a nightstick — and I have a tender skull. What can I tell you?)
So, I was left alone to contemplate my choice. That’s when I got greedy. I noticed one machine was almost out of these little bags of baked pita chips. Delicious baked pita chips. With cinnamon and sugar. I nearly drooled on my pants, just seeing them there. And I was infinitely relieved the security guard had already left. Those guys tend to frown on public drooling during their watch.
There were only two bags left in the machine, and one of them was hanging, oh-so-tantalizingly, on the outside of the spring that turns to dispense the goodies into the hopper. Some poor sap had deposited a buck for a bag of cinnamon-flavored heaven, and gotten stonewalled by a defective mechanism. I could almost see the rube, shaking and banging at the machine, trying to loose that bag from the machine’s clutches. And then finally, dejectedly, slinking away chipless and defeated.
You can see where this is leading, of course.
In my highly starvitated state, I leapt at the chance to score two tasty bags of treats for the price of one. I slung my quarters into the slot, jabbed at the buttons, and watched that beautiful spring twist both bags toward the open air inside the machine.
*twist*… *twist*… *twist*… *twi-*
The spring stopped. The second bag had marched forward, and crammed itself into the first bag. I mean, it was all over it. If the bags have any reproductive parts on their persons, then there’ll be a little baby bag of pita chips on the way soon. It was almost obscene to look at.
But the first bag didn’t fall.
Oh, it leaned. If it was tantalizingly close to falling before, now it was positively precarious. It was hanging on by one tiny measly corner of the bag, as though the laws of physics and fair play had been suspended inside the vending machine. The bags mocked me from their perch, with their mouthwatering pictures and the scandalous satisfaction implied by their RDA warning labels.
And just like that, I was the rube. I shook the machine. I banged the machine. As quietly as I could without alerting the security guard, I rocked the machine, trying to loose those bags from the machine’s clutches.
And then finally, dejectedly, I slunk away chipless. And defeated.
Some might say the moral of the story is ‘That’s what happens when you give in to greed.’ Others might say, ‘You’re better off without that unhealthy garbage‘ or ‘You could stand to lose a few pounds anyway, there, Tubbo.‘
(To these people, I say: ‘You can shove it up your Frito-hole, ugly.
Also, shut up. I’m just ‘big-boned’. Meany.‘)
Me, I think the moral is: ‘If you manage to choke down nasty rabbit food for lunch, make sure you have a bag of Doritos and a Snickers bar handy, or you’ll be miserable all night.‘
It’s either that, or I’m gonna need a glass cutter to ‘rescue’ those stinking bags of chips from the new vending machine. I like the first way better, though. Seems less likely to get my tender noggin nightsticked, and it comes with nacho-flavored snack chips. That’s a moral I can live with.
Permalink | No CommentsMy computer is dying.
Luckily for me, I bought a shiny new laptop a few weeks ago. So I won’t be left completely in the lurch when the desktop machine finally gives up the motherboard. That doesn’t make it any easier.
“I’m not sure Cartoon Network video clips and a Hello Kitty screensaver qualify as ‘essential software’.”
First, there’s the noise. It’s not just a loud noise; it’s frankly a little bit disturbing. I’ve had cranky fans and drives and power supplies before. Usually, when one of those goes south, it sounds like a motorboat, or an airplane taking off. This sounds more like a yodelling cow being fed through a wood chipper.
Not that I’d know what that sounds like, exactly. For one thing, it’s very difficult to train a cow to yodel. I’m just saying.
Meanwhile, I’m a little afraid to use the machine. Or for that matter, to walk into the room. The thing sounds possessed — who knows when it’ll decide to shoot a CD-ROM at me, or strangle me with a ribbon cable?
(To be fair, the ribbon cable is only three feet long. The computer couldn’t possibly choke me with that, though it might be cute to watch it try.
Those CDs could hurt, though. I saw Maximum Overdrive; I don’t trust that hunk of mooing metal as far as I could heave it. It’s been wanting to get its transistors on me ever since I put that cheap RAM into it to save some cash.
I should have realized something was up when the chips were labeled ‘memoree‘. I guess Play-Skool isn’t as reliable an electronics brand as I was led to believe. That’s the last time I take computer advice from Elmo.)
Anyway, I suppose it’s time to get all of my important files off the old girl before it’s too late. Now, if only I had important files. I’m not sure Cartoon Network video clips and a Hello Kitty screensaver qualify as ‘essential software’.
(I mean, um, I’m not sure Madden NFL and hard rock MP3s qualify. That’s it.
Oh, and porn. Lots and lots of porn. Yeah, that’s what I meant.
Whew. That was close.)
All I’m hoping now is that the damned computer lasts through the holidays. I can’t very well treat myself to a new computer for Christmas, when I’m supposed to be shopping for other people. Especially when everybody in my family’s getting a five-dollar bill and a bag of chips this year. I can defend that when I’m getting miserable crappy gifts, too. But if I buy a new computer, too, then I’m a Scrooge, not a Grinch.
And I like being a Grinch. I’ve got the dog already, and frankly, I’m allergic to ghosts. And poor children with crutches. And eighteenth-century England.
So that loud creaky box in the office will just have to limp along for another couple of weeks. That’s all there is to it. And when it’s finally appropriate and socially acceptable, I’ll replace the clunky thing.
I’m thinking December twenty-sixth. Say, ten a.m.? It’s a date.
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