Workin' for a Living

Everybody thinks that working at home is just great, and I’m not complaining but it certainly isn’t as ideal as most people think. First of all, if one is on a project that is somewhat boring—and that happens to me all the time--so many distractions are available such as friends, family, dogs, laundry, food, and saving bugs from drowning and going to a watery grave in the pool. I, single- handedly, have probably saved the entire population of wood beetles in North Georgia. I can’t stand to see them floating on the water, paddling frantically with their little spindly legs and getting nowhere, so I scoop them up with my net and dump them into the monkey grass where they are probably immediately consumed by other insects (or by one another).

You can learn a lot from insects drowning in a pool. In many ways they are like some people. You try to bail them out, but they keep jumping out of the net right back into their original circumstances. But I persist. I’m a one-person insect interventionist.

So I usually drag myself out of bed when some idiot calls me at 8:00 a.m. or so, known as morning business hours for many, but for me known as “I stayed up until 1:00 a. m. last night, you inconsiderate morny-mornington!” Then I do my best to stumble my way through a hall full of dogs that are eager to greet me and to keep one another from doing same. Dogs eat first, then me, and finally I sit down to work with a cup of coffee by my side. Now mind you, this is a flexible routine if I’m pre-warned that it must be flexed, and that’s all I require. Otherwise, I work away with hair greatly askew and pajama-clad until midmorning when I take my now-caffeinated body into the shower.

After 20 years, we are getting a new roof, by necessity, unfortunately. We’ve arranged with an insurance man to come and look at the roof before the project begins in the off chance that we may have some hail damage. I’ve prayed for hail damage as our neighbors have had one, even two replacements, but no such luck and I don’t think acorn damage counts. Even though I’ve been hit in the head with those things quite a lot now that fall is here and those damn things hurt. One even bounced through the door (propped open for dogs) and almost got me as I toiled at the computer.

Anyway, all I ask is for a pre-schedule-change warning but this morning as I saved insects out in the pool clad in my pajamas and in a generally frazzled state, a large flatbed covered with a tarp stopped at the bottom of our driveway and men began jumping from the cab. Oh my gosh, I’d been over this a thousand times with Jack. The roofers were to arrive on Thursday and it’s Tuesday! The dogs are going nuts. I run to the bedroom and frantically start to try and dress myself and make myself look better without first pounding down my Einstein hair with a focused funnel of shower water. There is no remedy. I call Jack who is at an airport in Texas. This week he went from Alabama to California to Texas. I saw him for five hours during the California/Texas layover. As I’m scrambling to get dressed, Jack is calling the roofing office secretary who calls the roofers to tell them they are scheduled for Thursday, not Tuesday. By the time I run outside they’re gone with only a big pile of shingles in the driveway as evidence that they were here.

Okay, now I can take a shower since I’ve worked up quite a sweat. While in the shower, the phone rings. It’s Jack telling me that the roofers are leaving and he’s getting on a plane. I get back in the shower and the dogs go wild again. I keep hearing jingle, jingle, jingle. It sounds like a cowbell. It’s too early for Santa Clause, but now I hear men calling and whistling and jingle, jingle, jingle running through the woods around our house. I get dressed and head down the driveway to discover the source of the annoying sound. My flip flop hits a rock and I catch my skidding fall with the front of all of my bare front toes. As I limp back to the house, a hound dog runs past me jingling all the way. I try to call it but it disappears into a nearby wooded lot. More whistles and calls from afar. Damn it! I get in my Jeep and ride in the direction of the calls only to find two men completely clad in hunting gear with rifles slung over their shoulders holding and patting the dog. I roll down my windows and tell them the dog was on my street. “I tried to call him but I didn’t know his name,” I say.

“Well neither do we!” Har-har-har. I’d like to ask, “What kind of an ass goes around shooting poor, helpless animals out of a field that is the only patch of undeveloped land left in the area?” However, I don’t think it’s a good idea to irritate armed men. So I turn around and go back home, only to hear jingle, jingle, jingle followed by canine madness. The guy is taking a leisurely walk down my street with his hunting dog, rifle in tow! Wow. At least the dog is wearing a bell so that the deer can hear him coming. Stupid is as stupid does.

As Christopher Walken says, “I’ve got a fever and the prescription is more cowbell!”

It’s now past noon. Guess I’d better take another look at the pool. Then I’ll get to work. Yeah, right.

Becoming a Dog

(Bear and London as pups, six months ago.)

In my many hours of human isolation as a member of the pack, I think that I am becoming a dog. Although I will never meet such high levels as that species; I aspire to it. I would rather reach the spiritual level of a dog than that of a human, because that of a dog seems so much purer. Oh yeah, people will say that is because canines don’t have the intellect of a human. Thank Dog!—or the dyslectic equivalent thereof.

The American Indians, if I understand correctly, see wolves as mentors for the method of bringing up children and preserving society. Wolves are definitely a better role model than that of humans in many ways. However, it makes me sad that the Lone Wolf, the one that goes out on its own, is sought after and killed because of its threat to the rest of the pack. I wonder if Bear, our Newfoundland-mix rescue, fits into that category. David rescued Bear right before Bear was euthanized, and I later discovered that black dogs (and cats for that matter) are euthanized more often than any other animals.

Despite the fact that Bear has adjusted quite well with every dog (and person) around him, he looks like Stephen King’s Cujo—big, black, with large, white wolf teeth, and, at times of absolute affection (which are many), he nibbles you relentlessly not realizing the pain that he is inflicting. (We’re working on that, but it’s very endearing.) Honestly, I was horrified of him when we first brought him home and when he wouldn’t come in at night. I slowly backed away after trying my best to cajole him inside when he glared back at me with those glow-in-the-dark gold eyes. Okaay then, stay out here if you like. Do dogs judge one another by their covers? We’ll never know, but I can tell you that Bear’s cover was nothing but that—a sheep in wolf’s clothing. We rescued him from his first placement because the other dogs were attacking him, despite his threatening dogsona.

What a baby! He whines, cries, and begs like a spoiled child. He climbs on everyone’s laps and tries to curl into a ball, not realizing that he is a 75-plus-pound beast that looks like a killer wolf. He wraps his paw around your leg when he wants your full attention and relentlessly licks the smallest wounds, such as a mosquito bite, that he spots on your skin. We are still working with his need to jump up and wrap his big arms around anyone’s neck without invitation, as he did when I first said hello to the big fella. I said, “So this is Bear,” and he jumped up immediately and hugged me tight as if to say, please take me home and love me. That habit is a tough one to break, because it does tend to melt one's heart.

Tonight I took poor old Moses, who is deteriorating as I speak, on a trek through the woods to retrieve the mail. It was dark and I made the younger two rapscallions stay behind and me and my old pugmeister traipsed through the undergrowth. Moses seemed very happy, but breathless, as I stopped for him on several occasions. One of those stops was our pet cemetery filled with the memories of mostly dogs, but also rabbits, mice, and a memorable ferret, all loved ones who have added many happy stories to my life.

Last week at PetSmart a rescue pit bull being walked for a pit stop halted dead in its tracks and wagged its entire body as it stretched toward me. “Wow,” said the handler, “I’ve never seen him react to someone that way. Maybe you could take him home!”

I would love to have taken him home, but I can only afford three dogs right now, and truthfully, I can’t afford those. The thing that bothers me is those people who will only take the purebreds. In 30 years, I’ve had two purebreds myself, but the rest were these little mutts that make the best of pets. But even discarded purebreds are waiting to be rescued, for gosh sakes, if people didn’t have that puppy fixation.

Like I said, I’ve only had two purebreds in my life, but I can’t distinguish the joy I had from them from any of the others. This old Bear reminds me of Jack and these two most recent dogs (Bear and London, the American Eskimo-who knows what mix) despite my worries, took an immediate attraction to each other. Bear has a beastly approach, but is a sweetheart beneath. He growls sometimes, but craves affection, even though he doesn’t seem to want to admit it. He jumps into your lap with the impact of a fullback and receives hugs magnanimously. I fell in love with London via an online rescue, and when Jack tried to get me to cancel him due to Bear’s unexpected arrival, there wasn’t a chance that I could do so. The two fell in love at first sight.

London is like a little red fox devil. He wants attention, but only on his terms. He likes to cause trouble and aggravates Bear relentlessly and Bear puts up with his shenanigans good-naturedly, to an extent. London is a little loner with a bent sense of humor that nevertheless seems to get his feelings hurt unexpectedly. Bear and London are unlikely, but inseparable friends and companions.

Oh my God, we just adopted the better version of ourselves!

Deep TV

Those Viva Viagra commercials aro so cringe-inducing that I have to leave the room when they're on, not because of the subject matter but because of the hokiness. What must they pay those guys to "star" in them? Somebody has something on those guys and it must be something horrible.

But the ones I really can't figure out are the Cialis commercials--what do two claw-footed bathtubs, side-by-side on an elevated deck out on the beach have to do with erectile dysfunction? First of all, who put those tubs out there, and why? Plus, if a guy is having that particular problem, shouldn't he at least try getting into the same tub as the woman? How do they get water in those things? If they have to load it all out in buckets, because I don't see any plumbing, the guy is probably too tired to do anything else. Water is very heavy. How many years have they been doing this? They don't need Cialis, they need indoor plumbing and one bathtub.

And what about those air freshener commercials with animated animals wearing clothes? What the hell does an octopus, a kangaroo, or a chameleon have to do with air freshener? Did somebody luck onto some free graphics discarded by Disney? In one of these ads, an elephant's husband is a centipede! Now that's just wrong.

I looked over at Jack and asked, "How can that be?!" (Of course, I had accepted that an elephant wearing clothes had a picture of her insect husband framed on the wall.)

"I don't know, hon," he answered with way too much disinterest.

Maybe the centipede should take some of that Viagra or Cialis because that couple's kids aren't elephants OR centipedes. They're not even elepedes or centiphants. Next thing you know, I'll be seeing those two on Cheaters or Divorce Court. Mark my words.