Smelly Old Man needs to learn some Poundaries. He thinkses that he gets to pick me up whenever he wants to, but I don’t let him. Sometimes when other peoples come over, he wants to put me in the other room so I can’t give them loves and jumps and kisseses, and when he tries to pick me up, I have to snap at him. I haven’t had to bite him yet, but he has to learn. We all have our Poundaries.
This week I’m doing my first interview with renownededed human specialist, Melanie Cone, who knew my Smelly Old Man before I did. She usually stays in the bedroom in her urn, but when Smelly Old Man goes out with Pretty Girl, Melanie comes to talk to me.
Me: Hi, Melanie Cone! Smelly Old Man thinkses about you lots and lots of times, you know.
Melanie: I would hope so since I was his Loverdy Doverdy Puppy. We were together for lots of the cold times and the warm times… I think it was like ten of each. We had lots of lovesers. I liveded inside his heart and soul for all those times. I only trieded to bite him once, and that was when I was getting near the end of my timesers on Earth and he gave me some pets, but he touched a place that hurteded me, so I snapped a little bit.
Me: Did he getteded mad at you when you did that? He gets mad at me when I do.
Melanie: No. I think I scareded him too much. I was lots bigger than you. He used to be able to pick me up when I was little, and even for a while when I got Biggerer. But then we both getteded sicker and sicker, and he couldn’t lift me up, and I couldn’t even jump up on the bed any more times. That was a sad part.
Me: Well what DID he do then?
Melanie: He waiteded a little while, and then came and gave me kisseses and said about how he was all sorry that he hurteded me. He won’t ever hurt you on purposes.
Me: I know. Sometimes I just get mad at him.
Melanie: On my Last Day when the man came over with the stick with a little sharp thing in it, My Fred sitteded next to me and gave me lots of loves and pets, and he kept on trying not to let me see him cry, but I knew he was having a Sad. I was sad because I knoweded that he wouldn’t have any more lovesers like we had.
Me: I give him as many as I can.
Melanie: I have to go back to the universe now. I think you understand about that part.
Me: Thank you, Melanie Cone for taking care of Smelly Old Man before I could.
I love The Smelly Old Man, but I don’t think he’s The Perkiest Puppy in The Pound. A lot of the times he’s about ready to go to The Room Where The Dogsers Don’t Come Back, and he just sleeps through it.
Sometimes he stops breathinging. I can hear him even when I am having my Sleepy Time. When I feel his tummy going up and down it helps me to go to The Place Where There’s No Wallsers or Fenceses and I Can Zoomie and Get All The Peoples Who Try To Come In My Backyard. Then his tummy stops moving, and I have to come back and jump on him so he openses his eyesers and sits up. He doesn’t like it, but he gives me kisseses anyway and tells me I’m The Best Good Boy. I already knew that, but I think it makes him feel important to tell me. He’s a silly Smelly Old Man.
Sometimes I can smell he’s getting in trouble. He smells like lots of fruitsers and I have to get him up so he can go into the place with the round chair with a hole in it and stick himself with one of the little toysers I don’t get to chew on. Sometimes he loses all his smells and then it’s really hard to make him sit up and get some loves. I have to jump on him lots of times. I have to use my whiskerses to wake him up and I have to get under his hand so he has to give me pets and loves. One time I had to get off the bed and get a running start from the floor so I landeded on his chest so hard he jumpeded up like a dog he didn’t like was sniffing his butt.
Once he’s up we go out into the big room and he does his Worksers. I wait until Pretty Girl comes in her big metal thing with the round parts at the bottom to take him away before I can do my worksers. She should come and see him more times because he’s always Shinier after she does, and then I could do more Dogcasts. All the other hoomans know mine is better than his.
It’s not his fault. He likes to talk a lot, but he doesn’t talk about anything that really matters. He never talks about Treatsers. He doesn’t think about which toysers are best for when you want to chew the soft things and take out the floofsers. Since he gets all sad when I do that, he needs to get me better toysers I can chew when I need soft ones instead of the ones that go clonk when I drop them.
As long as I can keep him alive, though, there’s still time for him to learn. I will help him. I’m Speedy Shine. That’s what I do.
There are worse hoomans than my Smelly Old Man. He loves me. I know, because he says so about 723 times a day. He gives lots of kisseses. He lets me get up on his lap when he is trying to do his worksers and when he has to talk to other hoomans whose faces show up, but I can’t jump on them and give them kisseses.
He’s too tired now to get crabby when I make my poopsers in The Room By The Outside. He just picks them up when there’s enough of them for it to be worth bending over to get them. He always uses all four of his paws when he trieses to get up. Sometimes he has to try more than one or two times. He falleded down the other Sunshine Time when he triededed to stand up. I gave him kisseses and then he could do it. Speedy Shine Kisseses have poopernatural powers.
I’ve been with him now for two Cold Times and a Warm Time. I make more poopsers in The Room By The Outside in the Cold Times because I don’t like to be in The Outside then. I get all shivery. But then I jump in The Smelly Old Man’s lap, and he warms me up.
I’ve met 9 other hoomans. He was here for 5 of them. Smelly Old Man gets mad at me when I jump on them, but I have to because otherwise they might not know how much I love them, and then that would be bad. Everyone needs to know that Speedy Shine loves them. That’s what I am here to do. Except one time for a minute when I was having a pee-pee time and one of the other hoomans thought she could pick me up, so I tried to bite her. I told her I was sorry later, but she wouldn’t let me give her any kisseses. She went away after that. Other hoomans never stay here for the long time.
When we have Sleepy Time, I get under the coverses and cuddle the Smelly Old Man. He tells me that I’m The Best Cuddler. Nobody else ever cuddles him, though, so how would HE know?
Sometimes during Sleepy Time, Smelly Old Man’s chest stops moving, so I have to jump on it. I put my whiskerses on his face, and sometimes I put myself under his paw, so he has to pet me. When he wakeses up I give kisseses and then I go back to sleep. He doesn’t get mad because he has Sleepy Time whenever he wants.
My other hooman before him used to get mad at me lots and lots, especially when I would chew the floofers in the soft things, so then he took me to The Place With The Other Dogsers. I was in a little cage. Smelly Old Man took me out of there, and now he’s mine. You can’t have him.
My dog, Speedy Shine, got under the covers the same as he did every night. It was Sleepy Time, and that always means cuddles. But that night he started nibbling on my right foot. I shook it off a few times, but he wouldn’t stop. He never does anything like that, so I became a little concerned. I took off my sock, and I was utterly horrified.
You have to understand I’m diabetic. I haven’t been able to feel my feet in years. I have only a tingling, and I could sense the force of Speedy Shine trying to get through my socks, but I don’t react to anything else happening there. I’m unaware of it. I didn’t know what to expect, but it wasn’t what I saw.
There was a hole at the bottom of one of my toes. I remember it as being the fourth toe, but the doctors all assure me it was the second. I looked only for the briefest of moments, and then I put on a fresh sock and didn’t want to look anymore. I’ll take their word for it. They looked longer and more closely than I did.
My sock was filled with a horrid goo. That was singularly unpleasant. I spent a sleepless night. I was sure this could not possibly be a good thing.
I contacted my Primary Care Physician the next morning, but I led with my need for a new C-Pap, a Continuous Glucose Monitor, and wanting to get my Lantus refilled, and I asked for a Zoom appointment. I was promptly shut down. They do that only for COVID patients now. I explained it was important. I’m afraid of people. They said they would check and call me back.
My best friend told me to go to the ER, but I thought she was overreacting. I waited.
I called the doctor two days later because I still hadn’t heard back. This time I led with the toe, and the girl that answers the phone acted as though I were stupid, and that obviously I needed to go to the ER. She mentioned something called Sepsis.
I called my best friend. She couldn’t come. She also couldn’t check on Speedy Shine. She had just decided to foster another dog, and she had to get right home after work to check on how well he was getting along with her other two dogs.
One of The People on The Porch came to my rescue. She took me to the ER as early as she could that evening, and then she came and made sure Speedy Shine was all right.
I waited for nearly four hours in the ER. There were many people in much worse shape than I was. All my vitals were great. My blood sugar was fine. It was just that my toe was going to fall off. I remember hoping they would just put some tape on it and send me home.
When they called me in and saw what was happening, they admitted me immediately. I began to freak out about Speedy Shine. He would have to spend the night alone in the backyard, and I was losing it with guilt. He should never ever have to do that.
The nurses hooked me up to IVs filled with antibiotics. I sat in my room trying to decide there were worthwhile things to be found on cable, and that commercials weren’t the Scourge of All Art. To its credit USA Network played all 3 Back to the Future movies… twice. I came in halfway through II, and then I watched the others. I didn’t hate that, but I could have done without the commercials.
The nurses were all very kind. They made sure I had enough to eat, and one of them, a wonderful woman named Delaney (yes, that’s her real name. I don’t know her last name.) even went down to the soda machine for me after hours to keep me in Diet Coke. (They didn’t have Diet Pepsi. Beggars can’t be choosers.)
The friend who had driven me to the ER went to check on the dog the next day. She told me the neighbor was complaining about Speedy Shine barking. My friend explained where I was and what was happening. The neighbor still seemed cranky. She threatened to call Animal Control and have him taken away. I went into a panic. Without Speedy Shine, it’s all over for me.
The following day my best friend and her boyfriend, who had taken him for a walk a couple of times, checked on Speedy Shine, and my best friend talked to my neighbor. My best friend knew her from when she used to live here. She introduced Speedy Shine to the neighbor, and the neighbor settled down. She said she wouldn’t call Animal Control. My stress level dropped significantly.
Another of The People on The Porch heard about my plight, and she hired her niece and a friend to drive out from Las Vegas to take care of Speedy Shine. That also dropped my stress level significantly. She conducted a fundraiser that allowed me to get a ton of food, a beautiful new microwave, some utensils, some candles, and some new sheets. They also cleaned my house from top to bottom. If I ever got out of the hospital, my home and my dog would be fantastic.
Her niece had to leave before I could get home, so Sherlock, The Mystery Patron, moved in with Speedy Shine even though she’s allergic to dogs. I guess he’s not hairy enough to cause her significant issues.
Throughout all of this, I was lying in a hospital bed… alone. My best friend couldn’t take me to the ER. She couldn’t come check on me that night. She couldn’t come when I had an MRI the next day. She couldn’t come when the surgeon who read the results told me I had a bone infection and that I could choose between amputation and six to eight weeks of IV antibiotics at home. I would be out of the hospital more quickly with amputation, but she recommended the IV. My problem is that I’m very bad at those kinds of things. It’s all I can do to remember to take my Lantus every night. I don’t know how to hook all that stuff up, and I cringe any time anyone inserts an IV into me. There were more than ample opportunities for me to screw it up and lose the toe, anyway. And I missed Speedy Shine so much it was physically painful. I discussed my options with several people, including my best friend, and while many of them also recommended the IVs, I didn’t think it was wise. I went into surgery alone. I came out to an empty waiting room. I learned, when I regained consciousness, however, that I still had all my toes. My surgeon is a genius. She managed to remove only the part of the bone that was infected, and she left the rest of it. She extracted a tiny piece of the “good bone” to test it. Thank you, Dr. Montes, for your brilliant work. I couldn’t be more grateful.
I shared the information on Facebook, and my friends were very kind. They expressed their relief and their pleasure that I was relatively all right.
My best friend visited me only twice during the entire adventure, and even then, I had to argue with her to get her to come. She had too many more important things to do. Her best friend needed to try on some dresses. She had to look at them with her before she could come by the hospital. That argument was the only time my blood sugar got too high while I was in the hospital. It ended up with us fighting while she was sitting in the parking lot of the hospital and me telling her not to bother to come up. For reasons passing understanding, she came up anyway, half an hour later. She had gotten me Church’s Chicken, which was kind, but she sat so long in the car that the food was ruined by the time I got it. To this day, we disagree about how she was showing me empathy. And then she learned a little about it.
Her legs were tingling. She was losing feeling in them. Something was obviously wrong. She went to doctors in search of answers. I was on the phone from my hospital bed with her as often as she would pick up, and I recommended getting more medical opinions. She thought she had Guillain-Barre syndrome. It can cause paralysis, but it will only last a month or so. The final diagnosis was worse. We’ll get to that in due course.
I sat in the hospital, hooked up to IVs, for another 48 hours after surgery waiting to see if the little piece of “good” bone Dr. Montes extracted would grow cultures from any left-over infection. The next morning she came in to tell me the results. There was no infection left. I was safe. I could go home.
Now I just had to wait for some company to call me to get a $9.00 co-pay for the walker I needed. I waited for 45 minutes. I waddled out to the front desk with the walker the hospital was letting me use. I offered to give them cash or my debit card so I could go. Before the nurse could answer me, the man from the office came out and started yelling at me. He told me they would call. I said he had told me that an hour ago. He said it was only a half hour, and he stormed off, leaving me no further means of communicating with him. I waited another 15 minutes, and then I called a friend, who I only that night learned was actually Sherlock, The Mystery Patron. I asked her to get me the cheapest walker she could find and come and get me out. She was there 20 minutes later with a Goodwill walker. She became my new hero. We left.
She took me to get prescriptions and we grabbed some Taco Bell before we got home. I thought Speedy Shine was going to have a heart attack when he saw me. I’ve never seen him so happy. I don’t recall having been that happy, either, in quite some time. It was a joyous reunion.
Sherlock spent the next couple of days with me, getting me the prescriptions that hadn’t been previously available, making me lists of what to take and when, and providing me with psychological counseling of a sort one wouldn’t expect from someone so young. Obviously, I developed stronger feelings for her than I was comfortable having, but I dealt with them. I’m Fred. I don’t have anything to do with women anymore.
My best friend called me the next day with devastating news: she has Muscular Sclerosis. This is a lifetime diagnosis, and there is little to be done beyond controlling symptoms. She needed to spend time hooked up to an IV to get infusions that would, we hoped, help her. I’m brokenhearted for her. I’m doing all I can to help and to show her the empathy I suspect she needs.
She originally intended to keep teaching and do her infusions between classes. I talked her out of that. This is a time when she has to think of herself first. The infusions turned out to be more difficult than she had anticipated. She experiences pain from them sometimes. There was no way she could have handled this in her classroom. We’ve discussed how the universe reacts to things. She understands a little better what I went through in the hospital, but, of course, her MS is much worse than my infection. We’ll be doing a GoFundMe to help with her medical bills soon. I hope you’ll help. She’s already out a couple thousand dollars, and we’re just beginning. I’ll put it on my Facebook page when she’s ready.
Today I’m safely home. I’ve talked to a Social Worker who thinks I can get help from Meals on Wheels, perhaps find a place that will allow me to pay a third of my income as rent, and get some help with bathing, cooking, and cleaning. I talked to a Physical Therapist who is helping me to walk with my walker. The surgeon is pleased with how well my toe is doing. She rewrapped it, and she put a splint on it to keep it safe.
I’m playing Sara Niemietz’s new album, “Superman” repeatedly. It helps to keep me grounded, and “Four Walls” is reminding me that things will get better. I secretly believe, without any evidence whatsoever, that it was written for me. It’s an absolutely Fred song. I’m hoping to have an autographed copy next week. If you haven’t heard it, you really need to check it out.
I’m living, as you’ve probably deduced if you’ve listened to my last few episodes, in an untenable situation. The cheapest place to rent where I live is $1500 a month, unless I want to rent a room from someone. Those run around $600. I won’t survive that experience. I do very poorly around others. I need to be alone.
My Disability, after having taught Elementary School for 29 years, is $1363 a month. I can’t possibly get another job. My body simply won’t tolerate it. I was on the precipice of another trip to the hospital this week with Diabetic Ketoacidosis. I didn’t do anything outrageous. I spent some time getting up and down from the floor trying to make my monitors work with the beautiful new desktop on which I’m writing this. That exhausted me. At 4 PM I woke up when my alarm went off. It’s to remind me to take my Lantus, which is a long-acting form of insulin, and to call my mother. I felt like I had been run over by a steamroller. Everything hurt. I was nauseous. I called Mom and faked my way through it so she wouldn’t know I was sick. I took my Lantus. I checked my blood sugar. It was 521.
For those who don’t know, doctors want your blood sugar to be between 80 and 120. Anything over 400 is almost always going to turn into DKA. I’ve been in the hospital with that condition 15 times in the last several years. My doctor described it to me as my blood turning into acid and trying to kill me from the inside. It generally requires a minimum of 3 days in the hospital. The first two are usually spent in Intensive Care. Statistically, most people don’t survive more than 4 incidents of DKA. Had I gotten any sicker and survived, I would have made it 4 times as long as science expects me to live.
There was a physical aspect to my flirtation with death. There was also an emotional aspect. My PTSD was in full force, set off by someone being incredibly kind to me. I’m going to refer to her as Lady Dalrymple. (Read some Jane Austen.) She has bought me incredibly expensive groceries I could never possibly afford. She bought me a crock pot in which to cook the spareribs I can’t cook in my oven because it doesn’t work. She sent Speedy Shine 40 pounds of kibble and more than a dozen cans of fancy food. How could anyone be any kinder than that? She found a way.
She’s heard my show. She’s read my work. She doesn’t believe I should have to live this way. She offered me the downstairs portion of her house, rent-free, for as long as I want. It’s a beautiful home. It has a fenced backyard for Speedy Shine. It’s everything I could want. It’s Paradise. So, how could this be a problem for me?
Those who have been around a while will recall that just a little over a year ago, someone else made me the same offer. I was properly skeptical. When something seems too good to be true… Nevertheless, after much discussion, I accepted the offer. I haven’t been in a position to decline a place to live for more than a decade. The results were disastrous. The rent-free home with a fenced backyard turned into a $750 a month trailer with water that needed to be changed twice weekly. The privacy I had been promised turned into thrice daily assaults on my character. I spent 64 days hearing about my faults. I spent a lot of money to get there, and when the gun came out and the only friend who had the audacity to visit was threatened, I spent what was left of my Disability backpay to escape. Without the help of my friend, I would certainly have died there. I arrived here broke, and I promptly went to the hospital for 3 days because I went into Diabetic Ketoacidosis.
My California “Home”
I’ve been safely installed here for just shy of a year.
I told my best friend I wanted to talk to her last night because she is the only person with whom I can discuss something this huge. It went poorly to say the least. She was repeatedly interrupted while I was experiencing a low-level panic attack, and my Rejection Sensitivity kicked me in the teeth. She and I have discussed that at length. She is well aware of my condition. All I had time to get from her was that it would be better for both her and her ex-boyfriend, who is being kind enough to rent me this place at a price I can afford and that, thankfully, covers the internet and all the utilities, if I left.
This underlined in flashing neon lights that I am a liability. She can’t get married with her ex-boyfriend living with her since few men feel good about such an arrangement. He can’t sell this place and move on with his life if I’m here. I live on their charity. This has been discussed at greater length in earlier episodes. I won’t go any deeper into it here.
That night, Speedy Shine held me together, and only barely.
We finally had an opportunity the next night to discuss it without interruption. We’re thinking of trying to find me something called Section 8 Housing. All I know about Section 8 comes from M*A*S*H, and I’m really not Klinger.
What was the problem?
The thought of moving somewhere far away and living for free obviously brought back my feelings of terror from a year ago. I flashed repeatedly on images of my cell phone vibrating and sounds of its beeping to tell me that another assault on my integrity was waiting to be read. If I ignored it, you could be sure the landlord would walk the 100 feet from his house to my trailer to tell me what was wrong with me. And he would yell. If I tried to defend myself, I would be called a “fucking liar,” and the yelling would increase. I learned to be quiet. I haven’t been confident talking to anyone beyond my best friend, my mother, and the man who pulled me out of there, since. I don’t believe I ever will be again.
When you hear me talking to you here, you may be sure every word was carefully written, proofread repeatedly and ineffectively, (I can’t tell you how many times I have to correct it during the recording, or, worse I find an error on my Word Press site.) and edited repeatedly. If you hear it on my show, I promise it’s gone through not fewer than 5 drafts. I communicate carefully because I want to be sure I’m saying it as honestly and accurately as I can. I can’t be sure to get it right in a conversation.
I’m perfectly comfortable at my keyboard. It allows me to make mistakes without any more complaint than the little red or blue lines it uses to show me where it thinks I’m wrong. It doesn’t tell me I’m The Scum of The Earth. It just suggests what it believes, often erroneously, is a better way to write something. I’m grateful when it catches typos. I won’t, just yet, substitute an algorithm’s judgment for 50 years of writing experience.
I am going to spend quite some time considering the offer, but first I have to remember that most people are genuinely kind. Most people are caring, compassionate, and empathetic. The evidence to back that claim is overflowing throughout the last 6 years of my life. My friends have saved me, in various ways, more times than I can count. I think someday I may make an Excel sheet in which I try to record them all. There would be at least 15 entries for saving my life by getting me to the hospital when I went into DKA. That doesn’t count the times they have given me money to save my car, to pay my rent, to put my dog to rest, to buy me groceries, or just because they wanted to help me out. At the same time, the memories of California keep haunting me and the Prosecutor Who Lives in My Head keeps taunting me, asking me how stupid I am. Am I really dumb enough to make the same mistake twice?
The Prosecutor
Prosecutor: You’re blaming me for your problems… again?
Fred: I’m simply pointing out that you like to tell me what’s wrong with me. It’s much less pleasant than one might think.
Prosecutor: Without recognizing your flaws and faults, you can’t possibly hope to correct them. I keep you from hiding from reality. And the reality is that you’re a liability. Your existence costs everyone around you money. You are a pathetic dependent child. I understand why you’re tempted by The Offer, but are you also going to be stupid? Mr. Scott told you more than 40 years ago, “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.” You’re inviting shame… Again.
Fred: Lady Dalrymple has already shown me she is capable of great kindness. She’s not Anthony Tagonist. There’s no reason to believe she’s lying to me.
Prosecutor: She doesn’t need to be lying to you. It’s a question of how much anyone can tolerate you. History shows that it’s never long. And then you will be stuck again. You must find the means to be independent. It’s your only chance of survival.
Fred: I can’t imagine how I could do that. There’s no job I can possibly do. Someone offered me some proofreading work, but I still miss things in my own writing. I couldn’t make that work, and I’ll embarrass myself. It’s not like I can go work at a convenience store or something. I wind up in DKA from nearly any physical exertion.
Prosecutor: We’re pursuing the means to do that at this very moment. Your podcast.
Fred: After 3 years, I’m managing to put between 3 and 400 dollars a month into the bank. I could stop supporting other artists, but the difference wouldn’t be enough to provide me with any sort of independence. It would just allow me a few more days before I run out at the end of every month.
Prosecutor: Then there appears to be only one solution.
Fred: I tried that the other night. I went into the bathroom and got my Humalog pen. I took it into the bedroom so I could say goodbye to Speedy Shine. He turned his back on me for the first time in his life. He was obviously feeling angry and betrayed. I told him my best friend would find him another family, but he jumped off of the bed.
Speedy Shine: I need your love, not someone else’s. I give you all the loves and kisseses and cuddlers you ever needed, and you want to leave me. That is not is a good Fred. I need you. Just my Smelly Old Man. Nobody else for Speedy Shine. That’s all.
Speedy Shine
So, I don’t know what to do. I see only one reasonable alternative. I don’t believe it will arrive in time to help me. We need some form of Universal Basic Income. We need to change our priorities from money to people. The question, “Who’s going to pay for it?” has become offensive to me. There’s no question that we have the resources to ensure everyone has their basic needs met. I don’t even want a car. I would just like to be able to live without depending on the kindness of strangers. I contributed what I could to the world. I continue to do that in the only way possible for me.
This would be the solution for me. It would be the solution for countless millions of others, as well. Many people are in worse shape than I am, but you probably don’t know them. The argument that this would cause runaway inflation has not only been disproven repeatedly, but it also says that money matters more than people. It doesn’t. Not on this Porch.
This country began in an effort to throw off the power of a King over the citizens of this country. The first three words of the preamble are, “We The People,” and they’re written larger and prouder than all the rest. The idea was to give freedom to all of us. We wanted to end the idea of serfs and feudal lords. We wanted everyone to be able to live their lives in freedom.
We’ve certainly made progress, but we live with an economic system that makes meaningful freedom impossible for millions of people. Unless I begin to earn $2000 a month from my podcast, I will be dependent on others just to live. This is no sort of life. And my life is better than many others. It doesn’t have to be this way. It shouldn’t be this way.
Change begins with imagination and conversation. Perhaps we can get enough people talking about Universal Basic Income that it finally gets the attention it deserves. This might prompt a politician to advocate it. That might actually change the world.
Absent that, I am doomed to live a precarious life, contingent entirely on the kindness of strangers.
What could we do to help? We can talk. We can advocate. We can vote. We can try. I’m begging you to do what you can. I don’t want to live like this anymore. I don’t know how much longer I can. I’m not alone in this. This world doesn’t work for far too many of us. Please… please help to change this in whatever ways you can.
There are some other doggos in my neighborhood. I have to make the barksers at them when they walk by because this is my yard, and I have to defend it from anyone who thinks they can have any of it. I already peed to let them know, but they still walk by with their hoomans. The Smelly Old Man doesn’t like the barksers. He picks me up and takes me in the house if I make too many. He doesn’t understand how important they are. What if another dog tried to invade? Most of the dogs are lots and lots bigger than I am, but that doesn’t matter. They can’t have my yard. It’s where I make my poopers. It’s where I play with all my toysers. It’s where I sit in the Smelly Old Man’s lap, and I give him cuddles under his robe so I keep him warm. It’s my home. I don’t know if hoomans understand about home.
The Smelly Old Man had some waters in his eyes yesterday when he was looking at some hoomans sitting on concrete floors and holding on to each other. The hoomans looked scared and sad, but there were littler hoomans that were playing with their puppies. The puppies seemed like they were helping. There were pretty yellow flowers. I would give them lots of cuddles and loves if I were wherever they are. I could give them kisseses, and then they would feel better, I think. Smelly Old Man always feels better when I do those things for him.
Some of the hoomans have bigger dogs, too, but they’re made of metal I think, and they are scarier. The big metal dogs run things over, and they make lots of noisers, and then bad things happen. They ruin more things than I do when I’m chewing up the Smelly Old Man’s furniture. The Smelly Old Man needs to yell at them, like he does at me, to make them stop wrecking everything. Sometimes when he yells at me, I stop for a little while. But then he goes back to the big desk, and I get some more of the stuffings out of the couch. I kind of forget, I guess. Maybe that’s what hoomans do, too. They probably know how to be Good Boy, too, and then they forget. Maybe they need to stop ruining other people’s homes. Smelly Old Man doesn’t like it when I chew up his couch. Probably other hoomans don’t like it when the big metal dogs ruin their whole houses. That’s probably why they had waters in their eyes.
Ukrainian Children
In Local News
Smelly Old Man was happy yesterday. He keepeded saying something about being on 10. Then he played this song over and over. He said people listeneded to this show ten thousand times. He was very proud, so I gave him some kisseses to tell him I was proud of him. And then the waters came out of his eyes again. Hoomans are weird. Smelly Old Man gets waters in his eyes when he is happy and when he is sad. I wonder if my hooman is broken. I should see if it came with a warranty.
I think his name is Fred. He calls himself my Fred, and I heard someone else call him Fred the other day when two hoomans brought some big wooden things where he puts his books. Fred’s not a very good name. I will stick with Smelly Old Man.
He’s slow. When we come in the house, from the time he opens the glass door until he gets in the living room, I can get through the library and do 6 laps around the couch. I still get Zoomies a lot, but I don’t think he likes when I pull all the stuffings out of the couch. I just need him to chase me is all, but I don’t know if he can. It takes him about 11 hours to stand up. Poor Smelly Old Man.
I think he loves me, though. He gives me lots of pets, and he lets me jump on his lap when he sits in the backyard. I try to give him kisseses on his face, but he makes noisers like it hurts him, so I have to try not to do that so much. Maybe he just doesn’t like my feetsers on his chest. I make my poopers and pee pees in the backyard now, and then sometimes I eat the poops. Smelly Old Man keeps trying to get them away from me, but if I’m not supposed to eat them, he shouldn’t leave them on the ground.
Editorial
This dogporter believes more of us doggos need to help more of those poor hoomans who don’t know how to love right. Love is about cuddles and kisseses and pets. It’s about treatsers and foods and sharing dinnerses. It’s about being by each other no matter what. I have to remind Smelly Old Man about that part sometimes because he leaves me in the backyard by myself when other hoomans come over. Those hoomans need loves, too, so he needs to let me in so I can jump on them and give them lots of kisseses, so they learn how to love, too. That’s happened three times since we’ve been together. I hope he learns to do better. I’m trying to teach him. He’s slow and kind of stupid, though. I still love him. That’s what I do. I eat, I pee, I poop, I chew up furniture, I play with my toysers, and I love peoples. Is there anything else I’m supposed to be doing? Is there anything else hoomans should be doing?
I love all of you other doggos out there…. And the hoomans, too.
And, that’s the way it is. Good night and good treatsers.
It is probably unwise to do this episode because it’s likely to cost me some of the Patreon support that has helped me to get to the life I have always wanted. Sometimes when someone thinks I’m doing all right, they stop supporting me because they feel like I don’t need it anymore. To be clear, I’m nothing approaching wealthy. I’m never going to be. I do, however, if I am very careful, have enough to live every month. This is, in large part, because of the help my Patreon supporters, and several other good friends of mine, have given me. I have, for example, one friend who is the mother of one of my classmates from my days in high school who sends me lovely cards with $40 in them from time to time. She thinks of it as nothing, but it makes it possible for me to get through just a little longer, and I couldn’t be more grateful.
My Valentine
Another friend got his taxes back, and, for absolutely no reason, sent me $75. Those unexpected gifts help me to get the little extras. I just got another blanket that has no stuffing because of my friend’s tax return gift. Speedy Shine can’t ruin it. My room isn’t covered in feathers anymore. My life is better, and I get to enjoy luxuries I wouldn’t otherwise even consider.
Without my Patreon support, I would never make ends meet every month. Without having the good fortune of renting a place for half price, I would never make ends meet every month. If I still had a car, I would never make ends meet every month. I’ve learned to adjust my life to my meager means. I can’t afford to buy every book I want (but one of The People on The Porch – Frau Bleucher — just bought me Valerie Bertinelli’s latest book, for which I could not be more grateful), and I still can’t afford my bookcases or to get my plumbing fixed, but I don’t spend every day worrying about getting evicted, or losing my electricity, or paying for my internet, because all of those things are covered in my wildly reduced rent.
(Update: My best friend has become a Notorious Furniture Flipper. She buys furniture cheaply at something called Offer Up with the intention of selling it at a profit. She’s gotten the furniture several times now, but she’s never sold any. Either she or her boyfriend decide they love it and want to keep it. Using these newfound skills, she is shopping for 4 big bookcases for me for a total of $50 or less. I’m hopeful she will be successful. It would be a huge step toward making my life complete.)
This didn’t come easily. I’m the recipient of more kindness and generosity than I could possibly deserve. I never forget that for even a moment. But, I also worked hard to get where I am. I worked at grocery stores when I was a kid. I worked at Day Care Centers when I was a little older. I went to NAU for a little more than 4 years (we don’t talk about my first semester, thank you), I became a teacher, and I did that for 29 years. I taught Defensive Driving on weekends during the final five years of my Elementary School teaching career because my salary wasn’t keeping up with inflation. Rent kept going up, but my checks didn’t. When I quit teaching, I took most of a year off, and I lived the life I had always wanted. I had to go back to work, and I sold Direct TV for quite a while and taught all the Defensive Driving classes I could get. I drove for Postmates. And when my Diabetes finally destroyed what was left of my health, I spent nearly 3 years trying to get my Disability.
Disability pays my half price rent and my phone bill. Everything else is funded by Patreon. The license I just got for the software I use to do this show was paid for by The People on The Porch. When I have to renew the license for the music I use, that will also come from the money I get from Patreon. It took me more than 2 years, doing at least one episode a week, to get to this point. I’m proud of my success.
I no longer live The Life of The Desperate. I did. I lived it for a long time, and, I have to tell you, it sucks. If it weren’t for you (and, let’s face it, if you’re listening to this show, you’re almost certainly one of The People on The Porch. I don’t think very many others listen.) I could never have made it this far. You made my better life possible. And I couldn’t be more grateful. Please please please don’t stop. I am beating my depression for the first time in years, and it’s because my circumstances are no longer anxiety producing. You did that for me.
When you think (as I often do) that doing the little things doesn’t matter, I want you to know what you are really doing. You are helping me to have this life, and without you, it would be impossible. Every single dollar goes into creating the life I think everyone ought to be able to have. This show is mostly about trying to create a world where everyone has the kind of life you have granted me.
What is that life like?
Waking Up
This morning, without an alarm, I woke up a little after 6 AM. The first thing I felt was my dog, Speedy Shine, cuddling next to my leg. I smiled. I took my first conscious breath. I took a moment to appreciate the beauty of that experience. We shared loves and cuddles until he woke up, did his morning shake, and then gave me kisses. I felt good before I was even out of bed. We laid there a little longer. He needed a few more minutes of cuddling before we both went to take care of our morning business. While I did mine, he came in and put his paws on my lap to remind me he loves me. After he did his, he came over to my backyard chair to tell me he was a Good Boy. We went in for Treatsers, but he didn’t really care about them. He just wanted to show me how good he was.
I went back out for a morning cigarette and to see what happened in the world while I was asleep. People had responded to my pictures of Speedy Shine and the new covers that wouldn’t spread feathers all over my room. They had nice things to say. Speedy Shine laid on the blankets by the back door so he could watch me. It was too cold for him out there, but he wanted to be sure I was still around. I wish I could find the words to explain how good that makes me feel.
I texted my best friend to tell her I hope she slept well, that I hope things are going well with her boyfriend, that I hope work goes well, and that I continue to love her most. That always sets her up with a nice start to a day that is going to be much more difficult than mine. I know. I did what she’s doing today every day for 29 years. Teachers can use all the emotional resources they can get. I make sure that I tell her I love her whenever we’re done talking or texting for a bit. I recognize I could easily be dead before we communicate next. I want to be sure the last thing she hears from me is that I love her. I do the same thing with my Mother. I do the same thing with Speedy Shine. I do it sometimes with you.
I played a game of Clue on my phone. We used to play that when I was a kid, and my brother and sister frequently beat me at it. I hadn’t figured out the logical way to proceed yet. For those of you who have never played the game (infants!), it’s a murder mystery. Someone has been killed. There are 6 suspects, 6 possible murder weapons, and 9 rooms where the murder might have taken place. We all have six cards that are some combination of suspects, weapons, and/or rooms. Three are in in the envelope in the middle of the board. These are the solution. The objective is to figure out the murderer, the weapon, and the room. You do that by travelling from room to room and “suggesting” who might have done it, the weapon that was used, and the room in which the crime was committed. It’s really a children’s version of The Scientific Method. What do I mean?
It helps if you have at least one suspect, one weapon, and one room in your hand. When you arrive at a room you don’t have, you suggest a suspect and a weapon in your hand. (The rules require you to use the room you’re in as the scene of the crime.) You know those two elements. You’re testing for the third. If no one has it, you have found the room where the crime occurred. If they do, you can eliminate it from the 9 possibilities. If you arrive at a room you have in your hand, you choose either a suspect or a weapon you don’t have to test whether others do. They are required to show you a card if they have it. If they have two or three of the cards, they need to show you only one.
The Scientific Method teaches us to control all the variables except the one for which we are testing. We know this method works. Evidence for that can be found in the fact you’re listening to this podcast. The computer on which I’m typing, the one on which I’ll record later, and the computer, or phone or whatever other device you’re using to play this are all direct results of the application of The Scientific Method.
When I first started playing this game on my phone back during my California Adventure, I always chose the option to play against the AI. I was afraid of seeming stupid in front of other humans I would never actually see or hear. The game doesn’t even have a chat feature. It’s not like they can TELL me how stupid I am. I play as Front Porch Fred. They won’t even know my name. But they might think I’m stupid. Yes, these were things about which I worried. After I had won 100 games against the AI, I felt confident enough to try it in front of other humans. And I was shocked by the results.
I’ve explained how to play the game correctly. It’s not difficult. Few of my opponents ever play it according to The Scientific Method. They suggest three elements they don’t have in their hand. Sometimes I will have two of them, and the third player shows them a card. Now I know what the third player showed. There’s only one possibility. That’s free information. It’s like playing Texas Hold Em and intentionally exposing one of your hole cards. My assumption is that people hope to get lucky. “I’m going to take a wild guess and see if I get it right.” It’s frustrating for me when they do this on the first turn, and, before I’ve even gotten the chance to roll the dice, they’ve solved the crime. That happens a little more than 1% of the time. Statistically, it should occur much less often. I assume someone has taken the time to hack the game. I can’t imagine why they would do that. Everyone, however, should get to spend their time as they see fit, so long as they’re not hurting anyone else. The damage they do to me is negligible. I’m annoyed for, perhaps, 15 seconds. I think I’ll survive.
It takes me between 10 and 15 minutes to play a game of Clue. I win 89% of the time. Now and then, I encounter another player who also knows how to play correctly, and then it’s a true race to see who can find the right room first. We tend to find the killer and the weapon almost simultaneously.
When I want a shorter game, I play Othello. This is another game we played as kids. You flip tokens from black to white and back. You’re either black or white; your opponent is the opposite color. Whoever has the most tokens at the end of the game wins. It’s another great little logic puzzle that allows me to think without taxing my brain sufficiently to make me frustrated. I won’t play that online at all. Even at the Very Easy level, I still sometimes lose to the AI. A smart player can crush me, and I don’t enjoy that as much as one would think. Again, I feel embarrassed. I’m less interested in competition than I am in spending a few leisurely moments thinking a little.
Othello
Shorter still is Solitaire. If the game takes more than 3 minutes to win, I think of it as a failure. I’m sure you’ve played that before. It’s a card game we all learn as children. I used to cheat as a child, and the phone won’t let me do that. Sometimes the deck is unwinnable. I can always play another one.
I read when I want now. Normally, it’s during the daylight hours because I like to read outside with a cigarette. I used to read in bed, but now I like to listen to my show when I’m going to sleep. First, I can use the numbers. Second, I prefer talking to myself about whatever is on the show to letting my brain run wild all night to remind me of every mistake I’ve ever made and let me know what a horrible person I am. My podcast voice generally drowns out the voice of my Prosecutor. (You’ll find him in Episode 97: “The Prosecution Never Rests.”) Finally, my voice saying, “Fred’s Front Porch Podcast is made possible by…” has become a signal for Speedy Shine. Before I even turn the bedside light out, he’s diving under the covers to secure the best cuddle spot before I go to sleep. How lovely is that?
After my morning routines, I like to come and sit at my computer and write. I play my Spotify playlist (no, I don’t feel like arguing about Neil Young and Joe Rogan right now; I’m in a good mood.). I look over my shoulder from time to time to make sure Speedy Shine isn’t destroying anything that might hurt him. Other than that, I am essentially talking to myself through my fingers on the keyboard. I’m rethinking my ideas. I’m clarifying them. I’m understanding my life a little better. It’s a wonderful experience.
When I start to get hungry, I go make a microwave breakfast. I’m ecstatic that I finally got enough in Food Stamps that I can afford to eat now. I don’t ever worry about going hungry anymore. This is a fantastic luxury. I love that feeling.
Breakfast is always in bed. As far as that goes, so is lunch and dinner. I don’t have, nor do I really want, a kitchen table. I have my TV in my bedroom, and I like to watch some Dick Wolf show while I eat. I enjoy most of the Law & Order shows, the One Chicago shows, and I just started FBI. They aren’t more challenging than I can handle. They are new to me. The characters become my friends over time. No, it’s not Aaron Sorkin, but I can recite nearly every word of every episode of television he’s ever written. A person needs something else. Some of the new Star Trek shows are pretty good. I love Picard. Prodigy is surprisingly good. Obviously, I’ve already seen all of The Original Series and The Next Generation more times than I can count. So… Dick Wolf is part of the meal ritual.
Speedy Shine has learned “lay down.” When I finish more than 90% of my meal, he knows he will get a little if he is a good boy. He is always a good boy. I share the last of the meal with him, and, in a little while, we’re either going to pull up the covers and start up the podcast, or we’re going to get up and go read outside. I love a nice morning nap.
I get to choose now what to do with every minute of my life. I have a few alarms on my phone. I had to change the Mom call from 7:37 PM to 6:25 because she’s getting tired earlier. She’s 91. No one gets to complain about what time she goes to bed. I have an alarm set for 1:45 every Wednesday so I get to Weekly Wacky Wednesday by 2, my time. I have an alarm for 4 PM to remind me to take my Lantus. When I have a doctor’s appointment, I have an alarm for that. Everything else, though… those minutes are up to me. I get at least 1 nap a day. Sometimes, if I’m caught up on the show, I manage 2.
I have the time I need to write my show at a leisurely pace. I try to have the script finished by Friday so I can record, score, and Horace on Saturday. I bounce the episode, find about 60 seconds to use for “Next Week On Fred’s Front Porch Podcast,” and then I’m ready to go. Sunday, I assemble all the pieces for this week’s episode, knowing I already have next week’s episode done, and I can relax.
I spend far too much time worrying about whether anyone likes my show. I obsess about numbers, but I keep trying to stop that. I’m checking my numbers less frequently. At first, it was just ego. Now that I’m deriving a little income from this, I find I really don’t want to lose the life I’ve worked so long to get. You are the reason I can live my way. I want us all to work together so everyone can choose how to spend their minutes without worrying about whether they will be able to pay rent and eat. Everyone deserves what it took me nearly 60 years to get. Is it possible? Why, yes. Yes, it is. I know that because I’m doing it. I want you to have a life at least as good as mine. You deserve it every bit as much as I do. And I couldn’t be more grateful for the life you’ve given me. I love you very very much.
“What? Did you think this was YOUR chair or something?” — Sir Speedy Shine
Macbeth
was a villain, but he was right about that…
We’d known it was coming for
months. She was getting weaker all the time. She was just plain
old. There was nothing more to do. The details are irrelevant. It
was simply time to let her go. I’m confident in that decision.
Life is a clock; it finally winds down. While I was waiting for the vet to come this morning, every minute was a year. And the ten years Melanie and I had were only a minute.
Now, I am alone…
Hamlet
I have plenty of support.
My best friend, Stephanie, who gave Melanie to me when Melanie was 6
or 8 weeks old (we bought her from an ad on Craigslist), and her
boyfriend, Tim, who has the distinction of being the only man she’s
dated in the last decade that I like, came to sit with me.
I cried a few times while I
was waiting. Then I would sigh, put out my cigarette, and then go
sit by Melanie again. I didn’t want Melanie to see me crying. She
didn’t. She was as happy as she could be.
This morning she couldn’t
get up. She couldn’t get off the floor. I had to move her food to
her. She was done.
And, in the end, she made sure I got lots of kisses to take with me forever. One of our last is in the picture above. While I was petting her, she looked curiously around the room, as though she’d never really seen it before. She seemed to absorb it all, as though she knew… and I think she did… that she would never see it again.
Melanie was simply Love.
She was nothing more, and nothing less. She never knew a single
trick. She used to leap across the kitchen floor to cover me with
kisses when I came home from work. She cuddled with me every night,
until she couldn’t get on the bed anymore, and I could never get her
to use the steps my old roommate made her that would have helped her
up there. She slept on the floor in my room.
Since we moved here, she had
been much happier. There were no more stairs for her to climb. She
had a huge backyard. And she got her own couch, and her own blanket.
And in the end she got to the place where she couldn’t get off of
them.
I’m about to discuss my restroom habits. If this is too personal, please skip to the next paragraph. “There is little or no offensive material apart from….” oh never mind. If you aren’t a complete Monty Python Geek that joke will fall flat… but… I got up to pee just now. I walked from my Library to the bathroom. And I walked past Melanie’s couch. Her fur is all over the floor from where she was lying at the end and everyone kept petting her. And she wasn’t on the couch. And she won’t be again. And that sucks. That’s what I have to say about my restroom habits…. except that Melanie is still on the couch for less than a second whenever I walk by. And I can hear her claws on the wood floor whenever I go to the door.
The girls had evidently been
preparing for this for the last several weeks. Hilary had done the
research, and she knew exactly who to call. They came out to the
house. Melanie left being completely loved. I believe she was
thinking about Lenny’s rabbits.
When it was over, I went
outside. When I came back in, the room was emptier than it’s ever
been, regardless of the fact that I was surrounded by people I love
and who love me. It will be that way for a long time.
I cost us a ton of money,
today. It’s not cheap to get people out to do this, and I spent the
extra to get Melanie’s ashes. I can’t justify it financially, and I
know I hurt the family, but it was emotionally necessary. We were
almost going to be even this month…
And, of course, there is the
difficulty of deciding whether to tell my mother. She’s 88, has
almost no short term memory left, lives in a group home she’s not
allowed to leave, and she would never really have to know. She loves
Melanie as much as I do. I nearly hyperventilated this morning. I
can’t imagine how this will affect Mom. There is also the
possibility of not telling her at all. I don’t feel right about
keeping it from her, but I don’t see the Good in hurting her this
badly. I haven’t decided what to do yet. It will require thought.
Melanie was the best Love
I’ve ever had. I have three cats, one of whom insists on cuddling me
whenever I go near my bed. I have roommates who are family. I have
friends all over the place who are here to support me. And I am
grateful to all of you for all of that. And none of you, and none of
the Love I get, as incredibly valuable as both you and your Love are
to me, can be Melanie. There never can be another Melanie.
She made my life better for
more than a decade. She helped me through the worst times, and she
celebrated the best with me. Her fortunes rose and fell as mine did,
but she never complained. She just gave me kisses.
When I brought her home, she
fit in the palm of my hand. I put her on the bed with me that first
night, and it was way too far down for her to consider jumping off,
so she bounced around the bed all night long like a tennis ball on
crack. I remember wondering if I was ever going to get to sleep with
her in the bed.
Over the years, I learned to
sleep without her in the bed.
But now I have to sleep without her in the world. I don’t know how
well I’m going to do.
What
I am going to do is,
I’m going to keep going. I sat down to write this less for you than
for me. I have to get some of this out, so I apologize that I am
speaking too personally. I have to know I can still write. I think
I can.
Melanie, you were the best. You’re never really gone, as long as I remember you, as someone once said. Here’s lookin’ at you, kid. I love you.
Don’t tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody.
There is no love quite like
the love you can get from your dog. She will come running up to you
and cover you with kisses when you get home from work. She’ll make
you feel loved and special, as though you are the greatest and most
important being who ever existed in the universe. I have two ex
wives. Neither of them ever came close to my dog, Melanie, for
making me feel loved. On the other hand, neither of them ever pooped
on my floor, either, so perhaps it evens out.
Your dog will lie with her
head in your lap or on your chest. She will be by your side through
the worst times. She can provide protection. But, more than any of
this, she simply works her way into your heart in ways no human can.
She’ll never lie to you. She’ll never tell the secrets you share
with her. Melanie doesn’t mind in the least that I am old, broken,
and not particularly attractive. She loves Me, not my body. I’ve
never known a woman about whom I could honestly say that. She makes
me smile, and laugh, and sing. (I sing to Melanie for Breakfast and
at Bedtime. Fortunately, she can’t tell that I suck.) A dog will
show you Joy you never knew was possible. And, finally, she will
break your heart.
Melanie is a part of my
routine. The day will come, I know, when I don’t get to sing The
Breakfast Song to her anymore. Her head won’t be on my lap when I’m
sad. I won’t see her tail wagging joyously simply because she sees
me. And my world will be just a little emptier.
There are those who will
tell you, “It’s only a dog; get over it.” These people are to be
ignored. They don’t understand the depths of your feelings. She was
there all the time. She relied on you for her survival, and you
relied on her for the only feeling of being Completely Loved that you
will ever really have. It doesn’t need to be rational. Love rarely
is.
What do you have left? You
have your memories of the good times you had. You can recall her
highs, her lows, her joys, her woes, and the moments you shared with
her. You have the look in her eyes that told you how she was
feeling. You have, still, and always, the love she gave to you
without expecting anything in return. You have a Badge of Honor
because you can say, “I have been loved by a dog.”
And when your dog is gone,
those who love you will help you through the loss. I probably don’t
know you, but if you have lost your dog, you are worthy of love. I
hope these words might have helped to fill in just a little part of
the massive hole your dog’s departure has left in your heart.
Fred's Thoughts 