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.
My name is Speedy Shine, but that’s just what The Smelly Old Man calls me. The Big Man with the Biggerer Houseses used to call me Speedy, and The Woman With The White Hair calleded me Hubert.
White Hair Woman didn’t like me very much because I made too many poopsers, and I would always try to get the foodsers from her plate and then she would hit my nose, and it hurteded. She took me to the place with the other dogsers and I lived behind the glass thing and sometimes I went out with the other dogsers and we would bark at each other. I was never scared of them, though. They were bigger than I am, but they didn’t know about my Secret Identity. I can’t tell you about it because of Practical Cats.
Then The Man With The Biggerer Houseses took me to his great big huge place and there was lots and lots of room for me to have my Zoomies. I likeded that part.
But he getteded mad at me about chewing on the soft things and pulling all the floofsers out and putting them on the floor where everyone knows they really belong. He used to yell at me, and he spankeded me and that hurt, so I trieded to bite him and he took me back to the place where the glass house and the other dogsers were. I madeded friends with one of them, but then he wasn’t there anymore. I seeded a hooman take him to the room where the dogsers don’t come back. I guess nobody wanteded him. I’m sorry for him. That’s a sad part.
I was a little bit afraid they were going to take me to that room because lots of hoomans came to see me, but then they didn’t want to take me home when they heareded that I like to chew on things.
Then The Smelly Old Man and The Pretty Girl came to see me. I likeded The Pretty Girl because I could smell the other dogsers on her. The Smelly Old Man was just smelly, so I thought I would be better off with her. But after we getteded in the car and left, she leavededed me with The Smelly Old Man and I misseded her right away. She’s only come to see me one time, and that makes me sad.
The Smelly Old Man nameded me Speedy Shine because there was this other girl on the glass thing who sang about “Shine,” and he knew that should be my name because, he said, I make him Shine.
He’s figuring out my Secret Identity, I think, because I keep waking him up when he is about to die. He knows about Love. He knows it’s the most powerful force in the universeses. I wonder if he will ever understand that I am secretly all the love in the universe in a furry fourteen-pound package. That’s just me.
I’m surprised to need a trigger warning in this piece because I didn’t think it was powerful enough to warrant one. The story you’re about to hear, however, is the only story I’ve ever written that actually made my best friend angry with me. When I write my normally calm, rational arguments against the existence of homelessness, she has little reaction. “It’s okay, Fred, but I’ve heard it all before. It’s just not very moving. I’m sorry.”
That wasn’t the case this time. She was angry that the story existed. I sent it to her right after I finished it because I was proud of it. She wrote me back promptly. “I hate it! Never again. Please! God! WTF Dude?”
So… you are hereby warned. Animals are injured offscreen in this story. If that’s going to bother you more than you can tolerate, you’ll want to skip this. I’ll read you the story, and then I’ll return to explain to you what an allegory is, and how this parallels what we’re doing to human beings, right now, in Arizona and California. This is called “Refuse Boxes.”
Refuse Boxes
Karen Adamson walked into the parking lot behind the condos, and she rolled her eyes and sighed with disgust. She took out her pen and began to write feverishly on her clipboard. She took pictures of the rain-soaked boxes behind 616. The Homeowner’s Association was never going to allow this. She was already quoting the rule in her head:
No Lot shall be used or maintained as a dumping ground for rubbish. All trash shall be regularly removed from each Lot and shall not be allowed to accumulate thereon. Trash, garbage, or other waste shall be kept in sanitary, covered containers. All equipment for the storage or disposal of such materials shall be kept in a clean and sanitary condition. In no event shall such equipment and/or containers be visible from the Common Area streets, from neighboring Property, or within property contained in the Plat, except for a reasonable time immediately prior to and after scheduled trash collection, and in all events in compliance with Fairvale County Code.
She was looking forward to talking to Mr. Singleman. She was going to show him who was in charge. “Wretched refuse. People just live like pigs. This is a fine of $100 a day, per day, up to $1000. He’ll take me seriously when I present him with this violation.”
A kitten stepped out of one of the boxes, looked up at her, and then scurried back inside. Karen knelt and looked in the box. Cat food? What could this guy be thinking? Encouraging feral cats? That’s a violation, too. That’s another $25.00.
A black and white puppy waddled out of another box. He saw Adamson and began jumping around her ankles, yipping excitedly. “What kind of place is this?” She kicked him away. The dog yelped and limped into another box. In a moment its mother poked her head out and growled. Karen gave the dog a glare, and it went back inside.
The boxes were piled 4 or 5 high, and from the box at the top she heard an obnoxious squealing sound. A moment later, a finch dropped from the sky and entered the box. When she looked inside, Mrs. Adamson saw the bird feeding its babies.
She stood staring at the disgusting mess that was the back of Condo 616, and then she thought. None of these horrid things is a pet. They’re not registered. They’re not licensed. They don’t count. They don’t matter at all.
She took out a cigarette and lit it. She blew the smoke toward the animal tenement. These things are a menace. And these boxes… they’re dangerous. They’re a… yes… yes. She took a long drag from her cigarette. She grinned. They’re a fire hazard. She flipped the cigarette into the box with the birds’ nest and nodded. As the smoke began to waft out, she thought, “I’ll show them who’s in charge.” As the smoke grew thicker, she chuckled softly and walked away enjoying the sound of the burning birds.
***
Allegory, as defined by Merriam-Webster: the expression by means of symbolic fictional figures and actions of truths or generalizations about human existence
“Refuse Boxes” is an allegory for the homeless. Its hidden meaning is, I think, completely clear, but in the event I am wrong, the animals are people. The boxes are homeless encampments.
When this happens to humans, we dismiss it. If it makes the news at all, we’re likely to scroll past it without much thought. It doesn’t strike close enough to our emotions for it to matter much to us.
It’s a general rule among humans that we can’t tolerate hurting animals, at least not cute and harmless ones. Everyone cries at the end of “Old Yeller,” but we can, for the most part, dismiss the earthquake in Tukey which has, as of this writing, taken the lives of more than 28,000 living, breathing people. Among those who have survived, homelessness has skyrocketed. Their dwellings were destroyed. But it didn’t happen in America. We don’t know any of these folks. Sorry that happened. Bummer. Does anyone know who won the Super Bowl? Oh, and did you hear about the twenty-million-dollar Jesus ad?
Our priorities are misplaced. This is not to say that animals don’t matter. If anything ever happened to Speedy Shine (my dog for those who are new here), I would be devastated. My love for him is off the scale. He’s infinitely closer to me than anyone in Turkey. But the fact is every one of those people matters more than he does. Not to me, perhaps, since I never met them, but certainly to those who have. All of them have mothers and fathers, and most of those people have people who love them as much as I love Speedy Shine.
Of course, we can’t feel empathy for every human death. We would be unable to function. We’d spend our lives in a fetal position as we drowned in a river of tears. But we can recognize their significance.
We can certainly try to change things. As much as you’re hurt by the deaths of the birds, the dogs, and the cats in the Refuse Boxes, we need to be at least as concerned about the plight of those who live in such places in the homo sapiens world.
Here in Arizona, police conduct regular sweeps at homeless encampments to rid the neighborhood of the pests. But these aren’t rats. They aren’t even dogs or cats. They’re people. I’m perilously close to joining them. And, unless you’re a billionaire, you’re much closer to them than you would probably like to imagine. (And if you are a billionaire, what are you doing about homelessness? I promise you have the money to end it, all by yourself, and please don’t talk to me about liquid assets versus investment assets. That’s a half-ass excuse.)
The American Civil Liberties Union is suing to stop the destruction. I won’t go into the details here, but they can be found in the article below.
Why don’t we mind so much about people? I think it’s because we find a way to blame them for their situations. Some of us use The Bible to justify our contempt.
Thessalonians 3:10, KJV: For even when we were with you, this we commanded you, that if any would not work, neither should he eat.
I don’t pretend to be wise enough to know what caused people to be homeless. Certainly those in Turkey whose homes were destroyed by an earthquake did nothing to “deserve” homelessness. I don’t feel comfortable making judgments about others. I know that people make decisions I might not make, but I don’t know what caused them to make those choices.
We also hide behind The Law, as though it were carved into sapphire, immutable and unchangeable. Laws can be, and frequently are, changed. As the world changes, so must its laws. I promise you that it’s not that being homeless is against the law that keeps me from joining an encampment. It’s that I don’t want to be in one. I will do all I can to continue to live here in my little home. (A quick thank you to The People On The Porch and my Unofficial Patron Saints who continue to help me to accomplish that goal.)
I’m working on a 5-part story about that, even now, called “Why?” I’m hoping to illustrate that people who are easy to condemn might have been forced into choices we wish they hadn’t made by circumstances beyond their control. I’m currently stuck trying to make Part 2 work, but I know I’ll get it right eventually.
It’s easier for us to understand that animals are not in control of much of their existence. We don’t seem to want to believe we share that powerlessness. The truth is, however, that we do. It’s easy to convince ourselves that if we work hard enough, we can take care of ourselves.
There is a myth that America is founded on rugged individualism. That could not be further from the truth. From the “founding of America” we worked together to create this country. One Pilgrim didn’t build The Mayflower. No one set up Plymouth Colony alone. The Declaration of Independence was a statement we had the courage to make only because we could depend on one another. We didn’t decide who was worthy or unworthy. We worked together, each in our own ways.
I don’t know what caused John or Jane Doe to become homeless. Neither do you. What I know is that the situation is even more horrible than in the allegory I constructed that upset so many people. Let’s do what we can to help them, instead of ridding ourselves of them as though they were cockroaches. People matter more than money. They also matter even more than the cutest and most lovable of animals. They matter even more than Speedy Shine, who matters more to me than nearly any other part of my life.
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.
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
The Smiths’ house was unnaturally quiet. Mrs. Smith, Leona to the housewives and children in the neighborhood, was still at the party at the Flemings’ house down the block. Roger, the Flemings’ obese eleven year old boy had had a birthday. The children had celebrated all day, consuming pounds of cake and gallons of ice cream and countless quarts of root beer. The adults had been celebrating all night, consuming the left over cake, some sort of strange cheese Hors d’Oeuvres with meat and sour cream and held together with a toothpick stabbed through them into a small piece of sourdough bread, and countless gallons of bourbon, gin, vodka and Schlitz beer.
***
Crackers, the dog chained to the white post of the carport, looked up when a dim light went on in the Smiths’ bedroom.
***
When the phone rang again Sgt. Smith leaned over the girl and reached for the receiver.
“Maybe you better not,” she said.
“I don’t see how it makes a helluva lot of difference at this point,” said the stubby haired sergeant.
It rang a third time.
“It might be Archie.”
She grabbed his wrist and held it, keeping his hand an inch or so from the phone.
“It’ll look a helluva lot worse if I don’t answer it.”
She stared at him coldly. Her brown eyes were dimly visible in the light.
They stayed fixed and unmoving, and seemed somehow like the eyes of a cat reflecting in the lights of an oncoming car.
The sergeant freed his wrist from her grip, picked up the receiver, and pulled it past her so the cord was stretched over the white sheets. “Hello?”
“Mike?!”
“Yeah. Who’s this? Archie? That you Archie?”
“Yeah, it’s me. Did I wake ya Mike?”
“No,” he said reaching for his glass on the bed table next to the little blue lamp.
“Ya sure? Cuz if I woke ya or somethin’ I can–“
“Hey, if you’d a woke me, I’d a said so. Ya didn’t wake me.” His back to the bed table, he continued to grope for the drink.
“Well, the reason I called was… Are you sure I didn’t–”
“Hey, 1ook, I was just layin’ here readin’ is all, Okay? I’ve been readin’ those damn tech manuals all night. A human voice is a welcome relief.”
“Well, I just wondered if you’d seen Madeline is all.”
The sergeant found the glass and raised it to his lips.
“Madeline?” he said as the bourbon flowed down the glass. “No.”
The cigarette he’d forgotten he’d put out in the glass slid between his lips and he sputtered and spat it out. “Christ!”
Madeline giggled quietly at him, and a hint of a smile crossed her thin red lips.
“Whatsa matter?” came the distant voice on the phone.
***
Crackers paced dutifully up and down next door, but stopped when he spotted something moving in the bushes outside the Smiths’ bedroom window.
He stretched his chain across the white carport and watched the figure emerge. It walked slowly across the yard. It had a feline step and an enormous tail which it held daintily just above the grass. It arced slightly upward near its end and fanned out a bit all the wayalong itself.
Crackers’s deep black tongue came out of his mouth and darted quickly up to his nose and then slipped back inside.
***
“Nothin’,” said the sergeant. “I just swallowed wrong.”
“Well, anyway, didja see Madeline t’night?
“No. Why? Isn’t she home with you?”
“Hell, no. I swear to God I oughta leave her. You know that? I mean, what I oughta do, I oughta just pack up my goddam bags -“
“All right, all right,” the sergeant said. “Calm down. Willya do that for me? Will ya just calm down a second?”
“Christ. I’m calm. I’m all right. I dunno.”
“Ya know what I bet?” He jangled his glass in front of the girl’s face and put his index finger inside, indicating he wanted another drink. “What I bet, seriously now, I’d give ya a hundred to one here,” the girl took the glass from his hand, “I bet she got all social with the Harrisons. That’s what I think. I’d give ya a hundred a one they all went some place or other. They’re probably at some club on ‘O’ Street bein’ Socialites or somethin’.”
The girl got out of bed, glass in hand.
***
“Susan,” the little girl said. “Where are you going?”
The stringy haired little girl, Susan, stood near the door of the tent. For a moment she said nothing and the sounds of the crickets chirping filled the dark green walls.
“I dunno. I think I want some Ovaltine.” Her voice squeaked a bit on the first syllable.
“Ya don’t need no stupid Ovaltine,” said her brother, Schroeder.
“Schroeder,” said Jan, the short pony – tailed girl who’d spoken first. “If Susan wants a glass of Ovaltine she oughta have some.”
“If she goes inside,” said Schroeder, sitting up in his sleeping bag, “she’ll wake up your parents and they’ll come out here and holler at us and tell us to go t’ sleep.”
“Sssh!”
***
The sergeant took his finger away from his pursed, silent lips and the woman shrugged an apology. She set the bottle quietly back down on the dresser, being sure not to let it clank against the glass again. The light from the bathroom where she’d rinsed out the dirty glass played in her thick brown hair and the man looked at her admiringly. “No, really Archie,” he said into the phone, “she’ll probably be home any minute. I wouldn’t let it bother me. I mean, if I wuz you, I’d just have a Schlitz or somethin’ and not even let it bother me. You know what I mean?”
***
She took a few dainty steps across the soft ground toward him. Crackers took a couple of confused steps backward and his chain slackened. The figure moved within twenty feet or so and was still obscured by the shadows of the trees. It went to the edge of the shadow, staying just out of the pool of moonlight in the freshly cut grass. Crackers stared at the glowing eyes and the tail which now had curved over thebody and above the head. He growled softly.
***
“Are you tryin’ to scare me?” Horace, the chubby boy, picked up his clown again.
Schroeder got out of his sleeping bag and made another shadow figure on the tent wall, this time of an enormous alligator. He curved his middle fingers in to create teeth and he roared quietly.
“Tick… tock…tick… tock,” said Jan in a hushed voice, which, quiet though it was, resonated within the thin walls of the tent. “I’m coming to get you Captain Hook.”
The alligator’s jaws moved up and down and all three older children began growling and hissing and roaring, while the youngest boy clutched his clown and cowered in the corner.
“I’m coming,” repeated his sister. “I’m coming over there.”
***
“What?” He sipped the drink the woman had brought him. “Now?” The woman crawled back into bed and laid her head on the sergeant’s bony shoulder, her hair creating a sort of a pillow for her.
“Wouldja mind?” asked the voice on the phone.
“No, I mean you’re always welcome and all. But what I think is, I think you oughta stay there and wait for ol’ Madeline. I mean you know she’ll be there any minute and if you’re not there she’ll think –“
“Ya know what? I never shoulda married ‘er. Ya know that? Ya know I never shoulda married ‘er? I mean, I knew before I ever married ‘er what she’d be like. Ya know how sometimes ya just sorta know? Like when you get one of those premonitions or something? That’s what ya call it, isn’t it? Or is it precognition?”
“No, I think it’s premonition, but listen -“
“One time, I’ll never forget this as long as I live. One time when me and ol’ Dmitrov were still livin’ together, Madeline came by.”
“Dmitrov?” He sipped his drink again. The woman began to run her fingers over his bare chest. “I don’t remember…” He knocked her finger away with the cold glass.
“Sure ya do. Mark Dmitrov. He was a stoner mechanic. Smoked dope like practically all the time.”
“Oh, yeah, I remember.”
“Anyway, one time when him and me were livin’ together ol’ Madeline came by late one night when I was already upstairs in bed.”
She began kissing his neck now, and he hit her in the chin with his elbow.
“Ow!”
***
“Oh, that didn’t hurt,” said Schroeder.
“Did too.” Susan removed her finger from the alligator’s jaws and the shadows fell to the ground. “You crushed it,” she whined.
“What a baby,” said her brother. Schroeder looked over at the trembling little boy. “Tell the Golden Arm, Jan,” he said grinning at Horace.
“No,” whined the boy in the corner. “You know I get too scared.”
“It’s just a story,” said Jan.
“But I get scared.”
“Tell it,” said Schroeder and Susan Smith.
“Well,” Jan got out of her sleeping bag and moved to the center of the tent, her shadow enormous on the opposite wall. “There was a lady who worked in a factory during World War II. And one day she was putting big slab of steel on the conveyor belt.” She took a baby step toward the boy.
“I’m not listening,” he said with just a touch of defiance in his voice.
“And then it went into a box where…..WHAM!!!” She slapped her hands together, and the boy started. “The steel was cut by a huge blade.”
“Yeah,” said Schroeder. “Tell about the blade.”
“Well,” she knelt on the fat boy’s Batman sleeping bag. “One day she wore a big flowery dress to work with long red sleeves. And so there she was. She picked up a slab of steel and set it on the conveyor belt. She picked up a slab of steel and set it one the conveyor belt.. And then…”
“Really! I’m not listening!”
“She felt a little tug on her arm.”
***
The woman looked over at him. “What?” she whispered.
He held his index and middle finger in the air making a scissor – like shadow on the wall to indicate he wanted a cigarette.
“Anyway,” said Archie, his voice now becoming closer, “I woke up cuz there was this cat in my room.”
“You never owned a cat, did you?”
Madeline lit the pair of cigarettes in her mouth and her face took on an orange glow.
***
The figure moved into the moonlight and began to stroll closer to Crackers, who growled a little more loudly now.
***
“No, never. So I turned on the light over my bed and I looked over at the door. Cuz I always, ya know, shut my door when I go t’ sleep.”
“So? Was it shut?”
Madeline went back to the bed and handed him his cigarette. She stood over him.
“Yeah. So I sorta wondered, ya know, how did this cat get in my room? I mean a cat can’t just stroll through a closed door or somethin’ right?”
***
“WHAM!!!” yelled Jan. “The blade came down and cut her arm off.”
“No! I don’t wanna hear this!”
“Blood came spurting out of the machine and the boss ran down the stairs and the lady said she’d sue him. The blood squirted the boss’s face -”
“Oooh!” said Schroeder and Susan.
“Don’t Jan.”
“So he said he’d get her a Golden Arm to replace the one she’d lost. Then he decided to marry her to get it back. She said she’d marry him only if he promised to bury her with her Golden Arm.”
The boy squirmed nervously.
“The man said, ‘Okay, and then her hand reached out,” Jan moved her hand to the boy’s throat, “and she grabbed him by the neck,” Jan did what she narrated, “and said, ‘If you don’t, I’ll come back … and get it….'”
“Stop it! Stop it!”
“And when she died,” continued Jan, releasing his throat, “he dug her up and stole her Golden Arm.”
***
The animal walked to the edge of the yard, only a couple of feet from the nervous dog.
***
“So I got up to get the cat out, and I heard noises downstairs.”
***
“It was the woman,” said Jan, staring with enormous eyes into the horrified face of the fat little boy, “coming back to get her Golden Arm.”
***
“So, what’d you do?”
The woman began dressing at the edge of the bed. The sergeant looked quizzically at her and reached out to grab her arm. She pushed his hand away without turning to look at him.
“So I went downstairs,” came Archie’s voice.
***
“Where’s my Golden Arm?” moaned Jan.
The chubby boy pulled the sleeping bag up around his neck.
***
The animal went over to Crackers and stood within an inch or so of the dog.
***
“And there she was,” said Archie.
***
“She held the ax over her head,” said Jan as the boy dove inside his sleeping bag.
***
Crackers began to bark his throaty, spitty bark at the intrusive animal.
***
“She was makin’ out on the couch with ol’ Mark Dmitrov.”
***
The animal licked the dog’s nose and began to run across the yard. Crackers barked furiously at the animal and snapped his chain.
***
“And she brought it down and….”
***
Madeline stood up and began to walk across the room.
***
The animal had had a few feet of head start and reached the tent, and raised its tail, at the same moment Crackers arrived. The dog leapt through the air and both animals crashed through the tent.
“Cut the man’s head off!” hissed Jan, just before she was knocked over by the invading animals.
The chubby boy let out a blood curdling scream as the skunk fired its spray.
A moment or so later lights came on up and down the block in the master bedrooms of the duplexes lining Walker Drive.
The door of the Smiths’ house opened and the woman walked quickly and deliberately to her red Mustang.
“Hang on a sec’,” the sergeant said into the phone. “Somethin’s wrong.”
In another moment lights appeared in the windows and on the front porches of the houses. Flashlights appeared in front doors and began bouncing up and down as they approached, but it was the headlights from the car driving down the block that exposed the skunk a split second before it was smashed under the wheels of the Mustang.
“…the person that had took a bull by the tail once had learnt sixty or seventy times as much as a person that hadn’t, and said a person that started in to carry a cat home by the tail was getting knowledge that was always going to be useful to him, and warn’t ever going to grow dim or doubtful.”
Mark Twain
I
never liked cats. I found them arrogant, rude, and dangerous. The
first one with whom I ever dealt scratched my hand deeply enough to
draw blood. I hated him. He never said I wasn’t allowed to pick him
up. I learned… the hard way.
After
that experience, I gave all felines a wide berth. My parents
inherited a cat from my brother. I don’t actually recall the details
of the transaction, but every time I would visit, there would be
Jamie, or as he was called by my father, “Stupid Cat of No Possible
Value or Worth,” wandering around enslaving my parents. Up and
down my father would get whenever Stupid Cat wanted to go in or out.
Yes, he was an outdoor cat. Mom required Dad to stand at the door
and call him every night before they went to bed. And Dad might be
there for half an hour at a time before His Highness would deign to
return. I wanted no part of any such ritual. I never understood why
my father did, except that he loved my mother, and my mother loved
everything with a heartbeat.
Cats
had no time for me, and I had none for them. I refused to believe
all the Cat People who told me that their cats were sweet and kind
and loving. That described no cat I had ever encountered. I was too
arrogant to deal with the Arrogance of Cats.
Dogs,
on the other hand, I have always loved. There is nothing so
wonderful as being jumped by four-legged fur when you come through
the door. Her tail is wagging and she’s covering you with kisses as
though you were the most important and wonderful being that cells
ever combined to form. I have two ex-wives. Neither of them was
ever in the league of a dog for making me feel loved. However,
neither Missy nor Darilyn ever pooped on my floor, so perhaps it
evens out a bit.
In
July of 2017, I was in the hospital, and when I got out, I was going
to have nowhere to go. My nephew had gotten me a motel room for a
couple of weeks to keep me from being homeless. That ran out,
though, while I was suffering from extreme Diabetic Ketoacidosis.
I
had just recently begun a horrible job selling DirecTV to
unsuspecting old women. I made little money, and to make any amount
that would give me any chance to sustain my existence, I had to be
successful at getting people to trade their little pieces of green
paper for something that is mostly worthless. When I made a sale, I
was both ecstatic and wracked with guilt. But it was in this
horrible place that I met Hilary.
When
I was in the hospital, she called me every day. I have almost no
memory of that because the entire experience is a blur in my mind. I
was heavily drugged, and I was almost entirely incoherent almost all
the time. But, Hilary told me that when I got out of the hospital, I
could stay with her, and her wife, Rebecca, and their three cats,
Cynna, Buster, and Oliver until I could get back on my feet. And my
dog, Melanie, whom I feared I was going to have to give away to
anyone I believed would take good care of her before I dragged her
into homelessness with me, would be welcomed there, too. She would
have died on the streets, and my former roommates were about to be
evicted from my old house, which is where Melanie had to stay while I
tried to find shelter for us both. It was an offer that saved my
life, and Melanie’s, and, subsequently, made me a Cat Person.
When
I arrived, Rebecca showed me my bedroom, and I collapsed onto the
blowup mattress and passed out. I slept for more than 30 hours. I
think it was closer to two full days. And when I finally came back
into the world, Oliver had to find out who I was. He kept looking
at me, and I thought it was a little creepy. What the hell did he
even want from me?
It
was a couple of weeks before I moved in and Oliver decided I was
acceptable. The cats seemed willing enough to tolerate Melanie after
their initial meeting. Buster and Cynna, however, wanted nothing to
do with me. See why I hate cats?
Oliver
came and got in my lap for the first time almost a month to the day
after I began occupying his space full time. I was surprised, but it
was a nice surprise. He stayed nearly an entire minute, and he let
me pet him. And you know what else? He didn’t even scratch me.
Over
time, he began to visit me any time I was in the bathroom. Closing
the door meant only that Oliver’s little paw would appear underneath
it, letting me know he needed to come in. And, being the basically
lonely guy I’ve always been, I’d let him in. It wasn’t long before
Oliver was following me around, laying in my lap, and doing the
things Melanie had gotten too old to do anymore. Melanie could
barely make it onto her own personal couch. She couldn’t get on the
bed anymore, and Oliver started visiting me there. He wouldn’t stay
long, but he would swing by to check on me. When I got sick, as I
did with alarming frequency, he would come and lie on my chest. I
think it was his way of telling the girls something was wrong. They
would look for him, find him, and see whether I was dead, dead tired,
or in need of hospitalization.
Oliver
stayed close to me all the time we lived in Mesa.
In
July of 2018, we all moved to our nice 3 bedroom house in Phoenix.
We had a backyard so Melanie could go out and relieve herself without
the need for a leash and a trip up and down a set of stairs that
would, given time, certainly have killed me. And it was in the new
house that Buster decided to adopt me.
For reasons passing understanding, he decided my bedroom was actually his. If I laid down, Buster would join me within less than ten minutes. And he wouldn’t just sit there. He insisted that I be petting him. Having my phone in my hand was simply not allowed. That was giving my attention to something other than him. When he’s not chewing on the tube that goes from my tummy to my insulin pump, we do very well together. He’s become an expert cuddler. He lies with his back to my chest, and he purrs contentedly so long as we’re together. When I leave, he becomes visibly depressed. If I ever meet a woman like that… well… no… never mind. I would rather just have Buster. He takes up much less space on the bed.
Oliver
has to be with me at the computer now. He frequently feels the need
to add to whatever I’m writing, and if I stop petting him when he’s
in my lap, he will hop up to the desk, stroll across the keyboard,
and jump to the window above me to see what’s happening in the
backyard. He’s managed to obscure 2/3 of the characters now, and I
have to try to remember where they all are. I’m hoping to get a new
one soon. (A keyboard, not a cat… three is plenty, I swear.)
Cynna
continues to be royalty. When the girls went to Las Vegas for some
sort of convention a couple of months ago, His Majesty began to take
notice of my existence. He made sure I knew when he needed to be
fed. And, he assured me, no matter what his Mothers had said, when
he needed to be fed was simply constantly. Since their return he has
visited me twice, for a total of nearly 90 seconds. I expect that in
another year or two he’ll come to see me without the expectation of
food. Maybe he’ll let me pet him more than twice. One can only
hope.
I
will always love Melanie with all my heart. The fact that she is
getting too old to walk anymore scares me more than my own death.
There is little to be done, but I can still give her loves and kisses
while she’s lying on her couch. She simply isn’t capable of giving
me all she once did. I know her love is still there. She just can’t
express it physically any longer.
The
cats can. They’ve taught me there are ways of expressing their love
without jumping on me. I’m told that when Buster or Oliver looks me
in the eye, and they close their eyes for a moment, they’re saying,
“I love you.” I don’t know if that’s true. But I do know,
they’ve made me love them because they simply won’t allow my heart
any other choice. The cats have become a part of me. I’m a Cat
Person.
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 