Drunk, pantsless Cable Guy

The Cable Guy came this morning to fix a minor problem. Ellen and I were both home.

When he was done, he handed Ellen his card and said to both of us, "You may get a call asking how I did. I'd love you to give me a positive review."

I responded, "So we should omit the part about you drinking a beer in your truck before you came in?"

Ellen chimed in, "And don't you guys usually wear pants on these appointments?"

(Neither of these things were true of course.)

The guy got a nervous smile on his face, the kind that says, oh you guys are joking, ha ha, it's not that funny, how do I get out of here?

But did I marry the right woman or what?

Memories of Louie

I like to think I treated Louie well and he enjoyed his life. He was a rescue, after all, so any decent life I gave him was a plus. I loved him and I still miss him terribly. But there are two things about his life I regret.

First, I left him home alone a lot, since I worked most days. I think he got used to it -- so much so that getting him a little brother to keep him company didn't seem to impress him much. I wish I had had a dog walker come every day, but back then I didn't think I could afford it. Of course I could have.

Second, what happened before the adjacent photo.

When I was growing up, we had two different Golden Retrievers, Scotchy and (inevitably) Whiskey. Both lovely dogs. (Don't get me started on the fact that Scotchy had to live outside in the New England winters.) Whiskey loved to swim in our pool, which was always a hoot. It took some hamburger to lure her in at first, but after that she's go in for any old reason. She was even seen taking a very brief dip on very hot days, swimming a tight three-foot circle and stepping out, just to cool off!

So, of course, I wanted Louie to be a swimmer. Early on in our time together, I tried desperately to lure him into the Grandma's pool in Palm Desert. Cheese, hamburger, nothing worked. So with great compassion and concern, I threw him in the pool, thinking he'd see it wasn't so bad. He wouldn't come near me the rest of the day.

I gave up and left him alone. And on subsequent visits he didn't seem to fear the pool, rather he'd just ignore it. He'd even come over and lick my big bald head while I was lounging at the edge of the cool blue waters.

Well one day late in his life, when he'd started to have a little trouble walking, we were hanging around in the house in the desert, doing nothing special. We tended to leave the sliding glass door open so the dogs could wander in and out to the pool area, where there was also plenty of grass where one could do one's business.

Well in comes Louie, soaking wet! I was thunderstruck, since he could well have drowned out there and we never would have known. (He was not really the type of dog who would bark or whine when he needed something.) There was no reason to believe that he knew the pool had stairs and that he could find them and get out, so I could only imagine him pawing at the side of the pool endlessly until he drowned, while we sat idly by inside, oblivious. It still haunts me.

But he did find the stairs and get out, and you can see he was no worse for wear. It turned out that a poor little baby rabbit had drowned in the pool and was floating lifelessly in the middle of the pool. It looked almost exactly like one of Louie's most beloved furry toys, so he must have been desperate to get it, and fallen in while trying to reach it. We determined to be much more watchful.

Later in the day, Louie again waltzed in all wet. Hooray for our watchfulness!

A few years later...

Guantanamo Bay

The question is, are we a nation of laws or are we not?

Long ago it was decided that our system of jurisprudence would lean toward protecting the innocent. That's the way Americans are used to thinking, whether we like it or not. Miranda rights, no search and seizure without a warrant, etc, these things are all to protect us, the vast majority of Americans who are innocent of any crime, from persecution. Most importantly, our system is designed to sometimes let guilty people go free, in order that no innocent person is ever wrongly imprisoned. Of course this happens anyway, and that is a tragedy in every case, and we should try to keep this from ever happening again. But that is the way it is.

So Gitmo. There we have lots of different types of people: as the recent Wikileaks documents reveal, some were held simply for their intel value, and without real regard for their guilt or innocence. This too is a tragedy and a black eye for America. A deep gash in the flesh of our core values.

That's why I say close Gitmo. Anyone who has committed crimes that can be proven in a court of law, try them. Those that haven't, let them go. I know this means some of them go back to being terrorists -- but this can't be helped. Obama et al would say they are enemy combatants in a war -- but if so, it's a war seemingly without end. Are we really going to hold these people without trial forever? That's not America. That's Soviet Russia. I don't want any part of it.

Close Gitmo, Obama. Like you promised.

Memories of Louie

As Louie got very old, he got pretty deaf, mostly in one ear, so when you called to him from his right side, he would turn to his left see who was calling him. It was funny the first few times, but after a while it was just sad and counterproductive. You had to go grab him at dinnertime and lead him to the kitchen.

His sight also suffered, so he could only really see things right in front of his nose. Also mostly sad, but at least one time funny. You be the judge.

One night several months ago I was in the kitchen fixing dinner. Was it Chateaubriand, or Trout Almondine? I cannot recall. Anyway I decided to give the dogs a mini Milk Bone. They're smaller than regular Milk Bones, and multicolored, and at least look tasty, though I've never tried one. Elliot was in the kitchen, so I just handed him his, but he doesn't like them very much, so I think he just let it sit there, trying his hardest to look pathetic. He's just a little off. Louie, on the other hand, was resting comfortably in the living room, as was his wont, just lying face down on the carpet, sleeping, dreaming I hope of running in grassy fields. I called his name and he looked up, but couldn't really see me due to his blindness, nor could he tell where I was calling from. Lazy and a little cruel, I decided just to toss his Milk Bone to him.

Well I was on my game this evening because it landed right between his paws, right under his nose. Strike one! He didn't see it coming, but he sure heard it land on the rug, and startled he looked down and saw it, with -- I swear -- look of surprise on his face. I suddenly got a very clear view into his doggy mind. As he sniffed it, grabbed it, and happily bit down with a crunch, I realized exactly what he was thinking. A dog biscuit just magically appeared in front of me! Oh benevolent dog Gods above, what have I done to deserve this? Usually, I must remain alert for when my master goes into the dog biscuit closet, but this one just incorporated out of thin air right in front of me. What alchemy is this! Actually, who cares, may I have another?

Now he didn't actually look to the heavens, but I know he was thinking this, and I am pretty sure that he wondered for the rest of his life why it never happened again.

Memories of Bill

First in a series of however many I can remember.

Maybe 20 years ago, my brother shared with me that he had gone duck hunting. (I think he was hanging out with clients, or potential clients.) I was slightly horrified. Not that I really have anything against hunting: I'm a meat eater, and I believe that if you eat meat you can't be against hunting, at least hunting that is as humane as possible and hunting that is for the purpose of eating the meat. But hunters are certain types of people, I felt, perhaps erroneously in retrospect, the kind who can watch an animal die without sadness. I didn't think my brother was one of them.

I asked, taken aback, "You shot ducks?"

Without a moment's hesitation, Bill responded, "I shot at ducks."