Archive for the ‘dogblog-Jack’ Category

save the last dance for me

Saturday, December 28th, 2013

Jack…..January 1, 2004-December 28, 2013.

He arrived at our Airstream 8 years ago, 20 pounds of sleek black hair, lightning quick on four legs, a small mixed breed without aristocratic provenance…simply a 2 y/o terrier pup rescued from an Indiana shelter by a caring high school English teacher.

He soon adapted to our habits and quietly, systematically, tranformed us into the pet owners he knew we could be.  He walked me daily.  Everywhere and anywhere, never allowing me a measure of physical decadence nor denying him the joy to discover the infinite aromas in the real world.  We were a team, Jack and me, and then we rested.

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Accomodating to golf on TV, which he found quite boring

Jack became a friend to everyone, a special intoxicating presence, who knew when, and where, and how much, the human world needed him. He had an aura.

Charisma.

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Play ?  Nothing better than a day on his beach or chasing a squirrel

In the past month, in blatant disregard of the dogma, ‘you can’t teach an old dog a new trick’, Lynn had, with the aid of a few treats, taught him how to dance.  No threat to Astaire and Rogers, they managed a nice tango together.  At the least, they thought they could dance.

He was, like so many family pets, a dog for the ages.  My constant companion for eight years, connected together at the heart, the emotional vacuum will heal over time.  It must.  Those of you, like us, who have outlived their special companions, know the emptiness.

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Jack, on duty 28Aug 2011, 9 days before Lynn’s transplant call,

               he sensed the future before everyone else

He had watched over Lynn during her most trying days, allowing her spirit to soar when she needed it most.  The intimacy, while snuggling together, created a bond like mother and child, one they shared to the very end while she caressed that face during his final breaths.  The breaths that ended too soon.

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One little kiss, no more

The tears we are shedding…..they are the tears of joy and happiness, thankful for the years he gave to us.

For Lynn, she’ll never forget, Jack saved the last dance for her.  Tiptoe to heaven little guy, you were the very best.

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insightout© 2013

In memory  of:

Heinz, Kramer, Yooper, Sage, Teddie, Sandy, Louie, Brandy II, Cinch, Ruby, Penny, Norah, Zimba

 

 

Yappy Hour, Reigning Dogs

Friday, June 1st, 2012

dateline: Jackson Center, Ohio

Alumapalooza III

A new feature in the cascade of events for this unique rally; an hour for dogs to share their owners with other owners.  The owners, far more discreet than their beloved pets, are content to ‘talk’ without resorting to the mandatory sniffing of each other’s private parts.  Maybe next year.

 

Dozens of high-end breeds; dachshund, weimaraner, beagles, greyhounds, Scotties…..and a crowd favorite, the bulldog on the skateboard.  Boogeying down Bambi Lane.

 

Some fast, aloof, intelligent, powerful, miniscule, or alert, and others, rescue dogs like our Jack, the result of hasty, unplanned dog sex.  A dog’s eye view of the party.

 

Jack is considering accepting donations for his favorite cause, a national system to counter the dreaded wave of kanine kidnappings (think amber alert).  Seen below maintaining a vigil by his box trailer, to discuss strategy with other potential victims.

 

Among the dogs, few disappointments other than the absence of the corgi, favorite of writers, Graham Mackintosh (Pili) and A/S Life’s own Bill Doyle (Tasha).  However an unconfirmed rumor, started by a Welsh Terrier of ill repute, speculated that the lady below was planning to attend Alumapalooza IV in 2013.

 

Also, missing, not a single Lassie, as seen in this low-res file photo from 1955.

 

Lynn and I plan to adopt a collie puppy this year, a female, and we’ll name her Melon.  Like the movies of her forbearers, she will become melon collie and that will be sad.

 

©insightout2012

Calmalooza before the storm

Saturday, May 26th, 2012

As interpreted by a dog who ate a frog, last night.  Welcome to Facebark, and the fine print, by Jack.

Jack Disclaimer:
Any resemblance to persons living or dead should be plainly apparent  and those who know them, especially if  I have been kind enough to provide their real names, dates of birth, two photo ID’s, credit card data, and, in some cases, cell phone numbers.  All events described herein actually happened, or may have happened, though on occasion certain, very small, liberties with chronology have been exercised, because that is my right as a dog.

The countdown to the most significant Airstream rally, Alumapalooza III, is underway, and the highly anticipated Yappy Hour on Tues., 29May2012.  As co-host to the Man-In-The-Maze entourage, for three years running, I have provided courtesy parking adjacent to my dog run in the quiet days prior to the main event.

No purchase required

After the ‘frog’ incident, frothing at the mouth from the distasteful critter, multiple bouts of hurling, and eating copious amounts of grass, I awoke refreshed this morning.  This was my highest stress level since I met a skunk head-on at the cabin.

L-R, Man-in-the-Maze (aka Rich), me, Daughter-in-the-Maze (aka Emma)

This morning attention is turned to the corn crib, where a stupid raccoon (IQ test score~ 27 or less) once again fell for the peanut butter in a dish trick.  They are not only dumb, they have the personal hygiene quotient of an interstate toilet sewage back-up.  Sooooo, Emma and I head for the Izaak Walton league  to ‘relocate’ the stinky varmint.

L-R

The soon to be released defendant, and parole officer, Emma

The morning concludes.  I gaze outward and contemplate the day ahead and the years that surround me.

Below:

  • Silver Maple  c. 1855
  • The barn….1881
  • Neal……1919
  • Amish porch furniture..1995
  • Safari bunkhouse….2005
  • MB GLK Van….2008

That’s it for today, tempus fugit, and my final thought before embarking on an exciting week.

Ribbit, ribbit.

 

 

 

You may be entitled to compensation

Tuesday, July 12th, 2011

 

Preamble to Jack’s Blog

When revealed that a popular, inspirational blog, supposedly written by a Syria-based lesbian, was actually the work of a male graduate student in Scotland, the Gay Girl in Damascus was exposed as a myth.  The media began admonishing the public about the ease of internet duping, where it is said no one knows whether you are a Syrian, a lesbian, a Scot, or a dog who has failed a breathalyzer test.  Again.

Thus, prior to being insulted by reading on, please review Jack’s Disclaimer, and consider checking this box, ❑ I Agree

Welcome back to my Facebark page, twelve steppers, et. al.

Those threadbare values of people, who thrive on bogus exoticism, may take comfort that I, a dog, am not currying rapport with readers, as everything I write is fiction and that which is not, is simply not true, so today’s theme naturally turns to my area of expertise, the practice of law.

Believe me, I am just as astonished as you, having failed the LSAT’s twice, especially when I came across this (delete) Law Firm, location unknown, specializing in dog bites.

The earthy among you may consider this a misspelling, it is not, but the more astute and academic (Wheel of Fortune watchers, you know who you are) will recognize that the letters, rearranged, spell the phrase, “Swim U Flark”.  So you have an option; dig, swim, or buy a consonant.

A streaming modern overhead sign alerts victims, that aside from death, dismemberment, infection, loss of a loved one, and the risk of permanent cosmetic changes in appearance, you, yes, you may be entitled to compensation (and an income tax deduction on Schedule E, line 47 (a) of 27% of line 12 if you are married and filing jointly, thanks to the inspirational IRS code).  You will only be charged a fee if we win a settlement from the spineless insurance industry whose motto is “no backbone, you’re not alone”.

Personal injury law is solely responsible for an infectious, nationwide outbreak in billboards.  Ad media representatives report that Adult Superstores have fallen to #2, and McD’s® a distant 4th place.  Vasectomy reversals by Houston urologists; tubally ligated from the top ten.  The point being, the attorneys pictured must appear in dark suits, stern, unsmiling, possessing a noticeable adversarial posture, and a complete set of what might be referred to as, ‘male components’.  And recently styled hair.

Home alone, I dogged onto google, searching 1-800-dogbite*.  In 0.1 second, an astonishing 1,360,000 hits, which if extrapolated over ten minutes would mean everyone in the USA may have suffered a dog bite.  Twice.

Being the target of a half billion plaintiffs is depressing, like shoveling sand against the tide, making it difficult for me to remain sober and clean.  Currently in re-hab, I have refocused on a future as an advice columnist and also, the lead in a bluegrass band.

Coming soon to a county fair near you, please welcome the hot, new, bluegrass sensation, Petunia, Dogbite, and Jack

And my advice for today:

Bite an attorney  (which, incidentally, would make a terrific song title)

* this is an actual number, which when dialed will be answered tersely by a woman with a question, “have you been injured” ?  If you respond, “yes, my feelings have been hurt”, she abruptly and rudely, hangs up.  Try it.

 

insightout©2011

‘On’ The Wagon Wheel, the depths of despair, Part II

Friday, April 22nd, 2011

This is Jack’s sequel, a continuum of remembered events as they may have happened, here again, in his own words.

I felt rather sprightly on the return to the casita.  After a wholehearted attempt to display my loyalty and affection to Mrs. 3M, the atmosphere went south, quickly, and the following conversation ensued:

Mrs 3M, “what has gotten into this dog, he’s pawing my breasts, licking my ears, more amorous than a hormonal sixteen year old wearing a snuggie ® ?”

3M, “he may have had a beer at the wheel”.

Mrs. 3M, “ May have. May have ?  Look at him, he’s staggering.  Oh my word, you’ve brought him home drunk. Again.  This has to stop.

The atmosphere was tense.  Dos equis beer and domestic cheer, rhyme, like oiled and foiled….. I fear the jig is up, and I’m destined to an eternal diet of Beneful® and water.  I enjoy the company of older women and Mrs. 3M is only nine y/o in dog years and at age seven, our age difference is not an older woman/younger man issue.  She has always been my favorite but has also made it clear, she does not date outside her species.

The household conversation on the days following is subdued, and scary;

  • mention of AA and the ‘twelve steps’ program
  • a possible visit to a southern California re-hab facility endowed by Betty Ford (Asta, Toto, Lassie, and half of the 100 dalmatians have been patients)
  • sessions with a tough love instructoress, rumored to wear more leather than Trigger.

I’m getting despondent, forced to stay in the yard, where I can only nap and dream of halcyon days with Ruby, an AKC registered English Pointer from Oregon, papers to prove it, and friendly enough to outweigh her prep school pedigree.  Ruby Red, no relation to the grapefruit of the same name, is an ADHD knucklehead, constant motion, with the brains of a drugstore throwaway camera….point and shoot.  Her urine has more Ritalin metabolites than the fourth grade class at the local charter school, but get this.  When we share a Tecate, I get to drink the beer and she gets to eat the empty can.  Did I mention that she’s a knucklehead ?

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Ruby, with her unidentified (thanks to photoshop) handler

Old 3M is loyal, attentive, but he, too, has major shortcomings;

a)  cheapskate

b)  hearing impaired

Combined, an almost tragic occurrence, while 3M tried to find the least expensive way to ship me off to the Palm Springs “resort”.  Watching the USPS commercials where the postman reminds the viewing audience, “ if it fits, it ships“, he figured that since I wasn’t liquid, fragile, hazardous, or perishable, why not send little Jack to La-La land by priority mail ?  Half deaf, he thought the announcer said, “if it s#its, it fits, and all at a fixed rate”.  3M is no bird dog, but that doesn’t rule out his bird brain or the use of swear words.

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Delivery confirmation, anyone ?

We’re headed back to the Midwest, in the truck, and 3M is forcing me to listen to sermons-on-tape and gospel music.  An unscheduled stop in Canadian, Texas , an “oasis on the prairie”, and against my will, a demeaning photograph taken at the doorway to the WCTU, a deliberate effort to shame me publicly.  No, this is not the local radio station, but home to the Women’s Christian Temperance Union, a 1930’s organization of mouthy babes that was anything but temperate who would  your doghood on demand.  And, no, I am not taking nitrates for chest pain, nor do I have kidney or liver problems.

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“honest, officer, it was just one beer”

For the moment, 3M and I are at an impasse.  I can’t get into the 12 steppy thing as I can’t get past #1 (admitting that I am powerless and my life is unmanageable), and I find #4 (a searching and fearless moral inventory of myself)  reprehensible.  Add to that, these are numbers aimed at the two-legged, and with four legs, I’m not agreeing to any jive 24-step program.

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Staring pensively, over the Rio Grande’s Mesilla Valley, Las Cruces, NM. Along with an overgrown roadrunner, contemplating a ‘dry’ future.

I don’t care what readers may think or write, I don’t have a problem, and if you’re from the PETA, SPCA, or the WCTU, please keep it to yourself….I’m not taking any calls.

Salud, or in a word from my pal Werner, Austrian friend and host, Prost.

Cafe confession; adults only

Wednesday, April 20th, 2011

The submission below was written and transcribed by our dog, Jack, on his blog, in his own words.  Any reference to his handler is reduced to one of servitude as MMM ( a.k.a. my main man servant ), token acknowledgment to his less important, secondary role.  The following may not be suitable for persons 18 years or younger (photo ID not required)

Jack Disclaimer:

Any resemblance to persons living or dead should be plainly apparent to them and those who know them, especially if  I have been kind enough to provide their real names, dates of birth, and, in some cases, cell phone numbers.  All events described herein actually happened, or may have happened, though on occasion the author has taken certain, very small, liberties with chronology, because that is my right as an American dog.

An August afternoon, a weekday, hot enough to melt the tar on county road 17, with a shimmering side order of humidity, my tongue hangs down, a limp banner on a short flagpole, pinker than a cure for breast cancer ribbon.  The hour spent at the Waggin’ Tail with friends went as usual; the initial urologic examination of respective sex organs, followed by scouting for fresh scents of recent excremental body wastes, then an hour of play time….toss the ball, run like a stupid greyhound (fast, but good for nothing else), roll in dry groundhog poop, pee, run again, oh, what’s this, the menstruum of a field mouse, run, run, run.

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Thirsty, MMM and I head to our favorite watering hole, Moser’s Austrian Cafe in scenic downtown New Carlisle, IN, to sit on the patio, watch for girls and the traffic to drift by.  Never know when we might get lucky.  Or hit by a speeding pick-up, unlucky.  Middle-age obese women drift in and out of cutesy shops, buy imported stuff they don’t need, crammed into SUVs that are too large, to be taken to homes they’ve outgrown.  When they should be spending the time in the gym.

Our host, Werner, a genuine Bavarian dressed in lederhosen, greets us with a welcoming smile and a pint of Stiegl, an Austrian lager of distinction.  Since the legendary mare, Zenyatta, won 19 straight races and her trainer treated her to a pint of Guinness after a good workout, Werner and 3M have allowed me a few ounces of Stiegl after my afternoon exercise routine.  Werner, a champion alpine skier looks silly in his outfit, but his wife Jennifer is quite hot, and he is quite buff, the beer is cool and refreshing, so I keep my bark gauge in the ‘off’ position.

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But this is where the trouble began, first an ounce, then two, then four, until I become Paul, the Apostle, drinking from the cup of the Lord.  I began to anticipate the visits to Werner.   The soiree with Beverly’s retriever, Tommy, a golden with suspicious ancestry and I might add, matted unkempt hair the aroma of a beached sardine, became less of my daily routine, as the anticipation of a thirst quenching brew loomed within the limbic area, deep beneath grey matter, as if that matters.

Fast forward to winter in Patagonia, AZ, a repose to warm weather where I’m not forced to urinate into snow twice the height of an outstretched rear leg.  Here, 12 miles north of the Mexican border, trail hiking through the conservancy, the whiff of javelina and mule deer scat and horehound weed and the carne asada stained castoff clothing from illegal immigrants and Johnson grass……heaven can wait for this thirsty dog.

Late afternoon and time to put on the “can we, can we ?” routine and head for the Wagon Wheel saloon.  A cowboy bar since 1937, home to both higher and lower learning and outdoor seating adjacent to four neighborhood dogs with crude temperament, etiquette challenged, and no match for eight ranch horses, polite and stoic and welcoming as old friends, patiently awaiting a ride back to the Circle Z Ranch.

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With my pals, Dos Equis

3M meets up with the afternoon literary crowd, an informal gathering where the truth is neither sacred nor compulsory.  I can relate this, in confidence, because there are no bulls within the range of my vision or nose.  Also, I don’t care, as on this limited horizon I see a saucer of Dos Equus lager, golden, not amber, coming my way.

A western version of the Algonquin round table, today’s storytellers, dog lovers all, men of letters and nature and American Spirit cigarettes and gin and ladies body parts and….why go on, I just want a few sips of Mexican brew, time to grovel in the gravel, the discarded squeezed limes, the ashes, spilled vodka, away from conversational fallout, dreaming under the overhead Budweiser banners flapping in the afternoon breeze.

  • Nick, the Leelanau, MI landscaper, natural man extraordinaire, a relaxed encyclopedia of birds, plants, and the hunt.  Too handsome to allow photographs; no papparazzi please.
  • JB, accomplished journalist, political analyst, photographer, conservancy manager and wearer of many hats, all distinguished.

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  • Phil C., popular novelist, Pulitzer Prize, hunter, world traveler, truck driving Viet Nam veteran, and recent convert to the airstreamic cult.  With two best friends at his P’Gia ranch (low res file photo from my porn collection, both bird dogs cause for my little willie to….whoa, Nellie…..let’s leave it right there and call it what it is, canine eroticism).

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  • Jim H.,iconic heavyweight in American literature and poetry, screenwriter, genuine FOJ (Friend Of Jack, both me and Nicholson), and master storyteller.  Self proclaimed, the ‘lout’ of Livingston, MT.  Blind in one eye since 7, the result of a childhood accident, he sees more with one good eye than a Cooper’s hawk with two, or ten thousand liberals with tunnel vision.

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The sun drifts behind the Santa Rita mountains to the north, a faint red tinge loiters on the Patagonia mountains to the south, and I’ve had six ounces, it’s getting cool, and I’m woosy.  Time to walk home, across Mendoza’s alley, past yipping chihuahuas (irritating little bastards)………

to be continued

when my head clears

things are not looking up

Meet Jack, on FaceBark

Thursday, June 17th, 2010

Not having blogged since the disastrous skunk encounter, Jack, our dog of suspicious ancestry, has opted to join the information age by creating his own FaceBark page.  Having failed miserably in his genealogy quest, and succumbing to multiple requests by ardent readers ( well, two, actually ) for updates, we decided to no longer ignore this ground swell of support.

mark as unread                       send spam                            delete 

Jack is fluent in three languages, sadly, none of which are in regular usage (Jaqaru {Peru}, Wu {Tibet}, and Limburgish {Netherlands} *, so it is necessary to limit his narrative to photo captions.  Translations are literal and may be inaccurate.

what’s on your mind ?

dscn4909.jpgAt my first “rally”, guarding a tent from foreign invaders.  The first timer ribbon should have been an RV ( rookie virgin ) badge. Will I be a ‘two timer’ next year? dscn0579.jpgIn Sante Fe, NM.  If you want to play with the big dogs, ya gotta pee in the tall grass.dscn4852.jpgWith Zimba, a hot black lab female from Naperville, IL, after meeting on eharmonysniff.com.dscn4543.jpg“House hunting” for a fixer-upper, with the family in Patagonia, AZ 

Upcoming Events

dscn1367.jpgReturning to the rocky shoreline of Lake Huron in the U.P., fresh sniffing, and dreaming of a life at sea.dscn0249.jpgAlthough I can not, or will not, accept donations, you (and that creep Michael Vick) are welcome to donate to my favorite charity.

* information plagiarized from Wikipedia.org

And for dinner, let’s have canine Italian

Tuesday, October 21st, 2008

The dream was bizarre; having pizza with my 5th grade teacher, Hazel Markwalder, in Las Vegas during a convention for old tool collectors.  By the pool, between bites we talked about Craftsman vs. Snap-On and why she always wore those nylon stockings that came just below the knee. I was 12, she was 57, and the red and blue varicosities on her legs resembled the Interstate Highway System map on page 3 of the 1961 Rand McNally Road Atlas.  She looked and talked and smelled like a chocolate labrador in heat. 

1:30 AM

The dream came to an abrupt end, thankfully, awakened by the insistent barking of my little dog, Jack.  He wants me to believe his urgency to urinate is more immediate than curbing global warming.  Like he’s a TV star in a Flomax commercial.  

 I let him out the side door: within 30 seconds I hear his blood-curdling scream of agony.  He wails at the front door frothing at the mouth, scratching both eyes furiously with his dew claws, having just gone toe-to-toe with a skunk.  He took the full monty and was down for the count ten seconds into the first round.striped_skunk.jpg

I quickly head for the garage, donned in old coveralls, latex gloves, goggles on for eye protection and instruct Lynn to get out tomato juice, the old wives remedy to neutralize the intense aroma.  In her pantry she only stocks Prego Traditional, no mushrooms, no garlic. Mixed 50:50 with water I soak Jack with Italian sauce.   A thirty minute massage and he now smells like an Olive Garden sewage treatment facility. dscn1693.JPG

 2:15 AM

While I’m gagging, practicing Reiki in the garage, the old wife has searched the internet to discover the new wife modern treatment; equal parts Dawn dishwashing detergent, baking soda, and hydrogen peroxide.  We have all three, how lucky is that ?  After rinsing out the Prego, I realize I won’t be having pasta for a long, long time.  I’m now soaking him in our homemade chemical spill which, to my astonishment, actually seems to be effective. dscn1697.JPG

 3:30 AM

The final rinse and I’m now shampooing skunk-doggie with Pert Plus Shampoo, + aloe, + conditioner, in the popular ocean breeze fragrance. Mapquest, however, reminds me that we are on the north shore of Lake Huron, a 1000 miles from the Atlantic shore.

Towel dried he at last begins to act and smell normal.  I prepare a temporary bed for him in the garage, he curls up and drifts into the arms of Morpheus.

5:00 AM

Neither Lynn nor I can sleep, the stench penetrating into our bedroom through a wall of 12″ thick logs. The scene of the TKO was under our front porch so we retreat to the old beachhouse for early morning coffee.  The smell lingers on, a combination of a skunky Heineken, butyric acid (the most foul smelling of all the organic acids), and Miss Markwalder’s breath.  dscn1629.JPG 

On a rare day, a bad dream is better than the good life.   

Testicle Justice

Tuesday, February 26th, 2008

From the Jack dogblog, the title may not be appropriate on this, a family oriented website. However, it is not nearly as offensive as the widely proclaimed monologues featuring a prominent but often well disguised female body part.Here then is the second essay from our dog, Jack, on his survival trial in the great southwest. For those of you who do not recollect, his most recent entry ended as follows:

My next column will be about meeting, up close and personal, a large extended family of fire ants and how it made me re-think the judicial process. In the interim, consider sending some gourmet dog treats my way. I’ll forward my p.o. box number, privately, on request. JACK

 Sadly, I must report that my last column resulted in not a single offer for a dog treat. No milkbone, no jerked meat twisties from Ol’ Roy, no dried cheeto flavored porcine ears, nada. The level of my disappointment is palpable as it is evident that you, yes, you, don’t understand a major principle in the animal world: no treats, no essays.I recently left New Mexico with a painful memory. While in a junkyard looking at old cars I elected to urinate too close to a teddy bear cholla. From the Airstream Life Tour of America here is a fine example, (click on the purple underline) It took the bossman 30 minutes to remove all spines from my groin area, all the while under the spectre of this sign.dscn0354.JPGAt the time, death seemed the more pleasurable option. Remember, it was his bright idea to look at the 1953 Buick Roadmaster.Normally, I read and obey the signs posted. The following example, from a rest area in rural Missouri, illustrates how my favorite chew toy ( the gay snowman) and I have enough sense to stay away from a sewage treatment facility.dscn0332.JPGAt the moment, I am now spending the winter in my Patagonia, Az., home, a small adobe with a lovely fenced in back yard….a place where I can nap for hours, dream about chasing squirrels, and erase the memory of the New Mexico trauma. However, three weeks ago, while dozing in the arms of the mythical goddess Morpheus, the same tender groin area was assaulted by an army of fire ants.250px-fire_ants02.jpgStartled by the burning sensation in that area which I deem to be quite private, my first inclination after howling like that guy in the Edvard Meunch painting, was to begin licking the tender area. Savagely. Let me tell you that dozens of live ants, swallowed, are the equivalent of three tablespoons of chili powder. Now I was burning at both ends. Emergency help was needed but my dyslexic handler dialed 119 instead of 911. Moron.Ultimately a decision had to be made:(A) Have him spray my entire gorgeous jet black exterior with a can of that toxic slime in an aerosol, the stuff that advertises “it kills them daid”or,(B) Do nothing and let me suffer until the pain and misery subside.Hence, the title chosen expresses the gravity of the need for a fire ant landmark decision;

Woe vs. Raid

 Okay, groan if you like, but be reminded that this stuff is worth what you pay for it.

Jack

P.O. Box 542

Patagonia, Az 85624 

Dog Dialogue; Welcome to Jack’s world

Saturday, January 19th, 2008

A dozen days, traveling cross country with an elderly white guy, would be hell without a few treats. So provided is a photo of me enjoying a favorite snack; the chicken-flavored fudgesicle. Tyson Leftover

I’ve always enjoyed reading and writing essays, so I plan to share thoughts with you. Even though as dogs, sub-species canus verycoolis, we rarely speak directly to owners, I often converse with friends in the animal world. An example follows. We have entered New Mexico, the Land of Enchantment, which, I don’t find particularly enchanting with no welcome center nearby. Better however than a Texas facility near El Pisso which exhibits this disgusting sign below:

Illegals get a warmer greeting

Gives new meaning to the worn-out Texas cliche, “Hook’em Horns”.

Twelve miles from the real Mexico

The ceremonial photo-op under the sign. We stop at the historic ghost town, Steins, New Mexico. No dog cemetery, no milkbones, no squirrels, no girls, and only one donkey. Fortunately the donkey was quite literate and we discussed John Steinbeck’s, “Travels with Charley”. He also wanted to talk about Faust’s ‘Remembrance of Things Past’ that he had just finished but bores me to the point where I wanted to look for something, anything, vertical to pee on. So I changed the subject to class basketball in Arizona, which really piqued the burro’s interest. He was not, however, familiar with Ralph Laurens’ continued use of the polo pony as an unpaid advertising icon, although he did admit to lusting over a wolf he once met in the desert. Evidently he watches too much cable-TV and confessed an addiction to “Monk” re-runs on the USA network. My intervention with this burro was unsuccessful because he felt he would enjoy the show even more if they had named it “Donk” instead of “Monk”. But donkeys, what can you expect, they’re all a bunch of asses. Steins, a dead town with my live new friend

(‘ did you hear the one about this donkey and a dog that go into a bar and ask the bartender if he knows how to make a Moscow Mule ?’………) Oh well, I’m busy now, but I’ll write again. My next column will be about meeting, up close and personal, a large extended family of fire ants and how it made me re-think the judicial process. In the interim, consider sending some gourmet dog treats my way. I’ll forward my p.o. box number, privately, on request. JACK

About the Author

Retired 1997.
Frequent travel. Loyal companions: wife, Lynn; dog, Jack.
Avocation: writing social and political satire.
Past life: three decade clinical pharmacy owner. Now in recovery.
Location: Northern Indiana, Eastern U.P. of Michigan, Southern Arizona

No telephone;
E-mail cspiher@aol.com