Lord, What Have We Done

Circumstance and deep cover Government Conspiracy has forced a move from the urban deep south to the untamed wilds of northern Canada. When the boss's visit home turned in to a bureaucratic immigration quagmire of forms and delays, we hatched an exit strategy, packed up the hounds, the trolls, and the princess, and headed for the land of ice and snow.

While driving 2000 miles over main trucking routes and heavily traveled interstates with three motion sensitive hounds, all your worldly possessions, a box full of hungry trolls and a princess who must look her very best at all times in case we run into will.I.am. at the Flying J sounded like a fun adventure prior to departure, I can assure you that if ever given a choice in the future, I would want permanently disfiguring torture or disabling chronic illness. There is no description I can muster to explain the effects on vehicle upholstery after three car sick hounds spend three days expelling horror and mayhem in all directions. It's really all a blur, thankfully suppressed far in the subconscious, but burned deep into my memory, as clear as a video, I recall trying to deal with a princess who had a steamy foul substance of undetermined origin sprayed at high pressure into her hair while hurtling down the interstate at 75 miles per hour, one hand on the steering wheel, the other desperately trying to keep her from jumping completely out of the vehicle at highway speed. All that kept playing over and over in my mind was that Marlon Brando quote from Apocalypse Now.. The Horror... The Horror.. 

With our infinite wisdom and uncanny foresight, we chose to reacquaint ourselves with the far north climate in a record snowfall year. Taking three southern hounds who have never before seen even a single snowflake, putting them into a vehicle for three days, and letting them out into 8 feet of snow and wilderness is kind of cruel, but watching a hound try to figure out how to pee with all four paws off the ground at the same time is amazing. Two of them can pee while standing on one foot. The other can actually change feet mid pee. Our nightly routine now includes carrying our 80 pound dogs back into the house after freezing solid, and placing them by the wood stove to thaw over night.

The princess, having only been about 10-11 when we left this climate, has had to relearn basic survival skills such as not to wear a dress at -35 below, a parka CAN be a fashion statement if purchased at the right store, and do not stick your tongue on metal objects. Kids grow up so fast these days.. One day you are changing diapers and wiping noses, and the next you are prying tongues off of frozen gates and carrying their stiff dogs into the house..

It Only Hurts When I do This

Something happened to me awhile back that I thought would never happen. I was involved in a traffic collision.

It’s not like I have never had an accident before, but all my previous collisions were drunken late-night single vehicle wrecks that involved large stationary objects such as power poles, light standards, a garage (and the car inside), and a 25 foot cement chicken. In all my years of driving, I have never been involved in a collision with another (moving) vehicle. All things taken into account, I consider myself a good and safe driver when I am sober and I never really expected to be in a multi-car accident.

While sitting at a red light, out of nowhere a young girl while talking on her cell phone and traveling twice the posted speed limit, blows a red light. She was traveling in the opposite direction, but as she barreled into the intersection she T-boned some poor guy driving a shoebox, bounced off of him, careened over to our side of the road and plowed head-on into my beloved Hemi powered Dodge Hound Mobile.

She was traveling so fast, that she pushed my truck off the roadway and into a guardrail which proceeded to wrap itself around the other side of the vehicle, literally adding insult to injury. We both came to rest with the nose of her piece of junk Crown Victoria stuffed into what used to be the large shining chrome grill of my Dodge, the Hemi hissing, squirting, and puking vital fluids onto the asphalt, groaning in pain and making a valiant effort to continue to serve me well under very difficult circumstances.

As the tire smoke and Hemi spray cleared, I looked over at the shoebox and watched it’s driver extricate himself from the crumpled wreck. It reminded me of a fat fly fisherman slipping off a pair of too tight rain slicks. I sadly turned the key and mercifully put my baby to sleep for eternity. I was a bit banged up but other wise OK and able to exit my vehicle using the doors. She, unbelievably was still on the phone when she got out of her Hemi killing death rocket, and remarkably, unscathed. I’m not clear that she even missed a sentence in her conversation, and proceeded to talk on the phone until the police showed up.

The police took statements, checked for valid Driver’s licenses, which surprisingly she didn’t have, and asked us all for proof of insurance. Although she produced proof of insurance at the scene, after trying for two days to contact her insurance company I discovered that her policy had been canceled.

I was informed later that my dear Dodge was a total loss. 

I loved my truck. This was the first vehicle I had ever purchased new. It was fully loaded with leather, Infinity sound, hands-on controls, power and heated seats, power and heated mirrors, it even had power adjusting foot pedals. I’ve had this vehicle since new, and it has never given me a hint of trouble. Sadly, because the cellphone talking girl who murdered my dearly beloved works at a local fast food fish store and had no insurance, I was not able to replace my dear Durango and settled on a used trailblazer. It’s nice, but it just isn’t the same..

I still miss my baby, but I know she has gone to a better place and now drives the smooth and uncongested highways in the sky, with unlimited high test fuel and no traffic lights..





Recently they passed a law that bans talking on a cellphone while driving, much too late to save my sweet love. I wonder if someone who drives with no license and no insurance would obey this law?

Dead Man Walking

I have settled into a routine now, and barely notice that The Boss is absent.

Each morning it is up early, release the hounds and feed the hounds, shower, walk the hounds, then off to work at the glue factory. I head home for lunch to release the hounds again and have a bite to eat before heading back to the glue factory for the remainder of the work day. After work, it is a simple dinner, and some light chores before retiring to the recliner for some TV and then bed by 10:00pm where I toss and turn most of the night due to the huge empty space created by the lack of hounds. Because, as I’ve mentioned, in some bizarre doggy practical joke, now that there is room the hounds refuse to sleep in the bed.

This morning started out like every other Monday, I am stirred from sleep at 23 minutes to alarm o’ clock by doggy breath, and open my eyes to see large scary teeth and a huge tongue panting a “get up and let me out before I am forced to cold nose your neck” warning. Like usual, any movement perceived by Cy to indicate I am getting up triggers the jumpy jump, mouthy arm, air snappy, hoppy dance that is designed to block total access to the bathroom and cause deep ironic regret over ignoring the Help-I’ve-Fallen-and-Can’t-Get-Up TV commercials. I have learned over time that release the hounds is first above all other activities no matter how urgent, or very bad and painful things happen to me.

This morning on my way to release the hounds, I noticed something horrifying out of the corner of my eye that stopped me dead in my tracks and instantly filled me full of horror and dread. I have likely walked past this scene 1000 times since The Boss’s departure, and either I had a psychological block, or the vision simply did not register. We have INSIDE PLANTS!! Or, more accurately, we USED to have inside plants and now have pots on stands, on shelves, on the floor and hanging from corners, that contain brown dry leaves on spindly sticks.

I think I remember The Boss telling me to remember to water something. Honestly, I was not really paying attention, and I figured that eventually I would figure out what I was supposed to do by the lack of water somewhere in the house. I really don’t remember us even having inside plants, and likely, she has placed these here as a test which I have horribly failed.

I “watered” the sticks this morning before I left for the glue factory, and I “watered” them again during my lunch stop over, but I really don’t think there is much hope. On the way home this evening I am going to buy a few cans of green spray paint and some drinking straws and try to repair the damage. Maybe, just Maybe she won’t notice..

The Inconvienence of it All

At the top of our street, across the busy road on the corner, is our neighborhood gas station and inconvenience store. It's existence and whole purpose of being is to add insult to injury and frustration to my life. It is a never ending bad practical joke perpetrated on society, worthy of it's own 24 hour live feed on the comedy channel.

There is no possible combination of bad decisions and poor planning that could have led to the layout of the lot and it's relation to the traffic, so the perpetual joke started right from conception with engineers and civil planners doubled over in laughter while signing the building permits. The franchise is located on one corner of a major 4 way intersection. Each morning I dread the exercise in futility of trying to turn off my street onto the busy thoroughfare while a constant stream of late for work gas buying coffee drinkers pour off the store lot and pull in line with the already packed flow. When combined with the cars turning off the street directly opposite to ours, it can take 10 minutes to a 1/2 hour to complete this task. I usually read the paper at the top sign, and wait until the mile long line of cars behind me, each waiting their turn at the front of the line begins to honk in unison, indicating there is a chance I can turn without being horribly disfigured in a fiery crash.

Although the traffic congestion the store presents is loads of fun in itself, the real carnival ride begins when you pull in to the lot. The store is staffed by a cast of characters that were edited out of Walter Disney's first full length feature. There is a sweat little dwarf that is wider then she is tall, and must use a ladder to reach the cash register. The stock boy, lot attendant and janitor is a cross-dressing ex trucker from South America with a deep voice and even deeper coat of thick wavy hair on his legs and back clearly visible over (and under the dresses), and the afternoon cashier is the hard of hearing father of the owners great uncle from the old country who moves with the speed and dexterity of a senior three toed sloth. Rounding out this cast of characters is Mr. Potato Head, the day shift cashier, who sold his likeness to Hasbro in the early 50's without consulting an attorney, and sadly, is on record as making the worst business deal in history. Although this poor guy is instantly and delightfully recognizable to every person born after 1952, he lives in anonymity selling cigarettes and beer to minors.

In theory, the store is supposed to offer a quick and easy option for purchasing small items accidentally forgotten off the weekly shopping list or enable you to pick up a small snack or a refreshing beverage while filling your vehicle with gasoline. Quick, easy, get in, get out, and on your way. It is supposed to be simple and fast, and in exchange, you pay a slight premium on the items and avoid the long lines and the extended drive to the local market . A mutually beneficial and consensual relationship between you and the store owner. You profit in time, he in taxable earnings, extending the benefits to the local tax base. In theory but not, I'm afraid, in practice.

I stopped in there the other day because I noticed the Princess's Trolls had consumed all the milk yet again. I grabbed my quart of milk and actually had to exit the store with it to get to the end of the line waiting for Mr. Potato head to mash the keys and collect the money with his oversized paw like hands. As the line moved along snaking through the isles between display shelves, I browsed the items available to purchase. There were dusty cans of peas and carrots each with a price tag of $4.23, one pound bags of sugar for $7.67, the one canister of salt for sale had broken open at the bottom and was taped closed and looked to be about 3/4 full. They had those plastic lemons and limes that contain synthetically produced fruit like juice substitute for that emergency 4:00am Margarita, and many jars of maraschino cherries who's purpose here I could not fully understand. Of course there was the $3.00 loaves of bread to go along with the $3.00 micro tubs of the I CAN"T BELIEVE IT'S NOT BUTTER butter, and the frozen wieners and hamburger patties which proudly contain 10% real meat and/or meat by products.

As I get second to the head of the line, I place my now warm and quite heavy quart of milk on the counter. The 13 year old in front of me pays for his beer and smokes, and exits the store to his waiting crowd of fellow skateboarders who zoom off through the lot weaving in and out of the sea of vehicles waiting in line for gas, or trying desperately to merge in to the steady stream of traffic on the street. Mr. Potato Head asks, what I want and I point to the Milk. "Dude." says Mr. Potato, "That other guy just paid for your milk. I thought it was his". So I pay yet again in case the kid comes back for his money, exit the store and start the daring and dangerous process of trying to merge into traffic then make a quick left turn without someone smashing full on in to the back of my Doggy mobile.

Once I get home, it's time for a nice cold glass of refreshingly over priced milk. As soon as I open the lid I realize that the best before date listed on the jug is a distant memory which is further punctuated by the sour aroma and chunky texture. Great .. sour and expired.. I could have gone back and exchanged it, or even just got my money back, but is it worth the inconvenience? Sadly no. I put it back in the fridge hoping that the trolls will become to ill to mess up the house for a few nights.

DEGA Baby!!

Dega Baby!! For anyone who follows Nascar, or lives in the south, that line is instantly recognizable as a call to all rednecks to drop what ever it is they are doing, jump into the least likely of the many vehicles parked in their front yard to make the entire journey, and head to the Talladega Super Speedway for the spring race. Like moths to a flame, the annual spring Nascar event attracts backwoods, barefooted hillbillys out of the hills and on to the surrounding interstate freeways, driving disintegrated scrap piles and rusted, smoking, bastardized caricatures of former road worthy automobiles, and causing madness and mayhem with the area roadways.

If you have never experienced a Nascar event, I urge you to get that to the top of your bucket list. There is no other event like it on the planet. Imagine if you will 100,000 drunken, screaming fans, gathered together to watch 43 cars travel 500 miles in a circle at 200 miles per hour nose to tail hoping to see a spectacular firey crash. Everywhere you look there are over-indulged, shirtless, sweaty good ol boys swilling budwiser and shouting JUNIOR every time the AMP Energy 88 car roars past the stands..

For full effect, you must purchase an RV and do the entire weekend camp. It is stated very clearly in the Nascar Fanclub Rule Book that the RV MUST be worth at least 3 times the appraised value of your home, and twice the value of the pickup truck needed to tow it. You need to fill that RV with as much beer as possible. If necessary, any other essential item is to be sacrificed to make room for more beer. Hotdog wieners are recommended as the sole food item due to the convenient square packaging that can be crammed in to the small cracks and crevasses between beer cases or stored in the glovebox. There is no reason for any other items since beer and wieners on a stick will now be the only source of nourishment between Thursday evening and Sunday's checkered flag.

About 25 miles out from the racetrack, traffic on the interstate will come to a complete stop. You will spend the next three hours either at a total standstill, or traveling at 0.5 miles per hour. Along the route you will pass many smoking and hopelessly broken vehicles on the side of the road some on fire, some with no wheels, usually one or two surrounded by police cars, each and every one having DEGA BABY!! written on it somewhere, along with the number 3. As you get closer to the track, hoards of people walking and vendors selling everything from more beer to fire wood will be passing your near stationary vehicle as helicopters, blimps, and planes circle overhead, and cops on ATVs race up and down the shoulders of the roadway. Always buy more beer, because no matter how much you've managed to cram into your vehicle, it is not enough.

Once you get to the site, you will be overwhelmed by the level of activity and excitement. Constant traffic, constant sirens, people passing, the noise of race crews working on cars in the distance, all of which will not stop until late Monday evening, transforming the area temporarily into the third largest city in Alabama. It is a site to behold for sure, and no other state in the union takes Nascar partying as serious as Alabama. It is a thing of beauty passed down from father to son and mother to daughter like a priceless heirloom or secret family recipe.

Dang, I love it.. Dega Baby!! Yeah!!

No Problemo

Well I think we've settled into a routine. Apart from the horribly failed experiment of placing eggs in the dishwasher at night, thinking I would have nice hard boiled eggs in the morning, things are going pretty smoothly. (Blog Note: The egg in the dishwasher thing may sound brilliant, but I assure you it's not).

Up every morning, dogs out and fed, cold crippling Troll torture, and off to work. I've been slipping home at noon to check on the hounds the past few days because I worry about them, but they have been perfect. After work it's a nice meal for one, being careful to leave The Princess something. Every morning the food I leave for The Princess is gone and the plate is rinsed, which always reminds me of those cookies left for Santa in my Black and White TV days... Mysteriously gone, and surely enjoyed.

I have started to pick up little extra projects to keep myself occupied. With out The Boss, things get a little quiet. Getting baked on egg out of the interior of the dishwasher was a good one, as was unblocking the beta fish gravel from the kitchen sink drain (that's a whole other story). Yesterday a new project presented itself, and I look forward to starting on it as soon as I return from work.. Turning pink shirts, undies and towels back to their former brilliant white.

I really think I'm getting the hang of this..

Nervous Nelly

OK, I admit it.. I’m a nervous wreck. Yesterday was the first time the hounds have been left alone all day.

I have various options to “store” the hounds during the day such as the basement or the crates, but I don’t want to have them confined for such a long period of time. Before Cy, we used to crate Karson and Mickey when we left the house, but this was never for extended periods. Neither Mickey nor Karson mind the crates at all, and often insisted on being in the XXL crate together. Once Cy arrived and got a taste of free roam, he started to really dislike the confines of the crate, so we quit crating all together thinking it was not fair to crate some and not others.

Yesterday it was up at 6, walk the hounds, FOOD, ice shower, and walk again. I was torn with what to do with the pups, and decided that they would be left with free roam of the house. All day I was a wreck worrying about the dogs, the stuff, and the hardwood floors. Cy barks at anything that moves which gets the other two excited. I had thoughts of Cy running around the house, barking and growling at the leaves blowing in the yard, and agitating the others into a seek and destroy mission.

At noon, I struggled with taking a trip home to check on the pups and turn them out, but I resisted the temptation. By 4:00pm I was totally locked in a worst case thoughts loop. I couldn’t concentrate on anything and still had an hour’s work left to go. By 4:30pm I couldn’t take it anymore and left for home.

Traffic was unusually horrendous even for Birmingham which is 2^nd only to Mexico City for traffic nightmares. On the way home, I hit every red light on the route as well as every construction zone, school zone, and traffic collision. There were lines of traffic stopped for no apparent reason what so ever, and at one point, the line I was in started to move backwards. Adonkey pulling a cart actually passed me while I was stranded behind the circus caravan from which two monkeys and a llama had escaped, and the guy driving the cart shook his fist in my general direction in the most ironic case of roadrage ever encountered.

Finally, I turned on to our street and could see our house in the distance. It was still standing, and not surrounded by fire trucks as I thought it surely would be. I pulled into the garage and could hear the happy dance of twelve paws tapping excitedly on the floors above. I rushed up the stairs fully expecting to find the place in shambles, blood everywhere from some nasty wound caused by climbing into the kitchen cupboards, and piles and puddles of horror all over the floors.. Nothing.. Perfect, happy, excited hounds at the door..Whew.. Relief.. Good Pups.. What Good Doggys!!

Today, I let them roam free again.. It’s just before noon now, I’m going to go and check on them for my sanity, they couldn’t care less.