RIP Myka

Sweet Daydream, or Myka as we named her, came to fill a hole in our hearts created when our beloved Mickey passed away. We weren’t planning to bring another greyhound into our lives after the trauma of loosing Mickey, but Cy, our poor special needs greyhound boy simply couldn’t function without another greyhound in our home. We met Sweety, as she was called back then, shortly after realizing that Cy needed a greyhound companion to function, and she seemed like a perfect fit. Boy were we right. 

Myka burst into our lives, our home, and our hearts, like she had always been there. She was a blue, a rare and coveted grey colored greyhound, beautiful, sleek, and shiny. Anyone experienced with greyhounds will tell you that blue’s dance to their own drummer, and I can assure you that this applied to Myka completely. She was one of a kind.

 

Myka had flunked out of the greyhound racing industry. While she had the physical ability, the pedigree, and the stamina to be a champion racer, her attention span was fleeting, and she was “petted out” from racing school. Her journey from the Deep South racing tracks of Florida to our home was a rocky one. She had been adopted out and quickly returned to the adoption group once or twice, and then bounced around a few temporary foster homes. We had heard various stories on why she was returned or “bounced” back to the group, but it didn’t really matter. To us, she was perfect. She fit right in and helped us all, especially Cy, heal from the loss of Mickey. 

Myka was special. She was different. She had this little crooked nose that she would bury into the crook of your arm or under your leg when she wanted something. She was vocal, a real talker. She would whine and cry and bury her nose into you, and it was up to you to figure out what she wanted. It could be to go outside, it could be a treat, she might want a certain spot on the furniture, usually the one you were currently occupying, or she might want to go to bed. Myka believed it was her birth right to sleep in our bed, and she slept with us every night. Most often she slept directly between us, spread out from head to toe, or she curled up on top of our legs trapping us painfully in place for the night. Myka also had sleep aggression, a condition in some greyhounds left over from sleeping alone in their kennel days. If you moved during the night and happened to disturb her, she would wake up barking and snarling until she remembered where she was. Some greyhounds grow out of it, but Myka never did. This made for some interesting nights at times, but we understood and we lived with it. 

Myka was gorgeous, a playful and mischievous princess. She had a huge collection of stuffed animals or “babies” that she would playfully toss around the house. Every morning on her first potty break she would excitedly grab one of her babies and charge to the door to stand patiently with it in her mouth while we caught up to her, only to discard it at the bottom of the steps and chase after her brother Loki in the yard. When she wanted something, she would stare intently at you then impatiently sit, something most greyhounds can’t, or won’t, usually do. 

About a year ago, we noticed a change in Myka. She had a glazed look in her eyes, she had slowed down considerably, and she no longer wanted to walk as far as she used to. She started skipping breakfast from time to time, which was definitely not like her, and we knew something was wrong. We took her to the vet and got the devastating diagnosis of advanced kidney failure. Knowing that her time with us was coming to an end, we made the decision to modify her diet to keep her interested in food, and kept her as comfortable as we could for as long as we could. We promised her that we would not let her suffer, and once her quality of life declined we would let her go. Sadly, that time has come. 

Myka started her life somewhat unwanted, not suited for the racing industry and had a hard time finding the right forever home, but she fit into ours perfectly. She fit right into our home, and right into our hearts. She helped us move on from a very difficult time, and we could never do enough to repay her. 

Run free sweet girl, we will love you and remember you always. If we could heal you, you would live forever. You leave us with a huge piece of our hearts, the only thing we could give to end your pain. 

 3/27/09 - 10/10/20

R.I.P Cy

Kiowa CSI or Cy as he became known to us, came to us directly from the race track in Birmingham Alabama. We were regular visitors and sometime volunteers to the adoption kennel at the track where retired racers would be "petted out". I remember passing by the rows of kennels where each and every dog would press up to the front of their kennel eager for a chance to get some attention and meet new people. Each and every dog except Cy. Cy would squeeze himself as far back in his kennel as possible seeming to hope no one would notice him. Cy didn't want attention or to be noticed, he was terrified of everyone and everything. It was sad to see, a genetic anomaly in the greyhound world similar to a K9 version of autism.

To say Cy was a spook is an understatement, Cy was a nervous wreck. Due to his demeanor he didn't present well to perspective adopters and had spent well over a year in adoption, an unusually long time. I remember Cy having to be dragged out of his kennel literally kicking and screaming to be turned out. Thanks to the dedicated staff at the center who always believed that given the chance, and just the right family, Cy would blossom into a great companion, he managed to stay off the kill truck, a fate reserved for dogs with irreversible injuries, terminal illnesses and the unadoptable.

When we met Cy, we already had a greyhound at home. Mickey (WV's McDowell) was a perfectly adjusted pup with the most prize winning personality. Mickey was a true ambassador to greyhound adoption and a much loved member of our family. Thinking if anyone could teach Cy the ropes of being a retired racer, and how to relax and enjoy home life, Mickey could, we decided to bring Cy home and give him a chance to have a pet's life. It was a commitment we made and a challenge we accepted with hope and some reservations, Cy was a mess and not well adjusted in any regards.

We brought Cy home and we set up a crate in a quiet spare bedroom. The door to the crate was left open so he could go in and out at his leisure, but the door to the room was closed for his peace of mind. He was given food and water in the room, but had to come out of his crate to get it. After a few days, we started leaving the door to the room open to give him the opportunity to explore his new surroundings as he gained his confidence. After about a week he eventually ventured out of the room to peak around the corner at us, but if we made eye contact with him he would flee back to the crate and huddle down far in the back. Eventually we learned to pretend he wasn't there and let him "sneak up" on us for a few investigative sniffs. One day, a couple weeks after we brought him home, he came out of the room and started investigating the rest of the house. He took cautious sniffs of all the things he had never experienced before like carpet, TV, furniture, a weird fat little creature with a waggly tail (Karson the beagle), and hardwood floors. One day, not long after, he ventured out of the room and never went back in. Our plan was working.

Eventually Mickey started showing Cy all about home life. She showed him how to lounge on furniture, how to kill stuffed animals, how to sleep on the people's bed, and how to ask for potty breaks. For months we had this game where Cy would get his front half onto the bed, but not have the confidence to make the leap. He would get half onto the bed like a child reciting their nighttime prayers, then look at you with a pathetic sad eye expression and ask to be helped the rest of the way. We eventually discovered this was Cy's quirky way of asking permission, as we would often find him on the bed when we hadn't been in the room, but each time we were present we would go through the sad eye help me up game.

Because of his spookiness, or maybe despite it, Cy was the ultimate watchdog. If anyone ever had the nerve to walk on the street past our house, or knock on our door, Cy would bark, snarl, and growl like no one's business. He would sound mean and extremely intimidating, yet should anyone make it past the door and into the house he would run and hide. Not daring even one investigative sniff of the scary intruder. Even for regular visitors to the house, it would take prolonged and numerous visits before they got the chance to even see Cy, and to actually meet him, they would have to play the sneak-up game and avoid eye contact at all costs. Although Cy enjoyed walks, should someone approach, as walking greyhounds always garnered attention, Cy would crush himself in to us as close as he possibly could and shake uncontrollably. Cy relied heavily on habit and ritual, and would become scared and nervous when things changed in the house. A new plant or rearrangement of furniture could make him nervous for days. Any misplaced object would warrant a full and cautious sniffing investigation. Cy would do things on his own terms, there was no rushing the process, but once he was comfortable with you, you were a friend for life.

Cy and Mickey became inseparable, they formed a tight bond and enjoyed being together. They would lounge together and snuggle in tight, never grumbling or growling, always sharing space, food, and water. Mickey showed Cy how to relax and be a pet, how to enjoy the company of people and how to have fun. While Cy never fully transformed into a well adjusted pet, he did become much more comfortable and somewhat confident. He went from being an almost feral spook to being a timid but mostly happy pup. When Mickey passed away Cy was devastated to the point that he completely shut down. He wouldn't eat, wouldn't drink and became sad and depressed. To help him out we decided to bring in another greyhound, and then another, and while it worked and brought him out of his depression, Cy never formed a bond with our other hounds like he had with Mickey. While they co-habitated and got along for the most part, in his later years he was just annoyed at these young energetic new kids on the block. He became a grumpy old man who saw them as children playing on his lawn, and there were constant grumbles over lounging space.

A few months ago at just shy of his 11th birthday, Cy became unable to hold in food. He was constantly sick and uncomfortable. Having gone through the same symptoms with Mickey who struggled for months until we got a cancer diagnosis, we wasted no time in performing all the tests available. While his diagnosis never came, hand cooked meals of boiled beef and rice along with medication could not reduce his discomfort. Sadly Cy had been loosing weight and energy, became frail, seemed to be in pain and had lost any joy he once had. We made the hard decision to help Cy cross the rainbow bridge.

Although Cy never seemed truly comfortable in his own skin, he learned to love and trust people, he learned to look to us for comfort and protection, and most importantly, he learned how to be a pet. He had his quirks, but in our eyes that only made him special. And he was. It was a rare and wonderful experience to watch him expand his comfort zone and develop his own personality, and hopefully now, he can fully find peace. We loved you Cy, you were unique and very special to us. God speed and run free sweet boy. You will forever be in our hearts.

Kiowa CSI

03/22/06-01/09/17

The Twilight Zone

In a few days I will turn an unbelievable 50 years old. Incredible.

April of 1966 I came into this world, born then abandoned by an unknown mother, conceived with an unknown father. According to my parents ( the people who raised me ) I was adopted at 6 months old. Under what circumstances and where I resided in those first 6 months is a complete mystery to me. Unknown. I'm not even sure if my date of birth is real, or if it's the date I was taken home, since the information on my birth certificate pertains to the adopters. Why I was given up by my birth mother, or under what circumstances I was conceived is also a mystery, one I will never know the answer to. One that hardly matters to me.

It is inconceivable that I am rounding the corner into my twilight years. In fact, I now have less years left on this earth than I've already lived. Truth be told, mentally, I'm still in my twenties. I still want to act out, show off, run with the big dogs, drink till dawn and charm the pretty young ladies. In fact, I still give it a valiant try every so often, and then I suffer. The mental image I have of myself is drastically different than the grey bearded, blurry eyed, overweight, receded hairline reflection I see in the mirror each morning, but I still have a big mouth and a cocky attitude, and I still seem to be able to get away with it. For now.

I've had a good life up to this point, no. I've had an incredible life. I've seen more, done more,  partied more, travelled more, befriended more, loved and fought more than most. I've played in a rock band in Alabama. I went to jail in North Dakota. I've traveled the Savannah river and shucked fresh oysters on Hilton Head Island. I've traveled to the other side of the earth and drank beer on Bondi Beach, and I shook the hand that shook the world. I've raised two beautiful daughters, and married someone who has stuck with me through some very difficult times. I've struggled and won, and lost, a lot. I've loved a dog more than I thought possible, and I held her in my arms and cried as she died.

I've held my granddaughter.

My teenage years were truly legendary. There have been books written of the exploits. Maybe someday I'll write one of my own, from my perspective, about breaking away from poverty and an abusive adoptive mother, and given absolute total freedom to roam and plunder with a large revolving group of working class neighborhood teenaged toughs, the do-nothing boys. Look it up and support a local author, but that's another story.

I've buried best friends.

I've seen more and done more in this life than most have a right to. I've had fun. My life has been extraordinary. I'm lucky, and I'm so very unlucky. I've ducked and rolled with punches. I've dusted off and carried forward, because that's what life is, a series of setbacks and let downs, punctuated with incredible and awesome experiences.

No one has lived my life, only me. No one has a right to judge. I've never quite fit in and I never tried. I won't, and neither did my friends. I look back and I see the fun, the wild times. My god. How we howled at the moon.

50 years old. Ten, twenty years left? Thirty? Like my beginning in this life, the end is a mystery. More struggles? Maybe. I know for certain there will be more fun and more good times, more laughs, and maybe the odd howl at the moon because life is in your attitude, not in your situation.

Furniture Fiasco

It takes a special type of person to share your home with retired racing greyhounds. When I say share, I mean surrender wholeheartedly all living space, sleeping space, and places of comfort and relaxation.

Gone are all choices for home entertainment, as even our new, top of the line, family jumbo-tron is too small to be viewed unobstructed by greyhounds who stand at the precisely perfect angle to block each and every one of the 58 million pixels available for the ultimate experience in better than life home viewing. If one should glimpse a momentary flash of unequaled color radiating from the ultra-thin flat panel display, a greyhound is sure to be standing in anticipation of a dropped crumb or the chance to steal a seat, and in the direct line of the operating remote controls. Due to this fact, the jumbo-tron has been stuck on the Home Shopping Network for the past three months, and I am now the proud owner of 17 lifetime supplies of reusable and incredibly simple to install picture hooks and 3,200 Sham-wows. Are you with me Camera Guy?

The Boss recently decided it was time for new living room furniture because she walked into the family room and caught a greyhound lounging on the floor when a perfectly empty sofa seat was available. This, obviously, is an indication that the furniture is worn and uncomfortable, and must be replaced immediately. Since I have only sat on the furniture once, which was not long ago and in the showroom prior to purchase, I have to take the dogs' word for it, as the book of racing greyhound pet etiquette clearly states;

Sec. 4 (7) Lounging

No greyhound must ever lounge on the floor when:

1. a seat on the sofa is available, or
2. when a human in a seat on the sofa can be forced from that seat and thus stolen by pretending to need a potty break.

Armed with sale leaflets, summer catalogs, checkbooks, credit cards, and an uncomfortably large home improvement loan, The Boss and I set out to replace our nearly new but woefully greyhound inadequate home furnishings, and began an exhaustive search for the perfect dog approved lounging surface. This started what was basically just a long blur of me picking out a set I liked, and The Boss pointing out how little I understand about fabric staining, retained heat, fur accumulation, comfort and nesting damage resistance. In each and every home furnishings store we entered we were followed by lurking salesmen trying to be inconspicuous and ready to pounce on a potential sale, but staring in disbelief as we discuss the pros and cons based on dog comfort and lounge-ability, and rejecting set after set. After searching every home store in the area, and revisiting most a second and third time, The Boss finally settled on a patent leather, reclining, rocker/roller sofa with a built-in heating and cooling system, foldaway tables, pull out storage and massage, and a matching love seat. The price, too embarrassingly large to mention here, was made more bearable by the salesman generously including a limited lifetime warranty, set-up and delivery.

Once the new furnishings were delivered and in place, and the nearly-new but no longer greyhound approved old furnishings were removed, The Boss and I decided that a movie night was in order to celebrate and appreciate our purchase. Giddy with excitement I rushed off to the movie store and rented 5 films I have been dying to see ever since they were released prior to bringing greyhounds home (known as life before greyhounds or LBGH). Upon my return popcorn is made, soft drinks are poured, fold-away tables are unfolded, and lights are dimmed. I fire up the jumbo-tron and marvel for a moment at the clarity and incredible contrast, select the perfect sound settings on the home theater, and insert the first movie disk into the player. I reach down as the opening scenes are about to begin, turn on the heat and vibration functions of the sofa, and deploy into the reclining position. I turn to The Boss and ask, “Whats happening now? Cy is in the way.” Then suddenly I notice Myka doing the potty dance and desperately trying to tell me she is well passed due to go outside. As I raise up to take the pups out, Loki jumps into my seat, gulps down a few mouthfuls of popcorn, and settles with a deep long groan of pure comfort and joy as Myka laps some of the soft drink from my glass and takes the seat beside him.

I take a yoga inspired seat on the floor, and mount a valiant attempt to get a glimpse at the screen through Cy's legs and under his belly. As I start to complain to The Boss about the fairness of the seating arrangements, and express my dissatisfaction with the comfort level of the cold hardwood floor, I am met with a loud “SHHHH, I am trying to watch a movie!”.

When this furniture wears out next month, I am choosing the set I want. At least when I am staring at it from the floor, I will have the satisfaction of knowing it was chosen specifically for me! 

How Quickly We Forget

Dogs, like babies, have a way of making you forget the trouble and turmoil they cause in your life. The mere glimpse of a baby turns The Boss into a blubbery, gibberish talking, goo goo spouting maniac, eyes radiating jealousy and the I Want One look. Gone are the memories of long sleep deprived nights of incessant crying, late night emergency trips to the disposable diaper store, and the ever present bodily fluid stains on clothing and furniture. Thoughts of duffel bags full of medications and other baby related paraphernalia, who’s mass and bulk exceeded general airline luggage allowances, each one carefully packed and unpacked with every trip outdoors regardless of how brief the journey, are long gone. In their place, pure joy and unconditional love.

When our sweet Mickey passed we decided that we would down-size our pack. We would let nature run its course, and eventually be a pet-free household. We are getting older, and once The Princess’s trolls quit messing up her bedroom and drinking all the milk, we will be empty nesters. The Boss mentioned some words that are associated with pet-free empty nesters, FREE TIME and TRAVEL. I’m not sure what they mean, but I think they are French or German words since she also mentioned Europe. Apparently pet-free empty nesters go to Europe and experience their FREE TIME and TRAVEL. Since I know that beer and wine come from Europe, the idea must have some merit, after all, no matter how strange FREE TIME and TRAVEL might be, French wine and German beer have to make it worth the trip.

After Mickey left us, her constant companion Cy quit functioning. He totally shut down and refused to eat, refused to play, and withdrew from the family unit. Sure, he still had his beagle brother Karson, but no matter how hard Karson tries, he is not an accepted member of the greyhound community. Clearly Cy missed Mickey and was grieving terribly. In desperation we took him to a greyhound adoption group so he might interact with his own kind because Greyhounds can be horrible snobs, and most will not recognize the K9 credentials of a less noble breed.

When Cy walked in to the room full of other greyhounds, his eyes lit up and we saw happiness. It was obvious Cy needed a companion greyhound to keep him company, and we picked out a quiet, sleek little 2 year old girl who we felt would fit right in with very little trouble. After all, we are going to be pet-free empty nesters, there is no need to bring in a high energy puppy, they can be a handful. While a two year old will likely be with us for a good long while, The Boss says that we could still have some FREE TIME and some TRAVEL with one hound, so we adopted Myka and took her home.

The day we brought Myka home, she walked into the house like she paid for it, and promptly ate all of my shoes. After the shoes were devoured, she turned her attention on all things plastic. It is obvious that some plastic object at some point must have insulted her mother or caused some other grievous injury, because she has an insatiable desire to inflict great violence upon any plastic object that has the nerve to be within her reach. She has an uncanny ability to open closed doors and baby gates to get to offending plastic objects, and barks continuously if there happens to be an object she can see, but can’t get to. Myka is very vocal and talks to us constantly in whines and grunts. She insists on sleeping with us and steals all the covers, and if one of us has the audacity to request a scrap of blanket for some glimmer of warmth during the night, we are met with groans and grunts of displeasure. In short, Myka is a handful. A delightfully snuggly, loving, happy and outgoing hound who adores her people and her brother Cy.

The destruction and havoc Myka brings to the home are things most puppies do. Puppies are playful and rambunctious, and demand time and attention. Training, interaction, love and caring eventually calm the pups, and help mold their personalities into adulthood. So what are soon to be pet-free empty nesters to do with a hyperactive, attention deficient, wantonly destructive puppy? Why, bring home another one of course.

A few months after bringing Myka home, a big huge 2 year old male greyhound became suddenly and unexpectedly homeless. Having no where to go, we were asked if we could take him, temporarily, until a suitable permanent home for him could be found. Loki is a well adjusted and stoic boy with a hoarding fetish. He steals anything he can get his teeth around, and secrets the objects away for later enjoyment. Loki and Myka work as a team, with Myka opening the doors and gates, and Loki getting the objects that have been placed purposely high and out of reach. Their teamwork and tenacity a perfect storm of teeth and slobber, inflicting permanent, irreversible damage to anything they contact.

Like Myka, Loki loves his people and is a snuggle champion, and, at 2 years old, will be around for many years to come. Gone are the days of lounging unencumbered on the sofa to take in a show or movie. Often we are forced from our seats by 150 lbs of combined greyhound mass competing desperately with each other to gain the most comfortable lap position. Of course, these are all things we experienced when Mickey and Cy were young pups, but were long forgotten with one glimpse into the sorrowful eyes of a homeless greyhound. Having Myka and Loki around has brought Cy back to his puppyhood. He is happy and playful, and runs right along with the young dogs, and it looks like Loki has found his permanent home here with us. Despite his puppy playfulness and massive frame, he is a perfect joy to have in the house, just like Myka.

While intending to go to a pet-free household we have actually increased the size of our pack, but we can down size in the future, after all, I’m sure the Europeans will be offering FREE TIME and TRAVEL, what ever that means, for many years to come.

Manitoba's Bird of Prey

One thing I like about Manitoba in the summer is that Mother Nature is kind and gentle, and nothing wants to kill you.

Living in the deepsouth was an eye opening experience when it came to our love of nature. Everything that walked, crawled, slithered, or flew, wanted to do you harm. Mixed in with poisonous spiders, deadly snakes, alligators, rabid bats and killer fire ants, were terribly horrible summer storms that threatened to level entire towns. Just the heat alone from April to November was enough to kill an ill prepared Sunday shopper, and heat stroke gardening accidents were common in our neighborhood.

Manitoba generally has gorgeous summer weather. You need to be quick to catch it, as this summer is forcast for two weeks in August, but when it arrives, it is almost Utopic. Calm winds, highs of 85 degrees, lows of 60, sunshine and clear skies. The stuff of legend. When summer arrives, all worries depart for the few weeks we are blessed, the days are long, and people become uncharacteristically pleasant to one another.

While the deepsouth weather was a bit to handle and while there were dangerous creatures lurking in every nook and cranny that would surely eat you if you ventured too close, what they didn't have were mosquitoes.

Sure there were palmetto bugs, an affectionate name for giant flying cockroaches that are faster on their feet then in the air, and sure, there were cicadas, which look like some horror story version of a house fly and emit a deafening drone from the trees, and yup, spiders everywhere, but there were NO MOSQUITOES.

The mosquitoes in Manitoba are bad. When I say they are bad, I mean they have tattoos, carry weapons, and ride motorcycles. They are clearly angry with their lot in life, and take out their pent up rage and frustration on the general population. Just yesterday, while returning home from yet another trip to the store for mosquito repellent, I witnessed a group of four or five mosquitoes beating up a duck. The right thing to do would have been to try and help, or call the police, but honestly, I was too afraid and didn't want to get involved. I feel bad, but really, it was either him or me.

We have used any number of mosquito repellents to try and keep the monsters at bay, lotions, creams, sprays, electric appliances, and old wives' home remedies, but all that we have accomplished is to create a roving gang of drugged out blood thirsty devils in the neighborhood looking for their next fix. If you have never seen a mosquito coming off a DEET high, I can assure you it not a pretty sight. One town close to us has even built a giant mosquito idol to which they worship and offer small sacrifices, but it has done nothing to appease the mosquito leaders. I heard that they lost the town hall and the post office last week and are now paying protection money to use the facilities.

When August rolls around, and our two weeks of summer hit, We will be enjoying the nice weather and calm skies trough the relative safety of our livingroom picture window, so long as no mosquitoes make eye contact. The last time we spent summer in Manitoba, they kicked in our door and tried to steal one of the hounds.

Rest In Peace Sweet Mickey

I was ugly as a child. So ugly in fact, that most of the other neighborhood children gave me a wide berth and pretty much left me alone. In an effort to get me out of the house, my Grandmother would often give me leftover dinner bones to attract the dogs that roamed freely in the neighborhood, in the hopes it would give me someone to play with. One of the only dogs that would even come close by for a free snack was a neighbor’s retired racing greyhound named Casey.

Casey and I became close friends, best friends actually, as we had a lot in common. Casey was sort of beat up and kind of funny looking too, with deep scars and a mangled ear. He also didn’t have a lot of friends, and we made quite a spectacle roaming through the neighborhood.

Our relationship grew to the point that we were pretty much inseparable, and remained that way for a number of years. Eventually I moved away and promised to write, but I never did. We lost contact, I got new friends, and Casey likely started getting his bones from another neighbor because dogs are pretty flippant and easily swayed when it comes to free treats. I never forgot about Casey, but I never saw another racing greyhound.

I grew up, developed a career, got married and had children. Every once in awhile, thoughts of Casey would come to me, but they would be gone just as quickly as they had arrived. I had related the story of Casey to the Boss at some point in our lives together, but for the life of me, I can not remember when or why.

Work had taken us to South Carolina, and one day, as the Boss was watching TV, she saw a story about retired racing greyhounds available for adoption. Remembering my story of Casey, and knowing that the easiest way to get something she wants is to make it my idea, she very casually mentioned that you could adopt a retired racing greyhound right in our area. I was on the phone to the adoption group the very next day.

Mickey came into our lives on Thanksgiving 2005. Fate or some higher power must have chosen Mickey for us, as out of the dozens of hounds available, she was the one I was attracted to immediately. In fact, I prefer male dogs, but something about her captured my attention and I was smitten. She was tall and lean with a striking pose and a long beautiful tail. The day we took her home, she settled in like she had always been there, and our bond was strong right from the beginning.

Mickey was born on February 7, 2002, and actually shared her birthday with the Princess. She was born WVs McDowell, and competed in over 90 races under that name. She was a good runner, and graduated all the way to A class, which is the best a racing dog can hope for. One day however, Mickey decided that she just didn’t want to race any more and when the starter box opened, she just stood there and refused to run. She never ran another race.

Mickey was not an ordinary dog. She had these little quarks and unique mannerisms that you just don’t see in other dogs. In the first weeks we had her home, she developed a habit of stealing things from us and taking them to her bed. Shoes, purses, books, and even pillows were all fair game. She never damaged anything, she just seemed to want our personal objects for herself and horded them like an old hobo. It got to the point where when leaving the house, we no longer looked for footwear by the door, but rather went straight to Mickey’s bed. I once found a very expensive watch and the Boss’s wedding rings among her “stash”. She was a master thief that could steal food from counters in the blink of an eye. She once stole an entire meal right off the table while we were sitting there without getting caught. She was also a master escape artist, and once got through three layers of security to run the neighborhood. She was a deep passionate singer, and would howl with all her heart if you got her going, and she could kill a stuffed animal like nobody’s business.

Due to immigration issues and work, Mickey and I spent many months alone together. She was the one constant companion in my life. She had these huge deep brown eyes that looked right into your soul, and no matter what she had done, it was impossible to be upset with her. She was my heart dog, the K9 version of a soul mate, and I loved her dearly.

Mickey was almost perfect in every way. She was friendly and out going, and would literally pull me across the street to visit children. Toddlers were her favorite, and if she were allowed, would kiss them with gusto. Her personality made it possible for us to take in other troubled dogs, as she was able to keep them in line, while showing them how to behave in a home and how to enjoy human interaction. She was dainty and lady like, and would accept a treat with perfect manners, and she always insisted on jumping up with a paw on each shoulder to plant a kiss on every person she met. I was greeted in this manner every single day of all the years she was with us, whether I had been gone or hours or simply minutes. She insisted on sleeping with us, and I often found myself with lack of covers, lack of space, and lack of sleep, but her comfort for a bit of cold or a few hours sleep was a pretty good trade I thought.

The only issue Mickey had, if you can call it an issue, was a deathly fear of thunder. Even before us humans could hear the rumbles, Mickey would start to pace and whine when a storm approached. When the thunder grew intense, Mickey would start to shake, pant, and tremble all over. Her trembles were so severe that you could actually hear the vibrations of her muscles, and she would often cower in the bathroom. No soft gentle words would soothe her fears, and no amount of petting or gentle hugs could comfort her. We worked with Mickey throughout her entire time with us, and even tried calming drugs, but no mater how much of the medication we took, her fear persisted.

In late March Mickey had some stomach issues. We took her in for some tests, and she showed signs of a digestive tract infection. We gave her a medication to take care of that, but she had a very bad reaction and we nearly lost her. We switched to a different medication, and she improved.

Her tummy issues resurfaced in the middle of May. She became very ill, and we again ran tests and thought the infection had returned. We started on a different course of medication, but it didn’t seem to have any effect. We returned to the vet for x-rays and an ultrasound to try and get to the bottom of what was ailing her, and discovered a large and aggressive tumor. By the time we made the discovery, her liver had swollen to about four times the normal size and was compressing other vital organs. By the evening of the diagnosis, she was clearly in distress and was crashing fast. The next day, Mickey was barely able to walk, and was struggling to breathe. The spark had gone from her eyes, and she looked so so tired. She was fading away from us, and we were powerless to stop her. We made an emergency appointment and put her to rest.

Mickey passed in our arms. When the injection was given, we held her tight and we cried. We spoke encouraging words, and told her how much we loved her through deep sobs and a river of tears. Moments before she drew her final breath, it seemed that she knew we were there and she was at peace.

When she passed she was with us, she was pain free, and she was beautiful. In the end, she died just like she lived.

Having to put Mickey to sleep is the hardest thing I have ever done. I cried for days, and I am still deeply sorry for loosing her. Being with her when she passed was a very traumatic experience, but it was the last final gift we could give to her in return for the years of unconditional love, the joy, and the companionship she gave us.

Hopefully, she is now running free with the angels that passed before her, and stealing all the shoes and pillows she can. There will never be another dog like Mickey, and we are incredibly lucky and eternally grateful for having her come into our lives.

Mickey Filby
2/7/2002 – 5/24/2011

Winter Wonderland

Having lived in the south for a good deal of time, where winter forecast temperatures never include a negative number, you forget just how cold, cold really is.

Winter in Northern Canada is harsh. It takes a tough and hardy type of person to live in a climate where the daily weather forecasts include words like "daytime highs of -38 with winds gusting to 90 kilometers per hour". It takes a mentally unstable and slightly deranged type of person to willingly relocate back, after having experienced a number of southern winters.

For those like me who are metrically challenged, 90 kilometers per hour is our legal posted highway driving speed. To fully experience the thrill of a Canadian winter, simply dump a bag of ice into your undergarments, get into your vehicle, and drive at full speed with your head sticking out of the window. For a more realistic experience, you could have a friend tow you on a trailer while you perform simple tasks such as chopping fire wood, changing a flat tire, or boosting a dead battery.

I remember as a child walking through huge mountains of snow on my way to school each morning. Drifts of snow blown up over the sidewalks would present formidable obstacles, one side we would climb, and the other we would slide down. I remember temperatures so cold your eyelashes would freeze and stick together when you blinked. I remember cars frozen into the street, who’s owners would be shoveling around spinning tires, or cursing non-starting stone dead batteries.

The kids from my neighborhood walked about a mile to school. There was no yellow bus that came by our houses and no parents ever drove their kids. We walked a mile each way, every day. A mile in the rain, a mile in the snow, a mile in temperatures so cold that loosing extremities was a real and serious possibility. Each and every kid in my school by the age of six, had experienced severe frostbite and had been stuck by their tongues to a pole or some other large immobile metal object. In fact, successfully daring a classmate to lick a frozen metal fence post is a coveted skill. You can reach local legend status if the classmate remains stuck to the post until a teacher or other responsible care giver is forced to search for the poor gullible victim. Canadian law dictates that you are immediately graduated from grade school with full honors if you can convince the same kid to lick a frozen pole twice, regardless of present marks or current grade.

I remember winter as being fun and exciting. I remember waiting with anticipation, surpassed only by Christmas Day itself, for the first wondrous snowfall to arrive. I remember rushing to the window every morning when winter drew near to see if the world had been blanketed by a beautiful layer of pristine white snow, and being thoroughly disappointed to discover it had not. While we had fun playing outside in the summer, snow added an entirely new dimension to fun, with a bonus of endless potential for torment to neighborhood children. There were face-washes, where a handful of snow would be rubbed vigorously into one's unprotected cheeks, and dunks, where one's entire head would be forced into a snowbank. Snowballs would be carefully constructed and then tossed full force at unsuspecting prey who's distance was carefully gauged to ensure an easy escape without the possibility of retaliation, and gloves or toques would be stolen and filled with cold frozen snow. We would spend a week building an ice fort which we would then vigorously defend against neighborhood marauders brandishing ice-balls and hockey sticks. I don't remember when I started to hate the cold, but it seems that my distaste for winter has increased in exact proportion to the increase in my age.

Winter, and more specifically cold and snow, now represent pain and suffering. There is work and toil in everything that involves leaving the warmth and comfort of my easy chair. Long hours of extended darkness, chapped and bleeding lips, crippled aching joints, and mountains and mountains of shoveling. Snow is removed from walkways and dog runs, roofs, driveways, and cars. Snow is now something to be dreaded, and long months of cold and darkness becomes depressing. Thankfully, just when the season seems the darkest, and all hope is near dashed, some poor kid comes along and licks our fence. 

That just never, ever, gets old..

The Thinker

In some weird intergalactic twist of fate, I find myself working in a gold mine. Although I have spent my entire life as a design engineer and production manager, fate has decided that I should enter into a working field as foreign and far removed from my career experience as possible. I have tried to do the math, but the odds of any human being in 32 generations going from production manager to miner are so infinitesimal, you would be more likely to get struck by lightning in January, while holding a winning lottery ticket, and standing on a four leaf clover.

I am a thinker by nature. When something requiring manual labor needs to be done, I usually have a comfortable sit-down and take a good long think on how to approach the task. Generally, right about the time I have thought it though and worked up the gumption to tackle the job, someone has come along and taken care of it. This method has served me well in both my working life and my home life. It has carried me far, with nary a broken nail or hammered thumb. No calloused hands, no missing digits, no sore and aching muscles. Actually, hardly any muscles at all..

When you work in a mine for a living, the first thing you discover is that even the most innocent looking objects want to do you great harm. On my very first day underground, I nearly lost my left eye on a paper coffee cup, and managed to break every nail on both hands and both feet. I accidentally pierced my own ear, and permanently stained my right thigh orange. By the second day, I had developed callouses so large that I could no longer close my hands, and I was so sore, even my eyelashes hurt when I blinked.

Like all gold mines, the one I work at is far past the end of habitable land, in the extreme northern wilderness. We are shipped in once a month and live in mining camp during our two week rotation. Our day begins in the wee early hours of the morning, when even the Canadian winter wind has not yet woken. We file into the kitchen for some Stephen King version of breakfast, while it looks and smells like bacon and eggs, the taste is slightly off in an eerily familiar yet just slightly unexplainable way. From breakfast we file into the "dry", (mining speak for change room), where we don every single piece of personal safety equipment ever invented, who's collective weight adds an additional 123 pounds to my already overburdened skeletal structure. From the dry, we get our shift line up from the "shifter", and enter into the head-frame to await our turn to take the trip in the "cage" to the bottom.

The cage is no end of excitement in itself. Picture a regular sized elevator, cut it in half both in width and in depth, and remove the front. Replace the front with a wire mesh door and stuff in 26 large burly miners, their tools, their lunch bags, mining equipment, and extra personal protective equipment. There is actually a guy who's only job is to squish the miners and extra equipment in, so the screen door can be closed. Once all the miners have been squeezed in, the cage departs the surface and begins a 15 minute free fall at terminal velocity. Attached to the surface by only a single wire cable the cage, miners, lunches, and equipment bounce and jostle down the main shaft at just slightly less than the speed of sound. Once at the very bottom, a mile and a half below the real world, the hoist operator throws the hoist brake which simultaneously causes the door to open from the shock force and we all tumble into the mine heading with a collective large gasp of relief.

I spend the rest of the 12 hour work day trying to avoid falling into open holes, dodging falling rock and equipment, jumping out of the way of fast moving heavy mining cars, and generally trying to survive the day. I lift heavy objects and pile them in one place, them pick them up and pile them in another. I break big rocks into smaller rocks, then break those into rocks smaller still, all the while in total absolute darkness save only the light from my helmet lamp. Once a day, the cry "Fire in the Hole!!" goes out and we all take cover while they blast more rocks from the walls for me to break into tiny pieces.

I have no time to think about the task at hand, and no one tackles it themselves. At the end of the day, well past sunset, I emerge from underground, shower, have a Stephen King dinner, phone home to check on the hounds, and drop wearily into bed in the camp. Sometimes, for a brief moment I get an opportunity to think before passing out from either excruciating pain or utter exhaustion. Mostly, between thoughts of the family and the greyhounds, I think about how much I love this job.

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.

The Fickle Finger of Sleep

When you share your life with someone for an extended period of time, you get used to that person being there all the time and slowly, very subtly,you stop making decisions on your own. The Boss’s departure has given me certain freedom that I didn’t even realize had been missing.

Honestly, deep down inside, a part of me was looking forward to The Boss’s departure. There were many things I was looking forward to such as having control of the TV, eating what and when I wanted to, wearing the same shirt two days in a row, not making the bed if I didn’t feel like it, and staying up as late as I wanted.. Someday soon, I might even have a beer before noon. But the biggest thing I was looking forward to was having more bed space.

Our two Greyhounds insist on sleeping with us. Mickey sleeps on top of my legs every night, pinning them hopelessly to the mattress. Effectively trapping me in one position from dusk until dawn, and ensuring the loss of all feeling below my knees until 11:00am every morning. Cy will only sleep in between The Boss and I, stretched out like another full grown person, head, and Greyhound drool, on pillow. Every night I will be awakened multiple times by Cy’s nails scraping down my back as he runs barking and growling after what ever it is Greyhounds chase in their dreams. Even though there is a large comfy dog crate and a full sized loveseat in our room, which both dogs love to lounge in during the day, turning out the lights for the evening is a signal in doggy code that it is time to make the humans as uncomfortable as possible for the next eight hours.

Last night, as I prepared to retire for the evening, both dogs had already picked out their spot on the bed. Mickey, miraculously, was at the foot on what is traditionally The Boss’s side, and Cy was curled up on her pillows. A tear came to my eye, and I could barely choke back maniacal laughter as I realized that I would be getting a sound and restful sleep for the first time in what seems like ever. As I folded back the covers to climb in to this new and surely remarkably comfortable bed space, both dogs jumped down. Cy went into the crate, and Mickey took a position on the loveseat. Now overjoyed, I did let out a crazy little laugh and climbed in to the big, glorious, and empty bed.

I laid in the bed for what seemed like an eternity. Tossing this way, tossing that way, fluffing pillows, but no matter how hard I tried, I could not get comfortable and sleep would not come. The bed’s comfyness was foreign and hostile. Cold, sterile, lonely. “Cy Boy” I say, patting the bed covers, “Come up… Here Boy”…. Nothing.. “Mickey Girl, come to Daddy Baby Girl”… Nothing... Traitors! Fine.. Sleep somewhere else then, see if I care.. How the heck is a guy supposed to get any sleep with out his legs pinned to the mattress and deep bleeding wounds to the back?

A Promotion

Long before dawn's crack had even begun to peek above the belt-line of life, The Boss boarded the plane that would take her North, mere inches from the arctic circle on our desk globe. With a wave, a tear, and the roar of a jet engine, I was instantly promoted from a laborer in Grounds and Facilities Maintenance to Interim Managing Director and Acting CFO. For the first time in a long while I returned from the airport to an empty home. Empty that is except for the three bouncy hounds, as happy to see me after an hour's absence as they would be had I been gone for days..

Managing Director has many responsibilities and is not a job to be taken lightly. There are many important decisions that need to be made, and the chore now rests squarely on my shoulders. This is my chance to shine, or, an impending disaster so great the story will be passed down through the family tree for generations to come. Each decision has an affect on the next, so all options are to be weighed carefully prior to action..

First order of business.. rearrange the furniture. While it may LOOK comfortable, the livingroom furniture is arranged to allow easy conversation between parties, my easy chair is not planted perfectly square to the TV, and this definitely needs remedy. Couch, loveseat, wingback chair and ottoman all to the garage along with various tables and nick nacks. The living room furnishings now consist of my recliner (planted squarely in front of the big screen), three dog beds, my prized work of art which depicts dogs playing poker I had to retrieve from the attic, and the fully stocked bar fridge from the basement used as an end table to rest the lamp on. Perfect..

Making these important decisions alone is going to take some getting used to. While I was carrying out various pieces of The Boss's livingroom suite, I half expected her to walk in and catch me in the act. This, I can assure you would not have been a pleasant experience and the actions were carried out nervously, but once done and quite proud of the results, I settled in for a long day of relaxation and sports viewing.

As I opened my first beer from the fridge/table, locked the recliner into full sloth mode, and fired up the big screen, the quiet of the house started to creep in. "So Mickey, what should we watch today?" I ask our old Grey girl. BLINK.. BLINK.. "Cy, what do you think? Nascar? ESPN?" BLINK.. HEADTILT.. HEADTILT.. GROAN..

I can see these dogs are going to be absolutely no help with the decisions around here. Hopefully later, I can catch some of The Princess's trolls and pass a few ideas off of them.

The last Supper

The Boss's plane departs tomorrow morning at a mind numbingly early hour, and since it's an international flight, we need to be at the airport at a time I didn't even know existed. The only people that should be allowed to be up at this time of the morning are night watchmen and milk delivery guys. Since she will be traveling over Easter, she decided that tonight I should cook a nice dinner, take a long walk with the hounds, and get to bed early..

We live in the biggest county in Alabama, in the dead center of this county is an awe inspiring force. A force so powerful, so terrible, and so evil, that it is poised to take over the world.. Walmart. Walmart is a place like no other on planet earth. Walmart pretends to be a simple store that you enter under your own free will, pick items you freely choose from the ample selection on the rows upon rows of merchandise, speedily pay for these items using a convenient variety of methods, and depart on your merry way. All the while, saving great piles of money by paying the lowest prices available. But, Walmart is much more then that. Much more..

There is a special device buried deep under each and every Walmart store. This device was invented by Sam Walton under very secret circumstances. No one else knows this device exists, but I have figured it out. Once started, the device takes over your mind, and you find it impossible to avoid entering the store. You don't even realize that it's happening, but you leave your house with full intentions of doing something fun and exciting, and suddenly find yourself in the center of a Walmart store. I know this to be true, as it happened to me again today..

Apart from almost magically teleporting you into the nearest store, Sam Walton's special secret device also makes you loose all rational thought and monetary judgment, and you walk through the isles zombie like, shoveling unneeded and unwanted items into your over-sized cart. This force is so powerful that the stores never close, as anyone traveling within a 23 mile radius, no matter what the time of day, is magically sucked in. If they closed the stores through the night hours, all the truckers in America would be piled up at their jumbo doors in the morning and freight delivery would come to a standstill. As proof, just think about the distance between each store in your area, and their relative locations to Interstates and major thoroughfares.

Sam Walton's device has some negative side effects that he didn't count on however.. It turns normally well behaved children into screaming, whaling banshees. This is because the device does not work on the young. They are aware of what is happening, and somehow understand that there will never be a collage fund due to the everyday low prices. The device also somehow brings long lost best friends together who insist on catching up on the past 15 years in the center of the soup isle, blocking your ability to load 32 cans of Cream of Mushroom Soup into your buggy. There is also something going on with way too tight clothes and bad hygiene, but I haven't quite figured that part out yet.

Since The Boss demanded a dinner, I had it in the back of my mind that we needed to pick up a few things. I made the mental list; potatoes, butter, milk, and a desert. A few simple items I could pick up at our corner inconvenience store after spending the afternoon at the golf course. The Boss and I put on our plaid knickers, striped shirts, sweater vests and knee-high stockings, load the clubs into the hound mobile and head out to the links. The next thing I remember, I am standing next to a screaming child, in a line of glass eyed shoppers holding a cart filled to over flowing with a nonsensical assortment of items. There is a TV, one car tire, 63 cans of stewed tomatoes, 4 gallons of frozen strawberries, two fish swimming in a clear plastic bag, and a police issue megaphone. The cashier is saying "Sir? Sir? I said that was $1,463.26. Is that cash or would you like to use your Walmart card?".

After I put all the items away, and cleared 15 pounds of white plastic bags from the kitchen floor I started to make dinner. It would have been good, but we were out of potatoes, butter, and milk..

What's a Vacation

In honor of The Boss's impending departure and inevitable battle against the Great Northern Canadian Mosquito, I did something I have seldom ever done before. I TOOK A DAY OFF.

I can't remember the last time I TOOK A DAY OFF. I may have missed work once in the 80's, but honestly, thanks to youthful substance abuse, that entire decade is pretty much lost to me. I recall something about bad music, big hair, spandex, and shoulder pads, but really the whole mess is just a blissfully blurry blank spot between the Hippies and Grunge.

I have heard guys around the office that TOOK A DAY OFF talking about it, and it seems that this function is always associated with golf, beer, travel, or some other fun and exciting activity. Since The Boss will be gone for quite some time, a fun and exciting activity is exactly how we should spend some time together, and TAKING A DAY OFF is the way that seems to be done.

The DAY OFF started like any other, up at 6:00am, life bringing delicious coffee, take the hounds for the morning walk, FOOD, and an ice cold shower thanks to The Princess's hot water stealing trolls. After the uncontrollable shiver spasms subsided and I was able to get out of the fetal position, I cautiously approached The Boss. I have learned over the years that you must never confront The Boss directly, cautiously and from the side is the best option, but really, when one TAKES A DAY OFF, there is no telling what the reaction will be.

"So, what are we going to do today?" I ask with out making direct eye contact, secretly hoping that the answer includes beer and golf. "Well," The Boss replied, "I thought I should show you a few things you will need to know." At this point, I knew that the Golf Gods would not be smiling on me this day, but thoughts of beer where still close and not yet dashed.

"This is a DISHWASHER", The Boss was pointing at an oddly shaped metal contraption under the kitchen counter. "You place dirty dishes in here, add soap to here, close the door and press this button." I was stunned.. All this time I had never even noticed this weird and wonderful invention. "Once the DISHWASHER has completed it's cycle, the dishes will be clean and dry, and you can put them here." The Boss was pointing at one of the doors in the kitchen. I had often wondered where clean dishes come from.. I had always assumed that the Trolls and the missing hot water were somehow involved.

This process was repeated over and over. Apparently we have a WASHER where dirty clothes go separated carefully by color and texture, a DRYER which turns wet, clean clothes into piles of unidentifiable lumps of wrinkled fabric, and some mysterious unseen force takes away our trash if we place it by the curb every Monday and Thursday morning!! The dog run gets cleaned daily, plants in the house need water (which I am thinking the Trolls can handle), and bills come in the mail and need to be paid ON LINE.. Dogs get heart-worm medicine on the days circled in red on the calendar and flea treatment on the days in blue. Behind another door, near The Princess Suite, there is a doggy torture device that strikes fear and panic in our spook Cy, but removes all the dog hair from the area rugs and furniture. Cy needs to be tormented at least twice a week. Wow.. OK I think I've got it.

The rest of THE DAY OFF followed this pattern, The Boss introducing me to new and scary functions that go on behind the scenes in the household, and me trying desperately to figure out how to include beer in these activities. Whenever The Boss noticed my eyes glazing over and drool running from the jaw opened in amazement she would punctuate the lesson with a stern "Got It?!" Which would snap me back from the 16th green and surely have made me spill my beer had I had been allowed to have one.

Today I have learned many valuable lessons. The biggest of which are that running a home is big work, and one should never, ever, TAKE A DAY OFF..