20

Sep

“We Don’t Have A Dog In That Hunt” and Other Fractured Fairy Tales

pointer

Today I was involved in a very complicated technical discussion at work.  At issue was determining whether we were responsible for a problem that was cropping up regularly with one of our projects and which was subsequently affecting an important customer. 

As the Dog Scientists debated the conditions and parameters that seemed to describe the annoying phenomenon, I listened closely to the details.

Two aspects of the situation quickly became apparent to me. 

First, I had little to no idea what these guys and gals were talking about.  After all, I had difficulty helping my twelve-year-old Daughter (Daughter Number Two) with her “fun” math homework the other night.  I seem to remember giving her advice something along the lines of, “It’s probably better to check with your Mom.”

Second, whatever the real engineering problem at hand today was, it was clearly not due to anything even remotely associated with us.  That much was certain.

After all, I might be dumb, but I’m not stupid.

Thankfully, then, we came to the conclusion it was somebody else’s burden to solve, and we were in the clear.

And to cap off the collective conclusion of non-responsibility, our absolutely awesome project manager (who has bailed me out on countless occasions over the last fifteen months) declared, “We don’t have a dog in that hunt.”

“Yikes!”  I thought to myself.  “Something I actually know something about.  I can make a meaningful contribution to this discussion.  Finally.”

I then commenced to interject my interpretation regarding one of the finer points of Southern colloquialisms. 

“Look.  I feel I have to jump in here and make a correction.  You can’t say, ‘We don’t have a dog in that hunt.’  You can either say, ‘That dog won’t hunt’ or ‘We don’t have a dog in that fight,’ but you can’t mix them up like that.  After all, that would indicate we don’t seem to know what we’re talking about, you know?’

My comment was met by dead silence. 

Oh, well.  I tried.

You see, one of the (many) enduring burdens of my life is that even though I do not possess a Southern Accent or even remotely sound like I hail from below the Mason-Dixon, I did, in fact, spend my formative years in the South, which has (for better or worse) instilled in me something of its sensibility.  

In fact, just this week I was explaining to my new primary care physician, who had just moved here from New Orleans, the Danger Signs I recognized in that area of the country as a young adult and that led me to seeking an “out” before I was sucked into the Black Hole of Comfort there.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“Well, for guys, it was football, nicotine, alcohol, and girls.  And not necessarily in that order.  The average guy in his mid-fifties already looked like he had one foot in the grave.”

“I know,” she responded.  “I definitely saw that there.”

“I guess they thought the short journey was worth the price.  But not for me.  I was determined to leave once I finished school,” I replied.

And leave I did.  

But by sheer happenstance and courtesy of the US Navy, I have spent a good portion of my adult professional life living once again in various locations throughout the South. 

So, I escaped initially but then I returned. 

“Well,” my doctor continued, “You look exactly what I’d imagined a ‘hip’ Southern California guy would look like — you’re wearing shorts and sandals, you look like you’re in shape, and you seem kind of relaxed.”

“Ha,” I thought.  “My family would become catatonic if they heard you describe me like that.”

“I try,” I said. 

And then I headed for the exit and waded into the afternoon Interstate commute home, feeling pretty good about myself.

I guess there’s no real point to this story, other than I realize now I made a fairly large linguistic mistake earlier today.  It turns out that the more I think about it, the better the newly concocted colloquialism sounds to me.

Because the older I get, I find I have fewer dogs involved in any sort of hunt, and for the most part the following accurately describes me today:  I don’t have a dog in most fights; I don’t have a dog that hunts; and, especially, I don’t have a dog in that hunt.

After all.  Look at him.

There's only room for one sheriff in this town.

I don’t fight, and i certainly don’t hunt.  But I do eat cat food and cat poop.

– Dad

11 years ago Short URL Comments

Family/Laugh at My Expense/The Daily Trip

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02

Jun

Zombie Screams in the Night

zombies

We live in a sickeningly standard suburban subdivision somewhere in Southern California.

Though I am very comfortable here, our older children like to pass judgment on our lifestyle, with quips such as, “So this is what the middle class does on weekend mornings?  Sit around and drink coffee on a terrace with other middle class coffee drinkers?”

Mind you, this criticism spews forth between sips of their own double latte peppermint soy lemon twist, purchased courtesy of Yours Truly.  Somehow the irony escapes them, or it is just conveniently ignored — whichever takes less effort.

“Yes.  Yes, it is, and if it’s the one thing in my life in which I splurge, you’re just going to have to deal with it, because I enjoy sitting in the sun, with the dog, and talking about pretty much nothing at all while I drink my drink.”

After that exchange, everyone usually quiets down and silently munches on the remnants of a blueberry scone.

But if the days are filled with the commonplace pursuits of trying to maintain a 42-year-old wood frame house with cracked stucco, the nights around here can be downright scary.  I’m not talking about the poltergeist frights we experience in our home with almost alarming frequency, I’m referring to the utterances from those of us in the Here and Now who live here.

Let’s start with Dandy Dog.  As I have mentioned previously (somewhere) in this blog, it was several months after adopting him that we even discovered he could bark.  It was a revelation when we realized we had a real dog on our hands and not just some kind of mute Ninja Warrior ready to tear any delivery person limb from limb who dared approach our front door.

Well, he is that, of course, but he can bark with the best of them.  In fact, he has developed a broad range of vocalizations to suit many of the occasions that are important in the life of a dog.  Though I won’t try to recreate the variety here (i.e., bark; ruff; baaaark; baaaruk, ruff/ruff, etc.), he’s got phrases for:  1)  Mom, take me on a walk; 2)  Mom, take me in the car;  3)  Mom, throw a ball for me; 4)  Mom, I’m ready to go on that walk now; 5)  Mom, I’m ready to go in the car now;  6)  Mom, you’d better be taking me in that car, etc.

There are no vocalizations associated with anyone else in the family, of course.

But there’s one not listed that we didn’t even know about until early one morning several years ago.

It was around 2:00 a.m. when I was awakened by what I thought was the howling of the Great Pumpkin.  It was an unearthly, hollow wail that scared the living sh daylights out of me.

“Good, God, what is that?” I sleepily asked my similarly frightened Spouse.

“It’s the Dog.  It must be the Dog!” she cried, and it was the Dog.

He wasn’t so much having a dream, as he was sleepily howling in unison with an emergency vehicle siren off in the distance somewhere.  We didn’t actually figure it out at the time that night, but during several subsequent howling episodes we were able to link the two:  Siren = Howl.  Everything stops until the episode is complete when the siren fades away.

It still freaks me out when it happens at night, but at least now I know some Dark Cloud is not descending to ferry me to Hades.  That, I’m sure, will come later in life.

And when Daughter was just a Little Thing and prone to cutting her own hair, she came running into our bedroom one evening crying bitterly, and clearly frightened out of her gourd.

“What’s the matter, Sweetie?” I asked.

“There’s a terrible sound coming from the room next to me.  I think it’s a monster.”

“What?  Let me go check.”  And I walked three paces down the hall, only to be met by the buzzsaw snoring emanating from the vicinity of the room where my Mother, who was visiting, was sleeping.  “That sounds like a Sherman tank in there,” I thought, “And I don’t even know what a Sherman tank sounds like.”

I returned back to our bedroom with, “Sweetie, that’s just Grandma.  It’s nothing to be frightened of.”  But clearly she was having none of it, and we had an extra visitor in bed that night.  Daugher eventually calmed down and feel asleep, but we turned the bedside fan on “high” to drown out the lumber mill across the way.

However, all of these incidents pale in comparison to the otherworldly, phantasmagoric bellows that are emitted by my own Person during my nightmares.  I couldn’t tell you what I dream about, but it must be bad, if I am to believe the descriptions from fellow family members about the noises I make.

These nightmares are absolutely legendary in our household, and are often a continuing source of jokes and levity.

Apparently everyone loves a good scare,  except for my wife.  It seems that during one of my nighttime bouts, rather than “gently rouse me from my slumber,” she chose to cover my mouth with her hand in a desperate attempt to shut me up.  No doubt whatever nightmare I was having at the time only became worse since it was infused with a sense of being suffocated.

Of course, I eventually woke up, disoriented and out of breath.  I knew enough to realize her hand had been on my face.

“What were you doing?” I wondered.

“Just trying to keep you quiet, dear.  I was gently covering your mouth.”

Hunh?  What was that again?

We relived this entire episode tonight, as Daughter mentioned that she herself heard the Zombie Screams from the Underworld last evening, as I was having another bad episode.

“Dad, it was loud and really weird, and scary.”

“Did you or your Mother try to suffocate me to stop it?” I asked.

My Spouse answered, “I didn’t try to suffocate you that time.  I gently placed my hand over your mouth.”

As I explained to my Lovely Better Half, no one “gently places a hand over someone’s mouth,” just as no one ever “gently kicks someone in the groin” or “gently punches someone in the face.”

But they all had a good laugh about it anyway.

Just wait.  A night will come, I don’t know when, during which the moon, stars, and emergency vehicles of the night will all align, and Dandy Dog and I will howl in a somnambulant chorus, scaring the bejesus out of everyone and proving, once again, that what goes around comes around.

I just hope I don’t wake up from dreaming I ate a marshmallow to find my pillow gone in the morning.

– Dad

11 years ago Short URL 2 Comments

Family/Humor/Laugh at My Dog/The Daily Trip

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08

Jan

When is Enough Enough? Probably Best Not to Answer. . . .

construction barriers

“Okay. There are three construction barriers set up in the driveway. Let’s take a photo. Quick. Before the moment is lost.”

My recent hole-digging post was really supposed to be an introduction to another subject that’s near and dear to me but, alas, I was severely distracted by the cavorting canines at Dog Beach and I lost track of my thesis!  (Note to Daughter as she finishes college this year:  Introduction; Thesis Statement; Main Body; Conclusion — and don’t use semi-colons!  They are Death.)

So, last Saturday at the beach, while I was busy being fascinated by three-legged dogs, their owners, and their associated holes in the sand, Daughter Number Two conducted a bare foot reconnoiter of the shoreline with her Mother. 

Remember back when you were eleven and, quite possibly, still had an open mind that took in all the world in wide-eyed fascination?  That describes Number Two. 

As for Blog Daughter, even at her young-adult-tender-age today, she has almost completely slid down the Cynical Slope, unconsciously aided along the way by Dad and his warped Aristotelian Zeitgeist.  Zen-me is a relatively recent phenomenon in our house, by the way.

As is characteristic of our walks at the beach, Dandy Dog hangs with his Mother, Daughter Number Two attempts to explore the water-borne fauna but usually only succeeds in getting soaked, and I forge ahead of all of them, ensuring the path we take is safe and free of major piles of sh poop. 

On this particular outing, I glanced back at my beautiful family and noticed their attention was focussed on something in the water.  They were completely engrossed. 

Surely, whatever it was, it must be unique and wonderful, so naturally, I wandered over to take a look.  

Jellyfish.  Tiny Little Jellyfish pulsing away as the tide was going out. 

Got it.  Noted.  Made a mental note not to remove my shoes going forward. 

Then the real action started  —  Mother and Daughter started taking photos. 

I honestly didn’t keep track, but I know it was more than one and less than one hundred.  Probably not a whole lot less than one hundred, but you get the picture. 

Allow me to digress for a moment.  When the kiddos were little, we were dutiful parents and videotaped every life moment imaginable.  Our worst excess, however, was the decision to set up a camera on a tripod and record Christmas Morning opening presents.  We did this for several years running.  I have absolutely no idea which epochs are involved or when we stopped.  All I can remember thinking to myself, however, was that I could never imagine one day being so bored at the age of 82 that  would spend hours of every day watching old videos of Christmas Morning 1991. 

Now you can probably imagine where Blog Daughter’s cynicism originates. 

Well, while we probably only have, perhaps, twenty hours or so of collective video footage altogether, it absolutely pales to the boxes upon boxes of photos we have stashed in every spare corner of the house upstairs (and probably downstairs, too — I just don’t know where).

Though not an active participant myself, I am part of a broader family dynamic that feels it is a sacred duty to photographically record every element (both large and small) that populates our lives. 

Next to the obligatory school, birthday, and holiday photos, we have case upon case of photographic specks and dots. 

The discourse around here goes something like this: 

“What’s this black thing?” 

“Dad, that’s duck.” 

“Well, what’s this smaller, blurry, black thing in the next photo?”

“Silly.  It’s the same duck, only farther away.  Don’t you know anything, Dad?”

I’m not exaggerating here.  We have (uncatalogued, mind you) literally hundreds of photos of everything imaginable that caught the fancy of whomever had a camera that day.  And many of them are simply UPOs — Unidentified Photographic Objects. 

I shudder to think how many shekels we’ve thrown at photo processing and printing costs over the years, so I decided long ago simply not to think about it. 

It just is — thank you, Zen-me. 

With the advent of the digital age, the problem has only become worse, but I believe less expensive.  Fortunately, it seems we don’t print nearly as many images as we used to a decade or two ago, but some members of the family could be hiding things from me.  It’s been known to happen. 

So that takes us up to the present, and the addition of numerous shots of what will soon become UPOs in the near or distant future.  I can almost hear the conversation now:

“What’s that thing?  It looks like a plastic bag.”

“Dad.  That’s a jellyfish.”

“Well, what’s this next picture?”

“That one?  It’s a plastic bag next to a jellyfish.  I thought it was cool since they look the same.”

And my future? 

When I’m 82 I will be spending my days diligently organizing the images of my family’s life (during breaks in my Over-80 triathalon training).  Of course my eyesight will be completely shot by then, so the world will appear to me just as blurry as it is in the thousands of photos squirreled away around the house. 

I guess what goes around, comes around.  

And some folks around here might say it’s fitting.  

I’m not sure, but I do know it’s getting hard to focus.

– Dad

11 years ago Short URL 1 Comment

Humor

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06

Jan

San Diego — We Have a Problem. . . . Probably Not

dogdigging

There’s nothing down there. I know there’s nothing down there. But I sense the Dog Scientists seek inspiration like this. I’m gonna keep digging.

It was yet another cool, beautiful Southern California winter day, and this morning we were able to visit one of our favorite destinations — Dog Beach.  For those of you unfamiliar with the phenomena (we have several scattered around the city), Dog Beach (for that matter, any beach with the unfettered ability for dogs to roam) is a place known as Dogdom Dog Nirvana. 

Go ahead.  Google it. 

It’s a special place where the normal dog behavior rules don’t apply, and if you’re a dog, you can do pretty much do anything you want — run wild and free, swim in the ocean, perch quietly in the sand and watch the world go by, sniff anyone you want as much as you want, and you can poop and pee anywhere any time. 

Well, maybe that last point isn’t really unique, but you get the picture. 

I figure the human equivalent is something along the lines of all us running around without underwear, but that’s about as far as I am willing to take the analogy. 

After allowing our Dandy Dog his day at the beach, we began our long trek back to the parking lot.  Along the way, there was a “hub-bub” up ahead of us that was drawing a crowd.  And believe me, an event has to be really, really special at Dog Beach to both attract attention and be labelled a “hub-bub.”

Soon we came upon a medium-size brown pooch of indeterminate heritage, happily engaged in an absolutely feverish bout of hole digging.  We’re not talking about dainty, delicate scratching three inches deep in the sand — think major excavation, steam shovel-type activity.  Clouds of sand were simply exploding into the morning air.  It was quite a sight, indeed, and the happy dog was soon joined by other canines. 

It was a Dog Beach Riot.

But soon, the whole scene became even more interesting, as a three-legged dog friend sauntered up, clearly intrigued with the “hole thing” going on.  I could see the tiny dog gears turning inside his head as he sized up the opportunity that had presented itself. 

For a three-legged dog, I’m thinking that digging a hole is quite the daunting undertaking. 

Interpretive Three-Legged Dog Thoughts:  “Gee, there are several perfectly good holes here.  When was the last time I dug one?  Well, that’s stupid.  It was when you had four legs, dummy.  Right.  I should never have gotten on that motorcycle.  Stupid human joke.  Well, I think I can sort of just slide down here and kind of, yep, I can!  I’m in the hole and I’m sort of digging!” 

At this point, my attention was drawn to the dog’s owner.  Clearly all this activity had taken him completely by surprise, as well, yet he had his camera at the ready and was busy taking happy snaps of (I think) the top of his dog’s back.  It was a big hole, and that’s about all you could see of him (the dog, not the owner). 

We soon continued our walk and eventually made it back to the parking lot.  It was all fairly uneventful after the hole-digging episode.

Dandy Dog fell asleep on the way home, dreaming of zeppelins and Red Ryder bb guns. 

And then I realized what really makes Dog Beach and its occasional inhabitants so unique today — they care not one wit about the premier of Downton Freaking Abbey, Season Three!

Maybe they don’t realize Lord Grantham’s favorite dog is named Isis.  Maybe not. 

There’s something there, but I just don’t know what it is. . . . 

– Dad

11 years ago Short URL 2 Comments

Humor

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04

Dec

Reason Why I’m Uncool #6198458

In addition to this and this, I will never, ever be that aloof, mysteriously cool girl who can lure unaware victims into my web of secrets. I’m the opposite: way too open, always inappropriate, and perpetually outspoken. I tend to be offended if people are not on my level of friendliness (sidenote: nobody is ever on my level).

In an official summary of comments said to me regarding my sparkling personality during my lifespan, the general opinion is that I am somewhere between too mean and irritatingly in-your-face. In fact, yesterday, someone told me that I am “too bubbly” and I drive her “crazy” with my “over-the-top” personality. I was slightly disheartened for a brief two seconds that this person could possibly dislike me. It’s not easy to hear someone say, “Well, I don’t hate you but you are a lot to handle and actually, yeah, I hate you.” Which, to be fair, is completely true; I can be am ridiculous. I’m usually hyped up on caffeine and bouncing around like that little happy blob on the Zoloft commercials (you know, after the blob takes the anti-depressant). I’m Kanye West and the world is my Taylor Swift. But the world doesn’t always want to be Taylor Swift. (sidenote: Wouldn’t that be a great Taylor Swift song?)

On the other hand, there are people who think I’m excessively mean. And I can be. I use sarcasm to weed out the weak from the witty. My sense of humor is definitely caustic and wry at times but generally, it’s light-hearted, well-meaning, and broad. Practically anything can provoke my annoying, tittering laugh these days.

If I don’t know you, I will force my humor on you, starting with Insults Lite*. This creates problems because people don’t always understand that making fun of them is my way of saying, “Hey, I like you kinda sorta. Wanna be friends?” In fact, sometimes, people start to hate me. Clearly, I am a well-socialized individual.

You’d think as a writer and generally open person, I’d be immune to people’s opinions. But no, I am like a golden retriever. Instead of barking, I run around yelling, “LOVE ME!!!!!!”

Please love me.

Please love me.

*Insults Lite is Phase 1 of getting to know a new person. I will jovially make fun of the acquaintance until I get either a laugh or other positive reaction. Phase 2 is when I tear you down until you are in your most basic, raw form. In Phase 3, I invite you to make fun of me. In Phase 4, I try and entertain you with my many talents. Phase 5? We adopt cats and get married.

Pearl of wisdom for the day: sometimes, people are not going to like you, even though you a magnificent, veritable smorgasbord of all that is good in the universe.

– Daughter

11 years ago Short URL 9 Comments

Laugh at My Expense

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01

Dec

If This is Possible, Then so is World Peace. No, Really.

You're touching my back. Knock it off.

You’re touching my back. Knock it off.

Take a close look at the above photo.  Well, try to ignore the clutter around the dog and cat in the photo.  Focus on the dog and cat.  To paraphrase a line from Ghostbusters, “Dogs and cats sleeping together.  Mass hysteria!”

Let me say that, although we have always had pets in our family, I had no idea about Daughter’s fixation with cats and strange cat photos until I started reading her posts.  I’m okay with it, of course, but she may have a little too much time on her hands to have amassed such a collection of “cute” kitty pics.  Probably another blog there, perhaps, but I digress.

The cat in the pic, Sandy, is the matriarch of the pride in our family, which at one time numbered seven total felines (elements of two of her litter generations).  She came into the house as a cast-off runt of a feral mother, once again, given to us by one of Daughter’s friends (see my previous post for reference).  She was given the name, Sandy, and was hand fed and nursed into survival.  Usually it seems that animals instinctively recognize when they have fallen into good times — never the situation here.  From the git-go she was an “ornery cuss,” whose bad disposition only worsened with time.  Before we got wise (like, how could we not have been?), she birthed two litters in quick succession and, presto, we had a house full of cats — much like the Tribbles in Star Trek (Daughter also feels my media references badly date me and confuse readers).  At this point in our lives, cats were simply everywhere.  In a nod to familial connections, we used to keep a photo of the father pinned to the wall above the phone in the kitchen.  After doing his damage (twice), however, he was never seen again in those parts.  His photo eventually disappeared, too.

With each passing year, MamaCat (nee Sandy) transmogrified into something out of Frankenweenie, except the dog in that movie was nice (Please note recent media reference).  Tim Burton couldn’t imagine what she became:  a holy terror.  And best of all, she saved the worst of her abuse for her offspring.  She couldn’t stand them and went out of her way to make her displeasure known:  scratching, biting, growling, howling, hissing — whatever negative cat noises you can come up with, she vocalized them, and followed up with physical violence.

She’s been with us over seventeen years now, and in those idle moments of life remembrance (like when I can’t sleep most nights), I honestly don’t remember seeing her around all that much over the past two decades.  She mostly hid out, and when she wasn’t hiding, she was attacking someone or something.

Then, a funny thing happened about five years ago.  She had a stroke.

One day, she simply couldn’t walk.  We took her in to our wonderfully supportive vet, expecting her to say the kindest thing to do was to “put her down,” but instead she just said, “Let’s give her a few days and see if she perks up.”

If nothing else, MamaCat is a survivor.  Slowly, she regained her mobility and strength, and within weeks she was pretty much back to normal — except for one thing.  She was nicer.  No, she didn’t magically become a lap cat, but she certainly became more sociable and friendly — at least with humans.  My years of college study led me to conclude the stroke had killed off more of her bad gray matter than whatever was left behind.  Good matter?  Indifferent matter?   I’ve got no science to back up my observations, but the theory still holds some water, I figure.

She still hates her remaining two grown kittens (both sixteen themselves), and she actively bites, growls at, and scratches Daughter.  But at night, she now sleeps in a basket at the foot of our bed, and actually allows me to pick her up for a few seconds occasionally.  It’s also frightening to admit this, but I can even rub her tummy (I hate using that word, but it’s appropriate for her) some evenings.  Such acts “pre-stroke” were not simply unthinkable; they weren’t even possible.

So, let’s back up a moment.  About five years ago we adopted the most wonderful, loving White German Shepherd.  He is both a dandy and dandyish, but will attack anyone who approaches Mom, knocks on our front door, or tries to deliver packages or mail (we’re a “known” address with UPS, Fedex, and the US Postal Service).  The trickiest part of blending him into the family was working with MamaCat.  Did she accept him?  No.  Did she attack him?  No.  Did he care one way or the other?  Apparently not.  He doesn’t like cats hovering near his food dish, but that’s about it.

Our DandyDog has a hard time getting comfortable, so we have a variety of beds and cushions throughout the house for his convenience.  One of his primary, most cherished locations is at the foot of his Mom’s bed.  The indentations on that cushion are molded to his frame, and he spends most nights there — until recently.  It seems MamaCat has taken a shine to that particular spot, and she parks herself prominently at the beginning of most evenings.  It’s her own “Occupy” movement, but she literally takes up, like, 10% of the available space.  DandyDog usually wanders by, looks perplexed (a common expression for him), then collapses on the rug near Mom’s side of the bed.

Until today.  MamaCat and DandyDog not only shared the same space, but were actually touching.  Though it didn’t look like either was particularly comfortable with the set-up, they were, in fact, together.  I suppose it was more of a journey for the cat than the dog, but it was a feat nonetheless.  And unimaginable both within the context of the entirety of this one cat’s life and the behavior that defined same.

I don’t know that there’s any great truth involved with all this, except that change seems possible, even after years to the contrary.  I can imagine MamaCat yowling in her best Rocky Balboa — “If I can change, then you can change.” I think that was Rocky III, maybe IV.  Again, dating myself.

Seeing change like this happen gives me hope, provides context, and gives me something to ponder as I get older and become less likely to change.  You see, I guess I’m a lot like MamaCat myself.

It’s also helpful when I’m out of blog ideas.

– Dad

11 years ago Short URL 2 Comments

Humor

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27

Nov

VW Convertibles and Three-Legged Dogs

I am a creature of habit.  I wake up at the same time most days, eat exactly the same breakfast, and head off to work usually within the same 10-minute window most mornings.  It sounds boring, but it’s three fewer things I have to think about in the midst of my daily challenges.

I commute in my non-descript, beater Miata, and my route never varies.  Evidently a few other folks maintain similar schedules, because in the midst of the thousands of lemmings driving to work, I frequently recognize the same two or three cars (and drivers) every couple of weeks or so.  My all-time favorite is an older woman (older relative to me, that is) who sits pressed close to the steering wheel of a faded red, mid-60’s VW Beetle convertible.  On nice days she motors along with the top down, wearing a bandana, with her dog (a smaller mongrel of indeterminate age) proudly perched beside her, propped up evenly between the front and back seats.  I always imagine they are heading over to Dog Beach for an early morning run (dog) and coffee (human).  Were it me, that’s what I would be doing.  Anyway, it’s quite a sight.

A few months ago I borrowed my daughter’s VW Cabrio convertible for my morning drive.  It was a beautiful, sunny day, and I lowered the top before embarking on my journey.  Let me add that, if you’re a guy, you have to be pretty secure in your manhood if you are going to drive a Cabrio — but that’s another story. . . .

As luck would have it, that particular morning I spotted ahead of me my favorite red VW convertible motoring along at about 50 mph.  I could see her dog standing up in the airflow, clearly enjoying the ride in that particularly doggy sort of way.  Though it was a stretch, I felt a strange kinship to them both — I had my top down, too, wished I were heading to Dog Beach myself (instead of work),  plus, I was driving a 90’s version of that VW classic.  As I passed them on the left, I tooted the horn and gave them a quick thumbs up.  I was met with total indifference by the dog, and a curious stare from the woman.  I am relatively certain she didn’t get the connection.

Fast forward to this past weekend.  We spent a few hours on Saturday at Dog Beach, with our own pooch.  Our dog (whose dandyish photo is sadly prominent in some of my daughter’s posts) happily ran himself to exhaustion during our visit.  However, the defining moment of the day was when I passed an older gentleman (older relative to me, that is) who was flanked by his small, three-legged dog.  I turned around to my wife and simply pointed out his companion to her by saying, “He’s a three-legged dog.” I knew she would be interested, because we almost adopted a three-legged chihuahua five years ago, except that he ended up continually biting our then six-year-old during the meet-and-greet.  Instead, we went 180 degrees and brought home a stunning (or dandyish) White German Shepherd.  He has since become the love of my wife’s life (or she, his), but that’s another story. . . .

So, I kept on walking down the beach, and when I looked back I noted my wife engaged in a conversation with the owner of the three-legged dog.  The talk went on for quite a few minutes, but I couldn’t really tell what was happening.  When my wife eventually caught up with me, it turns out the owner thought I was somehow making fun of his dog by pointing out it had three legs, so she told him the story of our own near-adoption to set the record straight.  Point of fact, I think it’s great he adopted that dog, and my wife thought he had a bit of a chip on his shoulder, as well.  So, the best part of the story, at least from my wife’s perspective, is that during their chat he referred to me as her father.  Not that it happens all that frequently with us, but that reference certainly made her day, since we are both of a “certain age.” However, I guess my age is more “certain” than hers.

Me?  I don’t really care that much.  The way I see it, I have a happy dog, happy wife, and happy daughter with a VW convertible — all in the same family.

I guess in the end, knowing that made my day.

– Dad

11 years ago Short URL 1 Comment

Humor

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