My hounds are away. I’m off soon for a visitation slumber party. They’re getting feral and disgusting, so they’re happy. I’m going to catch up on blogs and pre-posting about cycling culture tonight, but today I’m handing over this blog to an unknowing contributor: my dad.
My dad and stepmother have two dogs: Gus, a miniature schnauzer; and Mojo, an Italian greyhound. He also writes to keep him “respectable” in his retirement years. The following is what I had in my inbox. I hope you giggle as much as I did.
Gus and Moj recently had their annual physicals, a $400 tab that I don’t think my Medicare gap insurance will cover. The results are about as expected: Gus is old and blind and his legendary German bladder/bowel control thing is a long gone memory of better times. He no longer runs but instead pronks up and down our hallway, much like a gazelle (as to movement, not body contour), as he crashes into chair legs, my legs and walls. Moj has reached middle age and is still a yappy snit. She’s a loveable yappy snit but a yappy snit nonetheless with the ability to create instant doggie drama from thin air. So after much prodding and poking and injecting and apologies for such behavior on our parts, I was sent home with both plus two little vials into which I am to insert what I believe is called fecal matter—there’s more prosaic term for it but we’ll let that alone for the moment—and this is where the whole enterprise turned south.
Gus was helpful. He crapped on the floor and area rug in our master bath, wishing to make my collection efforts a snap. Voila! Poop to vial and the task was half done.
That left Moj. Moj is not old and continues to view herself as a four legged Liz Taylor, a stunning and continuing object of desire, who still can be, as was said about Liz, irresistible mayhem. Of the many differences between Gus and Moj, one of the primaries is her desire—no, make that obsession—for pooing alone. So imagine her surprise when I let her out of her cage and the house and into the back yard for her morning toiletries, and she sees me walking behind her with a small vial in my hand. She stops and stares and gives me that “Excuse me” look. I avoid direct eye contact, but alas, that’s not enough. She wins the stare down, I avert my eyes, and she toddles on off. But with a practiced excellence—we’re not dealing with a rookie here—she stops and quickly spots me continuing the stalk.
Now there’s a sorry pass, that I’ve been reduced to stalking a miniature Italian Greyhound for poo particles. I’m into my seventh decade and to the best of my knowledge, not yet on any law enforcement agency’s sexual predator listing, but I’m putting it all at risk in the fenced in back yard of my home.
So far I’ve not been successful with Moj, but I’m keeping and eye on her and have my little vial handy. She’ll have to poo sometime.
p.s. As a favor, I’d ask that you not discuss this topic among yourselves and most certainly not with her. I mean, really, she still has her sensibilities and feelings, and we must take those into consideration. So while the world in general may have gone to hell, in the mansion and back yards of our estates, the Hollywood beauty queen system still lives, and this studio at least intends to continue to protect its major starlets…
[An email sent to my dad replying to email: A short story by the storied writer on the Pokolodis… You do have fun on your word processor. I am convinced your latent talent will someday make you famous. dz]
My dad’s response:
It has occurred to me that if I don’t make a dime from writing, at least I’m “making money” by not spending it on beer, golf, RV’s, travel, porn, hookers, etc.—the things retired guys do. It’s very inexpensive to sit in front of the screen and make up stuff and then spend twice as much time trying to improve and shorten what I made up.
It costs me $100 a year to continue my membership with the DFW Writers Workshop and about $250 to $300 for the Workshop’s annual conference. I drive over to Euless about 40 Wednesday nights a year, 40 miles round trip, and at 25 mpg in my Jetta, that’s another $200 (to maybe $250) a year. That’s $550 to $650 per year, or $50 a month, i.e. less than a Starbucks grande caramel frappuccino every third day.
Poor Gus is getting old. They’re applying for dogs through ART–Animal Rescue of Texas. I wonder if the new dog will be able to handle having his or her private moments used to entertain an old man.
The fancy linky bits will come as soon as the lazy people on the US east coast get over themselves and get into Saturday.
Oh, look. They’ve woken up to Saturday: