November 5th – Getting a hold on the brush

November 3, 2009 at 10:27 pm | In Books, Humor, Media, Reading, TV, Writing, dogs, life, publishing | 5 Comments
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     The Geezer was getting ready to take me for a boat ride.  He turned the key in the ignition and the outboard said, “Ah-rrr-rrr-rrr.”  The old fart answered, “Oh, shit.”  He looked at me and added, “I haven’t had the boat out in a while, Sandy.  The battery’s down.  You’ll have to sit while I get the charger and get her juiced up.”
     I was ready to ride the waves and collect the bevy of compliments I get when we venture down the canal and I assume a show pose standing in the boat’s bow.  Tara, Cindy, and the rest of you two-legged models step behind, please.  The delay disappointed me and I don’t handle disappointment well.  “It’s not my fault you were off running around the country visiting grandchildren and joining unions,” I snapped.
     The Geezer looked confused, one of his favorite expressions.  “Joining unions?  What are you talking about?”  The old boy’s cranial gears locked up.
     “Remember, the last time we were going to go out, you called the trip off at the last-minute because you said you were going to have to pack to see your old union buddies.”
     His face got that blank stupid stare unique to humans.  Clueless, clueless, clueless.  I took a deep breath and prepared to oil those ancient cogs.  “Let me refresh.”  I tried not to sound condescending or sarcastic, but I probably wasn’t successful.  “The Anderson union people.”
     He smiled and chuckled.  “Oh, that reunion.  That’s entirely different, Sandy.  A reunion is a get together of folks that had a common experience or were in the same organization.  I went to my 50th high school reunion.  I apologize for my social life interfering with your jaunts out on the seas.”
     One good thing about the Geezer is that he understands his station in life and his obligation to serve my needs as his primary task.  “I accept,” I said graciously.  He sat down and stared across the canal as though he was far away.  Even stranger, he was quiet.  Normally the old boy would push out enough hot air to hoist a balloon to 12000 feet telling me all the details about such an adventure.  I waited, but the silence continued.  I had enough.  “Okay, tell me about it.  Did you enjoy yourself?”
     “Yes, I did.  I really didn’t realize that until just now.”  He looked up at an Osprey that rode the air currents wafting above us.
     ”Do you see those folks often?”
     “No, most I hadn’t seen in the full 50 years.”
     “Why on earth wouldn’t you have had a good time?  Didn’t you like the school or the people who went there?”
     “Oh, no, just the opposite.  I’ve missed many of them.  When times or situations get rough I pull out one of the memories I have of those days and those people.  Magically the problem or the need becomes less; they’re like medicine for a sick man.  It was great to see Pat and Ted and Jake and Jerry and Roger, all of them.  Naming names wouldn’t mean anything to you, only me.  Leaving one out would seem a disgrace.  And they were so nice.   Jeanne and…”  He looked away and I knew better than to try to see what might be in his eyes.   
    I asked softly, “Geezer, I don’t understand.  Why have you just decided you had a good time?”
     “Memories are sacred things, Sandy.  They’re lodged in a temple in our minds.  Each time we remove them and warm ourselves in their glow they increase in value.  The older we get the more revered they become.”  He turned back to face me.  “All of sudden all those faces, those images, were gone.  In a few hours I had to realize they’d changed.  Honestly, I felt robbed.”
     “Sounds like you regretted giving them up.  What changed?”
     “Some words I wrote in one of my novels.  They came to me when I realized I would have liked to have seen some people who didn’t make it, Barbara, Kay, Carl.”
     “What were the words, Geezer?”
     “Well, Sandy, a heroine in one of my books was going through tough times and was painting a waterfall to relieve some of her stress.  She was coming to grips with major changes in her life… and this is what I had her realize.”  He looked at me and quoted, ” As there had been changes within Gaylynn during her September on Echo Creek, there were subtle changes in the stream’s surroundings.  Summer’s lush green was evolving into fall’s old olive and the first hints of gold, tan, orange and red appeared in the foliage.  The best she could do was catch a fleeting image and record it on canvas, for Echo Creek was a never-ending work in progress.  These changes would continue until time ceased to exist for this magical spot.  The falling waters told Gaylynn that life is the same.  And content in that knowledge, Gaylynn resumed her painting, her heart holding the brush.”
     “Are you holding the brush now?” I asked.
     “Absolutely.”

www.dlhavlin-author.com

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October 27 – Why humans invented Halloween

October 27, 2009 at 6:48 pm | In Books, Halloween, Humor, Media, Reading, TV, Writing, dogs, holidays, publishing | 8 Comments
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     I asked a simple question, “Why are our humans making all the fuss over this Halloween thing?”  It created a spirited discussion between the neighborhood canines. 
     Of course, Barbie, one of our ’hood cocker spaniels, started talking before I finished.  She’s the know-it-all that every street has.  “It has to do with scaring away dead people.  Halloween is the day that the dead come back to life and parade around.  Humans get all excited and scared.  They dress up so the dead won’t recognize them and come and eat them.”
     “Yes, that’s right,” Manny the chihuahua said.
     “Human poop, it has nothing to do with the dead.  It comes from a Christian religious celebration called All Saints Day,” Sarge our resident German Shepard said authoritatively.
     “He’s right,” Manny agreed.
     “Wait a minute.”  Fifi the French Poodle looked skeptical.  “Let me understand.  People dress up like all kind of creatures that do horrible things to celebrate a religious holiday?  Yeah.  Sure.  If you believe that I’ve got a space ship in my human’s garage that’s shaped like a boat I’ll sell cheap.”
     “She’s probably right,” Manny had second thoughts.
     Baseer our Afghan said, “You don’t know about these Christians, they can be violent.  Now take us non-violent Muslims–”
     “He’s got a point,” Manny chimed in before Baseer finished, but he didn’t look sincere.
     “You’re all full of it!  It’s a capitalist plot to sell candy and teach their young how to extort goodies from the proletariat!  Read Marx.”  Lucy is Barbie’s twin sister, but boy do they see everything different.
     Manny asked, “Which Marx?”
     “Harpo,” Lucy said with certainty, but added, “Groucho was a major contributor to the theory.” 
     “Oh, okay,” Manny said.
     “I don’t believe this.  Can’t you see this is all a vast left-wing conspiracy?  The Commies are collectivising our young human people.  Soon they’ll have them singing songs about the glory of the Great Pumpkin in class.  Brain washing, I tell you.”  Sparkles Irish blood wasn’t settled.
     “You have a point, too,” Manny observed.
     I cleared my throat and said, “Hummm, if I understand you all… Halloween is holiday that humans celebrate to scare away evil spirits, based on religious tradition observed by some and not others, that some don’t believe in at all, and its a day the young humans are exploited by business, but also a day that two guys named Harpo and Groucho brainwash human kids into being like the Borg in Star Trek.”
     “Who said anything about the Borg or Star Trek?” Manny asked.
     “Oh, that’s just something I added,” I said.  “Does everybody agree that I covered it?”
     “That sounds right,” Manny conceded.
      Everybody woofed their agreement except Heintz.  Manny asked, “Heintz, you’re the only one who hasn’t said a word.  What do you think?”
     “Think?  Think!  I don’t think, I act!”
     “Well, Heintz, what are you going to do,” I asked.
     Heintz grinned and growled, “Bite the little bastards with the bags.”  There’s a man or woman of action in almost every group. 
     I think the whole Halloween thing is complicated and dumb, but considering humans thought it up, I understand.  Give me the good old canine holiday, ”Trashcan Tipover Time,” for simplicity and pure fun.

www.dlhavlin-author.com

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October 15 – Like human, like canine

October 16, 2009 at 1:26 pm | In Books, Humor, Media, Reading, TV, Writing, dogs, publishing | 6 Comments
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     Some folks say “Like mother, like daughter.”  That goes for humans and canines as well.  A couple blocks over resides Mildred and Sparkle.  Sparkle is an Irish Setter, a little on the thin side, pessimistic, and she tends toward being a hypochondriac.   Her human is named Mildred, who is a single, middle aged, works at being thin, but doesn’t quite make it.  The Geezer calls her a “gay divorcee,” but I don’t see any signs of that. In fact, she seems to enjoy men’s presence and I think I can detect some sexual tension there.  However, Mrs. Gator likes to avoid the woman and encourages the Geezer to do the same, so he might be right.  I think Mrs. G might believe Mildred has a crush on her.  Sparkle isn’t a close enough friend for me to ask prying questions about family.
     Being a typical Irish Setter, she’s over-impressed with her looks, red coat, and singing voice.  I’ve heard her try to warble “Danny Boy,” but it still comes out an alto, “Oh, ruff-ruff, ruff, ruff, ruff, ruff, ruff, ruff ruff-ruff-ruff.”  I could go on, but why?  She’s a half note flat.  Sparkle’s a constant complainer.   If she’s not complaining about her food, its the noise the neighbor’s cat makes.  Hey, what’s wrong with Ken-L-Ration?  She says she’s strictly a Eukanuba kind of girl, but I’ve caught her in the Wilson’s garbage can a time or two.  Even the neighborhood raccoons avoid that one.  As for the cat’s meow, she could serenade Tom with one of her Irish ditties and give it a nervous breakdown.
     Sparkle laments our canine community’s greetings – claims they’re all too impersonal.  That’s bull-shit.  I’ll put our butt-sniffs up against any in the state.  Sparkle’s preoccupied with the size of things.  She has to have the biggest food dish, biggest sleeping pillow, biggest bone, it goes on and on.  I can acknowledge she does deposit the largest piles of any canine in the “hood.  Well, that’s except for Sarge, the German Shepard, and Willie, the Saint Bernard. 
     Sparkle’s human has many of her same traits.  Not the pile thing, I don’t know about that.  She is snooty about what she eats.  I’ve heard Mildred say she’d never eat MacDonald’s.  She also believes she can sing, but can’t.  If I hear Mildred hum “It Was Fascination,” one more time as we pass her on one of our walks, I’m going to get the Geezer to buy me earplugs. 
     She has dyed red hair that matches Sparkle’s color, but just on her head.  Mildred wears a bikini top and pair of short, short, short, short, cut-off jeans.  From my vantage point I see lots of bologna hanging out along with the evidence that lets me state conclusively the hair on the head is a dye job.   
     Mildred and Sparkle share the hypochondriac thing as well.  Everytime the Geezer stops to talk she’s worried about running a fever and asks the old boy to put his hand on her forehead.  Or, if we happen to meet along the woods, a spot where she’s had to walk farther, she’s worried about her heart skipping beats and insists he put his hand on her chest.  The Geezer’s real good about that; he never refuses.  I’ve noticed her ills are cyclical.  They never occur on the weekend when Mrs. G walks with us.
     Mildred is a good human for she is constantly looking out for one of the things Sparkle loves.  Big bones.  If I’ve heard Mildred discuss this once, I’ve heard her discuss it numerous times with the Geezer Gator.  It’s, “I love big bones.”  Or, “Know where a girl might find a big bone.”  How about, “I’ll do anything for a big bone.”  The Geezer always answers he doesn’t know where big bones are and that disappoints me.  He gets really big ones at our grocery store.  Personally, I think he shouldn’t be selfish.  But, he is and doesn’t like to discuss it.
     Just the other day, after a lengthy discussion between Mildred and the Geezer about bones, I asked, “Why don’t you give her a bone?  You’ve got plenty.”
     The Geezer looked embarrassed by his bone hoarding.  He blushed and said, “Sandy, that’s something you just don’t do.”
     “Geezer, I’m surprised.  You always tell me you should be nice to the opposite sex.”
     “I’m sure Mrs. Gator wouldn’t approve.”
     I thought about that and Mrs. Gator’s obvious concern about Mildred’s possible gay feelings towards her.  There was a logical solution, “Don’t tell her,” I suggested.
     “Nope, Sandy, I don’t want to take the chance of having Mrs. Gator remove mine.”
     I gave up.  I started to tell the Geezer I never see him use it anyway, but…  human’s, they’re strange, strange creatures.

 www.dlhavlin-author.com

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September 27 – Old dogs teach new tricks!

September 27, 2009 at 7:26 pm | In Books, Humor, Media, News, Reading, TV, Writing, dogs, publishing | 4 Comments
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     Getting a different point of view is always interesting and sometimes just plain enlightening.  I have a house guest.  His name is “Okie” and he’s a Scottie.  Okie’s a mature gentleman, reserved and gentle in his style and actions.  His wiry black coat looks like it would serve as a great scrub brush.  His head seems two sizes too large for his body and his legs three sizes too short.  But in that wiry haired head resides a sharp brain, with different outlooks on life and how to approach it.  And, he’s taught me a few lessons.  I’ll explain.
     The Geezer served breakfast to us a couple mornings ago.  I sprung into action, ready to devour the feast in as few gulps as possible.  As I started, Okie said, “Lassie, whoa!  Slow down!  You’re going to give your humans the opinion that you’re satisfied with what you’re being served.  Pick around a wee bit.  Look sad and disgusted simultaneously.”
     “Why should I do that?  I like what they feed me.”  
     Okie grinned.  “Observe,” he said.  I watched him walk around his bowl a time or two, sniff it disgustedly and wander off a few steps.  He looked up at the Geezer, his face saying “Is this the best you can do, laddie?”
     “What’s wrong pup?  Don’t like what you’ve got in your bowl?”  The Geezer bent over and examined the dry hard pellets.  “Want a little water on it?”
     Okie whispered to me, “Sandy, watch this, me fair lassie.”  He bounced around in a tight circle, made some joyful ‘woofs,’ and looked expectant.
     The Geezer disappeared, but quickly returned carrying a glass of water. “Here you go.”  He poured the water over the food.
     Through his shaggy eyebrows, the Scottie winked at me.  He approached the bowl, made a cautious nibble, and backed away as if he’d been slapped.  He sat on his haunches and lifted his lashes so the Geezer could see his mournful eyes that radiated disappointment.
     “Hmmmm, that’s what I was told you like.  What’s wrong, boy?”  The Geezer is eager to please. 
     I watched, fascinated, as Okie led the Geezer to the stove, did his circle dance, repeated his woofs and waited for results.
     “Oh, I get it.”  The Geezer returned to the dish, bent over, and hoisted it out of sight.  I heard the microwave door shut, its buzzing while it nuked the food, and watched the old man place the heated offering in front of my friend.  Okie immediately did an instant replay of his rejection scene that would have satisfied the director of a TV football show.  Okie paraded back to the stove and looked at the refrigerator.  He continued his back and forth viewing until the Geezer ‘got it.’
     “Okay, okay.”  The Geezer opened the fridge, poked around for a few seconds, before he removed a package.  The smell floating down told me they were luscious hot dogs.  “I guess you want these heated, too.”  The microwave purred again and soon three neatly diced hotdogs were sprinkled on top of Okie’s and my breakfast.
     As soon as the Geezer disappeared Okie said, “Sandy, me lass, enjoy your breakfast with me complements.”  I began my morning gulping  with profound admiration for my house guest.
     When I finished I said, “Wow, Okie that was fantastic.  I’m really taking notes from you.  You can teach me a lot.”
     “T’was nothing.”  The Scottie beamed as he rolled the last of his hot dog on his tongue before disposing of it with a satisfied slurp.  “Your human is a tad slow-witted.  Normally, I get to the goodies in one less step.”
     “Amazing!”
     “Oh, not at all.  Today hot dogs, tomorrow Porterhouse!”
     “Okie, is the source of your intelligence inherited?”
     “Aye, Sandy lass, ’tis in the blood lines…and from reading lots of George Bernard Shaw.” 

www.dlhavlin-author.com

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August 31 – No good deed goes unpunished

August 31, 2009 at 8:10 pm | In Books, Humor, Reading, Writing, dogs, publishing | 7 Comments
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     We had an early morning shower today.  It delayed our usual walk and my morning relief trip.  The Geezer did give me the chance to take a wet restroom break.  He donned the raincoat, hoisted an umbrella, and invited me to get soaked.  Since he hasn’t seen fit to buy me either device, I declined on principle, though it did cause me some discomfort.  Besides, lightning danced around the overcast.  While I’ve absolutely no objection to getting wet, fried is another matter.
     When the storms moved inland and we finally got outside, I wasn’t in a good mood.  I admit it.  Even though I know I shouldn’t, I get surly, argumentative, and just plain obstinate when I get an attitude.  It showed.  First, I generally wait to deposit my used food in one of the large fields we pass on our daily stroll.  Not today.  As we passed our most intolerant neighbor’s yard, I stopped right next to their driveway, and plopped a full load, forcing the Geezer to use the plastic bag he carries for such indiscretions.  I grinned at the thought of his having to tote my load for the entire walk.
     Normally we function as a team, striding along in concert, discussing and solving the world’s problems.  Today I let him know I was pissed from the second we left our house.  I didn’t initiate any conversation, my answers were “one worders,” and I pulled forward, wandered to the side, and hung back sniffing at imaginary smells, all the time keeping my 74 pounds staining against the leash.  I showed him…kind of.  Like most behavior of that type, the recipient isn’t happy about accepting it.
     At first, the Geezer was his normal cheery talkative self.  He tried his best to start up a conversation.  And, he did his best to be understanding the first couple of times I tried to jerk him off his feet.  But even the Geezer has a limit on his patience.  Pretty soon it became quiet, he shortened the amount of leash he’d give me, and his 270 pounds were pulling back…forcefully.
     When we reached the outer limit of the daily route we travel and he didn’t stop and offer me a snack, I knew I’d carried my protest to far.  I figured I’d best offer some olive branches.  The first was to fall into stride next to him.  He soon relaxed the slack on the leash.  After we’d walked that way for a while, he halted and gave me some bacon.  I do have him well trained.  My strategy was working.
    I knew if I got him engaged in a stimulating conversation I’d be back in his good graces.  But, I also knew it couldn’t seem contrived.  The old boy’s sense of smell is still sharp when it comes to detecting red herrings.  I waited until we approached one of our neighbors cutting his grass.  
     Delbert is a guy who looks like his name sounds.  (He doesn’t like being called Del.)  The Geezer is a big, heavy man, but his body has some form.  Visualize Delbert.  Think of a lumpy pile of vanilla pudding wrapped in a stretched tee shirt and Bermuda shorts.  Now see him perched on a big John Deere riding lawnmower.  His yard is one of the smallest in the ‘hood, is covered with more concrete, rocks, and outdoor carpet than any other, and the grass planted there suffers from every malady known to botanists.  The total green space could be covered by an area rug purchased as a “Blue Light Special” from K-mart.  The mower probably covers a tenth of the lawn’s area just sitting on it.  However, an idea was beginning to form in my canine cranium.
     I listened to the conversation in which Delbert and the Geezer were engaged.  “Your yard looks like it could use some fertilizer,” The Geezer said.
     “Yes. you’re right.  My electric fertilizer spreader is broken.  It’s too much work to do by hand.”  Delbert, reached around to the cooler strapped behind the John Deere’s seat.  He pulled out two beers.  The Pillsbury Dough-boy double popped the cap on one bottle and offered it to the Geezer.  “Have a Heinie.”
     “No thanks, I’m on a diet,” the Geezer lied.
     “More for me.”  Delbert slurped down 2/3’s of the first brew while putting its brother between his legs for safe keeping.  It disappeared in the folds of vanilla, submerged to a point where sonar would be required to re-establish contact.  Old Delbert moved in the mower seat and I thought I might have detected seismic activity.
     “Looks like you’ve got some new toys.”  The Geezer pointed to three large empty cardboard cartons discarded in the driveway.
     “Oh yeah!” Delbert said enthusiastically.  “Sure and shit have.  I got one of them dumb waiter elevator things to carry the groceries up the steps.  It comes with a TV camera that feeds into my security system.  There’s also a new super-duty trash compactor.  Gets rid of organics somehow, I didn’t understand what the salesman said about that, and it mashes everything left into such a solid block I’ll only have to take the trash down a quarter as much as I did.”
     ”What’s that box from?” The Geezer asked, pointing to a carton with the word MaxiMus printed on it.
     “Oh, almost forgot.  That’s my new exercise set.  It has timers, vitals monitoring, a TV set, extra soft cushions, and a motorized weight changer.  It’s a cool piece of equipment.  It even has a beverage dispenser built in.”  Delbert beamed.  “Come over some time and we can work out.” 
     I could tell from the Geezer’s expression this was one invitation he’d pass on.  We said our goodbyes.  As we continued our walk, I could read his mind.  I said, “I agree, Geezer.”
     “About what, Sandy?”
     “Why buy an exercise machine when you could get a workout just doing some of the tasks Delbert buys tools to do?” I said.  
     “Yep, good question, and think of the electric energy he wastes.  Old Delbert is one of those folks whose always screaming about the environment, but won’t do squat to help when it comes to his life.  He should have been a politician.”  The Geezer grunted and shook his head.  “He could carry his groceries up the stairs and get about as much sweat generated as he will on his new gym set.”
    “Three wasted purchases,” I opined, hoping to keep the conversation going.
    The old man removed his hat and scratched his head.  “I don’t know Sandy.  The trash compactor could be good.  Getting rid of food scraps and reducing the size of what goes into landfills wouldn’t be bad.  Though…I’m not sure making it into a solid block that might never go away is a positive.  But, hell, I”m no expert on that kind of thing.”
     That gave me a brilliant idea; one sure to make the Geezer forget my ugly behavior that morning and to insure his gratitude.  I thought of a way to act on his words.  I waited most of the day for the opportunity I knew would present itself.  Finally it came.  A bag of loosely packed garbage was left on the kitchen floor awaiting its trip to the can downstairs.  It was full of tasty leftovers, food wrappers, and other eatables.  As a “green” dog, I tore into the bag, and…my ordained work as a responsible environmentalist.  I ripped the large items to shreds and devoured the waste organics, plus a few things of whose identities I wasn’t too sure.  I’d reduced a 30″ high sack to a floor covering that didn’t rise over a half inch.  Granted, it did extend out over a 6′ square area.
     You know what I got for my hard work?  Scolded.  Can you believe?  You do exactly what humans want and they get mad at you!  A beagle friend of mine, trained to hunt mind you, expressed this piece of wisdom right after he tracked down some chickens on his human’s neighbor’s farm, “No good deed goes unpunished.”  Humans.  There’s just no understanding them.

www.dlhavlin-author.com

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August 13 – What’s new in the ‘hood – Gossip!!

August 13, 2009 at 1:58 pm | In Books, Humor, Media, Reading, TV, Writing, dogs, publishing | 4 Comments
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     “What do you think of the new water meter reader?” Fifi asked.  She’s the neighborhood flirt and a French poodle with an ego the size of Texas.  A group of my friends had gathered at the dog park, or rather the vacant lot that serves the same purpose in our mini community.  While our humans gabbed, we played tag, had a couple of good natured wrestling matches, and did some bird chasing, until the August heat got overwhelming. 
     Our group decided to emulate the humans who stood in the shade of a couple coconut palms discussing whatever that inferior species believes is interesting.  Our canine crew selected the cool shadow of a Gumbo Limbo tree far enough from the people that they wouldn’t disturb us.
     “He seems nice,” I said.
     “Sandy, you think everybody’s nice.  You’d give an axe murder a kind word and a smile.”  Sarge, the German Shepard, thinks I’m a softie.  I admit I am around him.  You know what crushes can do to a girl.
     “Oh, I know all about him.”  Barbie the cocker spaniel just had to get her two cents in.  “He’s originally from Peoria.  I believe that’s somewhere in France.  The Riviera near Marseilles.  He has a wife and four children.  Three girls and a boy.  His wife is overweight.  And,” Barbie lowered her voice, “His last name is Raspin.  That’s shortened from Rasputin.  I can’t reveal my source, but I hear he’s a descendant of the mad Russian monk and one of the Romanov women’s illegitimate children.”  I used to wonder where Barbie got her info, until she told me her human writes a political blog.  Then I knew she just makes up her “facts” as she goes along.  Like human, like canine.
     “Wow, wow, wow!  That’s cool.  Really cool.  Royalty.  Wow.  I mean, major cool.  Wow, wow, wow,” Manny said.  That chihuahua would buy a sled for a visit to the Sahara if Barbie was selling them.  Manny likes Barbie’s short legs.  He has this obvious problem.  The horny little bastard.
     “I’d like to bite him,” Heinz said.  That’s his standard answer about any strange human that wanders into the ‘hood.
     “Your attitude gives us all a bad reputation.”  Baseer is a diplomat. If you’re an Afghan I guess it comes naturally.  ”You must learn to modify your approach.  Be less aggressive and hostile in your relations.”
     Heinz thought for a second.  “Yeah.  I’ll not say a word, not even a growl.  Then I’ll sneak up behind him and bite him.”
     “Heinz, you’re a train wreck!”  I couldn’t help getting angry.  “Don’t you care about how your actions reflect on us?  Can’t you see how much we dislike your attitude?  How do you feel about that?”
     “I still want to bite him.”  Heinz was unrepentant.
     “I don’t know why you even bother to try reasoning with him, Sandy.”  Fifi lifted her nose in the air.  “Some people just lack breeding and can’t do anything about it.”
     “Listen here you elitist bitch.  You aren’t gonna do my thinking for me.”  Heinz’s teeth were showing and there wasn’t a grin to go with them.  “If I want to bite the damn water meter reader, I’m gonna.”  When Heinz begins using bad grammar its a sign his human’s been giving him beer.  There’s nothing more unpleasant than an inebriated canine.
     “Well, I never!”  Fifi’s curls were kinking.  “But, what can you expect from one of you…you…you…HYBRIDS!!!”
     “Okay, that’s it!”  Heinz moved toward Fifi menacingly.
     “Leave her alone!”  Sarge growled.
     “You gonna make me?”  Heinz had fire in his eye, but it wasn’t as bright as when he spoke to Fifi.
     “Do raccoons have fleas?  Do politicians lie?  Does Dolly Parton have tits?  You bet I am.”  Sarge likes a good fight.
     “Now boys,” I said.  “Let’s stay calm.”
     “Sandy come.  Treat time.”  The Geezer’s call was mixed with whistles and shouts from the other humans.  They’d finally remembered their obligation to serve us our snacks, provide water, and give us the petting and fawning we deserve.  I raced over to the Geezer’s feet, glad that the humans return to responsible awareness defused the unpleasantness that was close to occurring in our little group. 
     I arrived in time to overhear the last vestige of the human’s conversation.  Some garbage about politics.  Liberals.  Conservatives.  Idle gossip.  No wonder the human race doesn’t amount to a thing.

www.dlhavlin-author.com

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August 3 – Goodbye, Mr. B

August 3, 2009 at 3:12 pm | In Books, Humor, Media, Reading, Writing, dogs, publishing | 9 Comments
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     I’m oh, so sad, today.  One of the Geezer’s and my friends has left us.  Mr. B, one of our family, passed away last night.  I know that we dogs are supposed to be at odds with our feline cousins, but as with almost all forms of contrasting life, an accord can be reached, and, as in our case, genuine love and respect can flourish. 
     Watching Mr. B the last few weeks has been difficult.  If there ever was a feisty cat, one with no fear, capable of amazing athletic feats, it was my old buddy.  Seeing him decline has been one of the hardest things I’ve had to do.  He used to chase me at random times for random reasons in an unending game of seniority tag.  By his reckoning, I’m a short time resident in the Gator home.  My 2 1/2 years pales to his 20 plus.  Certainly, I’ll miss him, but the Geezer and Mrs. Gator will much, much more.  Those two love us animals with deep uncompromising affection.
     Mr. B spent every night, up to the last ones, curled up in the Gator’s bed next to Mrs. G’s chest.  He was better than an alarm clock, waking her each morning promptly at 5.  Mr. B would see she was propped up in bed, pillows stacked behind her, waiting for the Geezer’s cup of coffee which the old man serves her in bed each morning.  Every day she gave Mr. B his after breakfast “ride,” a stroll around the house perched on her shoulder, a perk he enjoyed and guarded jealously.  When she arrived home each evening, he’d climb up on her chest and gaze lovingly into her eyes, asking no more than that he be allowed to stay.
     As much as Mrs. Gator will grieve her loss of Mr B, the Geezer’s feelings will equal or exceed hers.  There was a special bond between those two.  B was the Geezer’s writing companion before I came to fill part of that responsibility.  Often we’d share that joy, Mr. B draped over the Geezer’s right shoulder while I’d rest my head on the top of the Geezer’s left thigh.  We’d stay at our posts for hours at a time, waiting for the Geezer’s words of appreciation and the petting that always followed.  Mr. B’s favorite spot was sitting on the old boy’s shoulders.  Close seconds were the Geezer’s lap and on the recliner above the Geezer’s head.
     Mr. B was there for the Gators when Hurricane Charley destroyed their house, when they moved to new jobs, when reverses occurred in their lives, and he helped them celebrate those victories, large and small, for which humans strive.  He was so loyal.  In his last few desperate days, he refused to die without having the opportunity to say “goodbye” to the Geezer who was away at a writers conference.  He clung to that thread with uncompromising tenacity until his friend returned home.  In turn, the Geezer was with him at 1:30 when…
     Mr. B, I can only say to you these words that are the highest compliment that any of we living beings can achieve.  “You are dearly loved.  You’ll be severely missed.”  In memory of my friend, Mr. B – October, 1988 to August, 2009.
    There are tears on the keyboard.

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July 10 – What’s a stupid, naive dog to do…?

July 11, 2009 at 7:30 pm | In Books, Humor, Media, Politics, Reading, TV, Writing, dogs, publishing | 7 Comments
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     One of my dog buddies from our street asked, “How can you put up with that old guy, Sandy?” 
     I looked at Barbie the neighborhood cocker spaniel and head gossip.  I said, “The Geezer?  He’s a nice guy.  Why would you ask something like that?”  My human and Barbie’s were discussing mosquitoes and other irrelevant human subjects while we patiently waited for them to resume our walks. 
     Barbie got as close to me as she could and whispered in Doganese, “I’ve heard he’s a cannibal!”
     I yelped, “What!!  Where did you hear that?”
     The Geezer Gator bent over to see if I was okay.  “You alright girl?” he asked.  He doesn’t understand a word of Doganese, though I’ve diligently instructed him in its intricacies.  Of course, at times that’s an advantage.  This was one of them.  I licked a paw and said, “Just a sand-spur, Geezer.”  He accepted my excuse and resumed his chat with Barbie’s lady.
     I motioned to Barbie and we moved away as far as our leashes would allow.  The Geezer is like practically all humans, their comprehension of languages other than those spoken by their species, is zero.  Still, the old boy is perceptive and he might have figured out what we were talking about.  
     I switched back to Doganese as I asked Barbie, “What are you talking about?” 
     “You know what I’m talking about.  You live in that house.”  Barbie looked at the Geezer with disdain.
     I said, “No, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  Just like most of her breed Barbie was running her mouth, half-cocked.
     ”Oh.  Oh.  I ask you, were his grandchildren here last week?  His ‘grands’ as he calls them?  Huh?   Huh?”  Barbie was practically panting.
      “Yes,” I said. 
      “And, and, are they here now?  Huh?  Huh?”
      “No.”
      “And, when and where was the last place you saw them?  Huh?  Huh?”  Barbie couldn’t contain her excitement, drooling at what she supposed was juicy gossip.
      I thought for a few seconds, replaying the kids visit.  “Last Saturday, in the kitchen, before they left to go home,” I answered.
      “I knew it!  I knew it!  I knew it!”  Barbie yammered.  “You just thought they went home!  He actually ate them!”
      “Bull shit!  How do you get from his ‘grands’ being in the kitchen to the Geezer eating them as the main course?”  I shook my head in disbelief.
       Barbie narrowed her eyes.  “The Geezer confessed to Mrs. Zoomer.  Manny, her chihuahua, told Scoop, the labrador retriever, who told Baseer, the afghan hound, who told Heinz, the… well, I’m not sure what he is, who told me in strictest confidence.  I had to trade something to get that information.”
      “What?” I asked.
      “Sex,” Barbie whispered.
      It was beginning to make sense.  Barbie isn’t the swiftest fish in the canal.  “What did Heinz tell you?”
      “Heinz said, that Baseer said, that…”
      I interrupted, “Skip that, just get to the point.”
      Barbie lowered her voice and glanced nervously at the Geezer Gator as she spoke.  “The Geezer told Mrs. Zoomer that he really enjoyed eating his Grands with sausage and milk gravy!”
      I started laughing so hard I could hardly stand on all four’s.  I said, “Barbie, you moron, Grands are a type of biscuit made by Pillsbury.  Honey, you’ve been had!  Or, let me rephrase–you’ve been screwed!”  For she had.  About that time, the Geezer and Barbie’s human, who the Geezer calls “The Fantastic Fanny,” broke up their conversation and we went our separate ways.
      After we were out of hearing range, the Geezer asked, “What was that all about?  You two were giving somebody a hard time.  Who was the victim?”
     “You.  Let me explain.”  I retold the story and we both got a good chuckle.  I said to the Geezer, “Poor Barbie.  Her ethics are non-existent.  She’s either stupid or naive.  It’s a good thing she owns a nice human.  If she had to earn a living I don’t think there’s anything she could do.”
      The Geezer rubbed his chin a few times then said, “Maybe there’s a couple positions she could hold.”
      “What?” I asked.  I couldn’t think of a thing.
      “A member of the US House of Representatives or a US Senator.”
      “I guess she might qualify for that.”  I thought of the leadership in Washington.  “Yes, she does.  Anything else?”
      “If she couldn’t handle one of those jobs, I can only think of one more– based on the last three who held the job, how about President?”
      I laughed and nodded my agreement.
      The Geezer sighed and added,  “There’s only one problem, Sandy.”
      “What’s that?” I asked.
      “After observing Clinton, Bush, and Obama, she’s probably over qualified.

www.dlhavlin-author.com

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June 22 – M Bare Ass

June 22, 2009 at 6:40 pm | In Books, Humor, Media, Reading, TV, Writing, dogs, publishing | 9 Comments
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     The Geezer sat on the seawall and I laid down on the dock in front of him.  When I glanced up, I wished I hadn’t.  To put it delicately, the combination of my position, the spread eagle “V” formed by the Geezer’s legs, and his loose fitting shorts and underwear, exposed his “family jewels.”  The male human body lacks aesthetics in that region.  This problem increases with age, and as I’ve told you, the Geezer “ain’t no spring chicken.”  I laid my head on the planks, covered my eyes with my paws, and said, “Hey Geezer, give a girl a break.  Your private parts are showing.”
     I heard rustling as the Geezer said, “Sorry, girl.  Is that better?”
     I lifted a paw and confirmed the old boy had covered the view; one that would nauseate vomit.  “Thank you,” I muttered in relief.
     “No…, thank you, Sandy.  It sure would embarrass me if someone else had been looking my way.”
     The Geezer’s statement aroused my curiosity.  I asked, “Geezer, tell me about the word embarrass.  Do you know what its derivative is?  I was just wondering if it had anything to do with having that part of the body exposed or something close to it.  Like in “Mmmmm, bare ass.”
    “I guess I should know that, being a writer and all, but to be honest, I don’t.  Yours is a logical deduction, Sandy.  A lot of situations that cause humans embarrassment are a result of being caught with their skirts up or pants down.”
     “I thought so.  Remember when Mrs. Zoomer’s bent over to pickup her hat and split her pants wide open?  She kept saying, “I’m so embarrassed.”  Her face turned the same color as a tomato and I’ve never seen a woman of that size move so swift and agile.  Normally, she has the grace of an NFL offensive lineman in ballet class.  She had underpants on even though they were sunk deep into the Grand Canyon.  If she’d been sans panties I bet she’d have broken the world 100 meter record.”  The recalled picture of the event caused this dog to laugh.  The woman damn near spit out her false teeth she reacted so violently.
     “That’s not very kind, Sandy,” the Geezer said in his most admonishing tone.
     “Ohhh, Geezer I’ve heard you talk about Mrs. Zoomer’s Grand Canyon many times, and you have to admit she’s not going to win a dance contest that has any song playing other than the Baby Elephant Walk.”
     The Geezer stood up, faced the Zoomers house, came to attention, and saluted smartly.  “Sandy,” he said, “The Grand Canyon I refer to is the one located between Mt. Everest and Mt. McKinley on her chest.  As far as her dancing ability, I can’t comment one way or the other.  Mr. Zoomer’s doesn’t dance so I’ve never seen her shake that booty.”
     “If she does, you can bet a seismograph is breaking somewhere.”  The picture Geezer’s last statement brought to mind was Mrs. Zoomer’s waltzing with her husband.  Poor man.  His whole body could fit in the space between her mammeries with room for a dump truck thrown in.  Mr. Zoomer’s bod was best described by Mrs. Gator when she remarked that, “At least they don’t have to worry about being locked out, Ben (Mr. Zoomer) can slide right under the door.” 
     We were getting away from my question.  I decided to drag my buddy back to the topic even if he were kicking and screaming.  
     “Now, about my theory that the word embarrass comes from people being caught bare assed.  Can you…”
     The Geezer Gator interrupted me before I could finish my sentence.  The thing that makes me maddest is he generally knows what I’m going to say.  “There are many things that can embarrass humans other than being caught nude.  Take the time Mrs. Gator told her friend Irene that the clothes Irene’s sister wore, and I quote, “Makes her look like she shops at a 2nd hand boutique for destitute clowns.”  When Mrs. G. found out that Irene gave the dress in question to her sister, that was embarrassing.”
     I finally understood why Irene gave Mrs. Gator that chocolate pie.  The one which Irene put a bar of Ex-lax in its making and claimed it was accidental .  The Geezer was babbling on in his antique logic and finally reclaimed my interest. 
     “Then there was the time when I was partying with a bunch of my work-mates sitting in our favorite bar.  In walks this woman.  One of the guy says, “See that gal?”  He pointed to the curvy lady, “I used to screw her blue.”  He went on to give vivid details of the gal’s anatomy, ability and stamina during sex, and ended with a Monica Lewinsky reference.  He hadn’t noticed the thundercloud on one of our friend’s face.  The reason was evident when the upset gentleman introduced the lady as his new bride.  That was super emba–”  I returned the favor by interrupting the Geezer.
     “You’re proving my point; everything you’ve talked about is connected in some way to having a bare ass or covering it up.”
     “Come on, Sandy.”
     “No, really Geezer.”
     The old boy said, “You know that’s not true.”  I hate it when Geezer gets his, I know better than you ’cause I’m older and wiser, look.
     “Okay, Geezer.  I know how to settle this.  Promise that if I ask you a question you’ll answer honestly and you’ll tell me the whole story.”
     The Geezer lifted a brow and looked at me like I had a smelly dead fish draped over my snout.  “Yeah, I promise.”  He was wary and cautious.
     “I want you to tell me the most embarrassing thing that ever happened to you.”
     The codger jerked back, contorted his face, and shook his head.
     I reminded him, “You promised.”
     He took a deep breath and said, “It was back several years ago.  Mrs. Gator and I were leasing a 100 year old ranch house on 1,000 acres.  Of course, the structure was built without modern tools that keep doors and windows square, floors level, and so on.  The house was 1/4 mile off the road, guarded by a locked gate.  I was coaching football at the time and Mrs. Gator borrowed the car to go shopping with some friends while I was at the school.  One of my coaching buddies dropped me at my home after practice.  It was at the farm lane gate I discovered I’d left my house keys in the car with Mrs. Gator.  No problem.  I climbed the gate and hoofed up the sand ruts to the house.  I could wait outside; Mrs. G. would be home soon.   About 2/3 of the way up the road, my lack of keys became more of a problem.  Last night’s triple helping of chili had worked its way through my “bod” and was suggesting its emancipation.  The urgency had become great by the time I twisted the door handle.  It was securely locked.  The old wooden Florida style house was built on pilings, but I could reach the windows in the living room if I stood on a 5 gallon pail.  The cypress was old and rotten so I figured I could force the sash open.  I found a screw-driver and, after a few seconds of prying, dislodged the latch holding the window down.   I got the rickety window pushed up enough to crawl inside.  After stepping up on the pail, I inserted my head and torso through the opening with my waist resting on the window sill.  As I tried to wiggle through, my butt touched the window and it slammed down on my back.  The sash wedged at an angle shackling me in place.  There I was, pinned in the window, unable to move either way.  Struggling to free myself resulted in kicking over the pail and that left me dangling in the opening, my full weight resting on my distended stomach.  The urgency had become a full-fledged emergency.  I writhed around trying to push the window up between stops for necessary tight cheek periods.  Right before my capitulation to nature was eminent, the window popped lose from its jammed position and I slid backwards off of the sill, landing in a heap outside.  I struggled to my feet.  The emergency had become a 5 star, red, terrorist alert.  There was no alternative.  I dropped my drawers to my knees, assumed the position, and commenced fertilizing.  It was then the car horn tooted.  Mrs. Gator and 4 of her friends were leering and laughing at me from the Ford.”
     I said, “See Geezer, I rest my case.”  The old boy turned pink just talking about it.  Humans are strange.  I do that every day.  After all, when you gotta go, you gotta go.  Bare ass.  Yep, that’s where the human word came from.

www.dlhavlin-author.com

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June 11 – I’m glad I don’t wear clothes.

June 11, 2009 at 2:10 am | In Books, Humor, Media, Reading, TV, Writing, dogs, publishing | 10 Comments
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     Clothes are one of those unique items associated with the species homo sapien.  Certainly, I can understand the functional reason for humans to wear garments.  The human body isn’t well adapted to its environment once it leaves the sanctuary of its home.  Their skin burns in the sun, provides no protection from stinging insects, poison ivy, or biting canines, lacks any insulation qualities in cold weather, and wrinkles into a sagging discolored mess as it ages.
     Most of the animal world is blessed with much better physiological attributes to cope with the conditions we live in.  My coat does all those things human skin doesn’t, plus provides me with an eye pleasing appearance.  It’s practical. 
     The importance that people attach to clothing choices goes far past human needs because of their ineffectual ability to evolve.  This facet of human behavior fascinates me.  I had some questions about the subject and decided to consult the Geezer, though he’s not an example of the choice obsession I’ve observed in many folks.  He wears the same colors, styles, and items most of the time.  I inquired with trepidation.  I know asking the Geezer Gator’s opinion on anything is likely to come with an 18 wheeler full of manure. 
     We were seated on the dock when I asked, “Hey, Geezer, what criteria do you use when you pick clothes.”
     “Damn, there are seven of them.”  The old boy continued to gaze into the canal.
     “Seven?  What are they?”
     “Manatees.  Come on Sandy, you know what they are.”
     I looked out across the gentle wavelets at snouts poked out of the water and outlines of bodies lazing in the tannin tinged water.  They varied from a baby 30″ long to a 1200 lb. bull.  “Well, that’s interesting Geezer, but I didn’t ask that.  Again, Geezer, what criteria do you use when you select clothes.”
     “Sorry about not paying attention, Sandy.  I’ll be happy to tell you, but if I knew why you’re interested it would help me give you a better answer.”
     I already regretted asking the question.  “Oh, I was just wondering what people think about when choosing clothes.”
     “Interesting, Sandy.  That’s complicated.  There are almost as many reasons as there are people.”  The 18 wheeler was becoming a 50 car frieght train.  I winced and rolled my eyes.
     “Don’t worry, girl.  I’ll simplify it for you.”  The advantage of being an expressive canine is you don’t have to say everything.  The Geezer reads me very well.  “And, I’ll keep it brief.”  Brief to Geezer Gator means something shorter than War and Peace.
     “I’ll take you at your word.”  Sometimes you get lucky and he’ll listen.  It was a strong hint to keep it short. 
     “Humans pick clothes on two scales.  There’s the comfort versus conformity scale and the notice me versus the I’m invisible people.”
     I noted his answer by scratching my ear. “Let’s get on with it,” I said.  “Which one first?”
     “Okay.  Comfort, style.  The comfort folks believe if it feels good wear it.  These are the people that wear a tee shirt with more holes than Swiss cheese and paint stained Bermudas with a torn crotch to a wedding.  They don’t care what others are wearing or that they look different.  They slip into the same pair of sweats whenever possible because they like the soft material and have to talk themselves out of wearing ‘grays’ to a job interview.  The conformist types are more concerned about not looking different.  They’d wear a tuxedo to a summer luncheon in Hell if everyone else did.  One time we had a party and a guy I know called and asked ‘What the attire was.’ I told him pink leotards.  He was the only one who showed up looking like an over-stuffed hot dog.  That fellow didn’t speak to me for ten months.”
     “Ten months?  That’s a long time to be pissed over something like that, Geezer.”
     The Geezer chuckled.  “It might have to do with smearing some mustard on him.”
     “That’s still a long….”  The Geezer interrupted me.
     “And where I applied it.”
     “Oh. (Pregnant pause)  Maybe we ought to go to the notice me thing,” I said
     “That’s easy.  Ever see a guy wearing a blue suit, purple shirt, pink tie, and white shoes?”
     I said, “No, thankfully.”
     “That’s a notice me type, Sandy.  How about a 5′6″ chick carrying 240 lbs under a string Bikini?”
     I gaged.
     ”Sandy, if you see some guy with his ‘Harvard’ tie on, or a lady wearing a dress with a designer label accidentally protruding, or the gal down the street who has holes cut in all her clothes so you can see the tattoos on her…”
     I cut him off, “I know.  They’re the notice me types.”  I was very sorry I’d asked by now.  “And the final one is?”
     “Oh, yeh.  Aaaa, let me think.”  His face was blank as a new chalk board.
     I could see the codger was suffering from a brain fart, so I helped.  “You were talking about invisible.”
     “Thanks, Sandy.  Those folks want to blend in.  Clothes are their camouflage.”
     “You mean those people who run around in olive drab and gray with leaf patterns printed on their clothes?”
     The Geezer chuckled, “Naw.  That’s camo, but not what I’m talking about.  They pick clothes that won’t stand out in a crowd.  No fancy styles or loud colors.  What they’re wearing  tells everybody who looks at them, “nothing unusual here,” and they go on to the next body.  Lots of grays and blacks and…”
     “That’s you Geezer.”
     “Partly.”  He grinned.  “Now you know why Mrs. Gator calls my chest-of-drawers…”  He prompted me to finish.
     “The uninteresting dull rag box.”  Sometimes, I realize how lucky I am to be a dog.

www.dlhavlin-author.com

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