The Swami Speaks
Do you you live in a "competitive" neighborhood? Has "keeping up with the Jones'" reached a whole new level? In the serene mountains of Virginia there is a battle being fought, a skirmish reminiscent of the Hatfield-McCoy feuds which occurred decades ago in a region just west of my home. No live rounds are being fired, no property lines are challenged. This is a war of a different kind. This is a blitzkrieg of one-upsmanship.
For the past ten years a small three block area has been the site of holiday decorations gone wild. It all started innocently with a few Christmas bulbs, a step-stoop pumpkin for Halloween, and maybe a sparkler or two on July 4th. No one new then how this conflict would grow.
This year the games began in July with an explosive aerial show that would make Baghdad look like a quiet neighborhood. Illegal rockets soared skyward as neighbor battled neighbor for supremacy of the heavens over Windsor Avenue (my smuggled stash from South Carolina shamed them all). Oh yes, I do indulge in this childish conflict. Should I just let the Jones' bomb me into the stone age, while spent mortar rounds land on my roof. Not on your life Buster!
Next was Halloween, the grand-daddy of all holidays in this neck of the woods. Christmas is big around here, but Halloween breads creativity that often ups the stakes and this year was no different.
Word at it that Joe Bear (a tool salesperson who lives directly behind me) has a little something special for all of us this year. Last year Joe constructed an elaborate "Wizard of Oz" set on his front yard, complete with flying monkeys zip-lining from tree to tree. Martha Hughes was always a contender with her cauldron full of five alarm chili, which she stirred and served in full witch gear. Mrs. Deyerle, a widow who lives next door often has life-sized dummies impaled on stakes adorning her from yard, but I think she has finally surrendered to the younger crowd, opting to dispense doorfront treats in a more traditional way.
As darkness descended on the final day of October I began to launch my own plan. This year I would be "Swami Jon" the all-knowing, crystal ball gazing mystic and sultan of sweet treats. My crystal was a flipped over fish bowl and my turban was fashion out of aluminum foil. I thought my head-gear looked great until a young visitor remarked that it looked like I was making Jiffy-Pop on my head. Nevertheless, I was ready.
Before forking over the candy, I would stop each trick-or-treater and proclaim "The bubble-gum is yours Sahib, but first I must read your fortune." I would gaze into the ball and make a prediction related to their costume. To a tiny girl dressed as Snow White I offered the prophetic words "you will meet six... no SEVEN dwarfs in the forest." She stared blankly as if to say "Grow-up mister," grabbed a Hershey's Crunch Bar and left. I did get a laugh from a kid dressed as Darth Vader when I correctly predicted that he would be killed by his son in the third movie.
One future attorney asked for my credentials, postulating that I was not a true seer. I assured him that I was genuine and that the famous dish "Veal Swami Jon" was indeed named after me by a thankful client. Overall, I was pretty much a flop as a swami. When I child dressed as the Grim Reaper darkened by door I abdicated my post and sighed "I knew I would be seeing you sooner or later."
Meanwhile, Joe Bear stole the night, converting the entire front of his house into a pirate ship. Cannon blasts echoed throughout the night and kids dug into sweet goodies contained in a full-sized treasure chest. My Jiffy-Pop crown just didn't cut it.
Thanksgiving is coming up. What do you think about a twenty-foot remote controlled turkey that flies around the hood dropping stuffing in it's wake? All I need is some foil and four D batteries.
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Dead Sales Manager Walkin'
Corporate America is a place without conscience. Peek into any office building in this country and you will find a scummy collection of motherless miscreants bent on maximizing profits and minimizing humanity, and that's just in the day care center!
I was planning a colorful tirade indicting all those senior managers who offer-up their charges as sacrifices to the sales gods, however, I shall shelve my bitterness and, instead, begin seeking a angry gypsy to file a curse on all those who treat people as disposable items.
Corporate America is a place without conscience. Peek into any office building in this country and you will find a scummy collection of motherless miscreants bent on maximizing profits and minimizing humanity, and that's just in the day care center!
I was planning a colorful tirade indicting all those senior managers who offer-up their charges as sacrifices to the sales gods, however, I shall shelve my bitterness and, instead, begin seeking a angry gypsy to file a curse on all those who treat people as disposable items.
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
"Who are you and what are you doing in my house"?
Years ago, the ten o'clock news would begin their broadcast with the phrase "It's ten o'clock, do you know where your children are"? As a father of a fifteen year-old boy I not only can answer that question with a firm "yes", but I can also account for every like-aged child in our neighborhood.
My house is the central meeting point in our neighborhood. Teenagers dash through our doors like a Springsteen concert offering festival seating. Amazingly, my wife is able to identify 90% of our inbound and outbound traffic (a dizzying blur of hair, jeans and t-shirts), the rest are transient beings who are likely a friend of a friend of a friend of one of our regulars. Me, I couldn't pick most of them out of a line-up, although some look like they might have that experience in their near future.
Along with the constant flux of high school freshmen, we also have a core group who are convinced that they live in our home. A bag of Doritos of a box of cookies don't stand a chance when these guys are around. Their consumption of food and soft drinks rivals that of a small county. Empty wrappers, bags and cups litter our den nightly, looking not unlike the streets of New York after Lindbergh landed. Next year I am writing this posse off as a tax deduction.
The posse always stays overnight although their is no parental authorization on our end. Afternoon turns into evening and evening turns to night and still they linger. When I walk down our stairs in the morning on the way to work our den looks like the aftermath at Gettysburg. Wading through the humanity strewn all over the floor, I often hum the "Battle Hymn of the Republic" quietly to myself, being careful not to awaken the troops. One morning I was greeted by a young girl who was watching MTV in the den as the masses slept. She introduced herself as "Alexis" and assured me that she had escaped an all-girl sleepover down the street, seeking the quiet of another venue. Barely awake, I wished her a good day and toddled off to work not even considering whether she had been there all night or not.
The boys have sort of a set routine when they gather at my home. First they play "Slam Ball", a basketball hybrid game played on a trampoline, which makes me extremely nervous. A temporary basketball goal is set-up next to our battered trampoline and the combatants bounce, leap, push and fight through a one-on-one game. If my insurance agent ever caught wind of this activity he would beat me over the head with my canceled homeowners policy until I was dead.
Next comes the electronic part of the evening. Two of the gang begin playing XBOX 360, one gets on the laptop and is in direct communication (through AIM) with whatever posse member might be grounded or missing (or they are online with the girls down the street), the remaining troops work the cellphones and the frig. Last night the gamers were locked in a war simulation battle with some bloodthirsty Swedish speaking teens (aren't they supposed to be neutral?), who massacred our boys on-line then taunted them in Nordic. It amazes me that boys all over the world can give each other crap without even leaving their homes (or in this case MY home). I guess that is what they call progress.
Finally, a lively Madden Football game is played on the XBOX to determine the sleeping arrangements. The winner gets the couch, runner-up the recliner, and the rest are rug fodder.
By 4am most of the group is sleeping, unless someone has slipped by the guard. Shiloh, our blind, diabetic beagle-mix usually patrols the downstairs and howls at anything that moves, preventing anyone from escaping undetected. However, Shiloh does require some down time which creates a window of opportunity. My son and his buddies once snuck past our defenses and would have completed their mission if it weren't for a young girl's mother who awakened me with a 3am phone call asking why my son was making eggs in her kitchen. My first reaction was "He knows how to make eggs"?, my first action was to round up the escapees and return them to lock down.
Most parents would enjoy the security of knowing where their children are, unfortunately none of them live in my neighborhood.
Years ago, the ten o'clock news would begin their broadcast with the phrase "It's ten o'clock, do you know where your children are"? As a father of a fifteen year-old boy I not only can answer that question with a firm "yes", but I can also account for every like-aged child in our neighborhood.
My house is the central meeting point in our neighborhood. Teenagers dash through our doors like a Springsteen concert offering festival seating. Amazingly, my wife is able to identify 90% of our inbound and outbound traffic (a dizzying blur of hair, jeans and t-shirts), the rest are transient beings who are likely a friend of a friend of a friend of one of our regulars. Me, I couldn't pick most of them out of a line-up, although some look like they might have that experience in their near future.
Along with the constant flux of high school freshmen, we also have a core group who are convinced that they live in our home. A bag of Doritos of a box of cookies don't stand a chance when these guys are around. Their consumption of food and soft drinks rivals that of a small county. Empty wrappers, bags and cups litter our den nightly, looking not unlike the streets of New York after Lindbergh landed. Next year I am writing this posse off as a tax deduction.
The posse always stays overnight although their is no parental authorization on our end. Afternoon turns into evening and evening turns to night and still they linger. When I walk down our stairs in the morning on the way to work our den looks like the aftermath at Gettysburg. Wading through the humanity strewn all over the floor, I often hum the "Battle Hymn of the Republic" quietly to myself, being careful not to awaken the troops. One morning I was greeted by a young girl who was watching MTV in the den as the masses slept. She introduced herself as "Alexis" and assured me that she had escaped an all-girl sleepover down the street, seeking the quiet of another venue. Barely awake, I wished her a good day and toddled off to work not even considering whether she had been there all night or not.
The boys have sort of a set routine when they gather at my home. First they play "Slam Ball", a basketball hybrid game played on a trampoline, which makes me extremely nervous. A temporary basketball goal is set-up next to our battered trampoline and the combatants bounce, leap, push and fight through a one-on-one game. If my insurance agent ever caught wind of this activity he would beat me over the head with my canceled homeowners policy until I was dead.
Next comes the electronic part of the evening. Two of the gang begin playing XBOX 360, one gets on the laptop and is in direct communication (through AIM) with whatever posse member might be grounded or missing (or they are online with the girls down the street), the remaining troops work the cellphones and the frig. Last night the gamers were locked in a war simulation battle with some bloodthirsty Swedish speaking teens (aren't they supposed to be neutral?), who massacred our boys on-line then taunted them in Nordic. It amazes me that boys all over the world can give each other crap without even leaving their homes (or in this case MY home). I guess that is what they call progress.
Finally, a lively Madden Football game is played on the XBOX to determine the sleeping arrangements. The winner gets the couch, runner-up the recliner, and the rest are rug fodder.
By 4am most of the group is sleeping, unless someone has slipped by the guard. Shiloh, our blind, diabetic beagle-mix usually patrols the downstairs and howls at anything that moves, preventing anyone from escaping undetected. However, Shiloh does require some down time which creates a window of opportunity. My son and his buddies once snuck past our defenses and would have completed their mission if it weren't for a young girl's mother who awakened me with a 3am phone call asking why my son was making eggs in her kitchen. My first reaction was "He knows how to make eggs"?, my first action was to round up the escapees and return them to lock down.
Most parents would enjoy the security of knowing where their children are, unfortunately none of them live in my neighborhood.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Around the World in a Daze
My name is Jon and I was born without a sense of direction. I come by this malady honestly, my Dad (bless his soul) couldn't find his butt if he had a bell tied to it either. Technically you could trace my deficiency back many generations when my ancestors were said to have wondered in the desert for forty years looking for the Promised Land.
When most people are faced with a decision to make a right or left turn, the percentages of them guessing correctly is 50-50. Oddly enough Race Horse Jonny's post odds are 99-1 against picking the correct direction every time i break out of the gate.
Last month I hopelessly wandered around two different parking garages desperately trying to escape the premises. As I circled familiar pillars over and over again, I considered heading for the roof and plummeting "Dukes of Hazzard" style towards the pavement. Finally I was able to catch a glimpse of daylight and bolt this driving hell that I had made for myself. Note: A true driving hell would also include my wife and mother-in-law in the vehicle, Satan and an unlimited supply of alcohol, held just out of my grasp. After a few million miles I might even begin to bond with the lord of the underworld who, knowing the other two passengers, would be sharing my misery.
A few weeks ago a took my son to a baseball game in Washington, DC and left plenty of extra time to get lost along the way. Armed with my Mapquest notes I forged on northbound. Incredibly I made it to DC with no wrong turns. Getting to the actual stadium was a whole other thing. We saw monuments, we saw the White House, we passed the Pentagon (several times), but could not find the ballpark. It amazed me how many languages that one would need to know when asking for directions in our nations capitol. I felt like I was taking in a Berlitz weekend crash course. Four innings into the game the field appeared on our left as if by magic. Like my ancestors I had stumbled upon the land of milk and honey but, with over 39 years to spare!
Following the game (while getting lost on the way home) I decided to make an investment in a GPS unit. I heard varying opinions on the reliability of these contraptions, yet at this point I would urinate on a spark plug if i thought it would help me find my way anywhere.
Entering my local Best Buy i scanned the floor for my perfect driving mate. Among the cellphones, ipods and laptops i spied a glimmering reflection is the rear of the showroom. Drawn to this wondrous light i floated across the floor. When my eyes meet her screen, I was a goner. I knew immediately that she was the one, my Garmin Street Pilot 330 (on sale for $249.95). Once freed from her glass covered prison I held her in my arms for the first time. Should I say it, could this be love?
Installation was a painless and even pleasurable experience. Mounted upon my windshield was my savior, my mechanical guide to Nirvana. Before I could say "Where the hell am I" my new partner was spewing directions in a soft, but stern woman's voice. Accessing the menu I changed the voice to that of a lovely electronic British woman who (by the number of her maps) has obviously been around. Just the lady I've been looking for.
My travel friend was a Garmin so I named her "Carmen", Carmen Garmin. Since uniting with Carmen I have not been lost once. With Carmen I am on time to meetings and can find my way anywhere (with the possible exception of my old nemesis indoor parking garages. The satellite reception is too poor for Carmen to help).
To quote the old spiritual "I once was lost, but now I'm found". Thank you Carmen for helping me see the light.
My name is Jon and I was born without a sense of direction. I come by this malady honestly, my Dad (bless his soul) couldn't find his butt if he had a bell tied to it either. Technically you could trace my deficiency back many generations when my ancestors were said to have wondered in the desert for forty years looking for the Promised Land.
When most people are faced with a decision to make a right or left turn, the percentages of them guessing correctly is 50-50. Oddly enough Race Horse Jonny's post odds are 99-1 against picking the correct direction every time i break out of the gate.
Last month I hopelessly wandered around two different parking garages desperately trying to escape the premises. As I circled familiar pillars over and over again, I considered heading for the roof and plummeting "Dukes of Hazzard" style towards the pavement. Finally I was able to catch a glimpse of daylight and bolt this driving hell that I had made for myself. Note: A true driving hell would also include my wife and mother-in-law in the vehicle, Satan and an unlimited supply of alcohol, held just out of my grasp. After a few million miles I might even begin to bond with the lord of the underworld who, knowing the other two passengers, would be sharing my misery.
A few weeks ago a took my son to a baseball game in Washington, DC and left plenty of extra time to get lost along the way. Armed with my Mapquest notes I forged on northbound. Incredibly I made it to DC with no wrong turns. Getting to the actual stadium was a whole other thing. We saw monuments, we saw the White House, we passed the Pentagon (several times), but could not find the ballpark. It amazed me how many languages that one would need to know when asking for directions in our nations capitol. I felt like I was taking in a Berlitz weekend crash course. Four innings into the game the field appeared on our left as if by magic. Like my ancestors I had stumbled upon the land of milk and honey but, with over 39 years to spare!
Following the game (while getting lost on the way home) I decided to make an investment in a GPS unit. I heard varying opinions on the reliability of these contraptions, yet at this point I would urinate on a spark plug if i thought it would help me find my way anywhere.
Entering my local Best Buy i scanned the floor for my perfect driving mate. Among the cellphones, ipods and laptops i spied a glimmering reflection is the rear of the showroom. Drawn to this wondrous light i floated across the floor. When my eyes meet her screen, I was a goner. I knew immediately that she was the one, my Garmin Street Pilot 330 (on sale for $249.95). Once freed from her glass covered prison I held her in my arms for the first time. Should I say it, could this be love?
Installation was a painless and even pleasurable experience. Mounted upon my windshield was my savior, my mechanical guide to Nirvana. Before I could say "Where the hell am I" my new partner was spewing directions in a soft, but stern woman's voice. Accessing the menu I changed the voice to that of a lovely electronic British woman who (by the number of her maps) has obviously been around. Just the lady I've been looking for.
My travel friend was a Garmin so I named her "Carmen", Carmen Garmin. Since uniting with Carmen I have not been lost once. With Carmen I am on time to meetings and can find my way anywhere (with the possible exception of my old nemesis indoor parking garages. The satellite reception is too poor for Carmen to help).
To quote the old spiritual "I once was lost, but now I'm found". Thank you Carmen for helping me see the light.
Monday, January 29, 2007
Et tu Will?
When asked about his age, Hall of Fame baseball pitcher Satchel Paige once quipped "How old would you be if you didn't know how old you were?" I've read that quote a million times and I am still not sure what that old man was saying. Perhaps Satch was saying that you are as old as you feel? If that's the case, my days are numbered.
The aging process has not been particularly kind to me. Various ailments have reduced this once athletic fellow into a lurching, wheezing pile of walking cholesterol. I never really cut a dashing figure (even in my youth) however, I never resembled ten pounds of kielbasa packed into a a five pound casing until I was forty.
Last week I was helping my son study for his History exam and came across an assignment that he had turned in earlier in the week. The homework called for Will to ask his father two historically relevant questions. 1) Who was President of the United States when your father was born? 2) How much did a loaf of bread cost in the year your father was born? I didn't remember my son asking me these questions, but these days I can't remember a lot of things. I saw no answers on his homework sheet and asked him why he didn't do the assignment. Will assured me that he completed the assignment and presented his answers in class. This proactive approach to homework sounded fishy to me. Wasn't this the same kid who brought a frozen 7-11 burrito into Spanish class as his culinary contribution for the Cinco De Mayo fiesta?
Probing deeper, I asked how he was able to research the answers to these questions without conferring with me. His cryptic response was "My teacher is really cool and accepted just about any answer". I pressed on. "What does that mean?" "It means, don't worry about it" he snapped. Now I'm getting mad. "Maybe I''ll just have to call your teacher" I shot back, hoping to crack Will's silence. "Have at it dude" mumbled Will paging through his study guide.
Following a sleepless night, I called the teacher in question. He was a affable fellow who had nothing but good things to say about my son. When I asked him about the homework assignment he began to laugh loudly into the phone. " I thought that you might be calling me" he chuckled. The teacher went on to explain what a great sense of humor Will had and that how my son often lifted his class with a clever line. I agreed that Will was quite a cut-up when he wanted to be. No closer to the truth I continued my interrogation. Cautioning me not to be mad, the teacher finally read me Will's assignment.
1) Who was President when I was born? Answer: Julius Caesar
2) What was the cost of a loaf of bread in the year I was born? Answer: a chicken.
There was an awkward silence for a few seconds. The teacher then added that he thought the answer was very imaginative and even linked to the Roman studies chapter which they were reviewing in class. I shared a good laugh together and I thanked him for his time.
For the record, the correct answers are..
1)Dwight David Eisenhower
2) $.19
If Satch is right about being as old as you feel, then this noble Roman is truly ancient.
When asked about his age, Hall of Fame baseball pitcher Satchel Paige once quipped "How old would you be if you didn't know how old you were?" I've read that quote a million times and I am still not sure what that old man was saying. Perhaps Satch was saying that you are as old as you feel? If that's the case, my days are numbered.
The aging process has not been particularly kind to me. Various ailments have reduced this once athletic fellow into a lurching, wheezing pile of walking cholesterol. I never really cut a dashing figure (even in my youth) however, I never resembled ten pounds of kielbasa packed into a a five pound casing until I was forty.
Last week I was helping my son study for his History exam and came across an assignment that he had turned in earlier in the week. The homework called for Will to ask his father two historically relevant questions. 1) Who was President of the United States when your father was born? 2) How much did a loaf of bread cost in the year your father was born? I didn't remember my son asking me these questions, but these days I can't remember a lot of things. I saw no answers on his homework sheet and asked him why he didn't do the assignment. Will assured me that he completed the assignment and presented his answers in class. This proactive approach to homework sounded fishy to me. Wasn't this the same kid who brought a frozen 7-11 burrito into Spanish class as his culinary contribution for the Cinco De Mayo fiesta?
Probing deeper, I asked how he was able to research the answers to these questions without conferring with me. His cryptic response was "My teacher is really cool and accepted just about any answer". I pressed on. "What does that mean?" "It means, don't worry about it" he snapped. Now I'm getting mad. "Maybe I''ll just have to call your teacher" I shot back, hoping to crack Will's silence. "Have at it dude" mumbled Will paging through his study guide.
Following a sleepless night, I called the teacher in question. He was a affable fellow who had nothing but good things to say about my son. When I asked him about the homework assignment he began to laugh loudly into the phone. " I thought that you might be calling me" he chuckled. The teacher went on to explain what a great sense of humor Will had and that how my son often lifted his class with a clever line. I agreed that Will was quite a cut-up when he wanted to be. No closer to the truth I continued my interrogation. Cautioning me not to be mad, the teacher finally read me Will's assignment.
1) Who was President when I was born? Answer: Julius Caesar
2) What was the cost of a loaf of bread in the year I was born? Answer: a chicken.
There was an awkward silence for a few seconds. The teacher then added that he thought the answer was very imaginative and even linked to the Roman studies chapter which they were reviewing in class. I shared a good laugh together and I thanked him for his time.
For the record, the correct answers are..
1)Dwight David Eisenhower
2) $.19
If Satch is right about being as old as you feel, then this noble Roman is truly ancient.
Monday, January 08, 2007
Hounds Abound
Sir Thomas Moore once said "Whoever loveth me, loveth my hound". My wife loves the dogs, however,within the pecking order of our home I fall somewhere between the lizard and the fish in her eyes. Flip-flopping Sir Thomas, "She loveth my hounds, yet finds me annoyingth" It's easy to see why the hounds reside in the preferred spot of her heart; They are a appealing blend of comedy, chaos and catastrophe.
Belle, a black and tan coated Bassett Hound, is the senior dog of the group. Most of Belle's day is spent sleeping or being adored by our two male dogs. Belle must be the a pretty hot number in the hound world, as both Shiloh and Roscoe constantly vie for her attention. Shiloh enjoys chewing on Belle's ears (foreplay?) as if they were a raw hide bone, and Belle loves it. I feel almost embarrassed to watch. Roscoe is far more overt in his approach, choosing to deep throat French kiss Belle to the point of gagging her. His clumsy romantic attempts are often spurned by Belle, preferring the ear-work of her other admirer.
Although he had been "fixed" years ago, Shiloh's libido has not shown any signs of slowing. Stricken by Diabetes when he was a pup and nearly blind, Shiloh dashes around the yard and house without bumping into a thing. This bat like sonar is remarkable! Picture Ray Charles dashing around a football field like Barry Sanders and never absorbing a single blow. Shiloh could be a seeing eye for a seeing eye dog. This is not to say that Shiloh is void of vision issues. Often is the time when Shiloh's failing vision will place him in a difficult situation. Lately Shiloh has been mistaking Roscoe (our male Bassett) for Belle (our female Basset), much to Roscoe's chagrin. Shiloh will mount the unsuspecting Roscoe, sometimes from the rear, sometimes from the front, and always when we have visitors. This "Brokeback Bassett" moment normally results in a furious dog-on-dog teeth gnashing melee.
In the Southern vernacular Roscoe is "dumb as a bag of hammers". In the South it is permissible to say something derogatory about someone ("Gee, that baby must have gotten wacked by the ugly stick"), as long as you add the sympathetic tag line "Bless his heart". So when I say that Roscoe is dumber than a bag of cat-eyed marbles, I mean it with the utmost affection, bless his heart. Chronicled in an earlier blog, Roscoe is an iron-stomached hound that has eaten everything from a bowl full of potpourri to a a set of mini-blinds. When Roscoe charges through the house, the entire edifice shakes like a 6.8 Frisco quake. Some people think of Bassett Hounds as small dogs, but they are actually big dogs without the benefit of legs. They are, essentially, a furry ottoman with floppy ears.
Finally, there is Mya the puppy Coonhound. This is the most nervous dog I have ever seen. If she hears a loud noise, Mya dashes through the house, tail tucked, leaving a trail of pee in her wake. When my son plays his drums she darts around like a hell bet squirrel crossing the Major Deegan. She is in love with Roscoe, adding another side to the romantic triangle of hounds. Mya is either chasing Roscoe or she is in a coma-like slumber, no in-between. Her dog wrestling tactics are really quite advanced for a 14 week old. Last week she climbed up on the couch and launched herself down upon poor defenseless sleeping Roscoe. She flew through the air like former WWF star Jimmmy "Superfly" Snuka, a Samoan giant known for his top rope plunges. Roscoe never saw it coming, landing on the head of her would be lover. Fortunately, Roscoe's noggin is as thick as Lincoln's bust on Mount Rushmore (bless his heart) and no permanent damage was done.
When I pass, I would like to return to this world as a hound dog. Other than warding off the prison yard advances of a blind diabetic Beagle, I think I would be happy. I'm not very smart, but I think I can handle the job (bless my heart).
Sir Thomas Moore once said "Whoever loveth me, loveth my hound". My wife loves the dogs, however,within the pecking order of our home I fall somewhere between the lizard and the fish in her eyes. Flip-flopping Sir Thomas, "She loveth my hounds, yet finds me annoyingth" It's easy to see why the hounds reside in the preferred spot of her heart; They are a appealing blend of comedy, chaos and catastrophe.
Belle, a black and tan coated Bassett Hound, is the senior dog of the group. Most of Belle's day is spent sleeping or being adored by our two male dogs. Belle must be the a pretty hot number in the hound world, as both Shiloh and Roscoe constantly vie for her attention. Shiloh enjoys chewing on Belle's ears (foreplay?) as if they were a raw hide bone, and Belle loves it. I feel almost embarrassed to watch. Roscoe is far more overt in his approach, choosing to deep throat French kiss Belle to the point of gagging her. His clumsy romantic attempts are often spurned by Belle, preferring the ear-work of her other admirer.
Although he had been "fixed" years ago, Shiloh's libido has not shown any signs of slowing. Stricken by Diabetes when he was a pup and nearly blind, Shiloh dashes around the yard and house without bumping into a thing. This bat like sonar is remarkable! Picture Ray Charles dashing around a football field like Barry Sanders and never absorbing a single blow. Shiloh could be a seeing eye for a seeing eye dog. This is not to say that Shiloh is void of vision issues. Often is the time when Shiloh's failing vision will place him in a difficult situation. Lately Shiloh has been mistaking Roscoe (our male Bassett) for Belle (our female Basset), much to Roscoe's chagrin. Shiloh will mount the unsuspecting Roscoe, sometimes from the rear, sometimes from the front, and always when we have visitors. This "Brokeback Bassett" moment normally results in a furious dog-on-dog teeth gnashing melee.
In the Southern vernacular Roscoe is "dumb as a bag of hammers". In the South it is permissible to say something derogatory about someone ("Gee, that baby must have gotten wacked by the ugly stick"), as long as you add the sympathetic tag line "Bless his heart". So when I say that Roscoe is dumber than a bag of cat-eyed marbles, I mean it with the utmost affection, bless his heart. Chronicled in an earlier blog, Roscoe is an iron-stomached hound that has eaten everything from a bowl full of potpourri to a a set of mini-blinds. When Roscoe charges through the house, the entire edifice shakes like a 6.8 Frisco quake. Some people think of Bassett Hounds as small dogs, but they are actually big dogs without the benefit of legs. They are, essentially, a furry ottoman with floppy ears.
Finally, there is Mya the puppy Coonhound. This is the most nervous dog I have ever seen. If she hears a loud noise, Mya dashes through the house, tail tucked, leaving a trail of pee in her wake. When my son plays his drums she darts around like a hell bet squirrel crossing the Major Deegan. She is in love with Roscoe, adding another side to the romantic triangle of hounds. Mya is either chasing Roscoe or she is in a coma-like slumber, no in-between. Her dog wrestling tactics are really quite advanced for a 14 week old. Last week she climbed up on the couch and launched herself down upon poor defenseless sleeping Roscoe. She flew through the air like former WWF star Jimmmy "Superfly" Snuka, a Samoan giant known for his top rope plunges. Roscoe never saw it coming, landing on the head of her would be lover. Fortunately, Roscoe's noggin is as thick as Lincoln's bust on Mount Rushmore (bless his heart) and no permanent damage was done.
When I pass, I would like to return to this world as a hound dog. Other than warding off the prison yard advances of a blind diabetic Beagle, I think I would be happy. I'm not very smart, but I think I can handle the job (bless my heart).
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