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.
Monday, January 29, 2007
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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