Learning to Love an Unlovable Dog

 

 

Carolyn J. Rose

 

Every time I scrub the kitchen floor—and, for the record, that isn’t nearly as often as I probably should—I have fond recollections of a dysfunctional dog. 

When my father died nearly 20 years ago, he left a huge empty spot in my heart and my life. He also left a 45-pound dog named Ugly, a dachshund/Labrador mix with enough bad habits to drive even a veteran dog whisperer to shouting. Ugly barked at rocks. He carried rocks into the house. He dug holes. He clamped his jaws around things he wanted and refused to let go, even in exchange for a chunk of steak. He ate cantaloupes and cucumbers off the vine. He couldn’t be left alone in a car because he’d chew the seatbelts and the seats. He’d stand on his hind legs and use his front paws to pull plates off the table. If we opened the refrigerator wide he’d try to climb in. If there was one time he came when I called instead of staring me down, I can’t recall it.

 

Despite all that—and also because no one else would take him—Mike and I adopted him. At the urging of my aunt, who thought it might improve his self-esteem and behavior, we changed his name to Dudley. It had no effect.

 

It was too hot to fly him, so we bought my father’s Jeep from the estate, and drove from the Catskills to Vancouver. On the first day we slipped him a doggie downer. It also had no effect.

 

He bounced around the back seat like a metal orb in a pinball machine. He tried to climb into the front. By the time we’d gone 100 miles he’d shredded the dog toys we’d brought to entertain him. He was the reason we ate our meals in the car or motel rooms, took a wrong turn in Chicago, and missed out on a close-up view of Mount Rushmore.

 

We deluded ourselves into believing that once he got used to us and a new home, he’d abandon many of his bad habits. He didn’t. We lived with them. We laughed at them when we could. And we focused on the few good things he did.

 

First, he was protective of Bubba, our 10-pound Yorkie/miniature Schnauzer mix. He once held off a pit bull until its owners could get it under control.

 

Second, he was a sound sleeper. He didn’t interrupt our dreams by barking at the door. He could log a straight eight hours without needing to empty a bladder we estimated to be roughly the size of a small watermelon.

 

Third, when I dropped or spilled something, he was on the job. He licked it up and then licked in a circle around it. When he was finished, he’d grin as if to say “Job done.” I’d see a clean spot perhaps a foot across. Many times, to avoid a session with the mop, I’d toss down a few glops of peanut butter or bits of sandwich meat and he’d get to work.

 

Dudley died of stomach cancer more than 10 years ago. I don’t miss the barking, the rocks dropped where I was most likely to trip over them, or the holes in the garden. I don’t miss his stubborn attitude. But when I see blotches on the kitchen floor, I miss his deep-cleaning abilities.

Simply The Best

 

Proudly Presenting !!! 

            BEST OF

                CLARK COUNTY

                      2021

Perusing a recent Sunday Columbian over my morning coffee and strawberry-smothered waffle, I picked up the section paying tribute to our local faves. This yearly ritual involves purveyors of food, drink, herb, entertainment, health and beauty, home and garden, sports and fitness, metaphysics, spot welding, trapeze artistry, white magic, and various and sundry other occupations and fixations, all urging their friends and fans to vote them into the vaunted position of head exalted poobah of the niche they fit into.

          Maybe I’m sounding a tad cynical. I’ve never fared well at popularity contests. Perhaps I’m permanently embittered by only finishing third in the high-school balloting for “most likely to be down at the pool hall if anyone needs to know where I am” competition. I finished 238^th in a field of 237 in the “cutest Senior boy” voting.

          Still, I decided to try to approach the publication with an open mind. Lets see now: “Best Towing.” Now how can you apply objective criteria to that category? Your car didn’t slide off the truck and into oncoming traffic?

          Best Budtender? Won by Jerrel Mean of High-5 Cannabis. Hmmm. What exactly does a Budtender do? Do they measure the pupils of his customer’s eyes after they sample the product he’s “tended”? Count the number of “Whoa, Dudes” he got on Yelp? ”There were three awards that went to marijuana-related categories. Now, historically, being of the “Dave’s not here!” school of marijuana purchase and usage, this feels extraordinarily bizarre to me. I have never a smoked legal joint in my life. It just doesn’t feel right passing a spliff around without the imminent threat that you might have to flush your entire stash down the toilet. Fear-driven adrenaline always enhanced the buzz.

          Moving on. “Best Happy Hour.” How do you measure that? Stroll through a bar between five and seven in the afternoon and count how many people are grinning? “Best Piercing?” Is that measured by the number of holes punched? Or by the most unusual places their customers have hung metal danglies? Here’s one of my favorites. “Best Disaster Restoration.” Holy crime scene, Batman!!!

          I suppose this is a truly American kind of exercise. Competition is a big part of who we are. And we feel compelled to rank things. First, second, third. Gold, silver, bronze.

          We really need more categories, so everyone could be voted best at something. Here are a couple I’m in the running for: “Best slow but stubborn lap swimmer.”  “Top Baritone Ukulele player with fat fingers.” “Gold medal in combining bizarre leftovers with egg whites for breakfast.”

          I could go on and on, but I won’t. After all, I’m in the running for “Most succinct blog by a retired Disc Jockey.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

                             

Really? I had to have that?

 Carolyn J. Rose

 

The great closet cleanout of 2020 left me with much more space and a smaller wardrobe of clothing I wear on a regular basis. It was easy and fairly painless to toss faded, sagging, or pilled items. It was harder to toss the things I’d moved to the far side of the rack while telling myself they might fit next year or I might find something they’d go with.

 

Bidding those articles farewell led me down memory lane to recollections of the clothing I “had to have” during my teen years and later. If you’re bold enough, or have an adult beverage in hand, return with me now to the closets and drawers of yesteryear.

 

Kilt skirts with large safety pins to hold them closed. Mine was a red plaid and I wore it with knee socks. Not being in possession of a flat stomach this was less of a “look” and more of a “look away.”

 

Wrap around skirts. Mine was a green and gray herringbone pattern with leather-topped pockets. Since I have a water glass figure, the overlap in the back fell short of common decency. Especially when the wind blew. Many small safety pins were required to avoid having to file an environmental impact statement.

 

Oxford-cloth shirts with button-down collars. They were about five bucks each in the mid 60s. It took my entire weekly allowance to buy one, but I ponied up for several. It was nearly impossible to iron out the wrinkles in the days when clothing dried on the line. In the winter, I ironed only the collar, cuffs, and a narrow strip on either side of the front placket. I covered the rest with a sweater.

 

Mohair sweaters. Warm and fuzzy. Sounds like a good combination. But carry along a roll of tape or a lint remover because those little hairs will stick to sofa cushions, theater seats, and the jacket of the boy you told your friends you’d never go out with unless he was the last male on earth.

 

Hush puppies. These look great for a few weeks, but they soon reach the point where no amount of brushing will bring the nap back to life.

 

Saddle shoes. Right out of the box these were a study in contrast. But the white sections were magnets for dirt, grass stains, marks left by the metal legs of chairs in high school classrooms, and other substances. White shoe polish dulled the shine and rubbed off. In a few weeks, the thrill was gone.

 

And don’t get me started on those little neck scarves with the ring to hold them in place, or the triangular head scarves my grandmother fashioned from fabric left over from the dresses she made for me through my junior year in college. And don’t let me go on about dickies, but do tell me about what you “had to have” back in the day, or even last week.