Walking the Dog

"Poopsie!' I said.

'What?'

Considering the verve and umph I'd put into my opening remark, I found her response, weighed in the balance, to be lacking in luster. I mused on this mystery, and it could only be deemed a mystery when this Wonder Woman fails to rally round. After due consideration, I decided to give it a miss. It was her snit and she was entitled to it but I didn't let this detain me.

'Do you realize,' I said, 'and I'm sure even as I ask that you do know all about it in those Slavic bones, that towels have two different sides?' 

'It would be impossible to have a towel with only one side,' she said.

'Exactly!' I cried, 'And each side has its own purpose.'

'Each side has its own purpose?'

'Just so,' I said, 'you're doing great. Two out of three. Now if you can answer the next question correctly, you will win the prize.'

'The prize?'

'Your brain is a finely tuned instrument,' I said, 'We've never been so synchronized, you and I. Now, tell me what are the two sides used for?'

'Used for?'

'Yes, what are their specific purposes?'

'Are you alright?' she said. And at this precise point it became apparent to me that, although we had seemed to be in complete agreement throughout, we had somehow jumped the rails at the crucial point. It was the same with King Harold when Windy Bill breezed in at Hastings.

'Poopsie, have you been paying attention? I mean really close attention? Remember, when we are not mindful, we fall into the default mode where there is weeping and gnashing of teeth, and that never works out well.'

'You're driveling,' she said.

'And you're yanking the dog's chain!' I said and I meant it to sting because the memory of that guy and his dog was still green.

'What are you talking about?' she demanded. Yes, I think "demanded" is the very word, the mot juste. She demanded that I enlighten her and I did. I let her have it.

'I'm sure I told you about the man training his puppy to heel and each time the puppy pranced ahead of him, doing a little doggy dance, the man would jerk the chain and pull the front half of the puppy's body off the ground. He had an angry scowl on his face when he did it too--the man, I mean, not the dog.'

'What does this have to do with anything?' she asked.

'Everything,' I said, 'Don't you see? The dog lives only to please the master. This is the defining characteristic of dogs, I believe. Shakespeare noted it in one of his plays. And yet the man was not simply training the dog. The man lacked patience. The man was telling the dog that he was bad just because he had not yet learned to heel. And the intensity of the move indicated a very bad dog--a stupid dog. Not the right tone if you ask me.'

'And,' said the Wonder.

'Well, you know how Princess Amy is.'

'You're limbic system,' she said.

'That's right. She hotted up when she saw this abuse and descended on me like one of those goddesses in the Iliad that descend from clouds and spur their favorite on to action. Amy spurred me. She rode me like a Voodoo loa.'

'You didn't?' said she.

'Of course, I did. Am I a man to stand around and watch animals abused? The emotions surged upon me like the seventh wave. A voice inside me shouted kawabunga! . Of course I did something. Not much. I simply asked the guy how he would like it if someone treated him that way. It was only later that I realized that someone had treated him that way. That's the only explanation for mistreating animals.'

'I'm disappointed in you,' she said.

'Me!' I said. 'What about that man?'

'He was minding his own business.' she said.

'So was I,' I said.

'No, you were minding his business,' she said.

'Exactly,' I said, 'I am my brother's keeper.'

'You're not even your keeper,' she said.

'You don't see the irony in Princess Amy controlling me like a goddess and then me controlling a total stranger? I'm a very powerful person, although not as powerful as you, Ms. Wonder. Still.'

'You're a Looney Tune,' she said but in a kind and caring way, I'm sure. I thought this would be a good time to get back to the subject. Side issues can be very distracting, or don't you think so?

'One side is for drying, it's the more open and fluffy side,' I explained. 'You use that side first and then the smoother side is used for buffing and invigorating.'

'You're crazy,' she said. 'Towels don't have two sides.'

'Manic-depressive,' I said, 'and you've already admitted that it wouldn't be a towel without two sides.'

She gave me a look then she said, 'I love you anyway,'

'Thank you, Poopsie.'

'Not at all.'

The First Lesson for Authors

Having re-read the half dozen pages I’d written in the middle of the morning when the large family next door was still having the time of their lives, I lovingly saved the pages to the cloud, like a mother goose tucking her goslings into the nest. I had that feeling that often comes upon authors when they know the blog entry they're working on is just the stuff to give the troops.

Happiness, a wise man or woman once said, comes from making others happy. It’s possibly one of Shakespeare's gags. He made a career of writing stuff like that. But no matter who came up with the little thing, it was someone with a finger on the nub, because I was happy and all because I knew that little story I'd just written would bring joy to many.

One of the first lessons we writers learn is that you can’t please everybody but this particular story was sure to please even the dourest reader. It’s the story I call Cabbage Head and it’s the details of an encounter between my dear old friend, let us call him Gandolf, we did call him that, and a guy in Ireland’s Bar out in the West End district of Nashville when we were in school there. 

I won’t go into details now. You will have to wait until the book is published for that, but the gist of it is that Gandolf thought he’d met the girl of his dreams only she’d arrived with someone else that night. After the exchange of a bit of name-calling, "Cabbage Head" being the one I remember most fondly, and a jostle or two--I still think management made too much out of a few broken dishes--and yet the bouncers competed for the privilege of throwing us out.

With only that sketch of the thing, I'm sure you understand why I was so happy with the morning's output. I rose in the best spirit of morning, I stretched well, and I remember thinking to myself, 'Life is good'. If I fully expected to enjoy a perfect day, why shouldn't I? 

The day’s work was done at an early hour and the trademark-pink sunrise of Cocoa Beach was flooding the village as I made my way to Ossorio’s for a cup of Jah’s Mercy. The lark was on the wing, as Browning said, and the snail on the thorn—doesn’t appeal to me but it takes all kinds—and then there was a bit more muck of that kind, followed by the punchline—all’s right with the world. And so it seemed.

As soon as I entered the café, I spotted Ms Wonder staring fixedly at a plateful of bagels—Ms W. was doing the staring, not me. For several days prior she’d behaved as though she had something on her mind. If I didn’t know her as well as I do, I might have suspected her of stealing someone’s pig, for that was just the kind of look she wore. I'm sure you know just what I mean.

“Poopsie,” I said.

My voice startled her. She jumped a couple of inches and gave me the look most of us reserve for the ghost of Hamlet’s father. It was Hamlet, wasn’t it? I doubt they read those stories in school anymore. Probably scares the children, in the same way, I seemed to have frightened the Wonder.

“Get hold of yourself,” I said. “It’s bad enough that I frighten old ladies and small children on the sidewalks. I don't have room for scaring the whatsit out of my wife. Do you realize that when I stopped in the park to qigong this morning, a small child started crying and the mother rushed into Thai-Thai’s to tell the manager that a man was in the park having seizures?”

“Sorry,” she said, “I was lost in thought.”

“You were lost in the movie playing in your mind, is where,” I said. “Lost in the default network and that never turns out well. It leads to negative thinking and unhealthy behavior. It’s a scientific fact. You can read all about it on my blog.

“You’re probably right,” she said, “and I think I’ve caught a chill too.”

“That’s why you wobble is it?”

“I think so,” she said.

“You’re not practicing the steps of your new line dance?”

“No.”

“Try a stiff whiskey toddy,” I said, “I understand they'll put you right in no time.”

“I don’t drink,” she said, “remember?”

“So I do,” I said on reflection, “and if I remember correctly, neither do I.”

The next few moments were filled with silence. Finally, she said, “Oh, I almost forgot. I picked up your phone by mistake and someone texted you a few minutes ago about your book. It was someone named Kayser.”

“My agent,” I said.

“He was asking how the book’s coming.”

“Yes, but it's not a book. It's my blog and he’s interested in selling the rights to dramatize it to a theatrical consortium in New York.”

“Someone wants to turn your blog into a play?” she said.

“That’s right. You don’t think it a good idea?”

“It doesn’t seem to be the kind of thing that becomes a play,” she said.

“That’s what I keep telling Kayser,” I said. I considered saying more on the subject but realized that there was no profit in it. Besides, now that I was in the company of the wonder worker, I felt in mid-season form and ready for whatever life sent my way. My plan was to wait for the right quantum wave to rise up, then get up on my mental surfboard and ride it all the way to shore. Wherever and whatever shore means in this context.

"Kowabunga?" asked Ms. Wonder.

"Did I say that out loud?" I said, and then without waiting for a reply, I said it again.

"Kowabunga, Poopsie!"

"Kowabunga, Genome!"

Some days are made for letting go of the anchor and sailing into the sun. Too many metaphors? Perhaps you're right. But still, doesn't change the fact that this, was one of those days.

So Close and Yet So Far

Sunshine, calling to all right-thinking persons to come out and play in its mood-lifting light, poured into the windows of our suite in Cocoa Village. I stood at the window, having completed my morning qigong, and stared without seeing into the duckweed bog that bordered the gardens. 

I like the sunshine as a general rule—in fact, my morning constitution includes a brisk 20-minute walk in it. But on this particular morning, it brought no cheer. I must have looked like something standing in the showroom of a Harley Street Taxidermist.

A moralist, watching me standing there, might have remarked, smugly, that it cuts both ways. The peer of the realm, he might consider me to be, enjoying a robust fitness far above that which his irresponsible younger years might warrant, often suffers the outrageous slings and arrows of uncertain fortune. 

This world is, after all, full of uncertainty and bogs filled with duckweed, and at any moment, life may come swooping down out of the blue and smack one behind the ear with a sock of wet sand. It pays to be ready.

I, of course, have none of the training of the normal person who after suffering years of waiting 45 minutes to be seated is prepared to take the big one in stride. No, I am one of the blessed ones who have slept well, learned quickly, and measured up to the demands of a rigorous life. 

In short, the universe has worked things out in my favor. Oh sure, sometimes the moment seems to be lost but it always works out all right in the end.

Is it any surprise then that in the agony of this sudden, treacherous shock I was left feeling and looking stunned, like the blowfly that has met the swatter? You may have seen a comic illustration of the ostrich that has swallowed something he shouldn’t. You may have or you may not but, seen or not, that’s the way I felt. 

And I’ll tell you why I felt like a large flightless bird with a brass doorknob in its throat. I absolutely insist on being happy, joyous, and free that’s why. But is that enough explanation? Perhaps not. Let me marshal my thoughts and have another go.

I’ve recently become acquainted with the work of Nobel laureate, Daniel Kahneman, founder of behavioral economics and widely regarded as the world’s most influential living psychologist. 

When you’re a psychological phenomenon like me, you pay attention to what the world’s most influential living psychologists are thinking. According to Kahneman, we are happy when we can look back over our lives and remember plenty of happy memories.

If happy experiences are to be stored in long-term memory, he argues, those experiences must be as meaningful as they are happy. Otherwise, all that short-term happiness doesn't amount to beans. To be happy, really happy, we must have happy experiences that are truly meaningful. 

Now you will understand I think, why a recent scheduling conflict that prohibits the happiest and most meaningful experience of all, had led to the melancholy that flooded my soul. Melancholy heaped up, pressed down, and overflowing.

As I stood brooding, if that’s the word I want, the door behind me opened and Ms. Wonder entered the suite with coffee. I glanced at her with an apprehensive eye because she is not known for great empathy with those who, as she would express it, whine. 

I feared she might wound me with some flippancy. My concern lessened when I took in her countenance and discerned no frivolity, only a certain gravity that became her well.

“Bad business,” she said handing me a cup of Jah’s Mercy from the Rastafari Café on the corner.

“Hell’s foundations quiver,” I said.

“What are you going to do about it?” she said.

“Do?” I said. “What can I do?” This is my standard answer to a question about what I plan to do but it seemed especially appropriate in this case.

“Well, there’s no need to spend extra money when we can get a discounted rate at an inn farther away from the arts district,” she said.

“Wonder,” I said, “just what are you talking about?”

“Spring training, of course,” she said.

“I’m sorry, but it sounded to me that you said spring training.”

“Spring training is what I said,” she informed me. “It’s March and the baseball games have filled the hotels up and down the coast, right? We can’t stay an extra night in this hotel so we have to find another one and I have a coupon for the Fairfield by the Interstate.”

I stared at her dumbfounded. While I stood brooding and contemplating how much life had suddenly become a pond full of duckweed, this marvelous wonder had found within easy reach a prime opportunity to experience a day full of wonder and amusement leading to many long-term happy memories.

I’m sure Dr. Kahneman would approve when I say that I would sleep in the car if it meant a chance to be happy. Wouldn’t you?

“Wonder,” I said. “I would gladly sleep in the car to ensure a joyful tomorrow.”

She turned, shaking her head, and left the room but I heard her say as she walked out of sight, “I’m calling the Fairfield to see if they have any rooms left.”

Once again I turned to stare into the bog. Memories of a happy childhood played out like movies in my mind. My dearest and most cherished memories lived once more and it created a bitter-sweet mood because of what might have been. 

I felt the impact of Tom Hank’s words, like a sock full of wet sand to the occipital bone when in the role of Walt Disney in the movie, Saving Mr. Banks, he said, “I love that mouse.”

Construction Zone

The dawn of another day crept upon the SoDu. Minute by minute the light grew stronger as it made its way along Coronado Lane until it filtered in the window of my bedroom. It would have awakened me from slumber had I been in bed but I wasn't of course. I'm always up and doing by the time dawn arrives. The early bird I'm sometimes called. Getting around the morning worm and all that.

The sun was dimly conscious of finding my bed empty on previous mornings. I say 'dimly' because it's been some little time since the day began with an appearance from the sun. Spring break for him probably. Doing a little surfing on Top Sail Island I shouldn't wonder. That’s where I’d be given the chance.

I'm told that few things have the tonic effect on a man accustomed to being a little slow to wake as the discovery that he has stolen a prize pig overnight. I would dispute that. I had not stolen such a prize but I was tonic-ed to the gills. I waded through an incoming tide of cats to get to the door of the sal de bains. I opened it and stepped into the tropical environment of Ms. Wonder's bath.

The river pebbles underfoot were slippery and I held to the palm fronds to keep from falling as I made my way to the sound of falling water. Eventually, I found myself on the edge of a deep, clear pool. Eddy the cat was licking a paw and when he saw me gave a yawn and turned his back.

"Don't be smug," I said, "It doesn't suit you." She was seated on a flat boulder in the middle of the bath, not too near the plunging water. I called to her above the roar of the falls.

"Wonder," I said, "Hell's foundations are shaking."

She turned the water off so we could hear each other.

"What?" she said.

"We've got to rally round Tiger," I said, "She needs us."

"Why? What's wrong?" she said.

"I’ll tell you what’s wrong," I said, "She’s headed for a rubber room at the laughing academy, that's what's wrong."

“I will not listen to that kind of talk,” she said. “You of all people should be more considerate. How would you like it if people spoke of you like that? Remember, people who live in glass houses.”

I mused on this for a moment but could not think of a single person silly enough to live in such a house.

This is probably a good time to pause and offer five cents of backstory for the newcomers. This Tiger mentioned above is my very best closer-than-a-sister friend. She has never abandoned me no matter how dark the skies nor threatening the v-shaped depressions. I’m sure you will fully understand my concern over her recent bizarre behavior.

“Just tell me why you’re concerned about Tiger,” she said.

“First,” I said, “let me warn you that what I’m about to say includes depictions of graphic violence.”

She waved a hand indicating that I had the floor and should continue.

“As you well know,” I said, “This Tiger is no stranger to wild, impulsive behavior. I mean she rides a motorcycle for one thing and she is married to the Cowboy, which tells you something right there.”
 

Her eyes met mine and we shared a meaningful look.

 

“But until recently, her behavior has been confined to the normal range of lunacy. In the last few days, however, and follow me very closely here because this is the seminal point, that has all changed.”

 

“Imagine if you will, Tiger lounging on the sofa watching marathon episodes of Murder She Wrote.”

 

“Yes,” agreed the Wonder, “or Big Bang.”

 

“As you say, Murder She Wrote or The Big Bang Theory. Doesn’t matter which. Then during the commercial break, she rises from the couch to wander aimlessly into the kitchen and then suddenly she whirls around and, with a kung-fu shout, rips the door off a wall cabinet and throws it out the window.”

 

I thought this statement might get a reaction out of her and I was not wrong. She stared at me for several seconds as though waking from a dream. Then slowly her eyes grew larger and rounder. Her lips parted as though she would speak but nothing came out.

 

“I haven't been there to witness this behavior but she speaks openly of it, as though it were just everyday behavior. Imagine how difficult it must be for the Cowboy to come home from work each day and deal with the aftermath.”

 

The Wonder remained silent.

 

“In a recent episode, she ripped a cupboard off the wall. I know! When I spoke to her about it, she mumbled something and I can't be absolutely sure of this but I believe she has plans to tear out the sink.”

 

“The sink?” she said.

 

“In the beginning, she must have known something wasn't quite right about her behavior because she didn't speak of it in public. Now she posts pictures on Facebook! I am very worried.”

 

“But how did all this begin?" she asked. "I mean there’s usually some gateway behavior isn’t there? Childhood tea parties leading to binge drinking at the corner tavern—that sort of thing?”

 

“Well," I said, "we can never be sure about causal relationships, can we? Still, I think this must surely have something to do with the Cowboy falling through the kitchen ceiling.”

 

“I’m sorry?” she said.

 

“Oh he’s unhurt,” I said. “Nothing to worry about. Just a few scratches.”

 

“I mean,” she said, and I thought she seemed to be hotting up, “what or why did he fall through the ceiling?”

 

“Well, you’ve got me there, not really sure but you know the Cowboy—he works in mysterious ways his wonders to perform. The point is, he crashed through the kitchen ceiling and something must have clicked inside her. I think she's out of control.”

 

“I know she would stoutly deny it if asked. Probably say that she can stop anytime she likes. You know how that story goes. But I'm not buying it. I'm convinced that she's in the grip of a disorder. If it feels good to knock off a cabinet door, then it will bring joy unconfined to smash the countertops with a sledgehammer. If pulling a cupboard down lightens the heart, then pushing the fridge off the back porch will bring ecstasy. Where does it all stop?”

 

“I think an intervention is called for,” she said and I thought the drama was a bit thick but her heart was in the right place.

 

“My thoughts too,” I said.

 

And so the Wonder and I put together a plan to call all our friends, confront Tiger before she leaves for work this morning, and get her into rehab at Habitat For Humanity Restore. Life comes hard and fast, as I’m sure I don’t need to tell you, but we can get through the hard times if we only stick together.

 

You’ve been here for us, Tiger, and we will be there for you. Count on it.

 

Trans-dimensional Tomfoolery

I lay half asleep in cat’s pajamas carried away by the stories running amok in the default network until I was fully awakened by a mechanical bellow that began somewhere in the depths of Chadsford Hall and rose up rumbling to the surface like whale song. The furnace had kicked in. Now would be a good time to get out of bed I thought. Then I did.

The night had been sleepless except for that one period between late evening and early morning when I had a strange dream of the mombot. Still, I was in a merry mood because I’d made a plan for the day. In fact, I’d made a plan for the week and yesterday had gone swimmingly—according to plan and there was no reason to think that today would be different. 

Keep this up, I thought, and that book would get done after all. My agent will be so happy to hear it. The publisher—well, there’s no pleasing the publisher now. Water under the bridge if that’s the phrase I want.

“I’m in a merry mood, Ms. Wonder,” I said but it was no good. She wasn’t around. I quickly upholstered the outer man as described in Sun Tzu’s, Art of War, and made my way to the garage where Wynd Horse waited.

The daily commute is a joyful thing. A time to meditate and get one’s head around the demands of the day. I mentally reviewed the plans of engagement and considered how I would gain a tactical advantage that would result in the best possible good for me and others. Or a reasonable facsimile.

After getting cash on the debit card from Banco de Los Muertos, I entered the Fayetteville conduit to get to Native Grounds ahead of the rush. Once I’d been caffeinated and sconed, I took out the hand-held device and accessed the Net, not that Net, the other one. The one that was old when Merlin was working out the details of advanced geomancy.

Everything seemed to be in order. Good timing. The courtiers were streaming through the door. I received them in turn, which is my real work these days, ensuring that their day will unfold in a meaningful and pleasing way, if not in the way they desire. It’s a job performed by countless others in coffee and tea shops around the globe. Magic of course.

I am not a practitioner. I just work here. I lived a life devoted to rational thought and dedicated to reason and the certainty of cause and effect until that one day when everything changed. 

From the time I was a sophomore in high school and my 10-year-old sister died, I gave no quarter to magic. This was due to my asking God in fervent prayer to allow me to die with her and you know how well that worked out for me. 

Day after day pretending to be one of the pod people and night after night crying in my room. I call it walking the anti-Damascus Road. It was my first brush with true Reality.

Then in my forty-first year, magic came into my life and it was irrefutable. And I was furious. Where was it when I needed it? Well, as I say, I’m not a practitioner. Tried it—zilch. I didn’t want this job, of course. Tried to avoid it. Belly of the whale and scales on the eyes, and all that.

Worse part of the job is all the witches. No, not the witches. It's the metempsychotic inversion that always builds when they come around. I get lost in it. Fortunately, I have access to a copy of the Manual of Transdimensional Displacement. That’s what I was reading on the Net when the phone call came.

It was the mombot. Bladder infection. That’s the code phrase for dropping whatever you’re doing and getting over here right now. It can only mean one thing—trans-dimensional tomfoolery! And that never ends well. Best laid plans ganged agley again.