Don't hit the dog!

I didn't! I didn't hit the dog! 

Okay, I swatted his behind, but does that count? 

Like most dogs, my fuzzy friend Izzy loves to be outside. He'd be outside all day if he could -- if he didn't get too cold, hot, or wet, which conditions generally lead to his desire to call it quits and seek shelter eventually. 

Yesterday was almost just right. Warm but not too hot or humid, sunny, generally T-shirt weather for us human types. As I was settling in to get to work, he made the noise indicating that he wanted to go out. The I-gotta-wee noise is indistinguishable from his I-wanna-loaf-on-the-grass noise, but generally as a work from home freelancer I can accommodate him, just in case. But this turned out to be a loaf situation, not a wee situation, and I could not hang around with him all morning. (Note that we have no fence of any kind, so he can't just be left out there.) 

I tried ordering, cajoling, wheedling, and barking, not in that order, all to no effect. He remained a lump on the lawn. I tossed dandelions at him. I gave him gentle shoves with my foot.

Finally, I went for my secret weapon. 

Yes, the broom I keep on the porch to sweep off leaves and such. Pushing the bristles under his side I applied gentle pressure until it annoyed him enough to make him get up. And as he stalked off to find someplace to P, I gave him a little swat with the broom in the A. 

How can you hit a harmless dog?

With all the fuzz on his behindular area, I doubt he even felt it. And even you Zaprudered a film of the incident, you'd see such a slow-mo swing that not only could not hurt a fly, it would barely brush it away. 

Anyway, that was my Animal Abuse action for the day. Mind you, if Izzy ever finds out I swatted his behind, he'll complain quite a bit. So don't say anything, okay?

And a Milk-Bone in a pear tree.

Traffic at the supermarket was on the light side Friday morning -- I could only suppose that people were still reeling from the celebrations or still had a lot of food left in the house. Maybe both. But I was there, although my list was short, and the PA system was still playing Christmas music -- mixed in with a few secular tunes, as it is important to detox slowly. 

Near the entrance I saw this for a big discount and snapped it up. It is billed as an advent calendar but it is NOT; it is a 12 Days of Christmas calendar, and therefore just a couple of days into its usefulness.  

 As you can see, Milk-Bone called this an "Advent Calendar for Dogs," but the theme is the "12 Days of Woof-mas." It works as a treat-a-day display as such, since there are 12 days of Christmas, but as an Advent calendar it would fall short by weeks. And yet, there it was, five dollars off, so apparently everyone is out of whack on this one. 

The thing has fold-out backing to stand up, and each little doghouse has a medium-sized treat from the Milk-Bone catalog behind it. Had I bought this new it would have cost ten bucks, which is way too much for a handful of treats for a heathen dog. (He was blessed on St. Francis's feast day, but still.) Actually, five bucks was still too much, but it was worth it for the novelty. 

Well, pup got two treats yesterday and will get two today, on the fourth day of Christmas, and that will bring him up to speed. One way or another, I am sure he is enjoying them more than he would four calling birds, which would probably just fly off and annoy him. Ditto the French hens et al. A treat in the hand is worth any number of birds in any number of bushes to a dog. Actually, for me too. 

Don’t bother to wake me up.

 

I'd hoped to have a fantastic blog entry for you on Monday, but you know what they say: Wife Happens. In this case my wife forbade me from getting on the computer on Sunday. Why? Because I normally do at least some work seven days a week, and I don't sleep well at night, and she thinks there's a connection. 

Besides, on Saturday (November 30th!) I had expressed my frustration with having no time to get any Christmas decorations up -- it seems like all my neighbors had theirs done by 12:01 on Thanksgiving afternoon -- and she suggested that rather than complaining I start doing. And stop judging the neighbors' outsides against my insides! 

(Feh. Like there's any other way I can judge them.)  

So, that's what happened to Sunday. 

We all know there are two types of insomniacs: those who can't get to sleep and those who can't stay asleep. I have become #1 of the #2 types, and I'm not referring to my bathroom breaks. I have zero trouble getting to sleep, but I am a champ at waking up at three and lying there like a lump, unable to return to sleep. Reading, prayer, meditation, nothing works. I'll give up around five, because if I get up the dog gets up, and he'll have to go out, and I imagine five is the earliest you can be out walking about the neighborhood and not look like a suspicious character. 

Can I use the extra time productively at least? Of course not, because by the time I get the dog back inside I am finally ready to sleep again, and so hit the sofa until eight... or nine... or... 

OTC sleeping aids don't help. Diphenhydramine and doxylamine can make me go to sleep even faster than I already do, but they're out of my system by three a.m. and HELLO I AM AWAKE AGAIN.

I'm not sure what's happening, but it's been going for a while. I'm going for a checkup in January so I will load it on the doctor's shoulders. I've tried everything, doc; now it's your turn. 

Have any of you out in Blog Land had experience with some of the new prescription sleep drugs? I neither drink nor take any Fun Drugs anymore, so I am not interested in anything that could be sold on a street corner. Do the prescription sleep aids really help you get to sleep and stay that way for the expected eight hours, without feeling like an extra on Dawn of the Dead?

My luck, I'll get a perfect solution to the problem, and then the dog will become insomniac, dragging me out in the dead of night. Maybe it would be my just desserts. 

When it's bad, it ain't bad enough.

The bear situation has been getting to me. 

If you're just joining us, there is a black bear that has been roaming the neighborhood, making himself quite at home in daylight hours as well as in dusk and dawn. It was seen most recently by me from the porch last Wednesday as he sauntered down the street. 

My wife wants me to call the state fish & wildlife office. The local authorities have no interest in bear matters, so it must be referred to the closest state office -- one county and forty miles away. So you can bet they'll just come racing down here with sirens wailing, ready to capture a big ol' bear. Yeah.

Every time I take out the trash or take out the dog in the dark, I also take out my big ol' cop flashlight, the kind you can use to beat the fight out of a fleeing felon. Probably would not give me the edge in a fight with the bear, but it's better than nothing. I believe it when they say bears would really prefer not to get too close to humans -- but this guy is already taking liberties. 

Meanwhile, we have Eastern Coyotes again all of a sudden. Do they follow bears, looking for scraps? I don't know, but my wife has heard them howling, and I'm pretty sure I saw one in hot pursuit of three deer through the gloaming.

So last night I dreamed I was outside the house (not my actual house) and looking into the backyard (way larger my actual backyard) while on the phone with my friend Will (my actual friend). Dog Izzy was in the back. Suddenly through the high grass bordering the yard came a multitude of wild critters -- a rhino, cheetah, a gigantic African elephant, and other assorted miscreants. Izzy froze at the sight. I said, "Will, I'll have to call you back," and got the only useful-ish thing at hand, my three-pound sledgehammer. I wished like the comic book Thor I could use it to shoot lightning, but I figured if I screamed enough and bopped the right people in the snoot, I could give Izzy a chance to run for it. Just as I made my move, I woke up. 

I have to say I was a little proud of my dream self, ready to plunge into danger to save my beloved dog. Most of the time I consider myself the kind of guy who, in a crisis, looks around to see who else is stepping up to solve the problem, and if no obvious problem solver appears, to kind of shuffle sideways out of the area. So, yay for dream me, I guess. 

Yeah, there I am.

Should I call the government about my bear problem? Not because of my own worries, but because it's dark when the teens are on the school bus stop now. Plus Halloween is coming, and that means little kids at dusk carrying sweet, sweet candy. I'm afraid our bear will think it's like a frozen dinner with the dessert in a separate compartment. 

Have you had to deal with bear business like this? Anecdotes and advice are welcome. 

For the birds.

Dog Izzy and I often have wildlife encounters on our little adventures. Usually squirrels and deer, although we've had near-misses with skunks and racoons and foxes, and that bear I mentioned a couple of weeks ago is still hanging around. Izzy usually has no interest in any of them. 

Birds being birds, one usually does not get close enough to them to have a tête-à-tête. But then we came upon this guy. 

He (I'm assuming it's a male, since it's got some color) ain't from around here. You may know what he is. I had to look it up. This is a budgie, native to Australia. Specifically this appears to be a recessive pied budgerigar, unless I miss my guess, going by the experts at the Budgie Academy. And since he didn't hitchhike here from Adelaide, I suppose he is someone's escaped pet bird. 

I have a feeling he's not going to make it in the wild. He was picking at something by the road and failed to notice the giant nose of my dog until it was close enough to inhale some feathers. Then, alarmed, the bird flew off like an arrow, peeping in panic. I'm glad his wings had not been clipped, although that would explain how he escaped -- one seldom sees pet birds shinnying down drainpipes. 

Can he survive a New York winter? Can he find food to his taste? Can he avoid being eaten by our local predators? Will he die pining for the scrublands, unable to find a mate in this asphalt jungle? Good luck, pal -- they say everything in Australia is trying to kill everything else, so I hope that means you have some good survival techniques. 

This crow, for one, did not. 

I'm not sure I've ever seen a dead crow before. They seem to be too annoying to die. And yet, this one is not sunbathing. The funny thing is, with all the scavengers around here, including its fellow crows, nothing has gone after it but the bugs. Maybe crow meat just sucks. 

Even the homeowners upon whose property the crow rests aren't interested in getting rid of the corpse. Or, as I have found from these folks on occasion, they are oblivious to anything outside their home beyond the walkway and the driveway. 

Package for you!

Well, if they give the grass another cut before the fall gets fully engaged, they're in for a surprise. I might have done a good deed and performed the last rites myself, but the wasps had gotten involved in the corpus and I'm sensitive to yellowjacket venom.

Man has always envied birds for their flight, but it's not an easy life. You have to eat a lot to survive and power that flight -- half their own weight each day -- and everything is still trying to kill you, including other birds. I think I'd even rather take my chances with Boeing. 

So hibernate already.

We got some new neighbors. They're up from the city. Actually, they aren't even here full-time yet. They're still having work done on the house next door. 

The family is friendly. Jewish, very Orthodox. No wild parties on Friday nights. The kids sort of like our big fluffy dog, Izzy, but don't want to get close to him. As I understand it, the Orthodox don't have anything particularly against dogs -- but they are very confused by them. Possibly the idea of a pet as a companion strikes them as odd. I've heard that expressed from other people too, as it happens. 

For his part, Izzy would love to play with them. But the kids are also terrified of him, because their experience with dogs is so limited. They don't seem to get that even a dog who is trained to sit will not do so because someone yells "Sit!" from twenty feet away. 

I discovered myself that there is a big learning curve with dogs, much of which I've detailed on this very blog over the years. 

The kids wanted to see the dog over the fence, which was fine. Even protected by the fence, they'd all scatter like pigeons when Izzy made the slightest move toward them. 

I've seen other kids who came up from the city who also are scared of dogs, but for different reasons. We had a black family who came from a neighborhood where only the bad guys had big dogs, so big fuzz Tralfaz scared the kids silly. I felt bad for those kids, and I still do. Creeps ruin everything -- even dogs.  

Anyway, the Orthodox family went home Sunday morning. Which was good, because if the kids had seen this guy in my backyard, they might never have returned. 

Welcome to the exurbs.

I was bringing Izzy around the side of the house yesterday when I spotted Yogi at the base of the yard. Izzy had not noticed him yet. So turn on a dime we did, and went to use the front yard instead. 

I then monitored the situation through the window. Eventually the big dude did a couple of big yawns and trundled out through the high grass. Later a fox showed up, maybe looking for leftovers, and rolled in whatever scent the bear left behind. I guess that will help the fox avoid being an hors d'oerve himself. 

The bear bottom line is, you move to the country, you get to see some wildlife. I have not heard of any bear attacks in the time I've lived here, even on people who go into the woods on purpose. But my neighbors who turn the cats out at night might want to have a second thought. Ohio is not the only place where cats can be consumed, you know. 

If I see the bear again, I will try to teach him a command. "Hey ber! Ir zol geyn kheyberneyt itst!" ("Hey, bear! You should go hibernate already!" according to Google Translate.) It could work. 

Security, Fredcoin style!

Oh, dear -- another terrible crime centered around cryptocurrency. This one was no hacker or pyramid-scheming bamboozler at work. In this case, 12 violent punks were sentenced for home invasions in an attempt to steal cryptocurrency -- and while they were at it, maybe some cash and nice watches, too. 

These jerks! They're ruining everything good about cryptocurrency -- that is to say, it's not real and you can't carry it around! Its value comes from pretending it has value. If this kind of thing goes on, people won't even bother with cryptocurrency. They'll just go back that boring old regular currency. And who wants that? 

Not you, my friend! Therefore you need to invest your crummy US dollars in the crypto that has the best security around: Fredcoin! 

But, you ask, why should I expect a rinky-dink outfit like Fredcoin to have better security than the "big name" cryptos?

I'm glad you asked! Allow me to present my company's 10-Point Security Assurance Points that explain why our security is second to none! Or second only to nuns, maybe.

1) At Fredcoin, your assets are not contained in some easily found safe deposit box or something. No, no! We keep them right -- wait a sec, I thought I left them here. Must be my other pants.

2) Our crack security staff is always on high alert. 

3) Point 3 is temporarily out of order. Please try again later. 

4) We know that the weakest link in cybersecurity is the meat puppet who pushes the buttons. So we reduce exposure by keeping the interaction with the computers to a minimum. The less we work, the safer you are! Safety through laziness. QED!

5) Louisville Slugger, amirite?

6) REDACTED 

7) No one ever thinks to look in the bathtub.

8) Our alarm system from Stiiv's Hacienda of Security is top-rated! Call 1-800-ECURITY (leave off the S for Security!).  

9) We're totally experts in crime prevention. We've studied the classic texts.

10) They can only get the password out of you if you remember the password! 

So you see, Fredcoin is clearly the winners' choice, the only cryptocurrency for you. But don't take my word for it! Ask our security team.

Skunk, tables, books.

Three topics weighing heavily on me this morning: Skunks, Tables, and Books. 

Let's go.

The dog groomer sent this around, and I repost it here as a public service. I do not know if this is the best advice, but I sure would be willing to give it a try. As longtime readers will recall, the late Tralfaz had a couple of memorable tussles with skunks and lost both, because with a skunk, as with porcupines and wasps, even if you win, you lose. When we tried to de-skunk the boy we started by spraying him with water, and I can tell you it did not help. I think the water may have just spread the skunk juice around, or helped it penetrate his skin. 

I think the method from the groomer -- who has probably de-skunked dozens of dogs -- is worth a try. If you are a dog owner, I hope you will not need it. Still, better to have it and not need it than need it and not have it. 

I did see a skunk waddle into the road the other morning while walking Izzy. Fortunately we were not crossing his path nor vice-versa, and he still had the good sense to go back the way he came.  

As for tables: You know also if you read this site that I am grateful for our trashmen, who make life much cleaner for the rest of us. Our local service is willing to pick up one (1) large item a week from each household, and in past years that has meant a mattress or an old easy chair. Last week it meant the kitchen table that my mother gave my wife and me as a wedding gift. 

We have had this set a long time. My wife never much liked it. We tried to replace it with another set more than ten years ago when elevated pub-type tables were in vogue, and she wound up liking that one less -- so that was relegated to the dining room and the old set came out again. A new new set has finally landed, and so the old table's time was up. 

That table lasted as long as it did because it was solid. It weighed a ton. I only got it to the street last Friday because it was circular and, with the legs off, I could roll it. Took out the legs and the leaf too. I was not sure the boys would carry it away, but they did, God bless ‘em. 

We still have the six chairs, which can go out in installments. No big rush. After all, a chair without a table is still a chair, but a table without a chair is a sideboard.

Finally, books. 

Just a quick announcement that Hans G. Schantz has rounded up a bunch of authors again to submit ebooks to the Based Book Sale. All books are 99 cents or less until September 11! Stock up on your reading to help you get through the anxiety of the election season and the stress of the holidays. I've got two books involved. Which ones? You'll have to look at the list and find out! 

Fluff lies bleeding.

I haven't seen all the Toy Story movies, but if they wanted to do a real horror show, they should make one from the vantage of dog toys. 

Izzy does enjoy ripping the fluff out of toys. If it's got a squeaker, he's going to get it out -- and then the squeaker must be carefully removed from his mouth, or he will keep munching it until it stops making noise. Die, squeaky heart! He might swallow it, which would be bad.

We really don't want the dog to swallow the squeaker, but it's instinct. He's a retriever by breeding and nature, so his job is to go get the duck and, if the duck still shows signs of life, to break or chomp its neck and put it out of its misery. Since I'm not a hunter, he only gets to do this to his toys. And do it he does. 

He's not as bad as his late uncle, Nipper, the legendary destroyer of toys. Nipper was once known as the Alexander the Great of dogs by tackling his personal Gordian Knot the same way Alexander did his -- direct action and ruthless efficiency.  

Tralfaz was less of a menace to toys. He would destroy them, but just incidentally because he was so big and strong. A few he did not wreck; he was a bit attached to a crunchy Mickey Mouse toy that he would groom, licking and pawing it. Gotta clean up Mickey's act. We had to keep Mickey away from Nipper or he would rip up his brother's favorite toy. 

Izzy has the Nipper instincts, and most toys don't last long around him unless he doesn't like them. Still, I would hate to see what would happen to Woody and Buzz if Izzy got hold of them. It would make the weird neighbor kid's bedroom of toy horrors in the first picture look like a day at the beach. 

Bleary in the morning.

Been kind of wiped out this week, and for good reason.

For days I've been covering for someone who's on vacation, minding the desk from my perch at home. Which is good, in that it means billable hours for me, but the other clients I have still need tending. Fortunately, there have not been many explosions and freakouts. Some, but not many. 

This has also coincided with some hot and humid weather, though, and while we are blessed to have air conditioning, the dog still needs to be outside a good bit. That's the way of his people. However, then he gets overheated, comes inside, and drinks a gallon of water, which sets off the Circle of Pee, and we have to go out again. 

I'm glad he's staying hydrated -- his uncle, the late Nipper, was not good about it, and once had to have a Quasimodo-esque lump of water injected into his back. Strangest thing. Can you imagine humans being treated like that for dehydration? 

"What's that big lump, Maggie? Third breast implant?"

"Nah, just neglected my Gatorade."

The big downside is that Izzy, America's Sweetheart (currently America's Sweatheart), has to go out a couple of times in the night. It's made the week more difficult to navigate, let's put it that way. 

In my career I've been paid salaries and hourlies, and anyone who needs to learn the value of a dollar needs to work for hourly wages. That's a cold fact. Every kid should do it. When you get paid by the hour, whenever an expense comes up -- say, you have to part with $700 for a car repair, I did this month -- your mind immediately goes to the most annoying, frustrating, diabolical project that you had recently, and you factor that into the money spent. I worked hour after hour cleaning the sewer backup into that guy's basement, and it didn't even pay half of what it cost me for the car repair, an expense I didn't expect. I didn't get a dime's worth of fun out of the money. 

I always think of the most crappy job I had to do to get the dough. I don't think I'm unusual in this. 

I'd say I've been doing the editorial equivalent of cleaning sewage, but there is no equivalent of cleaning sewage. I will say it's been very little fun, and the money isn't going toward anything fun either, and I'm exhausted. 

Added to all this is worry's little side hustle, the sleeplessness. This worrying is exhausting! Fortunately, it's also keeping me awake at night! So when the dog wakes me up, I'm up for hours. 

Next week may be better, but it certainly won't be well. Life is tough. I'm tired. I sometimes wonder how any of us get by. 

Going Fourth!

I often opine on Independence Day as an inspiring holiday for our nation, but today I found myself thinking about it as the thing itself and how it's been in my life. Like Christmas -- we all know the difference between the story of Christmas (awesome) and the actual celebration with loved ones (dicey). Every holiday has that kind of dichotomy -- the thing for what it celebrates and the thing for how it is. 

And I have to tell you, my Fourths of July have been a mixed bag. 

Never works out exactly as I would like.

I don't remember doing much at all when I was a kid. When I was little more than a toddler, I think I was at a parade, a big town deal with floats and stuff, but it was so far back I can barely remember anything. Later my family really didn't do anything. No parades, no fireworks. We visited relatives because it was a day off and Mom could go see her family. Then, as adults do, they sat around and talked. BORING! 

Later on there were some winners. I went to a Mets game one year, and while I don't even remember if they won the game (I think they won), the fireworks show at Shea afterward was spectacular. In 2002, my wife and I went to the local kaboomery show and it was great -- the patriotism was still thick on the ground here in the lower Hudson Valley, where many locals had been lost on 9/11. 

One July 4, after my first year in junior high, my family spent the day with a family that had enough fireworks to invade Canada. I shot off more bottle rockets in one evening than I have the entire rest of my life. Almost burned down their house, but not quite (a bottle tipped backward after I lit the fuse). In fact, it was a miracle that with alcohol-consuming adults and explosive-armed children there were no major disasters. 

For a few years the Fourth was spent at a relative's cabin in the country, something I would enjoy much, much more now than I did as a kid. Very quiet.

One year, as the Fourth loomed, I convinced a friend to get a party going at his house -- and then my parents informed me that we were going out of town for the holiday. I have never lived that down. But my friends all got even a year or so later, when I threw a party in my parents' backyard and all the guys decided to bug out because they wanted to play basketball in the park. So my parents were looking at me like Don't you have any friends anymore? It was humiliating. The guys returned later out of pity, or hunger.

More recent years have found our family unit with dogs, and we usually spend the holiday making sure no canine freaks out and goes running wild. Usually it's okay, but about five years back the idiots up the street were blowing up enough stuff to -- well, invade Canada. Poor Nipper took it hard. And it sparked an argument between my wife and Mrs. "Deuce" Baggio nearby, which my wife decidedly, comprehensively won. I could have warned the Baggios not to argue with my wife, especially when she's defending one of our dogs. 

There were other summer parties that were eventful, and even near terrible, but I think they did not land on the Fourth, so I'll leave them for another time, if at all. This year I just want to make some decent food and distract the dog when the bombs go off. I love you, America, but your birthday is not always my favorite day. 

Vote the Fuzz Line!!

After several heavy think pieces, I need to decompress this whole blog and think of something cheerful. 

Like, the presidential campaign.

Now, I know what you're thinking. But wait. Here's my pitch. 

What do we have running this year? A feeble old crook and a man so tarnished by his enemies that it may be impossible to overcome. Plus a wacky independent with a dead brain worm and probably Jill Stein, the Harold Stassen of the Green Party.

I say: Vote Izzy. 

Yes, my dog Izzy. Why? Because he loves all Americans, not just the ones who vote for him. He really does like everybody, unlike my previous dogs, who were a bit more selective. And as I've noted before, all the people like him, unless they have an issue with dogs. That's why Izzy is America's Sweetheart. Plus, he's as handsome as you could want. Lookit dat face! 

Killer slogan

The Constitution doesn't demand that candidates for president be human. But, you may say, isn't Izzy too young? Candidates have to be at least thirty-five. 

Well, he just turned three. By normal accounting that would be twenty-one in dog years. He's a large size dog, though, so the chart runs older for him. So he's ... addition, carry the one, divide by pi ... 

All right, all right, he's just twenty-eight. Ask yourself, though: Can we really wait another four years to put this nation back on the right path? Of course not. 

Besides, lookit dat face! 

So remember, if you're not voting as I am, then just pencil in Izzy. He'll give you a lick on the nose for it! I'm not sure any of the other candidates running this year would. Well, maybe the incumbent. 

Dogs in the comic books.

Throughout the history of American comic books, dogs have played an interesting but not dominating role. There have been a number of famous canine characters who appeared first in comics, and others who appeared elsewhere and made their way into comics. But considering the enormous popularity of dogs as pets in our history, they actually seem underrepresented. 

Note here that I'm not referring to funny-animal type dogs, like Snoopy or Pluto or Droopy or Huckleberry Hound or even Underdog. I'm thinking here of action hero dogs. And no, Scooby-Doo does not count. Jonny Quest's dog Bandit is close, but he's not a headlining character, I'm afraid. The same goes for Snowy and Dogmatix. 

Lassie, however, was not just a star of film and television; the world's favorite collie starred in comic book adventures by Dell from 1950 to 1962; then Western picked up the series until 1969. And I am not kidding about being the favorite of the world, or at least what we used to call Christendom -- those comics were also published in Canada, Brazil, the UK, Australia, Scandinavia, Germany, and so on. Rin-Tin-Tin didn't have as long a run in comics, but his adventures appeared in most of the same markets and Lebanon as well, according to the Grand Comics Database. 

Less down-to-earth dogs were featured in comics, of course, and we've covered a couple of the most famous ones on this blog. Krypto, Superman's super pet dog, was unleashed (ha!) on the American public in a March 1955 issue, and Batman got a part-time dog helper named Ace a few months later. Older than both of those characters by three years is Rex the Wonder Dog, a heroic white shepherd who was so smart and whose adventures became so fantastical that in more recent years has been said to have superpowers, and be a superhero in his own right.

When Marvel comics decided to have a dog character, it was of course Lockjaw, a monstrous teleporting bulldog, as part of the Inhumans, because we can't just have friendly pets when Jack Kirby is involved.

But speaking of Marvel, I'm proud to report that the inspiration for this post today is my own dog Izzy, America's Sweetheart. Yes, I was amazed to discover that before he lived with us, he was actually a friend of the Fantastic Four's Human Torch, appearing in an issue of Strange Tales in 1965.

Therefore, as I own Izzy, I am the official agent of a Marvel character. If Disney wants to go ahead and ruin the Fantas -- that is, make a new Fantastic Four movie, they will need to pay us a small fee -- perhaps two or three million dollars -- for the rights. 

🐕💰🐶💸🦮🤑

Okay, maybe it's just possible that Izzy did not appear in the actual comic book. I say that based on the fact that his head is not as big as a human's, as shown above, and in 1965 he was not born yet -- and would not be for 56 years. The actual panel from the story, courtesy of the entertaining Comics Archaeology site, is here: 

But if Disney would like to send us a bushel of money anyway, I'm sure we can accommodate them. Come on, Mouse House! Look at my dog! He's cuter than anything you've coughed up in at least twenty years and has universal appeal. (Oops -- maybe I should not have mentioned Universal.) 

The other Goldilocks.

One of the joys of ambling through used-book stores, back when such things existed, was the fortuitous find of books long out of print, forgotten perhaps but still worth reading. I discovered quite a few authors that way in my younger days. 

Most of those stores are gone now, but at least we still have Project Gutenberg, which is quickly becoming the repository of the literary past. In Bradbury's classic Fahrenheit 451, there is a group dedicated to committing books to memory so that civilization can be restored when the dystopic government falls. Project Gutenberg is certainly doing its bit to help. 

Looking through old books is quite educational. For example, I happened to discover the story of Goldilocks in an old kids' book on Gutenberg while looking for something else. 

What's that, Fred? You don't know the story of Goldilocks, the food thief, vandal, and squatter?      

No, not that Goldilocks; the other one. 

Her, I know.

This other Goldilocks is a princess! Her story can be found in two books on Gutenberg: The Blue Fairy Book edited by Andrew Lang (1889) and Fairy Tales (vol. 1) by M. F. Lansing (1907). She is called either Pretty Goldilocks or Fair Goldilocks; she is a princess and has no need of raiding bears' houses. The only thing she has in common with the more famous O.G. is the color of her hair. 

Royal Goldy, the Hot Tomato

This Goldy is such a stunner ("the prettiest creature in the world") that a foreign king sends a massive retinue to her place, with a pile of loot that Musk and Bezos would envy, to ask for her hand in marriage. She says no thanks, and politely returns the presents, only keeping a box of pins (either because she liked them or to show the king that she appreciated the gesture, depending on your story source). The king is miserable at this rejection. One of his courtiers, a fellow named Charming, says that he thinks he could have gotten Goldilocks to come back with him. So you know what comes next. The king says Go get her, then! No, these are medieval types; the king, feeling mocked, orders Charming to be locked in the tower and starved to death. 

Of course, all-around good guy Charming had not intended to mock the king; he is hurt by this injustice. The king later has a change of heart and speaks with Charming, who explains that he meant he could bring back Goldilocks for the king. Oy! After seeing to Charming's needs, the king wants to send the boy off with a bunch of court suck-ups to get the girl for him. Charming says nay nay -- just a horse and the king's letters to the girl will suffice. 

On his way to see the princess, Charming has some minor adventures that demonstrate his kind heart (you can read them yourself; trust me, he's a nice kid), and word gets to Goldilocks that he's a great guy and one fine figure of a man, too. Nevertheless, Goldy gives him some quests. He must find a ring that she lost in the river a month ago, kill a murderous giant, and fetch a potion from the terrible Gloomy Cavern. Easy-peasy! Fortunately, Charming has a dog named Frisk (or maybe Frolic) who talks to him, and the help of the animals he was kind to on his journeys, so it all works out.    

Satisfied, Goldilocks agrees to go to the king's city and marry the guy, although she says Charming and she could have stayed at her place and she would have married him. Of course, Charming is an honorable man of his word, and would not backstab the king that way. 

The king marries Goldilocks and does what you'd expect -- get jealous and have Charming arrested and thrown in the tower to starve to death. You might think that we're dealing with one of the more soft-headed variety of fairy-tale kings. All this chucking people into towers to starve -- where does that get you in the end? You think the mournful cries of the victim will warn everyone that the king will tolerate no disobedience, but it just brings the mood of the place down. 

It all works out, of course. The king accidentally poisons himself with the potion from the Gloomy Cavern, Goldy sets Charming free and marries him, and Frolic (or Frisk) lives with them happily ever after. 

This is such an interesting story, where kindness is rewarded and duplicity (and stupidity) are punished, and a nice cautionary tale about the problems of absolute monarchy. It doesn't really have the homespun charm of our better-known porridge stealer, and it's got some noble quest/bad monarch/talking animal stuff that could be added to and taken from other fairy tales like so many software plugins. But it's pretty good, and the fact that the princess proposes to and saves the hero is different, so it definitely does have its merits. 

Like I said, you never know what you might find when you start poking around old books. There's all kinds of gold in there. 

Miscellaneous science stuff.

It's our Tuesday random science feature! Of course, we don't do a regular science feature on Tuesday or any other day. That just shows how random it is! Probably determined by Brownian motion or something. Anyway, here's stuff. 

1) The Can

Today's first item is about the age-old question: Do women really take longer in the can than men? How much longer? And we find that a groundbreaking study back in 1988, woefully ignored by the so-called Nobel Prize committee, answered this question: 

The study, conducted in cooperation with the Washington state Department of Transportation, concluded that the standard 50-50 ratio between men's and women's public toilet facilities is unfair.

[Researcher Ahn] Tran established that it takes men an average of 45 seconds to use a public facility, compared to an average of 79 seconds for women. The study thus recommends a new standard involving a 60-40 ratio of women's to men's toilet facilities.

So there it is! Of course, we know it's just a wee (ha!) tiny part of the real problem women face. If the whole difference was 34 seconds, it wouldn't account for the tremendous lines for women's rooms that exist in places like theaters where no line at all is seen for men's rooms. There is more to it.

If we acknowledge that when a lot of these venues were built, equal space was allotted for men's and women's rooms, that still meant a big plumbing gap -- you can fit a lot more urinals onto a wall than toilet stalls. But even then, we're barely getting into the nitty-gritty. 

When men go to the public can, they go alone, and unless they're up to something shady, they get out as fast as possible. That's why we so often forget to zip up. We're running. Women, on the other hand, still treat the sacred grounds of the ladies' loo as a place to gather, to chat, to fix hair and makeup, to criticize their dates, and so on. Those gals aren't getting out of there in 79 seconds. And even if they're not actively taking up a stall, the sheer number of bodies in the room at intermission means the line is going to have to wait until someone leaves to advance. 

If we really want to give women what they want, their restroom facilities should be planned and built first, and everything else added as secondary -- the restaurant, theater, stadium, whatever it is. Everything is just an addendum to the toilet. 

The Justice Bader Goldberg Memorial Bathroom and Stadium. Is that so much to ask?

2) Animal Testing?

My wife bought some pet wipes for the dog, because sometimes he gets dirty paws (but not dirty enough all over to have to bathe), or he needs his ears cleaned out, or he just needs to have a little stink wiped off him. Toddler wipes work okay, but dogs usually can use something stronger -- and sometimes need to. 

But this was one of the screwier things I've seen of late on packaging: 

Look, I get that your heart is in the right place. You love animals and we love our pets. But seriously -- if you didn't test these pet wipes on animals, you know what that makes my dog? Your test subject. 

I think just this one time you could test a product -- a product meant for animals -- on an animal before you release it to the public. What do you think you're doing, manufacturing COVID vaccines?

📡📈🔭📱🔬

That's all the science we have today! Join us when we randomly do something like this again, if ever!

Off to a bad start.

 

So today started off with a bang. Walking dog Izzy in the dark, thanks so Daylight &@#^* Savings Time. It's recycling day, but unlike our late party dog Nipper, Izzy is not terrified of trash cans. Or at least he wasn't until this morning. 

This morning he decided to dash to the curb and go around the large garbage can someone had left on the sidewalk. That unfortunately put the can between him and me, and when he closed the loop he knocked over the can, sending recyclables everywhere -- mostly plastic bottles but plenty of aluminum cans. This made what is known as a Loud Noise, which startled Izzy, who decided to put a couple of miles between himself and the source of the noise. I, caught by surprise, still had the leash in my hand, which suffered a small laceration between the ring finger and the pinky as the slack zipped through. It was too dark to see how much blood was unleashed (ha) but there was some. 

After restoring order, putting all the stuff back in the garbage can, we returned home -- of course, all this happened at the point of the circle farthest from our house. But we made it, and the injury was not too bad. However, it was a perfect way to start a very busy day, and I mean that dripping with as much sarcasm as I can muster. 

Help me, Obi Mr. Coffee! You're my only hope! 

Reports from the road.

We took a li'l road trip recently, which is why blogging has been even spottier than usual. Just a few days to visit family out of state. It was delightful, but that's not my topic today. Actually, I have two:

1) Dog-gone

We were not staying with family, but rather in a hotel in town, and we were bringing oversize puppy Izzy with us. This by far would be the longest road trip he's ever experienced, and since he's not one of those dog that loves car rides, I was worried about how he'd fare. Would he freak out? Get carsick? Whine to stop every ten miles? And what of the hotel? Sure, they claimed they were pet-friendly, but were they? Would Izzy test the bounds of their hospitality? Bark at random hours? Establish dominance by peeing all over the room? Anything could happen. 

Well, it all went off far better than I had hoped. Izzy was perfect -- the ride out was stressful for him, but he settled down and took it easy. We made one pit stop on the way (for me as much as him) and he was fine. He was beloved by the extended family and only barked exactly one (1) time on the whole trip -- the morning we were leaving, as we were packing, when some kids were running and shouting in the hotel hallway. Then he slept pretty much all the way home.

I'd like to thank Embassy Suites for being as good as their word about pets. They are very clear about the ground rules, which are hardly onerous -- use the rear lot for his trips out, clean up after him, don't bring the dog into the dining area, and so on. These requests came in a bag (with very 70's style art) that was full of dog treats -- a spoonful of sugar and all that, you know. 

2) Fire!

When I got home, loaded with bags and trailed by dog as I walked up the porch steps, I was disquieted to hear the fire alarms going off in the house. No smoke inside; no clouds of particulate matter. These are alarms wired into the ceiling, and there's a dozen all over the house, and when one goes off they all go off -- so no telling where it started. I ran from room to room, pulling them off the ceiling as I went, because it was obvious right away there was no real emergency. The next-to-last one was the culprit, in the ceiling of a storage room. My guess is that some bold spider, hearing the empty house, made his move to take over the joint; he knocked some dust into the detector, fried himself on the wire, and set the alarm off. It could have been peeping for days.

You could hear the sound from a couple of houses away. It must have annoyed the neighbors. Especially the lying sack of lies who lives next door. 

So, that's a plus, anyway. 

On the whole, a great trip, but it's nice to be home. I hope I'll be able to pass along more bloggy goodness this upcoming week. 

Ain't I a stinker?

You're never too old to learn, and I learned something I did not know about skunks the other day. Actually, I learned a few things. 

Things I did know: Skunks are rare in the mammal world for their odiferous defense, but not alone; wolverines, for example, also have a smell-secreting defense. (The Marvel hero would have been a lot different if he'd had that superpower.) Skunks are very good at deploying that sulfuric spray, especially the one that shot our dog Fazzy all those years ago, the big galoot. 

Things I did not know: The spray of a skunk is composed of thiols and thioacetates, which bond really well to other atoms, which is why the stink is so pernicious. When you (or you dog) get nailed by a skunk, you stay nailed. 

Not surprising, skunks have few predators. Sure, a bobcat or a wolf might try his luck, but only if he's really hungry. Snakes have too good a sense of smell to get involved; in fact, skunks not only eat snakes, but they are virtually impervious to snake venom. Rattlesnake bite? Pepe shakes it off and eats the damn thing. He don't care. 

Skunk, not caring

I wondered if there was a chemical similarity with the skunk spray to snake venom, causing the immunity, but it does not seem to be the case. I'm sure some biologist could explain it to me.

The great horned owl does not mind getting skunked. He has a poor sense of smell but he thinks skunks taste awesome. A great horned owl can take out a skunk larger than he is and fly off with it. Then shoot back to the wildlife preserve and give his minders something to regret, I guess.

Memo: If you are enrolled at Hogwarts and your owl is a great horned owl, learn a destinkification spell immediately. Odiferamus departicus!

Getting back to the topic of snakes: About 90 miles off the coast of Brazil is Ilha da Queimada Grande, or Snake Island, a tropical paradise but for the thousands of golden lancehead pit vipers. The golden lancehead pit viper is among the most venomous, sneaky, dangerous snakes on earth. No one is allowed to go to the island, but no one wants to, either, except I guess the most foolhardy herpetologists and nature photographers. 

The snakes have been there since the last Ice Age, and that's as well as may be, but do we really need them? Sure, they're critically endangered, because vicious snakes need private islands or they'd be slaughtered. (Cf.: Jeffrey Epstein.) But a small island in a lovely part of the world would make a heck of a resort. 

Of course, you know what we do need. We need Chuck Norris to lead an army of skunks onto Ilha da Queimada Grande and wipe out the vipers. It's the right thing to do and the right time to do it. So Chuck, if you're reading this, give me a call. I happen to know quite a few skunks who might be available for daywork. 

Cold heart, hot dog.

Springtime is on my mind

Flowers blooming, all the time

Smell the roses

Smell the grass

Old man winter can kiss my ass

                            --Spinal Tap, "Springtime"

Yay, winter.

The people who dig the snow
Are usually not those who dig the snow

Yesterday was fairly nice, mostly sunny, high in the forties, so global warming will kill us before the year is out. All the snow we'd had earlier in the week had melted but for some piles here and there. 

Unfortunately that left Winter's sickly child, Mud, all over the joint. And the dog had just gotten a pro grooming for the first time in two months. 

He's a hairy beast, and we never let him go that long normally. His fuzz gets matted and clumped, and that's no good for him. We ought to brush him out daily, but none of us would like that, least of all him. We're lucky to have a great groomer who has a knack with the hairy dudes like him. 

But in December, we skipped his usual monthly groom. Why? Because it would have been close to Christmas, and a lot of people who wouldn't normally get a dog groomed by a pro do so when company is coming or when cute pictures with Santa are going to be posted. Also, they might want to board the dog for a few days, or take advantage of doggie daycare (a service our groomer also provides), and that's where the rub is. Because we were a little nervous about this new and mysterious respiratory disease that's going after the dogs. 

The disease is dangerous and disconcerting. It's similar to kennel cough, but the cause is unknown thus far. I have heard of no cases diagnosed here in New York yet. Of course, the usual warnings apply, to keep your dog away from places where lots of other dogs congregate -- like the groomer or the boarder or the dog park. Since you can expect a lot of dogs in these places around the holidays, my wife suggested we skip a month. 

So we skipped December. Izzy was not a huge mess when the time came for January's cleaning, but yeah, he was ready, all right. Off we went yesterday for his early-morning appointment.

He dealt with it with his usual combination of love and panic -- I think he loves the groomer but hates the grooming. I picked him up a few hours later and he looked and smelled awesome. Having him riding in the backseat was like having an seventy-pound air freshener. 

Aaaand then there was the mud. 

The mud was neither very deep nor very squishy, but I have one strongly enforced rule: Stay clean for ONE DAMN DAY after I drop serious lettuce on your bath. It meant keeping pup away from the muddy edge of the sidewalk. The advantage I had was that he was too exhausted from the grooming to need a lot of exercise in the afternoon. 

So he's clean; apparently disease-free; my wallet is lighter; and there are no blizzards in the forecast. If you're in the Hudson Valley and your car is musty, I will rent out the fuzzy air freshener at cheap rates. He will even leave dog hair behind to keep the odor alive. 

Act fast: It rained last night and he could get muddy at any moment.

America’s sweetheart.

Baby dog Izzy was a total menace to society as a puppy. 

It was something most parents and probably most dog owners go through -- the kid is acting like a lunatic and seems bent on growing up to be a psychopath. He won't listen, or he just doesn't care. You wonder what it's going to take to get through to the little crazy person. Sometimes they never grow out of it -- you can only hope that they become sane enough to focus their insanity toward useful goals, like professional demolition, MMA fighting, or terrorist elimination. 

But most of the time, a change will come over the little beast, and you have something more normal, something less feral, something that responds to kindly instruction and doesn't go berserk at the slightest thing. 

We had our doubts about Izzy. Very strong doubts. 

The Menace at rest

We kept wondering if he was ever going to stop doing exactly the wrong and most destructive thing at every turn. We kept wondering if he was going to remember anything he'd learned for longer than it took to swallow the treat. We kept wondering if he was going to stop biting us. Was going to stop trying to grab food off the table, off the counters, or even off the stove. (He managed to light a stovetop burner once, which requires pushing in and twisting the knob -- childproof knob covers appeared shortly thereafter.) 

Maybe when his baby teeth are out. Maybe after he gets fixed. Maybe after his first birthday. Maybe when he's past pup puberty. Maybe never. My wife loved and loves him so much, yet she got madder at the little jerk on at least two occasions than she had ever gotten mad at previous puppies Nipper and Fazzy. She got madder at this puppy than she'd ever gotten at me, and I'm not joking. 

And then? Suddenly Izzy seemed to connect. It was like a Man's Best Friend switch got thrown, and he was no longer a wild animal that was tolerating confinement. Suddenly he was a sweet and playful dog, and has remained so ever since. He's not only sweeter than our earlier beloved boys; he's the sweetest, most friendly dog either of us has ever known. 

Don't just take my word for it. The lady who sometimes does the mail route pulled over one day, yelling about what a cutie he is, and as he sat politely, she gave him a Milk-Bone. The UPS man pulled over to say hi. The Amazon driver went out of his way to make friends with him. If delivery people are so in love with our dog, that says a lot. 

He's even polite with other dogs. Sure, if it's one he already knows, he'll strain the leash to go say hi. But he doesn't bark. If it's a dog he doesn't know, he'll wait quietly to get a chance to greet. Kids will come running, asking if they can pet him. He loves to meet people.

All this is why I started calling him America's Sweetheart.

We taught him some important commands, of course, but mostly we did our best with patience and love, and now I see that reflected in his behavior. And I guess that's my thought for the day. Patience and love can accomplish things you don't expect, if you're consistent -- even when you give up hope. I sure am glad now that we have this swell little dude. I certainly did not expect to say that thirty months ago.