Dog Food

I tend to collect things. About ten or eleven years ago, for example, I got into handguns. I've met several folks over the years who like handguns, too. Usually, they own one, perhaps two; maybe a .357 Magnum and a .22 or a 9 mm and a .45 Long Colt cowboy rig. Me? No, I have thirteen of them. Or is it fourteen? I've lost track. I'd have to get up and go count them to verify the number, and right now I'm too lazy to do that.

And take bicycles as another example. I have four. Who on earth needs four bicycles? Today I was feeling a bit conspicuous in my cycle consumption. That is until I saw a blurb on TV about some Russian billionaire who has four mega-yachts. I don't feel so bad about my four bikes now. If he can have four huge,  cruise-ship sized yachts, I can have four good bicycles. That's my rationale at any rate.

So, what does this have to do with dog food? Not much, except to say we also have a collection of animals in our household. It's only a modest collection, mind you. We have Chester, the oldest. He's a dog. We've had him since he was a puppy of about six months. He recently visited his 14th birthday. He's blind and wobbly now a days. We have to carry him outside to do his business. That's a bit of a hassle in the winter, though.

Then there's Gracie, the next oldest. She is our grand-cat. When our son James and his wife, Aimee, prepared to go to Brazil for several months about seven years ago, they asked us to watch her for them. On their return they found they couldn't take her back. We didn't have the heart to send her off to the pound or the Humane Society. At the time she was such a grouchy beast we figured sending her off like that was a certain death sentence. We just didn't have the heart. Over the years she has mellowed. She no longer lies in wait to pounce out of nowhere in order to bite our toes and ankles. She's quite patient and loving now. Her only downside is her long, thick coat that mats easily. Well, that and her chronic dandruff. Fortunately the dandruff only comes out when Yvonne gives Gracie a buzz cut, which is meant to cut down on the shedding and the mats. Gracie looks pretty goofy with a haircut, but that's what we do.

Then there's Katie. She's the tomboy Black Lab. She is one of those Labs that is rather small and lean, but her bark is as big as any male I've heard. It's her bark that makes her a tomboy. We've had her for three years now. Ironically (or, maybe not so ironically), I got her from the Humane Society. She cost $37.50, spayed and all. I just happened to drop by on the day of the Society's pet sale. That's no lie; a dog and cat sale. 

Of all the dogs in jail that day, she was the only one standing quietly in her kennel. The rest were yelling at me, doing their best to get my attention. Katie got my attention, all right: first, by being a Black Lab, and second, by being so well behaved. She was this beautiful creature, looking up at me with those big brown eyes, crying out to me, "Save me from this insanity." I fell for her line completely. I folded like a lawn chair.

After going through the Humane Society's getting-to-know each other routine, I paid the 37 bucks and took her home. What does this petite, well-mannered dog do the first thing upon entering our bedroom? She jumped right on the bed. That seemed an odd thing to do for a dog that the Humane Society said was kept outside all the time and pretty much ignored by her owners.

She's a smart dog and is very affectionate. She loves to cuddle up, and if she could get close enough to get right inside of you she would. She's also a creature of habit. I have a book I haven't read yet that talks about dogs being autistic. People with autism thrive on very exact routines. That's just how Katie is. She probably is autistic. An example of her tendency toward being routine bound has to do with her eating time. She eats at 7:00 p.m. If I forget to feed her, she comes around nosing herself right in the center of my attention. It doesn't matter what I'm doing. If it's 7:00, she's right there. If I feed her at 6:00 or 6:30 she generally ignores the food until it's closer to 7:00. Then she has to eat in the same room I'm in. If I'm in the bedroom and her dish is out in the computer area, she takes a mouthful of kibble and carries it in to where I am, drops it on the floor, and crunches away, smacking her lips. Then she goes back for more. If we are gone for the evening and have left food out for her, she doesn't touch it until we return. She's nuts.

Along with her weird eating habits, she poops exactly twice a day: once in the morning before Yvonne goes to work, and once in the evening. We buy a premium brand of dog food for her. That's because the cheap stuff gives her bad diarrhea. We can't have any of that, now can we? I buy the stuff her system tolerates best from Pet Smart. It's chicken and oatmeal for dogs with sensitive stomachs. I buy the 40 pound bag. 

This evening, as I carried the most recent purchase slung over my shoulder out to the car, I said to Yvonne, "You know, all this is is unprocessed dog poop," and, "I'll bet for every pound she eats, she produces half again more in poop." Producing more output than input just has to violate some law of physics. It has to be a physical impossibility to get out of a closed system more than is put into it, yet that seems to be the reality.

Now, here's something I just don't get: They say that dogs fed the premium brands produce less poop. I'd like to know how she could possibly produce any more than she does? I'd hate to see her production quota if she only ate the cheap stuff like Purina Dog Chow or KalKan. 

Horse Hair

I got a haircut today. It has been quite a while since my last visit to Great Clips. I was starting to feel like the Wild Man of Borneo. I hate haircuts today as much as I did when I was little. Back then my dad performed the operation, usually on a Saturday afternoon. Whenever my brother, Steve, and I saw Dad get the clippers out of the hall closet, we high-tailed it out the front door to hide in the Russian Olive hedge that was in the front yard. By the way, the Russian Olive trees will soon be in bloom around here in Utah. They give off a sweet smell that immediately takes me back to my childhood. Their odor is magical stuff. But I digress.

At Great Clips this morning, and by the luck of the draw, I got Lillian, I think her name is, who usually does a good job. I saddled up in the chair, took off my glasses, and got comfortable. Lillian confirmed that I wanted a #4 on the sides and about half an inch off the top. Yes, that's great. Off she went, carefully blending with a #5 so I wouldn't have one of those Nazi-era ridge lines circumventing my head.

"Do you want it squared or rounded in the back?"

"You'd better make it rounded. I've got a couple of goofy cowlicks back there, as I'm sure you can see."

No kidding. Along my neckline on both sides in back my hair grows upward, while the hair between those two hairy whirlpools points downward with an odd duck-tail-like, pokey-out thing in the middle, hence the use of the #4 in the first place. I need to get it short enough to make all that mess disappear. I'd go for a full buzz cut except for the fact that I have this boney ridge running down the center of my head, front to back. If I got a buzz cut I'd look like a Klingon.

After some very skilled snipping and buzzing around the sides, Lillian moved to the top of my head and deftly lifted a line of hair pinched between her index and middle fingers. 

"Does that look like enough from the top?"

Now, keep in mind my glasses are in my shirt pocket. I'm nearly 55 years old, for crying out loud. I wear trifocals. I was sitting a good four feet from the mirror. That made my apparent image eight feet away. From that distance without glasses I could hardly tell it was me sitting across the way, let alone tell how much hair she was holding up.

"Yeah, that looks great."

I know exactly how people who can't read feel when they ask someone else to read a label for them at the grocery store because they 'left their glasses at home.'

All during the process, great tufts of hair fell onto my lap. Yikes! What's all that gray stuff? It looks exactly like . . . like . . . Flash back to when I was a kid. 

When I was four or five, my parents belonged to a square dancing club, or something. My mom got all dolled up in this puffy, turquoise colored dress, while my dad put on a western shirt and his favorite (only) Navajo bolo tie, which he still wears to this day at the age of 95. At the time, we lived in Window Rock, Arizona on the Navajo Nation. Well, back then everyone referred to it as the Navajo Reservation. It's still a reservation, but Navajo Nation sounds better. I remember clearly one night they dragged me along. Being a little kid, I was sleepy and whiny within minutes of arriving at the dance. Dad scooted six or eight old leather covered, padded folding chairs together, nose to nose, with a blanket over the top, forming a sleeping tent for me. It was real cozy. Besides that, it made a great fort.

This memory goes back to around 1958 or '59. Those padded folding chairs were ancient. I wouldn't be surprised if they were government surplus from the Spanish American War. I'm not kidding! I'm also guessing the old building where the dance was held was World War I vintage, maybe earlier. It was a rickety old barn-like structure made out of native stone. It's still standing, believe it or not. I don't know how. Even fifty years ago the old wooden floor bounced when the dance troupe really got revved up do-si-do-ing and promenading with great flourish. 

I clearly remember lying in my makeshift tent with my nose a couple of inches away from a hole in one of the padded seats. What's a little kid to do? Well, pull out the stuffing, of course. So I stuck my pinchy fingers in the hole and pulled out a big mat of this gray hair stuff. I popped out of that tent lickety-split as though I had pulled out a mouse. Dad was sitting right there, drinking some punch.

"Tommy, don't mess with that stuffing. It's old horse hair. Who knows how clean it is."

Today I was taken right back to that night long ago by the old gray horse hair looking fluff lying in my lap. Hmmm? I got to thinking. Maybe that stuffing in those chairs wasn't horse hair after all. Maybe some barber shop owner in Altoona had a stuffing contract with the Acme Padded Chair Company back in the day.

Tal

Tal is a student who has never been in my class. However, I’ve known him for over seven years now. He’s one of those kids who gives me high fives when we cross paths in the hall. Tal has very significant intellectual disabilities. He also has Downs Syndrome. It’s a funny thing with Downs Syndrome. Some folks with it have only mild intellectual impairments, while others truly struggle. Tal struggles. Tal is also significantly overweight. I’m not sure if packing on extra pounds is part of Downs Syndrome or if added weight comes from the medications he takes. You see, many people with Downs have poorly developed hearts and lungs. It’s common for many to be on a regimen of steroids to help their lungs function as well as they can. Needless to say, steroids can cause very significant weight gain.

I have no idea where Tal’s girth comes from, but he is a big boy. Even when he was in the elementary school section of Hartvigsen School, he was big. If he decided he wasn’t going to do something, he was quick to plop down, defying anyone in authority to just try and sling him over their shoulders to get him from point A to point B. When Tal decided not to budge, it became clear in a hurry who was in control of the situation.

One Friday I walked into the lunchroom only to see a group of long-time staff members cajoling Tal. He had planted himself confidently under one of the lunch tables. He wasn’t going anywhere. Tensions were rising because it was less than a half hour until it was time for him to get on the bus to go home. Those poor women were trying every threat they could think of to get him to move.

“Tal, if you don’t get out from under there right now, you won’t get any chocolate milk for a week.”

“You get yourself up from there this instant. You’re going to find yourself doing laps the whole time when you go swimming next.”

One of the ladies turned to me.

“Tom, can you see if you can get him out from under there?”

“Well,” I whined rather in protest, “he doesn’t really know me. I don’t think I can do much more than you guys are doing.”

I didn’t feel like I had the time. If I remember right, one of my own students had just pooped his pants. He is the only person I’ve ever known who could poop on demand. He did it frequently just before it was time to get on the bus. My guy seemed to have the compelling need to be in control, too.

A couple of my staff members were taking care of our little forest fire, so I didn’t have to get in the middle of that particular mess. I went back to the lunchroom to see if I could lend a hand after all. I got there just in time to see Phil, one of the staff, raise his hands in that sort of “Whoa, stop” gesture:

“Ladies, ladies. Go back to your classes. I’ll get Tal up and going here in a minute.”

“Phil, don’t you dare cave in to him. You are just too soft. Tal needs to learn who’s in charge.”

“I’ve got it, ladies. Don’t worry.”

I stepped back into my classroom for a couple of minutes, but I had to go back to the lunchroom to see how Phil was going to handle this.

There was Phil, sitting with Tal under the table carrying on a one sided conversation. Tal didn’t talk much. He just grunted once in a while and smiled a lot.

“What do you think, Tal? Is it going to be a great weekend?”

That garnered a big grin and a grunt.

“What’s say I walk you to the bus. Can I sit with you on the bus until the bus driver kicks me off?’

Another grunt and a big belly laugh.

Phil slides into a mock Chicago gangster accent, speculating how the driver will kick him off the bus.

“Hey, Phil. You’se needs to get offa my ride, or I’m gonna make ya wear some concrete over shoes.”

Another big laugh from Tal as he and Phil walk out of the lunch room, hand in hand. The last I see of Tal that day is him sitting with Phil on the bus laughing at Phil’s antics.

Let’s see now. Who was in charge? Well, Tal, of course. He was always in charge of himself and the situation. Phil just worked his magic to help Tal move in the direction he really wanted to go in the first place. I really think Tal wanted to go home as badly as everyone else that afternoon. He just needed to be given the chance to show it and to do it on his own.

I Can't Help Myself (click here to see original in Salt Lake Tribune)