Saturday, December 10, 2011
WTF?
I have matriculated. I am not sure how that will affect me as a teacher or as a parent, and frankly, the latter is my greatest concern. I so want to be a great father, but, I think that a continuing education is part of me being a good father, so...I am enrolled in an MFA program in Creative Writing. I am sure that I will get some heat for this, but I need to do it. Nuff said.
Thursday, December 8, 2011
New Journey
Yeah, hey, how you doin?
Off on a new journey, thinking I'm gonna kill this blog. I know this is gonna hurt you's and yours, but, whateva. Going to school am I , gonna get a fuckin mfa, whateva, you know. Be good youze, and see youze soon.
Off on a new journey, thinking I'm gonna kill this blog. I know this is gonna hurt you's and yours, but, whateva. Going to school am I , gonna get a fuckin mfa, whateva, you know. Be good youze, and see youze soon.
Friday, June 10, 2011
Hounds of Life
6-10-2011
After my brother passed away in July of 2001 I was blessed with the opportunity to upgrade my living conditions. While I wasn't given his house outright, I was able to move in and it helped to ameliorate his loss. I have written extensively about the loss and it wears on me daily. One of the first things I did after moving in was to acquire a dog - specifically, Dakota. I picked her up at the pound after a bizarre episode involving me, my fiancé' and the ASPCA of Orlando, Florida.
Having decided to solemnize our relationship and declare our relationship before the law and the lord, our first order of business seemed to involve taking on responsibilities that demonstrated, at least to us, our readiness to procreate. Like most new couples, that involved a dog when it should have involved a fish, a hamster, a snake or some other animal lower than a mammal. In retrospect, an ant farm might have been most appropriate, since, after all, who really cares if you forget to feed the ants, or if the ants die. At least with ants you can just toss them out in the yard which precludes flushing the fish down the toilet or finding a shoebox in which to bury the hamster. Least conspicuous of all would have been a rattlesnake which would have at least provided sustenance without the messy requirements of ridding ourselves of the evidence of our incompetence. Jonathan Swift might have been on to something.
Stupid is as stupid does and we dutifully slogged down to the animal shelter, ostensibly to look at what was available, but not to adopt. Being the consummate dork, I had researched what type of dog might be acceptable to us and our emergent lifestyle. My research yielded several important findings. We would be most suited to finding a dog without a wet mouth, that did not shed and that was low energy. We would not fall into the trap of most pound shoppers; we would not be taking a dog home on our first visit. Instead, we would coldly and with cunning calculation, view the animals available, leave the facility and return home to discuss our options, then return when we were confident of adding an animal to our small household that would be a perfect fit.
I think most discerning readers can predict accurately what happened. We walked into the facility and were immediately confronted with the option of turning right or continuing straight. Being a fan of Robert Frost, I opted for the road less traveled and we were immediately confronted with our first option, on the right. A mixed breed dog that was part Yellow Lab, part Golden retriever and part Whippet. An odd looking hound with upright ears and anxious nature, she was appealing. She had been dropped off just 30 minutes prior to our arrival.
We continued down the road less traveled and were confronted with several different snarling, angry versions of Pit Bull or Rottweiler or some strange combination of both. It was clear to both of us that the pick of this litter was the first dog we had seen, the mix that was the first dog on the right.
We asked to have the lab, retriever, whippet mix be let out to play with us in a small enclosure intended for this purpose. I threw a ball, she retrieved it...again and again. I rubbed her ears, pinched her paws and rolled her on her back, all activities advised by my research, in an effort to determine her suitability for our household and the children we had not yet had but were very much counting on. She passed with flying colors.
Having suitably completed our visit, I advised my betrothed that we were ready to return home, much to her dismay. She insisted we take that dog home, "or else someone else would." I responded that would be great as that was the purpose of the pound in the first place and reminded her that we had agreed that we would not be bringing a dog home that day. We were merely looking to see what was available.
There have been many battles that I have lost in the ensuing ten years but this battle is the one I am most glad to have lost. We dropped over two hundred dollars that day on adoption fees, spay fees and equipment, but we brought her home, that Dakota, the hound with the wet mouth, that sheds and that is hyperactive.
We got Dakota home and I commenced her training in the only fashion I knew - a mix of uncommon sense and research. I connected her leash to my belt to teach her to focus on me and recognize me as her leader. All I taught her was to pee in our bathroom. I made her homemade dog food with a pressure cooker from chicken parts and learned that the wrong diet results in bloody diarrhea and vomit in the crate. I learned that dogs do not know when to quit and bloody paw prints on a pool deck indicate it might be time to stop throwing the Frisbee. I learned that if your three year old steps on your sleeping dog, she is going to growl and snap, but she might not bite. I learned that if I try to pull my dog out of a fight with another dog when she thinks she is protecting her kids, she is going to bite me too. I learned to love the dog that pees her bed at night, that sheds enough to knit a new sweater every two days and that barks at shadows now that she is 13 years old. I learned to whistle or to stomp to get her attentions because she is deaf now. I learned to love a noble animal.
And now, as I follow her halting gate up stairs, as I worry about the tumor, fatty and not cancerous I assume, as I brush her, as I hug her, I realize what it means to share a life with a good friend. I have had her for eleven of her thirteen years, and I hope to have her for another eleven. But I know. I know we are nearing the end and I have regret. I regret not training her, not spoiling her and not enjoying her more, and that is why she has been a great dog. She has taught me to raise my kids.
I will not be confronting my last days and thinking the same thoughts about my children. I will not have regrets about time spent with them. I will wear it out daily. This is what my dog, Dakota, has taught me and this is why every man needs a dog.
After my brother passed away in July of 2001 I was blessed with the opportunity to upgrade my living conditions. While I wasn't given his house outright, I was able to move in and it helped to ameliorate his loss. I have written extensively about the loss and it wears on me daily. One of the first things I did after moving in was to acquire a dog - specifically, Dakota. I picked her up at the pound after a bizarre episode involving me, my fiancé' and the ASPCA of Orlando, Florida.
Having decided to solemnize our relationship and declare our relationship before the law and the lord, our first order of business seemed to involve taking on responsibilities that demonstrated, at least to us, our readiness to procreate. Like most new couples, that involved a dog when it should have involved a fish, a hamster, a snake or some other animal lower than a mammal. In retrospect, an ant farm might have been most appropriate, since, after all, who really cares if you forget to feed the ants, or if the ants die. At least with ants you can just toss them out in the yard which precludes flushing the fish down the toilet or finding a shoebox in which to bury the hamster. Least conspicuous of all would have been a rattlesnake which would have at least provided sustenance without the messy requirements of ridding ourselves of the evidence of our incompetence. Jonathan Swift might have been on to something.
Stupid is as stupid does and we dutifully slogged down to the animal shelter, ostensibly to look at what was available, but not to adopt. Being the consummate dork, I had researched what type of dog might be acceptable to us and our emergent lifestyle. My research yielded several important findings. We would be most suited to finding a dog without a wet mouth, that did not shed and that was low energy. We would not fall into the trap of most pound shoppers; we would not be taking a dog home on our first visit. Instead, we would coldly and with cunning calculation, view the animals available, leave the facility and return home to discuss our options, then return when we were confident of adding an animal to our small household that would be a perfect fit.
I think most discerning readers can predict accurately what happened. We walked into the facility and were immediately confronted with the option of turning right or continuing straight. Being a fan of Robert Frost, I opted for the road less traveled and we were immediately confronted with our first option, on the right. A mixed breed dog that was part Yellow Lab, part Golden retriever and part Whippet. An odd looking hound with upright ears and anxious nature, she was appealing. She had been dropped off just 30 minutes prior to our arrival.
We continued down the road less traveled and were confronted with several different snarling, angry versions of Pit Bull or Rottweiler or some strange combination of both. It was clear to both of us that the pick of this litter was the first dog we had seen, the mix that was the first dog on the right.
We asked to have the lab, retriever, whippet mix be let out to play with us in a small enclosure intended for this purpose. I threw a ball, she retrieved it...again and again. I rubbed her ears, pinched her paws and rolled her on her back, all activities advised by my research, in an effort to determine her suitability for our household and the children we had not yet had but were very much counting on. She passed with flying colors.
Having suitably completed our visit, I advised my betrothed that we were ready to return home, much to her dismay. She insisted we take that dog home, "or else someone else would." I responded that would be great as that was the purpose of the pound in the first place and reminded her that we had agreed that we would not be bringing a dog home that day. We were merely looking to see what was available.
There have been many battles that I have lost in the ensuing ten years but this battle is the one I am most glad to have lost. We dropped over two hundred dollars that day on adoption fees, spay fees and equipment, but we brought her home, that Dakota, the hound with the wet mouth, that sheds and that is hyperactive.
We got Dakota home and I commenced her training in the only fashion I knew - a mix of uncommon sense and research. I connected her leash to my belt to teach her to focus on me and recognize me as her leader. All I taught her was to pee in our bathroom. I made her homemade dog food with a pressure cooker from chicken parts and learned that the wrong diet results in bloody diarrhea and vomit in the crate. I learned that dogs do not know when to quit and bloody paw prints on a pool deck indicate it might be time to stop throwing the Frisbee. I learned that if your three year old steps on your sleeping dog, she is going to growl and snap, but she might not bite. I learned that if I try to pull my dog out of a fight with another dog when she thinks she is protecting her kids, she is going to bite me too. I learned to love the dog that pees her bed at night, that sheds enough to knit a new sweater every two days and that barks at shadows now that she is 13 years old. I learned to whistle or to stomp to get her attentions because she is deaf now. I learned to love a noble animal.
And now, as I follow her halting gate up stairs, as I worry about the tumor, fatty and not cancerous I assume, as I brush her, as I hug her, I realize what it means to share a life with a good friend. I have had her for eleven of her thirteen years, and I hope to have her for another eleven. But I know. I know we are nearing the end and I have regret. I regret not training her, not spoiling her and not enjoying her more, and that is why she has been a great dog. She has taught me to raise my kids.
I will not be confronting my last days and thinking the same thoughts about my children. I will not have regrets about time spent with them. I will wear it out daily. This is what my dog, Dakota, has taught me and this is why every man needs a dog.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Whoa!
Lonely, lonely for being a fool. Life is rough and it is kicking my ass right now. I haven’t posted here since May and that is a reflection of the ass kicking life is giving me. I know that the beat down is my own fault, but I still am not treasuring it. Whateve!
I haven’t written in a while and my lack of production is weighing heavily on me. I really need to finish my novel and get it off to an agent so I can move forward, but it is hard. I have kids and a day job and they take a lot of time, but my heart is truly in finishing this novel.
I will roll.
Spike
I haven’t written in a while and my lack of production is weighing heavily on me. I really need to finish my novel and get it off to an agent so I can move forward, but it is hard. I have kids and a day job and they take a lot of time, but my heart is truly in finishing this novel.
I will roll.
Spike
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