Chem for Dogs

I'm not very strong in my comprehension of chemistry (in fact, I'm downright stupid when it comes to chemistry, as anyone who has taken a chem class with me can attest) and so I'm not going to try to explain why this happens (if you're curious, read this) but apparently, not only does salt melt ice, but it also lowers the temperature of the ice as it melts-- somehow the salt uses energy from the water to cause the melting, and when you take away energy, then things get colder . . . but the interesting part of this equation is that I learned this from my dog . . . the other day when it was very, very cold and I was walking him down at the park, he started bobbing up and down like he had Parkinson's, but then I noticed that he was walking on three legs-- he was holding one paw in the air, and I took a look at the paw and it wasn't injured so I just chalked it up to weirdness and in a moment he stopped, but when I brought this up at the dog park, everyone seemed to understand this principle about salt and ice and they all gladly told me about it (I talked to multiple people about this phenomenon, at different times, and everyone I talked to cited the fact that when you make ice cream, you use salt to lower the temperature of the cream . . . does everyone who owns a dog also make homemade ice cream?) and so my first solution to this problem was untenable: for a few days I carried my dog across the street to the park-- because all the salt collects on that patch of pavement-- but my dog is fairly heavy and I walk him a lot, so that got old quick . . . instead, I bought him some Musher's Secret paw wax and that did the trick . . . and now I can proudly say that my dog taught me more about chemistry than that old bat I had in high school.

Another Note to Self . . . This is How to Create an Infinite Loop

An easy way to hear my wife use profanity is to spill some granola on the counter, and then instead of cleaning it up, simply sweep it off the counter and onto the floor where "the dog will get it" but the dog gets scared when my wife uses profanity, so this created a infinite loop of me calling the dog over to lick up the granola, my wife yelling at me for my slovenly habits, the dog skulking away because he thought he was in trouble, the granola mess still being on the floor, and so -- once again -- I call the dog over to eat the granola, my wife yells at me for my slovenly habits, the dog skulks away because he thinks he is in trouble, the mess still on the floor . . . and so finally I swept it up, and I won't do that again (in front of my wife).

Yesterday Was NOT Groundhog Day

I have a short window of time (30 minutes) between the end of the school day and soccer practice, and my house is right next to the middle school soccer field, so I have just enough time to go inside, change into my coaching gear, and do one or two other random things: sometimes I take the dog for a short walk, sometimes I eat a snack, sometimes I play the guitar or read, sometimes I unload the dishwasher or start the wash, sometimes I make iced coffee, sometimes I read Gheorghe:The Blog, and sometimes-- and this is a new one from yesterday and I hope it doesn't become a mainstay of my after-school-before-practice-schedule-- sometimes I let the dog out into the backyard, grab a bag of potato chips from the cabinet, and while I am opening the bag of chips, I hear fantastical growling and snarling in the yard, so I run out onto the back porch and see that the dog has a large groundhog by the scruff of the neck, shaking it to death, so I grab a wiffle ball bat, sprint down the porch steps, yell at the dog to drop the critter, and swing the bat menacingly (I'm not sure if I was swinging the bat at the dog or at the groundhog, it just seemed like the thing to do) and Sirius obeyed and let go of the groundhog, which fell on the grass and lay there, prone but breathing heavily, eyes open . . . so I led Sirius onto the back porch, brushed the groundhog hair off his legs, told him he was a good boy, and put him inside; then I went back out to deal with the dying animal in my yard-- knowing full well that my kids would be home in a few minutes and I needed to get down to the soccer field ASAP . . . and that's when I realized I should have let my dog finish the job and then made him drop the creature because now I had to finish the job, and I didn't grow up on a farm but I also didn't have time to contemplate much about the deed, and so I went inside, emptied out a cardboard box (Popchips . . . a humiliating casket, but what could I do?) and then went back out to the yard to tend to the groundhog . . . I had hoped that he might have miraculously recuperated and shuffled off, but he was still lying in the same spot, neck and back broken, but alive, so I whacked him over the head with a metal shovel, used the same instrument to load him into his cardboard casket, taped it shut, and drove the box to the park and tossed it in a dumpster . . . minutes later my kids arrived home, I told them an expurgated version of the story, and we went on our merry way to soccer practice.

They Maced Me! I Cried! And You'd Cry Too!

Someday, I will tell the story of Pip and the Mace (it's set in Daytona, circa 1991 . . . a classic) but while today's post is about tears, it's not about Pip's tears in a portable cell at the tail end of a wild night in a sleazy spring break beach town, it's about my tears and how I had to stop reading a book at the dentist to avoid looking like a fool; the book is W. Bruce Cameron's A Dog's Purpose, which my son Ian chose for our family-book-club, and he finished it weeks ago . . . on the beach . . . this is the only book my son has ever read while at the beach, my wife said it was bizarre-- he actually couldn't put it down (my wife loved it as well) but when I started reading, it seemed to me like a creative writing assignment gone bad: it's the story of a unique canine consciousness searching for its purpose-- but the dog lives through multiple lives, reincarnating after each death . . . the synopsis is utterly ridiculous and childish and silly, and the book feels that way for the first five pages but then -- especially if you're a dog owner-- the story becomes riveting and also makes you contemplate the philosophy of the whole animal consciousness thing (which apparently is far more sophisticated than people once believed, read this book for the latest research) and then there's the crying . . . I cried multiple times while powering through the book yesterday, our new dog Lola napping at my feet, the ghost of my old dog Sirius roaming through my house and my memory and I only had twenty pages left when I took my son to the dentist today, and so I brought the book-- but I also brought a back-up book, something dry (Mark Kurlanky's Salt: A World History . . . pun intended) in case I started blubbering in the waiting room . . . and when I started reading, I could feel the tears coming (my son Ian, a tough kid, said, "If you don't cry at the end of this book, you have no soul") and so I switched over to Kurlansky's take on the divinity and wonder and significance of sodium chloride, and avoided clouding up my own eyes with brine and finished the book in the privacy of my home, my trusty dog nearby.

Bring Back the Boom Box!

I am making my way through Kevin Simler and Robin Hanson's book The Elephant in the Brain: Hidden Motives in Everyday Life . . . the thesis is that not only is our rational mind a "slave to the passions" but that it is beneficial to not recognize this . . . we have a purposeful evolutionary blind spot in our brain that makes us not only hide our true motivations from others but also hide them from ourselves; Simler and Hanson claim that at the root of many of our seemingly altruistic and pure motives are much more self-serving ends, often to show our fitness to the opposite sex and society at large . . . you gave to charity to help the children, of course, but also to show that you have excess funds and are willing to use them to help the community at large . . . but admitting the latter is in poor taste; while you know that a consistent bedtime is great for your children's health, it also really nice to get the little buggers out of you and your wife's hair at the end of the day; you enjoy playing an instrument and don't mind the tedious practicing, but your skill and confidence is also signalling that you have extra time and energy and cognitive ability and manual dexterity to pursue something aesthetic in your spare time; you recently decided that gun control is a good thing and attended the march in Washington, but you also want to signal to your team just how much you despise Trump and the Republicans . . . the book is a light read (with no solutions to this hole in our cognition) but it will get you thinking about what people are possibly signalling with their actions; here are two things that came to my mind:

1) I've been really broken up about the loss of our dog-- I've been listless and cranky and out of sort since we put him down-- and we had off on Thursday for a "slush day" and I went for a run in the snow in Donaldson Park and this made me sad, because Sirius would always accompany me around the park when it snowed . . . and I recognized that part of this sadness was missing the companionship of my trusty pet and part of it is missing the signalling; when you walk or run or bike with a well-trained athletic dog, you are showing the world that you like animals, that you have a purpose, that you have spent much quality time with this happy creature-- and Sirius was especially well-behaved and friendly . . . in a very real sense, he would attract people (sometimes even good looking people of the opposite sex) because a friendly well-trained dog signals something very particular to the world that we often don't think about, especially if there's a routine about it . . . so I miss that signalling as much as I miss my dog, the hefty responsibility of having a dog is actually part of the attraction: you are saying, on top of my wife and kids and job and all that, I can also take care of an animal and train it properly and exercise with it and take it on adventures . . . and now if I take a walk in the park, I'm just a lonely middle-aged man out for a stroll;

2) I've had a number of people tell me they've essentially stopped listening to music-- they've moved to podcasts and audiobooks-- and I'm wondering if this is a result of cell-phones and headphones and air-conditioning and the ubiquity and accessibility of all content; there's much less communal listening because of digital technology; everybody has everything right inside their phone so you don't need to hang out with your friend who bought the newest CD and sit and listen with them . . . when you are listening communally, music is a real signal-- whether it be on a boom box or a car with all the windows open-- then you need to blast stuff for your tribe: hip hop or alternative or jazz or whatever-- and if people of your tribe are listening, then the signals can get really precise: alt-country is very different than hot country, the type of hip-hop indicates whether you are a wannabe gangsta or a cerebral proponent of multiculturalism  but there's much less of this now, people are ensconced in their own private sonic worlds, so they can listen to whatever music they want and no one will know but they can still signal to the outside world with their audio consumption, it's just more about the residue . . . I certainly like to listen to podcasts, but I also like the after-effect: I know some new stuff that might contribute to the next conversation I participate in . . . and an audiobook is similar, not as much fun to listen to in the moment, but the aftereffect is significant, you've read a book and can discuss this and review it and show off your cognitive ability and your allegiance to particular ideas and people . . . music is a much more powerful signal in the moment, when there's a number of people listening and I think it's sad that we've moved away from this, so the only solution is to buy some giant C batteries and bring back the boom box.

Trump Causes More Shit

Last week, after visiting the dog park, I tried to walk home along the river. It was damn near impassable. The grass and the path were strewn with goose poop. Disgusting for me, and a health hazard for my dog. She loves to eat the stuff, and it's laden with bacteria and parasites. The last time she chowed down on it, she threw up all over my van. Yuck.

This was the last straw for me. The geese never shit on the river path. There are a few areas in Donaldson Park that are consistently covered in fecal matter (and they are easy enough to avoid) but this winter-- perhaps because we never got solid snow cover-- the entire park was littered with the stuff. Every sporting field, every paved path . . . from the grassy meadows to the muddy banks. Poop poop poop poop. The only spot in the park not covered with goose poop was the dog park. But I couldn't walk through the other sections of the park to get to the dog park. There was too much shit. So I had to take the street along the park and cut into the park on the trail just past the public works building and the diesel fuel tank. This route is not scenic at all. It's damn near tragic. I live next to Donaldson Park so I can walk around in Donaldson Park.

My New "Scenic Route" to the Dog Park

I generally managed to keep Lola from eating goose poop on my way back from the river, but it was not pleasant or relaxing. So I was pretty irate when I got home. I had been through a scatological minefield, and I was certainly suffering from PTSD: Post Traumatic Shit Disorder. I was fired up. But instead of my usual complaining into the void, I decided to do something: I would write an email to the powers that be. I cranked out a couple paragraphs of crackpot commentary to the county parks director. I was vivid. I was livid. I was graphic. I was gross. I mentioned bacteria and parasites. I recalled that there used to be a guy that would come in and scare the geese away. He would set off fireworks and place silhouettes of dogs in the fields. What happened to that guy? Donaldson Park needed that guy! My tone was polite but frustrated. What other tone is there when you're dealing with goose-shit?

Here's what I got back. I was very pleased with the prompt reply (and properly indignant about the causes of the excessive poop).

A Prompt Clarification on the Shit Storm

Mr. Pellicane,

Thank you for your message regarding Canada goose numbers at Donaldson Park.  The County currently contracts with the Wildlife Services Division of the USDA, Animal and Plant Health Inspection Services for Canada goose management on all County properties.  This include harassment and egg treatments.  They cover over two dozen sites throughout the County.  With our proximity to water, open space and mild winters, controlling geese is always a challenge.

The biggest problem we are having this year is with the somewhat milder winter.  Many geese that pushed southward last year, simply did not this year.  Additionally, with the federal government shutdown for 35 days in December and January, all contracts were suspended.  Harassment during this time was minimal – only what our staff could get to.

We are certainly behind on behavior modification and it is apparent in many of our parks.  Our USDA tech is back on the job (for now, anyway) however, we are playing catch up across the County.  I have asked for increased visits to Donaldson Park over the next week and if there is not another shutdown, continued aggressive harassment for the next few.  This should hopefully help alleviate some of the pressure on Donaldson Park from the geese.

Thank you,

Rick Lear

Director

Office of Parks and Recreation

Department of Infrastructure Management

Let's Assign Some Blame!

Trump! This was Trump poop. Caused by his government shutdown. And even better, Rick Lear alluded to Trump's arch-nemesis. He didn't call it by name (perhaps, like the EPA, he's forbidden). But when he refers to the "mild winter," we all know what he's talking about. Climate change! So I had stepped in Donald Trump's shit, caused by something he refuses to believe in, the Chinese hoax. I couldn't have been happier. English teachers love irony.

The biggest problem we are having this year is with the somewhat milder winter.  Many geese that pushed southward last year, simply did not this year.  Additionally, with the federal government shutdown for 35 days in December and January, all contracts were suspended. 

Rick Lear

I was also happy because getting upset about Trump shit is fun. This is because Trump is temporary. His ideas are outdated. He's a throwback, a dinosaur, soon to be extinct. A last gasp. In fact, despite the bipartisan quagmire and the incorrigible stupidity and corruption of the Trump administration, I'm feeling pretty good about the world, goose poop and all. This is mainly because I'm nearly done with Steven Pinker's book Enlightenment Now: The Case for Reason, Science, Humanism, and Progress. It's also because my wife is doing a lot of Zumba and looking great (but that's besides the point).

Pinker uses an avalanche of charts and statistics to remind us that we are living in the best of times. And this is because of th enlightenment values mentioned in the title: science, reason, secular humanism, liberal democratic ideas. The world has never been less violent, more healthy, more prosperous, safer, and more liberal. Despite what the naysayers prophesy, more people have rights than ever before, less people are at war than ever before, knowledge is more accessible, and democracy is on the rise. While there are challenges, we keep coming up with solutions. And the two existential threats-- the things that worry Pinker the most-- the environment (including global warming) and nuclear war . . . both of these things are improving. Slowly, but they are definitely improving. As countries grow richer, they do a better job preserving the environment; they reforest and recycle and use less fossil fuels and look for alternate energy sources. And we are slowly whittling down the number of nuclear weapons on earth. That number may never reach zero, but it doesn't have to. As long as we accept and understand the challenges, there are solutions on the horizon.

The Robots Are NOT Coming

Pinker also dispels some of the ridiculous notions that cause folks unnecessary anxiety: artificial intelligence experts don't fear the singularity. AI is not going to rebel and replace us. It's too hard to make a semi-conductor. It's too hard to make anything. It takes teams and teams of people and many highly technical factories and lots of resources. And we humans control all that. We are the kings of meat-space. And most of this perceived conflict is online. This is also the reason we probably don't have to fear technological nightmare scenarios caused by lone wolf lunatics. It takes too many smart people to create technology that advanced. Your computer may get a virus (but nothing as serious as Y2K) but you need a team of specialists to make a nuclear bomb or a super-virus, and it's hard to assemble that many people down with destroying the human race.

This is why rational people don't fear Donald Trump. He's not the face of the 21st century, he's a wart that will soon dry up. And fall off. He's an old wart.

Pinker does acknowledge that Trump will have an effect-- especially if we let him-- on some of these precious enlightenment ideals that have served us so well. He's an impediment to "life and health" because of his anti-vaxxer rhetoric and his role in dismantling our healthcare system. He's a threat to worldwide wealth because of his idiotic zero-sum notions about trade. Countries that are tied together economically cooperate. They don't go to war. He's certainly not helping economic inequality, nor is he a boon to safety, on the job or otherwise. He hates regulations, which often spur progress and make business seek solutions to problems (such as car crashes, plane crashes, poisoning, tanker leaks, lead levels, mileage restrictions, etc). He's not particularly keen on democracy and seems to have a penchant for dictatorial strongmen. He's no fan of equal rights, and his speeches and Tweets often have an undercurrent of xenophobia and racism. And he's a liar liar pants on fire. So he's not an ambassador or advocate to the wonders of available and accurate knowledge.

The Glass Is Half Full? So Lame . . .

Optimism is not cool. Pinker is an utter nerd. It's more fun to obsess over Trump and predict the end of civility, the end of civilization. Trump is certainly a shitshow, and Michael Lewis does a nice job illustrating some of the consequences of his incomptetence. And he's an environmental disaster. But we are progressing despite him. You need proof? Listen to Adam Ruins Everything Episode 1, where Adam talks at length with the Los Angeles DOT Seleta Reynolds. Streetcars, bike lanes, public transport, walkable neighborhoods and plazas . . . in the car capital of the country. In LA? Sounds like a hippie's dream and a conservative's nightmare. But this progressive vision is happening, despite Trump, and with federal funding. There are difficulties, of course, but when you hear this dedicated and intelligent government employee explaining that the market won't solve these problems of morals and values, it's really heartening. She's also really funny.

Pinker is an atheistic utilitarian who may not have enough feelings about anything to move the stalwarts on the left or the right. He glosses over some pretty bad shit. But that's because he's looking at the numbers, not at the emotions. Not at identity politics or anything particularly political. He's in the same corner as President Obama, who wrote a miniature version of the Pinker book for Wired Magazine. It's an essay called "Now Is the Greatest Time to Be Alive." It's not nearly as fun as visions of rusted out towns full of drug-addled opiate addicts (not the whole story) and porous unwalled borders which allow terrorists, criminals and rapists to pour into our nation. Statistically supported optimism can't match Chinese bandits stealing our intellectual property, black people who don't know their proper place (let's make America Great Again! And Institutionally Racist!) and liberal socialists who want to empower the government so that it controls every aspect of our lives. The end of times. That's what gets the clicks.

But I'm siding with Rick Lear. He's going to be around long after Trump is gone, directing county parks and rec infrastructure, fighting the good fight against the geese. He'll suffer mild winters and government shutdowns, deal with cranky emails, and continue to make this country greater than it's ever been. I have faith that he's going to make my local park greater. He's going to get rid of those geese (and their shit).

I believe.

Pinker's incremental pragmaticism does have it's problems. Robert Gordon, in his comprehensive work The Rise and Fall of American Growth claims that we've captured all the technological "low hanging fruit" and that advances will be tiny and slow for a long time. And Charles C. Mann provides a much more balanced picture in his new book, The Wizard and Prophet. Pinker is a fan of Norman Borlaug, the agricultural engineer who founded the Green Revolution‌, but there are those scientists who don't believe technology will bail us out of every dilemma. We might need old-fashioned conservation to preserve our way of life. Mann uses ecologist William Vogt to represent this perspective. It's one worth noting.

Pinker is also not very romantic. There's no room for honor and zealotry and fanaticism and mysticism and martyrdom and certain types of selfless ascetic heroism in his philosophy. He's no Hamlet, who says to his buddy Horatio: "There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy." But Hamlet has seen a spirit, his father's spirit. The time is out of joint. Something is rotten. That's not so in Pinker's secular, statistical view of progress. Society will be less varied, but I have to admit, I don't really care. I won't miss the zealous fanatical whirling mystical martyrs one bit.

I'd much rather have a river blindness vaccine. And people are working on it.

Early Morning Date with a Dead Dog

You never know where the adventure of parenthood is going to take you . . . this morning I woke up my son Ian at 5:45 AM and we drove over to Carolyn's house-- Ian does odd jobs, outdoor work, and dog sitting for her-- and Carolyn's dogs are old, one is deaf and blind and the other had severe problems with his back legs and needed to be put down yesterday . . . poor Huckleberry . . . anyway, the vet came to her house and put the dog down last night and Carolyn needed a couple of people to carry the dog to her car this morning so she could drive the dog to the crematorium . . . so Ian and I started our day by lugging a seventy-pound carcass out of Carolyn's living room and wresting it into the back of her Subaru and then Ian went back to bed and I got ready for work . . . dogs-- they just don't live long enough.

Dogs and Shakespeare

Our family is dog-sitting for a dog that does not respond to his name -- and nothing is more embarrassing than the "master" trying to grab an evasive dog at the dog park; I felt like King Claudius in the Kenneth Branagh production of Hamlet, when he awkwardly attempts to grab the mad and strait-jacketed Ophelia -- while still maintaining his kingly demeanor -- and she eludes him (2:54 in the clip above) -- the only consolation is that my dog, sensing an opportunity to show off his good behavior, because a model pet, loyal and attentive, in order to show me that he cannot and will not be replaced by an interloper.

Dogs Will be Dogs

It was yesterday morning, 6 AM, dark and chilly, and I was walking the dog . . . but I was in the home stretch, nearing my driveway-- the dog's feces bagged and tossed in a dumpster-- and I was ready for a well-deserved cup of coffee, when-- with a yank so sudden my fingers didn't have time to clench-- the leash shot out of my hands and Sirius shot across the street into the darkness of the neighbor's yard, chasing a cat . . . and I was angry at myself, for not seeing the cat, and angry at my dog, for being such a cliche, for being so hackneyed and lame . . . for being the kind of dog that liked to chase cats; for being such a typical chauvinistic stereotypical canine who couldn't control himself when he saw that arched back, those glowing eyes, and that rigid tail . . . so I stomped into the house, told my wife I didn't have time for a cat-chasing dog because I had to go to work, went back outside with a treat, and-- luckily-- heard the jingling sound of his collar, and then, once we were back inside the house, I wondered if I should actually give him the treat . . . because then I would be rewarding his cat-chasing . . . but I decided cats were an attractive nuisance, and the people that own them shouldn't let them roam the town because they eat songbirds and tempt dogs . . . and dogs will be dogs and so I gave him the treat because he returned home after his little adventure (and I'm really not sure what he would actually do with a cat if he caught one . . . hopefully we'll never find out).

Sometimes You Need To Take Yourself For A Walk

I am browsing through Cesar's Way: The Natural, Everyday Guide to Understanding and Correcting Common Dog Problems, which is written by Cesar Milan-- the "dog whisperer" himself (no relation to the slightly lesser known "dog hollerer") and Cesar believes that walking your dog is the "single most powerful tool" to connect with your dog's mind, as "fish need to swim, birds need to fly . . . and dogs need to walk," and I think this might be true for humans as well, but the difference is that humans don't need to walk in a pack-- obediently following the pack leader-- humans need to walk themselves . . . we occasionally need to be alone and moving with complete autonomy-- I think this taps into our hunter-gatherer roots . . . perhaps it's why women like to go shopping; I certainly walk to relieve stress and my friend Whitney recently reminded me of a perfect example of how well this works: several years ago Whitney and I drove from Virginia to Colorado for a wedding, and we were supposed to get a good night's sleep and start the drive bright and early, but instead we stayed up until three in the morning drinking beer and playing darts, and then we spent twenty-two hung-over hours in the car together, and when we arrived at our destination in Boulder and parked the car, we had a brief argument about the best way to walk downtown-- where we were meeting a friend-- but the argument was more about being in the car too long with each other, and so, without any formal good-bye, we simply parted ways, and I took the high road and Whitney took the low road, and twenty minutes later, we met at the bar (I think Whitney got there first, but we actually didn't speak of our separation or the argument until hours later) and after each of us had our "walk," we were able to tolerate each other again . . . and even cooperate with each other: we bought a wiffle-ball and bat and when we crossed the continental divide, we took turn pitching to each other in a very civilized fashion until Whitney hit one over the edge of the continent: the ball plummeted over a cliff and onto a snowbank and we were quite pleased with ourselves-- but then, to our surprise, some high school kids clambered down the cliff and formed a human chain and "rescued" the ball and returned it to us, so we had to hit it off the divide again.

This Is the Closest My Dog Will Get to Downhill Skiing (and the Closest I Will Get To Being a Chairlift)

I've already discussed the pros and cons of the Walky Dog Hands Free Bicycle Leash but here is a practical use for this wonderful contraption, if you want your dog to experience the joys of downhill skiing . . . and if you'd like to experience the joys of being a human funicular: find a moderately steep hill, such as the one in Donaldson Park that leads down to the middle school soccer field, and then put your bike in the granny-gear and bike up the hill, turn around, and zoom down, your dog racing by your side . . . then repeat until your dog is tired and happy, and your legs can no longer function.

Operation . . . for Realsies

I hope you are enjoying vintage commercial/logical fallacy week here at Sentence of Dave, and I will begin this episode with an example of an excellent analogy: Saturday morning, I was about to leave the dog park with Sirius, and I noticed something bulbous beneath his eye-- a dog tick had attached itself to his lower eyelid-- so we hurried home and when I entered the house, I called to my wife: "Catherine? Can you get the tweezers? We're going to play Operation . . . for real" and the next sequence was perfectly analogous the old board game, except the punishment for a miscue wouldn't be a buzzing red light, it would be a one-eyed dog; I held Sirius steady, and after a couple of tentative failed attempts, Catherine nabbed the tick (without damaging the dog's eye) and then I found an old commercial for the game and showed it to my kids-- as I was so proud of my analogy-- and there's a really weird logical leap in the first moments of the ad, when the mom overhears her children say the word "operation" . . . she immediately assumes they are vivisecting the family dog . . . so my question is: what happened in the past to make her think this is the case?

Uh . . . Etiquette?

Early this morning, before sunrise, my dog and I turned left down 2nd Ave for our usual constitutional to the park-- but we had to beat a hasty retreat because a pack of women was walking an even larger pack of dogs (some-- but not all-- of the women were walking two dogs) and I didn't want Lola to start barking maniacally at all these dogs in the early morning darkness-- no one wants to be woken up like that-- so I did the right thing, put the walk in reverse, and walked back up Second Avenue: back towards my house-- and I know the women saw me do this-- but then when they got to the intersection of 2nd and Valentine, they followed me instead going up to the next block and turning-- so I walked Lola up our driveway and had her sit behind the Mazda to wait until they passed and then one lady let her two dogs lead her onto my lawn and across my driveway, and I mumbled some passive aggressive stuff to Lola: You're such a good girl . . . I'm not sure why this lady is walking her dogs towards you when I obviously walked away from them to avoid a bunch of early morning barking-- she must be very stupid, unlike you, you're a good girl--and I don't really understand where this lady is going or if she knows what the fuck she's doing, but you're a good girl and if I see these ladies again maybe I'll be collected enough to tell them what's what with dog-walking-etiquette . . . or perhaps they will stumble on this post-- but when you see someone turn their dog away from your dog to avoid conflict, don't follow that person, and especially don't follow them and then walk onto their lawn and driveway with your dog, unless you want a bunch of early morning barking.

Staunton and Beyond: A Deadly Hike, Breweries, and Cider Houses

The rest of our trip to Staunton was a bit more relaxing than the first two days. The day after our epic hike up Elliots Knob it rained, so we headed east past Waynesboro to hit some of the many breweries and ciders that litter this area.

First, we went across the Blue Ridge Parkway to Route 151 to visit the Blue Mountain brewery. The fog was epic. No visibility. Pea soup. We made it, but it was scary. The Blue Mountain set up is impressive: great beer, huge restaurant, several bars, indoor and outdoor seating, etc. The place was packed! Great atmosphere.

I only had exactly one beer though because I wanted to get back to Waynesboro in exactly one piece. The bartender was helpful-- he had comprehensive knowledge about every bar and brewery in Staunton and Waynesboro and beyond.

We took his advice and we headed back through the fog to Basic City Beer. This place is in a metalworks warehouse on the outskirts of Waynesboro. The beer is excellent, I especially liked the 6th Lord IPA. The warehouse is huge and has shuffleboard, corn hole, giant TVs, ping-pong, pinball machines, video games, etc. Great place to bring the family.

And they have a kitchen cooperative, a place that was once a food truck and had now moved into the warehouse. Hops Kitchen.

I broke my New Year's Resolution (even though it was before 2020) and had some pork, on these pulled pork nachos, which were ridiculous.

I also beat my wife at Bananagrams, which is not easy.

We then walked across the parking lot to Blue Toad Cider House. Good stuff. We bought some to bring back. Jersey hasn't started making good cider yet (that I know of).

Then back to Staunton. We ate at The Mill Street Grill. A low-ceilinged wood paneled place that feels quite high end, attentive service, great menu, and all that, but the prices are reasonable. Highly recommended.

The next day the weather was ridiculous. It was drizzling, but over 60 degrees. The weather report said the rain was going to stop, so we packed up the dog and headed to Crabtree Falls. We were a little worried about the state of the trail because so much rain had come down, and apparently people die on this hike all the time. All the time! Over thirty people! And pets die too.

We took the scenic route, which may have been 30 seconds fast on Waze, but was also 30 times more dangerous. Incredible windy road.

The rain stopped as we started hiking. I was in shorts and a t-shirt. While you can see how people die on this trail-- as there are a lot of really dangerous spots to take selfies-- if you follow the advice on the signs then you most definitely will not die. The trail is well marked and there are overlooks with sturdy railing intermittently. People must really do some sill stuff on a regular basis to keep up the death toll.

I was able to let Lola off the leash for a good portion of the trail, and just reeled her in and leashed her at the spots that looked like certain death. Catherine proclaimed that Crabtree Falls is her Number #1 Waterfall hike in the world. It is impressive. A lot of viewpoints and the falls are endless. It is billed as the longest waterfall east of the Mississippi.

After hiking the falls, we headed to Devil's Backbone Brewery Basecamp on 151. This is an amazing location: restaurant, meadows, outdoor seating, cafes, etc. The weather had become spring-break-like.  The staff was NOT prepared. The outdoor bar wasn't open and the place was utterly packed. The poor bartender was in the weeds! We were able to grab a beer and sit outside with the dog. Beer was great, this would be a great place to return when it's fully staffed and ready. 

                             

Next stop was Bold Rock Cider. This was our favorite place. We returned the next day-- it was colder as you can see by my wife's attire-- and sat and tasted ciders. 

                       

We eventually sat by the fire and talked to a pretty older mom--a Southern belle-- and her firebrand of a daughter. People in the south are so chatty. The mom had a nursing story about a quadrapelgic who was put into that tragic state by . . . you guessed it: Crabtree Falls! 

We also visited Wild Wolf Brewery, which had great beer and food. You could make a whole vacation of hiking and visiting breweries and cider houses on 151. The places are all spacious, and kid and dog friendly.

This was the only sad part of our vacation. 

Here's a shot of Staunton from above the train station. Really a great town to wander, with so many historic sites and buildings.

On our way to the breweries on 151, we did some driving on Skyline Drive through Shenandoah National Park and the Blue Ridge Parkway. 

It was windy.

Lots of scenic overlooks.

A great winter break trip with my lovely wife . . .

And our silly dog . . .

We made great time driving back to Jersey (because we left at 6:30 AM on New Year's Day . . . that's the way to do it). We walked into the house and it smelled weird. My parents had picked the kids up after we left for Virginia. They closed up the house. Ian left a bowl full of noodles on the counter, which had gone rotten. It smelled upstairs as well. One of them had urinated and did not bother to flush. That stuff fermented, yuck. Back to reality.

We picked the kids up that evening. My wife, myself, and the dog were happy to see them (and smell them). But the break was nice.

The Subtle Art of Naming a Canine (part II)

My son Alex and his friend Jack decided they approve of dogs with human names-- so our dog Lola and Jack's dog Walter fit the bill-- but the human name should be old school and not particularly common: you can't have a dog named "Michael," for instance . . . that's weird; every time you called for the dog people would think you lost a child.

Sirius Gives Alex a Birthday Gift

Rollercoaster week for the dog: Monday we had "the talk" with the kids, as Sirius's health appeared to be headed downhill-- he had a couple urination incidents in the house (which never happened before . . . what a dog!) and he was totally lethargic and miserable; after we discussed the reality of his situation, Ian curled into a ball and cried, then he went upstairs to take a nap, I cried when I tried to console him, Catherine cried and hugged me and told me that we'd never have another dog like him (she's had a lot of dogs) and I had a couple of sleepless nights trying to figure out when to put him down (I was hoping he would make it through the week, because today is Alex's birthday and tomorrow is my birthday . . . that's no present) but Sirius must have heard us planning to shuffle him off his mortal coil and decided he'd rather be than not be, because yesterday he started wagging his tail, he greeted me like normal when I got home from work, and he actually ate some dog food, today he properly pooped and actually jumped up when I was getting ready to walk him-- his usual behavior-- and then he wouldn't let me bring him home-- he just wanted to keep walking around the park . . . the vet said that some of these medicines might take a while to work, so we are now cautiously optimistic that something good is happening inside his body and perhaps the kidney infection is abating . . . but at the very least he's not going to head into that undiscovered country on my son's birthday (or mine, I hope).

Miraculous Ironic Juxtaposition with Exceptional Significance

As I got in my 2001 green and tan Subaru Outback (this will be important later in the sentence) at the local Quikcheck, I noticed that a guy from my pick-up basketball game was sitting in the mini-van parked next to my car, and a fluffy little white dog was sitting on his lap-- and I took a look at my dog, who happened to be in the backseat of my Subaru, and I felt deep sympathy for this guy next to me, because my dog is excellent looking-- he's sleek and black and streamlined, like a sports car-- and I had a moment where I felt great pity for all dudes that have fluffy little white dogs, instead of super-cool muscular black dogs-- and then the moment passed and I pulled out of the Quikcheck and was nearly run off the road by an intimidating '70's era muscle car-- a Charger or a Mustang, I think-- it was wide and mean looking, blue, with a thick white stripe on the hood (it looked like the car from Saxondale)-- and I'm sure the dude driving it felt the same way about me and my lame Subaru Outback that I felt about the guy with the fluffy white dog; and there are two ways I might interpret this miracle of juxtaposition:

1) I should respect people's choices-- maybe some guys likes fluffy white dogs and it's none of my business to think otherwise, or . . . .

2) I need to purchase a vintage muscle car so that I can pity people driving Subarus and minivans (and I'm leaning towards #2 because in six years, I'll be fifty and then I get to have a mid-life crisis).

That Dog Thinks It's a Car!

Our new dog is learning to run alongside me while I bike (she's attached to the bike by a bungie cord) and while she trots along at a pretty good clip, I think the dog I saw today from my car window would be an even better biking partner: this dog had no back legs and instead of them, she had a cart with two wheels which the rear portion of her body rested upon . . . so if she were attached to the bike, she could just pull up her front legs and basically become a sidecar.

Ian Writes an Ode to Our Dog

My son Ian had to write a "bio" poem for school-- and at first I thought this meant a "biology" poem-- but he told me that didn't make sense . . . although there is a great poem about biology called "Lines on the Antiquity of Microbes," and this is a very short poem so I will insert the entire thing inside this sentence:

Adam/ Had'em

but for this assignment, "Bio" is short for "biography" and Ian chose to write a "bio poem" about our dog Sirius-- and not only is it fabulous (it even contains a pun, of which he is very proud) but it's also exactly one sentence long-- and so I can append it to this rambling run-on:

Sirius the dog

Ingenious,

Talented,

Waggish,

Wishes to have a juicy, chewy, tasty steak waiting for him,

Dreaming to have an elongated beautiful tail that he’s missed since he was abandoned,

Who will never ever run away and if he does he’ll always come back,

Who wants to always help the world around him,

Who wonders if he will ever get some shuteye on the couch with permission,

Who fears flowing water and being abandoned again,

Who likes falling snow, people, and tons and tons of food,

Who believes he can do anything and everything he desires,

Who sees us as a family that cherishes him,

Who adores me, Mom, Dad, Alex, and everyone, except

the evil poodle that lives down the street,

Who plans to live with our family until the world comes to an end,

Sirius, Sirius Black: the bunny dog with a stub for a tail.

Serpentine!

I am teaching my dog Sirius to heel-- which essentially means that he needs to stay on my left side with his front legs even with me and he needs to adjust his gait to my movements-- and Sirius, although very good-natured, is also fast and athletic, so it's easy for him to get ahead on the leash, but I have been reading a lot of dog training books and one of the methods to get your dog to pay attention is to frequently change direction, which is what I have been doing-- I execute a left turn, then a right turn, walk to a tree, walk to another one, walk in a square, walk in a circle, go forward, go backward, etc.-- and I am sure everyone in the park thinks I am a lunatic who likes to torture his dog, especially when I'm executing the "serpentine," but I just channel Peter Falk and Alan Arkin from The In-Laws for inspiration.