Life

The Dogfather or Prairie Pothole

What’s the Edgar Allen Poe story about the heart beating through the floorboard so he tells on himself? He just couldn’t stand the tick-tick-ticking. Tell Tale Heart. That’s it. I remember now.

I understand it too. Let me explain.

Its been a rough week for rodents around our house. We will start with the tragic tale of the rabbit. Appropriate because we are on the eve of Good Friday which means only three days until an immortal anthropomorphic do-gooder sneaks in and leaves shredded paper and chocolates all over my fucking house. Why do we do the fake grass? Can we not?

Back on track. The rabbit.

Four o’clock in the morning last Sunday morning. Judy Cornbread is barking at something near the carport entry door. I wander out into the darkness in boxers and a pair of camo crocks. I know this because my Ring doorbell recorded it. In all its glorious detail. Bigfoot is blurry but my side pudge and back hair somehow really pops in monochrome. If I get robbed by a chubby naked guy don’t worry, that ring doorbell will yield some of the clearest evidence the police ever receive.

What it also recorded was a pair of German Shepherd dogs that were trying to destroy the rabbit cage. They knocked it over and shredded the roof to pieces. The bunny was covered in water and dirt and they were trying so very hard to get through the wire. I grabbed a nearby military grade assault broom and cocked it. I flew into action like a ninja. The dogs ran away but the damage was done. Our bunny was broken. We pampered the quadriplegic cottontail for a little while hoping to nurse him back to health by regenerating neurons with fistfuls of hope but in a moment we weren’t paying attention that trickster flopped over; dead as a hammer.

We held a goodbye ceremony and burial in the backyard. He was buried like a king, in a Walmart sack inside a Steve Madden shoe box.

But life woes comes in threes. So let’s talk about the prairie dogs.

First, I’ll set the stage a bit. One of the first pets that I wanted when I was twelve was a prairie dog. Like, I really really wanted one. I was going to build a giant network of pvc pipes and watch them do prairie dogs shit. All. Day. Long. I needed a prairie dog.

Fast forward and I’m a late thirties man who realized that my mother could no longer tell me no and I had just finished a whiskey tasting so I was full on confidence. Supermom showed me a lady online who rescued the baby PDs and adopted them out. I immediately gave the “make-it-rain” hand motion and told my shopping sugar mama to “buy two”. And she did because when the hell do I ever suggest an animal? Strike while the iron is hot!

So we became prairie dog owners. Two boys. Nigel and Johnathan Brisby. Two proper little gentlemen. For a while it was bliss but that bliss ended this last Monday…

I walked out into the sunroom to the enclosure and I noticed something was off. The smell was akin to potting soil and the inside of a deer after it is field dressed. Dead for sure but not rotten. Just gross.

I look around for my boys and I only see Brisby. He is covered in dried blood. He is also fat. Like extra fat from the normal obese that he usually carries around. He is chewing on a piece of food and staring at me.

My mind probes the situation.

“But where is Nigel?

And what are those pieces of wood and cloth scattered on the floor of the cage? Looks like pieces of popsicle sticks. Oh wait.

Is that a foot? That’s definitely a foot.

Holy Shit Brisby! You ate your brother!”

I realize that I’m not only smelling death. I’m smelling murder and cannibalism. It is earthy and coppery and a little like uncooked steaks. I have to leave the room. One of my pets has eaten an entire other one of my pets.

That murderous rat killed and ate his brother in under 24 hours. Dedication. He had a glint in his eye that I hadn’t seen before. A darkness swirling around a shiny blade. He knew that since he had consumed his brother so quickly that he would hold his life energy for a short time. He knew that he had to take advantage of wielding the power of two prairie dogs to escape from his cage and rule the world under his furry iron fist. I knew that he could no longer be trusted. Before I could even mourn the loss of Nigel I was plotting the death of his killer.

We are all tough until the real work is staring us in the face; demanding to be done. I tried to find sympathy and reason behind those beady black eyes and those teeth stained a light tinge of red. I knew my friend was gone. I knew what I had to do. Supermom called to let me know that she would be home soon with the children. They weren’t ready for more loss. I had to move quickly.

*Googles rapidly.*

How do you euthanize a murderous zombie rodent humanely? Nothing.

*Thinks of scenarios*

Poison? Too slow.

Shotgun? Too loud.

Hammer? Too splattery.

Zip Tie? Too edgy and dark.

Tiny noose and a decent paperweight tied to his little ankles? Too tedious.

Put him in a Walmart sack and windmill him hard into the pavement? Too… maybe, I’ll circle back…

Electric chair for fairies? You get the point.

In the end, I did the thing that had to be done. Maybe. Don’t judge. He scared me.

Who am I? Pragmatist? Madman? Veterinarian?

I then placed his warm body and what was left of his brother’s rib cage into a garbage bag and placed it by the curb. It was promptly picked up the next morning. No burial. No eulogy. Only a nod to the garbage man as he passed.

I’ve only told one of the kids. She asked if I had a picture. WTF?

And none of this is the sad part.

As I watched the truck pull away I realized that in the short span of two days we had lost three of our beloved pets. And fucking Jasper is STILL ALIVE. Thanks Biden.

Oh yeah, apparently Judy Cornbread watched the events through the sliding glass door. I don’t know if dogs understand everything that goes on but I’ll tell you this… she has been a more responsive dog for the past week.

If you are a heartless monster, this post is for you. How could you?! You know what you did. The truth has weighed heavy on me so I submit it here. My confession. You’re welcome.

-Underdaddy to the rescue.

Crystal Cat Litter

Let’s talk about cats.

One of the banes of my existence…

is cleaning out the cat litterbox. I don’t even know if I have multiple banes or just one but either way the litter box is tops. We have to keep the box in a cabinet with a half-cracked door so only the cat can squeeze in and out. If we don’t then our dogs constantly sneak into the laundry room and eat hot-n-ready cat snacks. I generally wouldn’t mind because I think people (and dogs) should be free to live their best life but all the attempted face licks and crumbles of litter expanding in the water bowl are too much. I tried switching to the minty litter and telling myself it was good for the dogs’ breath but I knew… Then they puked a belly of sparkle minty cat cookies in the foyer only to eat them again and puke them again elsewhere. So… in the cabinet the box goes. Out of sight. Out of mind.

The trouble with the out-of-sight approach is that I forget about it. Not for a day or two but for a week. I remember when I start seeing cat tracks created by standing in super-saturated litter and then walking across the hardwood. How is the litter wet? How does my cat pee that much? Does she have cat diabetes or something? It just seems to happen too quickly. There is more liquid in the box than I have physically put in her water bowl. Physics can’t explain. At that point, the litter is so soggy and soaked that I just throw the whole pan in the trash and empty a new thing of litter. Glamorous.

I’d feel bad but I didn’t want the damned cat and a pregnancy fourteen years ago was the excuse for why I needed to be the primary cat-shit handler. Apparently there is a risk of toxoplasma-something that is bad for babies. Once baby Jane and her three other siblings were born and I had my snip, I made an appeal to transfer cat duties to Supermom but I was denied a hearing. So I am trying to do it poorly until I am relieved of my curse.

Which brings me to my story.

In a particularly bad round of litterbox forgetfulness, the cat decided that the dense fog of ammonia hanging over a mound of moist turds was too much. She made the executive decision to piss and shit on my favorite jacket for what smelled like three to four days. Side note: The lavender scoops of scented pellets (that are supposed to give laundry a relaxed feel) transform into anxiety and shame when mixed with a tainted jacket.

Supermom got tired of hearing me fuss about a jacket that used to be my favorite but now I drag around the perimeter of my property to ward off strays. She bought a fancy automatic litterbox. The box advertised a laser and special litter “crystals”. There was even a hunched cat that looked satisfied to be relieving himself. There is a timer to optimize turd drying time and minimize accidentally scooping the cat into the dump tray. What more could a lazy cat owner hope for?

But this my dear friends …is where things go wrong.

Since the previous box was an enclosed cave sort of deal we decided that Cat might be confused. We decided that she needed an introduction to this new golden toilet.

We wanted the date to go well. We needed it to. I couldn’t afford to lose another jacket in the midst of winter.

We removed the old seepy box of litter and arranged the new space-aged box in its place. Supermom placed Cat in the new litter so she could know this was her new bathroom. The fancy “crystal” litter made a sound that was slightly like scooping ice out of a cooler. Cats don’t use coolers or ice so Cat was sure that she had been placed in crushed glass. She tried to run and Supermom held out her hand to block the exit. This made Cat more concerned and she tried another route to escape. At this point I stepped up to help keep her corralled in the litter pan. She panicked and tried to run but found little purchase for her tiny paws in the fancy litter.

Supermom set Cat free and we retreated to discuss everything we did not achieve.

By setting up a cascade of panic we ensured that no matter where Cat decided to shit, it would 100% NOT be in the new litterbox. She was so panicked that we couldn’t find her for an hour.

The cheap Walmart box that worked for ten years was replaced by an expensive box that failed on day one. Fantastic.

I will never own another cat. Easy life was not meant for me and neither are cats. They can stay outside and shit in any old crack in the ground where a hundred natural animals can then eat it up and it not require a scoop or fancy timed turd rake. Yum. Yay nature.

If your best intended plans ever backfire, this post is for you. We did coax the cat into using the box by hiding an old turd in it and locking her in the room. She had food, water, and a litterbox; cat prison. It worked. You’re welcome. I don’t have an answer for the smell in the jacket. Maybe fire.

-Underdaddy to the rescue.

Tree Frog Shine

You can’t put the toothpaste back in the tube.

You can but it is difficult.

And if it is Colgate you won’t get the stripes as cleanly the second time. TikTok says you can magically get the stripes no matter how many times you load it back in but I don’t trust anyone on TikTok. That nozzle isn’t magic.

I saw a delivery guy go viral for finding a floating broom in the middle of a neighborhood around Halloween. He stopped in the street and made like three videos in utter disbelief at this magical bewitched floating Harry Potter Nimbus 3000 fucking broom. He was shaken. The video got seven million views and three hundred and fifty thousand comments. The full range of speculation. My favorite was the conclusion that obviously the witch had fallen off and the broom’s default holding pattern had taken over and was waiting on its master to recover. Like a jet ski without a rider.

Not to brag but I’m basically famous-adjacent because I know the witch behind the whole thing. Which doesn’t really count because they didn’t get famous from it so… I’m obscure-adjacent.

Where was I?

I think I was setting the stage for not being able to travel to the past. To erase a misstep. To undo knowledge once it is gained. That is important this time of year. The one tradition that we have held for the children and our own selfish purposes is the tradition of inviting small stuffed elves into our home and thereby, their employer; Santa.

Now… we have four children and their ages are getting into the range of non-belief and skepticism. That’s fine for most things. But my younger two really enjoy the Santa season. It is still fun to see the elves move around and get into trouble. It is still fun to get a stocking and sort out all the personalized choices that the man-in-red makes for them. As it so happens, the stockings became the issue this year.

Christmas Day we pull out the stocking and sort all of the knickknacks. Each stocking got a pack of flavorful Trident gum. One was Tropical Orange and the other Watermelon. Each came in a pack of three so we chose four of the six and doled them out on Christmas Eve to make the stocking complete. The remaining two we set aside for our own purposes. We then placed the stocking on the hearth and retired to bed.

Did you notice the error? We didn’t either.

Fast forward. Christmas morning is a success. Brunch goes well. We eat and wade through torn wrapping paper and lie around like the lazy sacks of Christmas waste all day. As we are finishing the day and handing out some evening melatonin, Donna Threeto looks on the bedside nightstand and notices an unopened pack of Trident Tropical Orange. She then looks in the trashcan and saw the packaging that all of the packs came in.

Like a puzzled puppy, she tilited her head to one side and said, ‘”huh…”. Then I saw it. The little childish twinkle got a little dimmer and she became just a degree more solemn.

“Do you help Santa sometimes?” she asked.

“Yes honey, most parents help Santa.” I replied.

And that was it. She quietly walked into the kitchen and got a bowl of ice cream.

Supermom and I both knew. She knew too.

It is one of those moments that is tiny but underpins a change in perspective. Less magic and more cold reality.

Today was a little bit of that for me as well. We have a traditional day-after-christmas gathering with my father’s side of the family. My Grandmother has always loved Christmas and poured all of her energy each year into selecting gifts and giving them to her very large family. She would accumulate things over the year and they always had specific thought and purpose. In recent years she has struggled with Alzheimer’s and our tradition has been reduced to symbolic envelopes. This year the tradition was reduced further because she wasn’t in the room to watch the envelopes get handed out.

This feels like the last year we will carry that torch. The flame might have flickered out.

My aunt brought a large box with jewelry. Pins, button covers, bracelets, necklaces, broaches, and several other types of accent pieces. All had one thing in common. They had to be related to frogs. Greatmother built a reputation as a lady who enjoyed frogs in all of their whimsy. If something could be adorned with a frog then she had it and here in this box were years of the hoarded frogs. We spent part of the afternoon sifting through the collection and taking the ones that caught our eye. Tokens to remember a once powerful lady who has grown frail.

Each trinket I looked at, I wanted. I could see a unique color or shape or detail that might have made it special to her. There is one where two frogs, who are clearly friends, are sitting on a log and just passing the time. They are happy in each others company. I grabbed that one. There is a Mardi Gras frog and I remember she had trips to New Orleans. I grabbed that one. There is a shiny smooth tree frog that looks like it is climbing a tree and looking back down. There wasn’t much to associate it with so I passed it over. It feels like passing those details over is letting part of her die. And doing while she is sitting in a wheelchair in the other room, wondering where she is at, seems especially cruel. I would love to have her sit and recount the special memories that each one represents. To tell me about trips and friends and how no matter where she traveled in the world, frogs were common ground. Maybe that is just a sorrowful thought that sounds good but is not something that would have been given the time.

The truth is that I try to cling to things as surrogates to my own memories. It hurts to think about not having a lucid moment where my grandmother sees me and loves me the way she always had. She smiled at me and there was a brief second of maybe recognition but she wasn’t there. Her eyes are smaller and unfocused. Her mind wanders on the little things and she is rarely present beyond the moment at hand. Her light has all but died as well. I sit here tonight with tears streaming as I write and I mourn for someone I haven’t yet lost but I haven’t brought myself to visit in the past year. Too busy is a pitiful excuse.

Our traditions are changing and there is this ongoing season of loss hanging over our heads. It is heavy. Then I look at the other end of the family tree and things are looking brighter. Children are happy and healthy and growing into young adults. It is important for them to learn the hard lessons and hopefully through a couple of generational layers to dull the sting. So we carry on and smile. We request things of Santa and welcome his elves into our homes. And for the next little while, when I wear a suit at work, there will be a small frog resting on the lapel.

Greatmother has had a great life and is owed a giant slice of gratitude for who I am today. If you find yourself missing someone who might not even be gone, this post is for you. You’re welcome.

-Underdaddy to the rescue.

The Long December

What a weird season.

Thanksgiving was weird. Christmas is going to be the same.

We have had our first brush with COVID in our direct family. My oldest daughter and my mother both have had positive tests. One had some burning sensation in her nose. The other ended up at the ER twice and on oxygen for several days. Things are better all-around and no one else has gotten sick… yet.

It is one of the most frustrating things imaginable. A slow-moving train of symptoms and the only real solution is to sit and wait. Check temperatures. Check O2 levels. Did you sneeze? Do you feel okay? Do I feel okay?

My dog had COVID.

And not the dog I don’t like. The good dog got it and ruined the carpet in my hallway. Full stomach dog pukes. Like a dustpan and full rolls of paper towels to clean it up. At all hours.

And here is a good question.

Why does dog food have red coloring in it? Aren’t dogs colorblind? Do we really need the mulched soup of ricemeal and chicken lips to be some pleasing array of colors?

My dog eats cat shit and dead things. Spare me the red dye.

And Jasper, the little white dog… never showed a symptom. Each time I find him cold and motionless I think, “Thank goodness” or “that took longer than I thought.” But no. He is always fine. He just sleeps like the dead and he is deaf. I’ve found him in every contorted position possible and each time he is alive. I know all this sounds terrible and I’ve made my case before but he’s an asshole. He’s a papercut lemon of a dog.

We are behind on Christmas preparations. I got a tree and it is the most 2020 tree I can imagine. We didn’t soap it this year which made me sad but the again the damn thing doesn’t have enough branches to soap. Imagine for a moment that we rescued the scraggly tree from Charlie Brown and nursed it back to health. But even though it escaped death and grew into a full-sized tree the damage was done. The branches were warped from malnutrition and grew at odd intervals. Now, standing before us loaded with lights and ornaments, we all look around nervously wondering if someone is going to mention just how garbage the tree actually looks.

Supermom had a fun crafts project that I got to help with. She made a wall of Christmas movie quotes.

We made gingerbread houses (thanks to my sister-in-law) and even though they look like they were assembled by blind people they look better than our tree.

Its fine. Everything is fine.

We watched The Dead Poets Society tonight. I miss Robin Williams. It’s a great movie and I’ve been working hard to expose my children to quality entertainment in music, books, and film. I forgot how the storyline feels so very “Catcher in the Rye”. The story is in the characters and requires paying attention. There seem to be less of those types of stories. We don’t have time for them. We need things we can have playing in the background while we do ten other things.

Yesterday we watched Ten Things I Hate About You and there is a house-party scene that interested me because no one had a phone. I hadn’t really thought about that movie being and old movie. No one was taking photos to share or scrolling through Facebook. No group selfies or texts. I don’t know that you could make that movie these days and get away with the plot devices. All the misunderstandings and miscommunications would be hashed out in the comments section of some viral teenage post.

Buts that’s what we are up to these days. Sitting around finishing up quarantine. And while it is driving me insane, I feel extremely lucky that my list of complaints is so benign. We have it pretty good and a lot of people don’t.

If you are having trouble with how the year is wrapping up, this one is for you. Winter is going to feel longer this year. I hope everyone who has love, shares it and everyone who needs love, reaches out and finds it. If you made it this far then go ahead and say hi with a comment. And for everyone who likes a good Papaw story, I have one in the works. Stay tuned and you’re welcome.

-Underdaddy to the rescue.

Rights and Privilege

I watched our world for the last couple of weeks and have tried to think about where logic and reason reside. The issues of society are present on every front. Masks, protests, riots, politics, violence. What do I offer my children as cliff notes and guidance for the heavy issues of the day? How do we explain how people commit such callous evil towards one another? How do we talk about equality and equal protection under the law?

I started with the privileges and biases. Privileges exist on several fronts but there are four that we deal with most often.

Men are assumed to be stronger, smarter, or more capable than women. Ask any women wandering a car lot or perusing a power tool section in Lowes if they see any difference in the way men are approached by a sales associate. I’ve watched it. It is real. I prep my girls to confront this head-on and challenge the notion that they can’t do anything because they are “just a girl”. The default advantage is often given to men so this is male privilege. This is why we have women’s right discussions. I’m not a woman but I support equal rights.
We also talk about sexual preference and gender identity. We discuss how these are personal things that only require your opinion if they involve you. If someone tells you their name is Eric then that is their name. We don’t get to tell people how to feel/love and sharing our opinion when we weren’t asked isn’t helpful either. The only people who are never really hassled or forced to talk through their choice in partner are people in a heterosexual relationship. I would imagine this equates to straight privilege. This is why we have pride month. I’m not gay but I support equal rights.
In countless studies and cases about bias and racism the results have shown time and time again that a societal/systemic bias against people of color exists. This is one of the most dangerous topics to discuss within the white community because it causes defensive reactions and mental fatigue. Most people start quoting stats about crime or murder or how many friends they have who meet the criteria to prove that they are most definitely not racist. But that is missing the point. We grew up in a system with a prepackaged point of view. Racism as an institution. I heard a discussion the other day about which is better, a dog or a cat? The author suggested it must be dogs because the highest compliment for a cat is “it acts like a dog”. That is funny for animals but I have heard analogs of this idea for people and that is horrifying. Chris Rock comes to mind and his bit about how white people talked about General Colin Powell; he speaks so well. There is an unsubtle subtext to that idea; that an educated and well-traveled man and who is also a seasoned veteran and a fucking world leader was most accomplished for his integration to the English language. He’s such a good cat that he’s basically a dog. That is racism. It’s not the hate but the assumptions of a limited capacity or lower bar that is most sinister. The idea that skin tells you anything useful about someone. The most dangerous iteration of racism is the idea that a black man, all other things being equal, is more dangerous than any other man that you will encounter. This translates to more aggressive and violent treatment of black men by authority figures. I don’t generally worry about life threatening assumptions being made by an officer in a traffic stop on the basis of my white skin. That is white privilege. It doesn’t mean my life is easy, it just means the world’s default opinion of me doesn’t make it harder. This is why Black Lives Matter exists. I’m not black but I support equal rights.
There is a fourth privilege that exists and that is the privilege of authority. Authority is given latitude and freedom that regular citizens do not enjoy. Authority it the essence of privilege. That is just true. Policemen and policewomen can disregard traffic laws and perform other functions necessary to their jobs that would be a blatant violation of law for anyone else. This is a necessary part of law enforcement. The problem comes in when authorities start to feel like this exemption applies all the time and to everything they do. Boundaries get pushed and co-workers let little things slide to avoid discomfort at work. Before long, there are gross violations that don’t seem out of the ordinary for the people in authority. Entire teams and departments run the risk of becoming complicit in an evil that few men would perpetrate on their own. It’s mob mentality when the mob is given an exemption or a blind eye. A relevant quote on authority, “Be careful at the laws you make because there are none so minor that authority won’t kill you to enforce it.” I think that is power privilege. I’m not oppressed by authority but I support equal rights.

We don’t have to be part of a group to support equal rights. We don’t even have to understand a different point of view. We can start with the basic knowledge that all humans should share the same basic rights. That is that what our America should stand for, equal opportunity in an equitable system.

It’s my favorite part of the pledge; Liberty and Justice for All.

If you are already exhausted by 2020 this post is for you. It’s only halfway over so buckle up. Be kind to each other. Remember that two things can be true at once and not every choice or opinion should be about supporting your chosen team. Think for yourself and when in doubt, choose with love not hate. You’re welcome.

-Underdaddy to the rescue.

ps. Happy Pride Month!