Zombie Cat – The Formative Years

Posted on May 10, 2014 by cadmiumredlight

Zombie Cat started out life as a generic pet-shop kitten. No one knew what genetic mutations were hidden away under that blasé exterior. He was just a plain looking flabby tabby cat that was known for his stupidity. He would often walk into doors and fall off of furniture. He never landed on his feet. He would wander around the house honking out his peculiar meow, staring at things that weren’t there and drooling. Sometimes he would jump up and run around like the devil himself was after him, almost like a seizure, and then stop mid leap and turn into a completely calm and normal cat again. Not panting with a wild look in his eye, or exhausted on the verge of comatose, just normal. It was as if some sort of switch had been flipped on and then off. Back then his nickname was “Short Bus Kitty” and we all loved to laugh at him.

Looking back part of his problems may have been attributed to his lack of whiskers. Our older cat made sure through extensive grooming rituals that Short Bus’ whiskers never grew back, not even his eyebrows or the tufts in his ears. I suppose that may have created some balance and awareness issues. After our older cat’s untimely death by coyote poor Short Bus spent a whole year surprised by every random air current, startling every time a stray whisker brushed against a wall or a piece of furniture. But that wasn’t the whole problem.

Once, after the return of his whiskers, he got stuck high in a tree. I found him as I was heading out to work and rather than fetch the ladder and be late to my job, I decided he needed to learn how to climb down for himself and left him there. When I returned late in the evening I found him in the exact same place in the tree with no voice left and a pretty good sunburn. Opps! I did feel really bad about that one. I should have realized that Short Bus was not capable of the independence of other cats and I kept him under more careful supervision after that.

Soon he became an outdoor-only cat due to his great love of snakes. He would drag them inside the house and leave them unhurt and unattended. After the grandparents found and killed one in the baby’s crib and I had one fall directly onto my head out of a cupboard, screaming so loud that the Curmudgeon, who was just pulling into the garage from a relaxing motorcycle ride, was convinced that his family was being murdered and charged in, firearm at the ready – Short Bus was evicted forever. And just for the record I fear, hate, loathe, and abhor snakes – Urgh!!

Once we moved to the great frozen north, Short Bus had trouble getting used to the concept of freezing. That first winter we had set-up a cozy spot for the cats in the barn with straw bales, a heated mat, a heated water bowl and a cat-flap for easy entry. It worked just fine until the temperature took a dip to -30. Short Bus decided to come sit on the cement front stoop and yowl. I left the cozy fire at 9 p.m., put on my parka and mittens and boots, picked up the cat and returned him to the cozy heated mat in the barn with the other two smarter cats. Then I did it again at 10 p.m., 1 a.m., 3 a.m., 5 a.m. and then I finally lost it and screamed “FUCK IT – go ahead and FREEZE!!” at 7 a.m.,  showered, and went to work.

I fully expected to find a cat-cicle on my porch when I returned, but was pleasantly surprised to find Short Bus in the barn with the other cats. Unfortunately he had frostbitten his ears, but he did learn to stay inside the barn when it was cold. The tips of his ears kinda peeled back and got all crusty. In the spring he lost them entirely. The Foxinator was there. She chased A.C. around with one of the dead shed ear tips and told him she was going to stuff it down the back of his shirt. “Short Bus Kitty” became “Short Ears” and life moved on.

Next up “Zombie Cat – Shit Gets Weird”

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Zombie Cat Origin Story

Posted on May 9, 2014 by cadmiumredlight

Hi. Mrs. Curmudgeon here. Thought you might like to hear more cat stories, especially because this one is stranger than fiction. And yeah-okay, I might have become a crazy cat lady if not for marrying the cat-despising Curmudgeon – but who are you to judge, huh? Cats are more than a necessary evil, they purr. Can you purr when you sleep? I didn’t think so! (and if you can – dude! you better get that shit checked out with a doc.)

Once upon a time, many years ago, when the Curmudgeon was not on the terrorist watch list and still allowed to cross borders, we adopted a street cat from a foreign city and brought it home to America. Perhaps it was its time on the streets as a kitten, or the drugs we gave it for the plane ride, or that secret ninja training program A.C. was working on… but it became an unusually aggressive cat. Even as a kitten it would run up and over a standing adult human being. It was cute to have a kitten run up a pant leg to perch on your shoulder or on top of your head until it weighed more than 6 ounces and its claws started carving out flesh as it climbed your body like it was a carpet-covered cat condo. Soon the kitten grew into a cat that did not just chase your bare feet in the morning, but jumped from the floor straight to your face and tried to bite your eyeballs out of the sockets. We had to carry weapons (a baseball bat and plastic laundry basket) to fend it off! As soon as you drifted off to sleep it would pounce on your throat and try to rip out your jugular. We had to lock it out of the bedroom at night. My co-workers were worried that I was a battered wife and A.C.’s co-workers suspected he had started an underground fight club!

We decided to take a vacation, possibly to escape the cat, and found a cat utopia (private rooms with litter box and views, a play room that included a cat walk with rope bridges and hammocks, an outdoor garden with catnip and a bird feeder – seriously this place was nicer than where we stayed) where we could kennel the cat while we were gone. When we returned we were handed back the cat in a small carrying case with metal bars and told we would have to pay vet bills for multiple other cats and we were never to return with that hideous demon we called a cat. On our way out the husband of the proprietress pssted to us, and motioned we follow him to a corner. “You didn’t hear this from me, but try adopting a kitten. If that thing doesn’t kill it, it will settle into a parental role and be much less aggressive.”

Well… I had this gorgeous just-turned-twenty co-worker who’s desperate-to-get-laid boyfriend had just bought her a generic pet store kitten ($169.99 with accoutrements) because of a sad story about how her childhood was ruined by a sister who was allergic to cats. She loathed it. It shredded her stockings, scattered her make-up, broke her favorite baubles and scratched up her most expensive shoes. It had to GO! The kitten, that is, not the boyfriend. Well maybe not the boyfriend… I think that depended how fast he got rid of the kitten. Taking pity on the boyfriend, and apparently not the kitten, I adopted it and took it home to face our wild beast.

Betting on the tiny kitten’s life may have occurred as plans for how to best introduce the two felines were discussed. Meanwhile the current homicidal household cat was hissing and growling and scrabbling inside the box with the metal bars and the kitten was gamboling on the floor in front of it. In the end we simply let the seething demon out of its cage. He immediately pounced on the kitten, wrestled it into a headlock, and systematically chewed off all its whiskers, once that was done he gave the kitten a bath and settled down for a nap with the kitten nestled against his stomach purring. Overnight he became a calm well-behaved cat. I guess sometimes your pet just needs a pet of its own…and that is how Zombie Cat came to live with us when he was an itty-bitty kitten.

Next-up “Zombie Cat the Formative Years”

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A Bad Choice

Posted on May 7, 2014 by AdaptiveCurmudgeon

When in unfamiliar territory, finding a good place to eat is a favorite activity of mine.  In a rural area you can pretty much count on triple the risk factor. I tend to go “way deep” into terra incognita. Yeah, I’m more or less fearless.

(If you’re the type who, given this situation, whips out a smart phone and starts checking web sites for crowd sourced restaurant recommendations… just shut the hell up. You need to put that thing down and join the non-virtual world.)

At any rate I was cruising from nowhere to nowhere with a hankering for Chinese food. I was about as far from China (or anywhere else likely to have good Chinese food) as one can get. I was depressingly resigned to either a greasy burger or a slimy pizza at the next town. To my shock and surprise, I found just what the doctor ordered. Next to a diesel stop there was a Chinese restaurant! How cool is that?

I had my doubts. The guy tending the place wasn’t what I was picturing. I want to be greeted by either Lucy Liu or an eight year old carrying a calculus book. I’m not sure if a fat bubba in a baseball cap has ever served good Chinese food but clearly I was skating on thin ice. Alas, I was hungry and decided to roll the dice. I deliberately ordered something simple, Mongolian Beef. Even if all they did was defrost it and swirl it around in a pan; that’s usually not too unpalatable

Then, too late, I realized my fatal error. The soundtrack was all wrong. All Chinese restaurants in America play the same background music. I don’t know if it’s a law of nature or what but you’ve heard the music too. It’s that twangy guitar thingamajig, sometimes accompanied by the exotic sounding bow based instrument. (I believe I’m referring to a ruan and a erhu. If you knew that without resorting to Wikipedia you’re smarter than me.) I’m under no illusion that actual people in China listen to this. I presume it’s the Chinese equivalent of Michael Bolton and universally despised on the mainland. For all I know the average Chinese person is listening to bootlegs of Miley Cyrus twerking. Or perhaps Devo? Frankly I’d think it was great if they were listening to Devo.

Regardless, I have a Pavlovian response to the proper soundtrack. Good Chinese restaurants (and most bad ones) know this and follow the rules.

Garth Brooks is most definitely not the correct music for any Chinese restaurant. My heart sank.

The place was also empty. In my haste I hadn’t noticed that before. This was not looking good at all.

When bubba disappeared into the kitchen with my order, the music stopped. Had I been mistaken? I imagined him frantically trying to change the music back to the appropriate setting before he lost their single customer of the day.

Another customer dropped by, he’d driven in on an ATV. He looked like the love child of ZZ Top and a Freightliner. This, unlike the music, which I was sure would soon return to “Chinese Restaurant loop tape #87”, didn’t look like a good development either. He was soon joined by another fellow who looked like a wildebeest had hastily pulled on flannel and went looking for spring rolls. The second guy had arrived in a Honda Civic with approximately fifty million miles on whatever parts hadn’t rusted away. A third fellow arrived. He looked reasonably presentable and showed up in an old but serviceable truck carrying about a third of a cord of soggy firewood. I can appreciate that.

All three seemed to know each other and they soon got into a heated discussion about fishing bait. They ordered quickly. I couldn’t hear what they choose. I was wishing I could switch to whatever the locals were eating.

The music returned. It was Lynyrd Skynyrd.

Time for a Curmudgeonly Gem of Insight:

“Nothing good comes from Chinese food cooked to the sounds of Lynyrd Skynyrd.”

If it had been Freebird I’d have ran.

I should have ran.

The food came. I ate it. I paid for it. I’m still paying for it. I don’t think I’m going to eat redneck Chinese again. I might not eat again. Ever.

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Earth Day (Belated): Part II

Posted on April 30, 2014 by AdaptiveCurmudgeon

One fine year, so long ago that telephones had dials and newspapers had news, I celebrated Earth Day. How? By going camping. Duh! Is that not of the Earth?

I climbed a smallish mountain, found a place with an excellent view, started a campfire, and watched the sun set over a nice wilderness scene. Then I sipped (chugged?) cheap liquor and listened to the owls hoot. Simple pleasures are the best. Eventually I drifted to sleep on nice soft pine needles. I’m pretty sure Gaia, if she could talk, would be perfectly happy with a drunk redneck snoozing under a hemlock.

The next morning I hiked out. I had to get to work. (No wonder I couldn’t get along with the Earth Day zeitgeist.) When I stopped for gas I was accosted by a patchouli of hippies. They saw my pack and wanted to know what I’d been up to. “Camping” I smiled, happy and naive, thinking I’d found common ground with an alien species, “because it was Earth Day.”

“Oh no.” Said one. “That’s terrible. You missed everything.”

“Bah.” I waved him off. I’d had fun.

“We had a ceremony. That’s how you celebrate Earth Day.” He continued.

“Me too.” I chuckled. “A fifth of Bourbon while the moon rose. It was great. There’s a neat trail I could show you on my map…”

“We planted a tree!” He interrupted.

This meant nothing to me. I’d planted trees too. It’s a handy way to get… well trees. When I plant a tree it’s a “job” not a “green job”. There are no ceremonies and taxes come out of my paycheck; apparently to fund parks where folks can hold “ceremonies”. I’d planted countless trees by then. (I’ve planted more since.)

“OK.” I let it slide, I was in no mood to get in a pissing match with some freak over a ‘ceremony’.

The feeling wasn’t mutual. “Don’t you care? Deforestation is a big deal.” He was getting into my face and he was obviously displeased that I wasn’t currently hyperventilating about Brazilian deforestation.

(Note: You can date environmental politics by the concern du jour. My last “Earth Day” campout was well after the “coming ice age” but only a few years after the “acid rain freakout”. The “ozone hole attack” was on the horizon but hadn’t yet screwed up air conditioners. Al Gore was busy inventing the Internet and probably had no idea that “global warming” would pay for his cushy retirement. The main concern of the time was deforestation. There was rumbling about boycotting McDonalds hamburgers. If you know anything about Americans you know that particular idea died quickly.)

I don’t like people in my face. Game on!

“You’re going to stop deforestation with one tree?” I waved at the hills beyond the gas station. “What the hell is that?” We were in the middle of a forest. Trees covered a hundred miles in every direction.

“It’s a start!” He whined. He pointed to a big mowed area across the street. There, clearly visible, was a single tree. Chest high. Nicely planted, with stakes to hold it upright and everything.

“No.” I disagreed. “It’s not any damn thing at all.” I was past being polite. “You put landscaping in a mowed lawn where dogs shit and you think you’re a goddamned hero. I’ve planted a couple thousand trees and didn’t need a ribbon cutting to do it.”

Whoops. So much for getting along with my fellow man. I tried again. “If you like the Earth go out and play in it. I spend more time outdoors than in. It’s really…” words failed me “…pretty.”

I’d meant to expose the fellow to the idea that all is not lost. That one can embrace the joy of nature without feeling guilty. That a college student in America weeping over a tree in Venezuela doesn’t make a difference to Venezuela or the tree. Something about lighting candles and cursing darkness. Unfortunately, I’d blown it. He was destined to go home and weep. I pictured him in his parent’s basement; listening to The Cure and staring at posters of Ralph Nader. Or maybe he’d seethe in righteous indignation at the troglodyte who was so insensitive that he preferred owls hooting in the moonlight to a ceremony in a park. In the ensuing decades little has changed. There’s no shortage of folks who would gladly shuffle flannel clad rednecks like me into re-education camps with the deeply held belief that this is both righteous and ecologically wise. Personally, I think they’d benefit from an afternoon fishing but what do I know?

Some cultural gulfs cannot be bridged.

“You just don’t get Earth Day!” He stammered.

“You’re right.” I agreed. I grasped for something nice to say; a way to salvage the moment. “Enjoy your tree.” Nope. That wasn’t it. So I left.

I’ve since stopped deliberately celebrating Earth Day. I spend plenty of time in nature. Who needs a “day”?

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Earth Day (Belated): Part I

Posted on April 29, 2014 by AdaptiveCurmudgeon

Earth day was last week. I didn’t notice. It wasn’t always like that.

I used like Earth Day. I’d celebrate it every year.

I love the earth. I spend most of my time there. There’s nothing more fun that wandering around the forest getting plenty of earth in the cleats of my boots. So a day to celebrate the earth is a no brainer. What’s not to like?

Well… it’s the politics. There’s always politics.

I knew it was messy from the start. Earth Day was conceived in a dark room smelling of choom and student loans in an unholy alliance of Malthusian misfits and political fluffers so far left they’d make Trotsky look mellow. They decided to create Kwanzaa’s retarded half brother to beg for more Federal Regulation. It was exactly like what you’re picturing in your head.

Imagine celebrating a new Cabinet post. Really? Is that’s “the Earth” is all about? Only the truly, deeply, irretrievably uncool could create an event to beg for the the iron bonds of the EPA. “Please please please regulate my lawnmower’s exhaust. Gaia, the great being which encompasses us all, needs to be managed by the State. Managed good and hard. Hit me again master.”

Plus the whole thing is associated with a guy who composted his girlfriend in a closet. That’s pretty icky.

Foolishly, I persisted in “supporting” the “holiday”. Like a used car with questionable stains in the back seat that will still get you where you need to go; I held my nose and took the ride.

Tomorrow I’ll tell you about my last Earth Day campout…

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Off Grid / Microenvironment

Posted on April 21, 2014 by AdaptiveCurmudgeon

It’s no surprise that I occasionally pick a few days (or weeks) and deliberately ignore the media. I do this on purpose. Most (nearly all?) information that’s presented as important, unexpected, or urgent is irrelevant, predictable, and most definitely not even remotely urgent. The best way to recognize this is to unplug from the flow of horseshit. When you return to the flow you’ll find everyone has spent weeks obsessing over something that was either a done deal from the start (most budget debates) or irrelevant (Superbowl  commercials and any State of the Union Speech).

My term for this is “going off grid”. I sometimes call it “self imposed media blackout”. I’ve mentioned it before here and here.

Alas my definition lacks something. It seems to imply something of value as if the act of doing without is somehow a bad thing which one endures. This is not my intention. A sunset is not the unhappiness of lacking daylight.

Captain Capitalism wisely coined the term “microenvironment” and implores you to control it. You should venture forth and read what he has to say. Here’s a quote to whet your appetite:

“Thankfully, your micro-environment has an additional advantage over your macro-environment – it is nearly 100% under your control.

… if people were to step back, clear their eyes, and take a look at their lives, they’d soon realize that for all the dire news they hear in the media, practically none of it affects their daily lives.”

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Angry Clown II

Posted on April 17, 2014 by AdaptiveCurmudgeon

Driving home it was dark, cold, and miserable. Winter was still in full force and the whole place oozed with bleakness. There was a prison across the street and a disreputable gas station along my route. These were the pretty views. The rest was worse.

I pulled in to get my $3.45 of precious gas. I wouldn’t make it home otherwise.

I hated the urban blight. Nothing is uglier than an unlit dirty snow covered city street.

Except a street with a conked out car blocking the lane.

I’d started rolling uphill toward the pumps when my car shuddered and died. Another 50′ and I’d have made it. I knew from the way the car had stopped that there wasn’t a chance in hell there was enough gas in the lines to restart and roll the last 50′. I was done.

I stepped out and pondered my options. It was an uphill slope and I had a battleship sized car. I couldn’t push it over a pencil, much less up a grade. I started rummaging through the back looking for a container. A soda bottle or something. Something just big enough to carry enough gas to restart my car. Hopefully I’d get moving again before a snowplow came along and nailed me. Luckily there wasn’t much traffic…

Wrong!

While I was searching for an old coke bottle, someone had roared up behind my dead beast of a car with his own equally beast like sedan. Whoever was in the sedan laid on the horn.

What’s the point of that? If you see a guy standing next to a dead car, the horn isn’t likely to solve his problems. As if to demonstrate the degree to which I wasn’t likely to ever move my car, I leaned into the door frame and tried to push. My car didn’t move an inch.

The guy in the sedan leaned out of his window and shouted. “Move that piece of shit!”

He was a clown. Red curly haired wig, face paint, the works. He was pissed.

I leaned into the car again and again it didn’t move. I hoped he’d get the point and drive around. Instead he swore.

“Goddammit!” He growled through his face paint. “Get in the freakin’ car, I’ll push you.”

Awesome! I hopped in my car, clicked it into neutral, and wham… The instant I was off the brake he walloped my bumper. Shoving one beefy old car with another beefy old car is not a delicate matter. With a crunch that would break a Subaru’s heart, he locked bumpers and roughly shoved me up the slope and all the way to the pump. I was delighted. (Don’t try that maneuver with a modern plastic safety box. An old station wagon is a tank compared to a Kia.)

He pulled up to the other side of the pump. I hopped out and started fueling.

“Gee thanks” I began.

“Bah!” Groused angry clown. He waved me away.

Even in the magic time of cheaper gas, $3.45 didn’t add up to much. I was done pumping in no time. I went into the store to pay. I was hungry but a candy bar was way out of my league. I was just happy I could restart my car. (It was cold!)

At the counter the teller rang up $3.45. I reached into my pocket for the sandwich bag with my money.

Gone!

Frantically I checked my pockets. Nothing. I checked them all again. Was it in my jacket pocket? Jeans pocket? Where the heck was it?

“Jesus! Pay will ya?” Angry clown was behind me; looking homicidal. Colorful baggy pants, the special enormous shoes, bright purple over shirt. He was tall and had a foghorn voice. He didn’t have a red nose. Who hires a clown at 5:00 am?

I shrugged. My sandwich bag was gone and I was all out of options. I humbly stepped aside to let him through. I’d figure something out but at the moment I wasn’t sure what that something would be.

“What the…” He eyed me like I was something he’d scraped off his huge red clown shoes. He glared at the register. “$3.45?” He looked at me with disgust. “Really?”

Still rummaging through my pockets I had no answer. “I…” I began.

The clown slapped down a $5 on the counter. “For the loser’s gas.” He barked.

The teller rang it up. Angry clown swiped up the change. Then he slapped down a $20 to pay for his fuel. He’d pumped exactly $20. He didn’t wait for the teller to ring it up. He was a clown in a hurry. He swiveled to face me.

“Oh my gosh that’s so nice.” I stammered. My gas conundrum was solved. I hadn’t been expecting anything of the sort.

Once again he waved off my gratitude. “Loser.” He mumbled as he pushed past me and headed for the door.

Then he and his clown shoes and his big car tore off into the dark.

The teller was speechless. So was I. We were alone. Finally he spoke, “Did a big mean clown just call you a loser?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

The teller looked confused. He expected me to be angry. “You were dissed by a clown.” He prompted.

I shrugged; “Out of gas, blocking the road, can’t come up with $3.45. He’s got a point.”

The teller would have nothing of it, “Dude, he’s a clown.”

“Nope.” I disagreed “A good Samaritan. An asshole too. I guess you can be both?”

When I got home I turned my apartment inside out. I never found that plastic bag full of dimes and quarters. I have always wondered what happened to it. I never saw the clown again. If I met him now, when I’m not broke, I’d buy him a steak dinner. He’d probably call me a loser again. I wouldn’t mind. I was very desperate and appreciated the help.

In the meantime I hope he hasn’t terrified too many children.

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Angry Clown I

Posted on April 16, 2014 by AdaptiveCurmudgeon

This story, like everything on my blog (including those where my dog talks and trees taunt me), is entirely true. Also like everything on my blog, it doesn’t necessarily have a point.

In the days of old, your’s truly was working night shift, minimum wage, at a shit job. Nothing wrong with that. We’ve all got to start somewhere and I’ve never been (nor will I ever be) too proud for a shit job. However, minimum wage is not, as the lefties reflexively say, a “living wage”. I was struggling. I was “broke”.

I needed to fuel my car. This was essential. A man with a car may be broke but he has options. Lose the car and you might go from broke to poor. There’s a difference you know.

I did not want to be poor. Also, a car is not merely transportation, it is a storage unit and backup housing. Broke or not I was going to keep it fueled come hell or high water. One evening when the chips were lowest and the tank was on “E”, I scraped together every last molecule of money I could find. I really did sort through seat cushions and everything. (You think that’s a cliché? Well it isn’t!)

I scrabbled together something like $3.45. I can’t recall the exact amount, but I remember that it was the sum total of absolutely every penny I could muster and it wasn’t much. (Note: Younger readers may not understand the gravity of the situation. Back in the stone age you had to pay for stuff with money. The world where everyone and their dog has a credit card and will happily use what is essentially a bank loan to buy gas or groceries is a new idea. This was an older, and in my eyes more sane, world. When the money was gone, one simply had to walk. I have walked. It sucks. Everyone should have to walk once.)

I shoved my precious wad of change in a sandwich bag and stuffed it in my pocket. Then, with a car running on fumes, I headed for work. I completed my shift and left in more or less high spirits. As dumb as my job was, I always did my best and generally I had an OK time doing it.

I think now is the time to insert a Curmudgeonly Gem Of Insight:

“If you’ve got a shit job, do it well. I was excellent at my shit job because being excellent feels good. Being a slacker feels like crap. Regardless of the pay, don’t give in to sloth. Better times may come.”

Oh, by the way. You might be thinking that management would reward me for my hard work. Of course you’re only thinking that if you’re 19, an idiot, or both. If so; get that foolish nonsense out of your mind right now. Management generally doesn’t give a crap if you live or die. Don’t look there for personal validation.

Another reason to pursue excellence. It tends to lead to better jobs (no guarantees!). I sincerely believe this and think the mindset (if nothing else) is why the state of “broke”, for me at least, didn’t last forever. So if you’re flipping burgers or mopping floors right now, heed my words. Flip the ever loving shit out of those burgers and mop the floor like a powerhouse.

Tomorrow I’ll wrap up my little trip down memory lane.

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Dog Logic And Firewood Levers: Part III

Posted on March 30, 2014 by AdaptiveCurmudgeon

My dog convinced me that I should go ‘all in’ and cut wood from logs buried under the snow. Those logs were going to be my ‘Next Winter’ supply but it was time to use every option at my disposal. It was -16 in March and already I’d burned everything I’d intended for ‘This Winter’. If ‘This Winter’ had a car. I’d slash its tires.

Somewhere under all that snow was wood. None of it was visible. Also it was uncut, unsplit chunks. Floundering around out there with a chainsaw sounded like bad news on a cracker.

I tried to remember the precise arrangement of the jumble of buried chunks and logs. Normally this would be hopeless but my memory is unusual.

Most things normal people remember are gone from my head within minutes. I don’t remember my zip code. I rarely remember my birthday. When I remember my Anniversary it’s a victory. Names are the biggest black hole. If I met you and we shook hands and you introduced yourself I’ve already forgotten you. I’m sure you’re a fine person. You can tell me your name a second time but I’ll forget it again. If you do something memorable, like setting my pantleg on fire, I still won’t remember your name. I’ll just remember you as “the guy with matches”. This annoys some folks. I consider it simply the way the world works. The truth be told, the way the world works annoys some folks too.

On the other hand, I have an eerily accurate recall of geography. The location of Canadian fishing holes, notable greasy spoons in the Midwest, handy off road shortcuts in Utah, a scruffy restaurant that serves great steaks in Kansas, the back door to a neat tavern in Milwaukee, etc… If you want me to remember something, move it to an obscure location and leave it there. I’ll never forget.

I surveyed the drifted snow and tried to remember what it looked like last summer. I thought hard. As I slipped into revere the air shimmered.

“Isn’t this a clichéd approach to a flashback?” My dog asked.

“Complain again and I’ll adopt another cat.”

“What a brilliant method for presenting the idea of a flashback!” My dog enthused.

. . .

It was warm August evening. I had a jug of cold lemonade on the tractor’s seat. The woodsplitter and I had been tearing into wood like a tornado in a trailer park for hours. The sun slowly drifted toward the horizon…

“Beautiful flashback like that and I’m nowhere to be found?” The dog inquired.

“My dog was sniffing for squirrels amid some jackstrawed oak limbs…”

“That’s better.” The dog nodded.

I tried to remember more clearly. Yes, that’s it. I’d worked steadily all day. I rolled big cookies of wood from the Pony Trailer to the splitter. I tossed split pieces to the ATV trailer. Then I’d zip away to stack the wood. A brilliant system! Every move of weight was lateral rather than vertical. My limited machinery all fulfilling it’s best possible use. The pleasant efficiency of a job well done. I’d already stacked more than enough for winter. Now I was just racking up the score.

“Ha!” Barked the dog.

“Hey, I thought I had enough. It was a reasonable assumption.” I groused.

“Uh huh. Good luck with that Mr. Denial. Also everything worked perfectly? All day?” The dog knows when untruth is about. Dogs never lie. People lie even in their own memory.

The dog had a point. I dug deeper into my memory. A more realistic view came to mind. It was hotter than hell. The wood was heavy. My arms were sore and burning. The lemonade was actually just water and it was luke warm. I was in a hurry. I was running out of time…

. . .

I snapped back to the present. The scent of sawdust and grass was replaced by the clear relentless cold. Snow drifted over everything, including my memories.

“What?” The dog wanted to know.

“I didn’t get it all moved!” I stammered.

“So?”

“So I…” I remembered it now! “I didn’t have anyone to drive the ATV. It was getting dark. I had to chose; split wood or stack it but I couldn’t do both.”

“So?” The dog asked again.

“The point is that I was in a hurry so I stacked the wood right there!”

“That sucks.” My dog commiserated.

“Not it doesn’t. It means I’ve got a stack of split dried wood just waiting for me!”

The dog lost interest and wandered away.

“I’m getting that shit right now!” I shouted to nobody in particular.

I grabbed a shovel and eyed the snowfield. Perhaps 30 feet away was a dimly remembered woodpile. Today’s version of buried treasure. I attacked a shoulder high iced up snow pile; detritus from several months of snowplowing. I carved a stairway; step after step up and over the heap. More steps down the other side. On the other side I gingerly inched off my stairs; and sunk to my waist in snow. Dammit!

I was cold, stuck in the snow, and on a fools errand. I was in a Jack London story. You know what ties together all those guys who died in Jack London’s books? None were holding a long handled round pointed shovel. Losers!

I went all samurai with the shovel and chopped out big cubes of packed snow. Steady progress. My dog couldn’t follow me over my ‘stairway’ and was barking like Timmy just fell down a well.

Dead reckoning from memory I chopped more blocks. Where the hell was that pile? I probed the snow with the shovel’s handle. Soon I found it. Eureka! I’d nailed the location! I’ll take that kind of memory over a skull full of Internet passwords and phone numbers any day!

Time for a Curmudgeonly Gem of Insight:

“Memory is for a purpose! If I meet you and immediately forget your name, it’s because I’m using that skull space for something more important. Possibly the location of firewood. Just accept it and we’ll both be happier.”

I levered over more snow blocks and uncovered the pile. The whole thing was an iced glob. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea? In frustration I whacked the pile with my shovel. The ice was surprisingly brittle. What looked like an impossible monolithic iced block shattered with one blow. I had a treasure trove of usable stove bolts!

Time for another Curmudgeonly Gem of Insight:

“Some problems require forethought and finesse. Others need to be walloped with a shovel. If you can’t handle ‘shovel problems’ you probably suck at ‘finesse problems’. If you’re in denial about this, you may very well be a ‘shovel problem’ yourself.”

I grabbed a stovebolt and hurled it over the ‘stairway’. It clattered on the frozen driveway. The dog stopped barking. She was either happy I wasn’t dead or decided barking at a wood chucking lunatic was unwise.

Grab, aim, toss. Lather rinse repeat. It took a while.

By sunset the living room was fully stocked with wood. The best part of engaging that last lever is the fact that you had one available.

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Dog Logic And Firewood Levers: Part II

Posted on March 29, 2014 by AdaptiveCurmudgeon

I’d just used the last of my prepared firewood.

“Dog” says I, “we’re fucked.”

Dogs always listen and never lie. This is why dogs are superior to people… and cats. Cats (and most people) will tell me that I’m handsome and beautiful and spring will come tomorrow. A cat would say this while taking a dump in my shoe (and I’m not ruling out that behavior in a subset of humans either).

“Yep. Totally hosed.” The dog agreed, surveying the mostly empty woodshed.

“I’m out of options.” I whined.

“No more wood.” The dog seemed contented.

“Can’t get more either.”

“The squirrels must be cold.” The dog sniffed the ATV’s tire.

“What was that?” I asked.

“The place where squirrels live. Must be gone. You said so.” My dog likes chasing the critters attracted to my ‘firewood processing area’.

“No. There’s wood there but it’s under snow. I won’t retrieve that stuff unless I’m desperate.” I explained.

“So you’re not desperate but it’s cold and we’re going to freeze. Want to play fetch?”

“Well I guess I’m technically desperate. But there’s also my ‘lever theory’.” I mumbled.

“Leave something in reserve… for when you really need it.” The dog said it like a koan.

“Hey, you’ve been reading my blog?” I really have to stop talking to creatures.

“Of course, on the Internet nobody knows you’re a dog.”

I patted the dog while pondering my ‘lever theory’. Retrieving wood from the unprocessed, unplowed, log pile really would be deploying my very last lever. It was simply impossible to get into the forest to fell an actual tree. Buying firewood was inconceivable. Wasn’t it better to leave it in reserve? What if it got colder? What if winter lasted extra long? Shouldn’t I leave the log pile for something serious?

“It is -16 degrees.” The dog coaxed.

I sighed.

“It is March.” My dog can not only read a blog but understand calendars.

I sighed again.

“It is -16 in March and you’re standing next to a shoulder high pile of snow. From my point of view this is the firewood equivalent of the zombie apocalypse.”

I sighed a third time.

“If you do not retrieve the wood now, what further bad news would convince you to do it?”

My dog is smarter than me. I decided to deploy my ‘last lever’ firewood.

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