MEET MISS MOLLY

                                                

I have shared a lot of sad things with you folks the last year or so. Talking about what my family and I went through, with my wife’s death and then the demise of the family pet, Gus, shortly after. So today I want to share a bright spot with you. At least, I hope it turns out to be a bright spot. When my wife passed away I knew there was little chance I would ever find someone to replace her. Yeah, she was that good, and she could have done much better than me, but thank God she didn’t. I think she felt sorry for me. But when Gus went away I knew there was another dog out there for me somewhere, someplace, because...well...they are a whole lot less complicated than finding a good wife. They are also a whole lot easier to keep happy.

So I am going to introduce you to Molly, and those of you who love dogs like I do, know what I am talking about, and the rest of you—well, I understand why some of you don’t want a dog, but I will never understand why someone would dislike dogs. Yes, maybe an unruly dog, or one that just dragged a dead skunk home, but all dogs? No. Those same people that hate dogs don’t hate all of mankind for the bad ones we see in that category, and believe me, there are quite a few of them. At least in the circles I run in.

“Molly” is a white Lab puppy and I got her when she was seven weeks old. A new puppy is as much work as a new baby but you can’t put a diaper on them and you can’t put a cork in them. I’m not a math major but I did work out this formula as it applies to a puppy. W + PC – SQ = Poop squared. For your info W is water and PC is puppy chow, and poop—well, come on—I don’t have to explain that, do I? I was asked to give her a more formal name than Molly for her American Kennel Club papers. Something more regal, more aristocratic, they say, so I have named her, “Madame Poops a Lot of Big Pine Trail.” I certainly hope she outgrows that name as time goes on.

Gus lived fourteen years so I forgot a lot of things that puppies do. I now have no shoelaces in three shoes. My hooded sweatshirt has turned into bedding for her, and it is just a matter of time until she eats the zipper out of that. It’s a Vikings sweater so no big loss there. Yesterday, she chased her tail until she fell in her water dish, and the teething toy I spent four dollars on, still lies untouched. The company that makes them would make more money bagging up old tennis shoes and selling them. I usually sleep seven hours a night, and Miss Molly’s potty breaks are not that far apart, so I have put some papers down for her. With the news we read nowadays, I think that’s a fitting use for newspapers.  I let her out during the night and she did her mess in front of the door and I stepped in it this morning, on my way to the mailbox for fresh newspapers. It could have been worse; she could have lit it on fire and rang the doorbell.

If I live to the average age most men in my family live, then Molly and I will be ready for checkout about the same time. But no more talk of death and dying—long live Madame Poops a Lot of Big Pine Trail.-- Bye for now.-- Mike and Molly

DRIVING

                                                           

I remember a time a while back, when my brothers and I had to ask our dad to quit driving, because he was going to have an accident if he didn’t. The meeting didn’t go very well, you would have thought we were asking him to have a sex change. It was only through trickery, deceit and some smooth talking that we were able to accomplish it and I’m not so sure he went to his grave, liking us as much as he once did.

The other day, while driving down the road, I kept hitting the rumble strips on the side of the road while daydreaming and I thought to myself when is it going to be my turn? I’m seventy now and true, I am a very young seventy in my estimation, but dad was about eighty when he quit driving, so time is not on my side. In defense of myself I know for a fact the lanes are narrower than they used to be and my truck is wider. But be that as it may be, I have taken some steps to protect my driving privileges as long as possible. One is, whenever I am with my kids in my vehicle, I ask them to drive, saying, I don’t know where we are going anyway. Two, my wife is no longer here to tattle on me. She was like having a cop and a driver’s instructor with you in the car. She had imaginary brakes on her side of the car and she would steer me by holding her hand up and waving it in one direction or the other. If I hit the rumble strip it was time for a lecture and that kissing the driveway thing she did when we arrived at our destination, was only funny once. The only way I could calm that women down was to threaten to shut off her airbag.

I find myself sticking to the posted speed limits most days now. They-- meaning the cops-- probably already have enough reasons to think about stopping me so no reason to push the envelope. I don’t talk on my phone while I am driving and I eat my food when I’m at the burger joint, in the parking lot before I leave. I hate eating inside those places because of the potential for catching Ebola from that kid in the booth next to me with the runny nose and watery eyes who just stuck a wet french fry to the back of my neck, but back to my driving. Old people seem to last longer in their lifestyles, if they don’t get too stubborn about the changes and adapt. You can’t see as well at night, so try not to drive at night. Your reactions are slower, so give the guy in front of you a break and stay back a ways farther. If there are people who want to get around you on the road because they like to speed, pull over and let them by and don’t give them the finger when they do. Remember your blood pressure.

I do enjoy driving and I like my vehicle and take good care of it. I’ve been spoiled rotten with all of the gadgets in it and I’ll trade it off when I find one with more gadgets. I grew up in a family that always drove jalopies and somebody else’s junk. If I wanted to take a girl out I always had to go with a friend who had a car. I couldn’t afford one myself and my dads fifty-four Chevy station wagon with the usual cord of wood in the back, permeated with cigar smoke and chain saw gas, was not cool. So as they say in show business “We’ve come a long way baby.” Lets hope it lasts awhile longer. Bon Voyage