Dogs Have a Mind of Their Own
When my wife and I bought our Yorkshire Terriers, we had visions of romping through fields of daisies and playing catch with a Frisbee at the beach. Instead, we have Siskel and Ebert with twice the number of legs, but the same body shapes.
It’s not that we ask them for their opinions. They just have a natural proclivity to make their views known whether we care to know or not.
For instance, one of Toto and Dottie’s favorite activities is our mealtime. (Yes, we went with the “Wizard of Oz” theme and Dottie is too small at 9 pounds to be a Dorothy.) Toto gravitates into the kitchen, while Dottie remains in the living room taking the occasional sniff to gauge the desirability of our dinner.
When the food hits the table, Toto is first in line. If it’s something he likes, he assumes the Sphinx position and allows us to feed him. If the offering does not suit his tastes, he sets it on the floor and awaits a different sample. If our choice in dining proves unsuitable, he walks away, head down as if he feels sorry for us. He’ll wedge his 11- pound body against the nearest wall and take a nap.
Dottie on the other hand will not enter the kitchen unless the aroma is up to her standards. This is from a dog that will eat a “Chap Stick,” and the legs and heads of plastic firemen. Her taste runs to fried rather than baked, and anything remotely related to bacon is best.
Toto has appointed himself judge of the dry food bowl. When it strikes his fancy (we have no idea what the stimulus might be) he will pick up a nugget it, taste it, and fling it across the floor. Half a bowl may end up scattered until he finds the right nugget. He’ll eat that nugget and then take a nap. He has become quite adept with his tossing technique. He has distance down and is working on his accuracy.
Dottie reserves her caloric intake for our nightly TV time snack. She ignores popcorn and plain potato chips. She adores ice cream, root beer flavored hard candy, cheese flavored anything, and peanut butter. Dottie’s peanut butter sampling provides me with endless entertainment. A tiny glob of the sticky treat starts several minutes of hyper-tongue-extension trying to get the peanut butter from the roof of her mouth. If you’ve ever witnessed this phenomenon, it’s too funny for words. That, or I’m just easy to amuse.
The ultimate expression of doggy criticism came several months ago. I was taking course in oral communication and found practicing my speeches worked best in the privacy of my bedroom. Toto accompanied me upstairs probably hoping I would rub his tummy. He hopped on the bed and I began my speech.
It went well for about a minute or two as Toto tilted his head from side to side, his eyes following my every movement and his bat-like ears my every word. Then, it hit him. He realized the situation he had placed himself in. He bolted up right, jumped from the bed, and went to the doorway. I told him I had only begun and that the speech got more interesting. He would have none of it. He fled with sheer terror in his eyes. Toto avoided me for the remainder of the evening. Smart dog.
Last year we added another mutt to our peanut gallery, seven-pound Sadie, also known affectionately as “Satan.” She’s a cute old girl who does not take kindly to being disturbed in her bed as is evident by her transformation into Cujo.
She’s not as harsh in her assessment of our dining choices and will eat absolutely anything we do. In fact, she will scratch the woodwork, whine, snort, and bark until we share. She will not be denied.
Sadie had found one aspect of one of her keepers, me, unsatisfactory. Apparently, I snore too loudly. She’ll hang around me until I doze off and I begin my unchallenged imitation of a gorilla with swollen adenoids. She’ll even go down stairs to get away from the noise. In all fairness, my wife wishes she could join Sadie.
We love our pups in spite of their odd behaviors and personality quirks. Owning dogs has also had some distinct advantages over having more children to satisfy our maternal instincts. Dogs don’t get speeding tickets, need money, or call you at midnight with news of their latest disaster.
Yep, I love those dogs.

Resigned To Being All Thumbs
Since early childhood, I’ve been fascinated by people who were talented with their hands. Wood carvers, mechanics, and painters inspired me to explore what innate gift I had. I’m still looking.
My first endeavor was model building. I especially liked cars (imagine that) and could get them put together pretty well. The problem came when I tried to paint them. Brushes left streaks and spray paints always ran. I had a collection even Ghoulardi would have been embarrassed to blow up.
I then joined the Cub Scouts for a couple of years and got the opportunity to enter the regatta and pinewood derby. My father thought it was a good idea for me to do all the work myself and I foolishly agreed.
The regatta, for the uninitiated, was a pair of long water troughs sitting on tables set end to end. The contenders put their balsa sailboats at one end and huffed and puffed on them to get their vessel to the finish first, sort of like a Presidential debate.
I would have won if the metal rudder hadn’t fallen off as soon as it hit the water. Who knew applying glue required an engineering degree. Those pesky rules about the entire boat getting to the end were so unfair.
Next came the pinewood derby. This exercise in humiliation supplies the scout with a block of wood, 4 nails for axles, and 4 wheels that aren’t quite round. You have carve, sand, and paint the block into the semblance of a car while staying within weight limits. Then, you glue on the nails to mount the wheels.
A specially designed gravity track in the nearest school gymnasium serves as the competition venue. I did better with the glue this time, but I failed to sand the wheels. I was under the mistaken impression that wheel and round was the same thing. I’d made a racer that won’t go downhill and was the proud holder of dead last.
I ended my scouting career while I had some self-esteem left and a few years later moved on to real cars. The late sixties was a time when your really could build a car at home in the garage with a screwdriver, socket set, and a large hammer. Generators and starters had rebuild kits, and engines were simple to diagnose and repair. Even though I couldn’t drive yet, I began learning how they worked.
Here was a hobby that had practical applications. My shortcoming was putting all the parts back in. I would inevitably have a washer, spring, or bolt leftover. It seems these tiny parts are essential, especially that spring for the starter. It turned the engine over, but didn’t disengage. There is no sound like the grinding gears of a starter spinning along with a running engine.
I kept at the home mechanic gig into adulthood until two incidents finally convinced me to always let a professional do the work right the first time or two. The first was the rear drum brakes on a Comet Caliente. Drum brakes were never meant to be repaired by human beings. The brake pad always wore into the drum so it had to be beaten and cursed off. After breathing in a little asbestos dust, you had to get all the springs (again with the springs) and clips put back exactly right or things would fall off. After repeated attempts, I could not get the emergency brake cable guides to stay in place and had to ask my father to fix it. All guys know that asking your father for help is the equivalent of castration.
The final straw was a Chevy Chevette that threw a timing belt. I guess they couldn’t find a bicycle chain small enough so they used a rubber band to synchronize the pistons and rotor, and to drive the water pump. Calling it a rubber band is generous.
With the help of a buddy I replaced the belt, but didn’t get it back together exactly according to the manufacturer’s specs. The rest of the time I owned the car, I had to set the timing by ear. To be honest, I’d set it, drive it, reset it, drive it until it ran correctly, or nearly so. People were infinitely more impressed with the “ear” claim.
Lo, these many years later, when asked to help with a project or repair, I just say I don’t have time. It’s easier than remembering the disbelief on my stepsons’ faces when they tried their hand at the regatta and pinewood derby, in their mercifully abbreviated time as cub scouts, and asked for my help.
I warned them. “Thanks For Showing Up” ribbons convinced them.

I accompanied my mother to a dealership recently in search of her next land boat. She doesn’t feel safe in anything smaller than a Lincoln Towncar or, in the case of her new ride, a Grand Marquis. She’s from the old school that said the more metal surrounding you, the better your chances were of surviving a wreck. Of course, that school conveniently ignored the mayhem caused by several tons of steel crushing one’s fellow citizens.
I bring this up because this is the person that taught me to drive. My father probably figured I’d kill myself driving a car sooner or later, and refused to get into the passenger seat of anything piloted by me. My mom, being a mom, didn’t believe for a moment her son was an idiot who shouldn’t have had a license to drive a donkey cart. She volunteered to sit next to me as I defied death in my quest for my driver’s license.
My dad was very conservative behind the wheel, unless he was taking us to see our grandparents in Pennsylvania. The turnpike turned him into a “we’ll be there soon, just hold it” guy. Otherwise, he would putt along being courteous to others and obeying all traffic laws.
Now, dear old mom was not of the same persuasion. She figured she had as much right to be on the road as anyone and she was not to be denied. I would describe her as being from the Kamikaze school of flying daredevils as taught by Evel Knievel.
Though she has an unblemished record, there were incidents that should be noted concerning my mother’s driving. She up-rooted a lilac bush next to our driveway in Birmingham. It wasn’t all that close to the car’s path, but she near did get the hang of reverse. This did not, however, make her back up slowly. She only had two modes of locomotion, fast and faster.
She used the back wall of the one-car unattached garage as her stopping point. When she heard the thump, it was time to stop. After the wall began to bow, my father tried various means of getting her to stop an inch or two sooner, to no avail. We just used a sledgehammer to move the wall back occasionally.
For a time Mom used the white curb line as her marker after a near miss with an oncoming car that ventured into her lane. This doesn’t seem like a bad thing at first blush, but all ready narrow Route 113 had mailboxes hanging into the roadway and a nice pitch for drainage. This meant you could read the names on the mailboxes when you rode in the passenger seat as gravity pressed you against the door of her old ’67 Chevy Impala and the boxes pinged off the outside rearview mirror.
Added excitement came from the times her tires went off the edge of the asphalt onto the slender shoulder. Cedar Point had nothing on a trip to the grocery store with mom. Gravel bouncing off the floorboard, the car careening up and down like a motorboat in high seas, and watching people run from their front yards made for interesting travels.
To her credit, she’s never had a speeding ticket or an accident. It could be the wild-eyed look she gave those who got in the way, or the kind of luck I need to win the lottery, but it’s true.
I, on the other hand, in practicing the techniques passed to me by my Sensei, have managed to bugger every car I ever owned with at least once. I’ve collided with a 10-foot deep ditch, concrete barriers, a Malibu, a Plymouth, at least one rabbit, a duck, a carwash, assorted guardrails, and collected a half dozen speeding tickets over 34 years.
I have to give her due recognition. On the day I passed the driving portion of the licensing process at Mackruskie’s in South Amherst, I begged her to ride in the back seat, and she did.
She most likely had her eyes closed, murmured a pray, and struggled with the realization that my father was right about the outcome of me with a driver’s license.

Turning 50. Is It A Good Thing?
It’s just a few days before I cross that threshold from middle age white male to one-foot-in-the-grave, over-the-hill, stalked-by-the-Grim Reaper white male. Besides being a lot more words to remember, it’s pretty accurate description of my condition.
I remember being 12 and thinking how exciting the life a teenager would be. Then, came adolescent angst praying for 16 so I could drive a car and taste real freedom. The next milestone was 21 when you’re a full-fledged, honest-to-goodness adult and you can by liquor.
After that it gets a little cloudy. There’s getting married and the birth of your kids, but your twenties and thirties are just a blur. You have a mortgage, dentists, repairmen, telephone solicitors, in-laws, out-laws, hangovers, overtime, layoffs, and generally more annoyances than three people can deal with.
You just end up in your forties glad to have survived and seeing a bit of relief when your kids will leave the nest and you can finally be selfish and enjoy the fruits of your labor.
Not quite. This is also the time when weddings, redecorating, and buying a car you can’t afford turns your life savings into a sweet memory. You have to work harder and longer to retire before you’re so old your employer just takes you outback and shoots you.
Then 50 drop kicks you in a sensitive area. After you swallow a couple of bobbles misplaced by the groin impact, it is time to assist your life, review the goals you set for yourself, and get that liver transplant you’ve been saving beer tabs for.
Your bulging muscles are now sagging, your bi-focal lenses need replacing every six weeks, you get winded reading the newspaper in the morning, and the only thing regular about you is the pre-paid funeral flyers you get in the mail. Young women no longer notice you anymore unless your wallet is open.
Shaving in the morning requires stretching the facial creases so you don’t have tuffs of hair peeking out of your face the way they do from your ears. The only time you feel frisky is between 5:00 am and 5:01 am, except you’re asleep.
If you’re lucky you’re retired like me and there’s a little bit of time for altruistic interests and giving back a little to your community, but not much. There just isn’t enough time in the day to get everything done. How I managed when I worked is unfathomable.
It’s not just that the days are flying by, making each one seem closer to 20 hours. My patience has shriveled to nothing and I’m shrinking even as I write this. If my height continues to decrease at its present pace, I’ll be a dwarf in about a year.
The strangest feature of my decrepitude is that I have nothing much left to say. Oh, I’ll sit in front of my computer and write all day, but conversation seems pointless. I’ve said my piece and stated my case. Attempts at persuasion are timid because I don’t care if anyone agrees with me or not. My wife has noticed my lack of verbal blather and is eternally grateful. She gets what every woman wants, the last word.
There is a definite positive side to my newly developed, silent immobility. I’m ready for when I’ve really racked up those frequent geezer miles and my loving family puts me into a retirement home, more accurately called “storage.” I can sit for hours staring blankly at nothing, communicating with people who aren’t there.
I knew writing this column would be good practice for something.

Mr. Frugal Lives On
I’ve written on this subject before, but it seems I’ve gotten even thriftier. The realization of my “Scrooge” proclivity hit as I was drilling new holes in the deck of my lawn mower. The left front wheel was pointing toward true north while I was trying to make the mower go east.
Of course, my mower is a propel it yourself model with the “Easy Start” pull cord. I’m not certain what the official definition of easy is, but I’m guessing the designer of this lawn mower hadn’t read it. The manual says, “Press the Primer 5 times and gently pull the Cord while depressing the Safety Bar.”
It appears there is a zero or two missing from the number of times the primer needs pressing. Try a gentle pull on the cord and it won’t move. The engineers got the compression so high I’m surprised the spark plug hasn’t shot out of the cylinder head and killed a neighbor.
Regardless of these minor difficulties I’m hanging on to this mower for a while. I’m not the least embarrassed pushing my staggered wheeled rust bucket around my yard if it means I can wait a few more years to buy a new one.
The stinginess doesn’t stop there. I sharpen the mower blade with my drill and a circular sander attachment.
I asked for, and received, a power washer for Father’s Day so I won’t have to pay someone to clean my house or my green driveway.
I change the oil in my cars at home in the driveway. This has necessitated learning how to remove oil spots from the concrete. One positive aspect is that it seems used motor oil is good for your complexion.
I nurture the purple pansies that come up in the front of the house every year so I can buy fewer plants each spring. Actually, I’m not certain I can kill them. I’ve mowed and stomped on them and they just pop back up. It might have something to do with the nearby “world’s ugliest bush” that shares their corner of the yard. The pansies must figure if that monstrosity gets to live, so should they.
I recycled the old carpeting from the family room and gave it a second chance as a sound and dirt absorber. It’s getting a little funky since Toto uses it for his morning tinkle. It’s so bad, Dottie, the leader of the pack, refuses to set foot in the garage. Whenever I open the inside garage door she looks at me sadly and shakes her head before walking in the opposite direction.
I’ve been blessed with a grandson who appreciates the outside world and all its free toys. Rocks, sticks, frogs, bugs, mud, roadside trash, and the occasional backyard tootsie roll make for fun in the sun. He even loves going to the park, and taking walks, also free.
No, he’s mine. You can’t have him.
Frugality does not come without a price. The ongoing battle against weather damage forces me to paint my exterior house trim nearly every year. The paint is so thick now, that it remains undisturbed even though the wood behind it has turned to dust. I just have to be careful to not lean anything against the doorways.
My father would be proud of me. He’s my inspiration and the first to instill the principles of penny-pinching in me. In fact, I was the recipient of his hand-me-downs when I was about 11. My plumpness put our waists in the same range, though I was several inches shorter. I still have a picture of me taken by a family friend wearing a cutoff pair of my dad’s pants. I look very similar to Tweedledum, or is it Tweedledee, with my “clodhoppers,” the bottom of my faux Bermuda shorts falling just below the knee and the waist hitched up to my chest, and a pair of dark plastic eyeglasses on my grinning face.
Yep, frugal has its price.