Just For Fun

My town’s daily newspaper is now inviting the publication of obituaries—for pets. We do not live in Boulder, Berkeley, San Francisco, or some other community where New Age is old hat and people who have pets are considered "guardians" rather than "owners." This is South Dakota, for Pete’s sake. Farming and ranching still hold a sizeable place in the economy, and most of us still eat meat with relish (with ketchup or steak sauce, actually) and a clear conscience.

I suppose I should be grateful that these "pet tributes" are being solicited as paid inserts in the classified section. The obituary page, thankfully, is still—so far—reserved for human beings.

Of course, there is a bright side here. The obituary page has traditionally been the training ground for entry-level journalists. Pet obits could add a new level for those novices—the sub-basement, as it were. If I wanted to break into the newspaper business, I might aim for that level by submitting some sample tributes such as the following.

Rex, Labrador retriever, age three. His greatest love in life was fast cars. Unfortunately, he finally caught one.

H.D., border collie, age six. He rode to his first Sturgis Rally on the back of a motorcycle when he was just a pup. At what would turn out to be his last Rally, he learned that it’s not a good idea to try to herd Hell’s Angels.

Corky, golden retriever, age eight. He loved walking in the rain. He learned too late that it was a mistake to leave his mark on a fire hydrant during a thunderstorm.

Ringo, blue heeler, age ten. He spent his whole working life as chief cow dog of the K Bar J ranch and was dedicated to the cattle business. He never would have sunk low enough to kill a sheep. The only wool he ever got in his teeth came from chasing one of them mangy little cocklebur collectors out of his pasture. He died a hero, and the sheep-shearing SOB who shot him had better be watching his back.

Fluffy, gerbil, age 18 months. She had the heart and soul of a great explorer. Her last expedition took her inside the wall of the family room. Our memories of Fluffy will last forever—or at least until the smell goes away.

Madame Pomp-Adore, toy poodle, age two. She was a little sweetheart who spent her short life bringing pleasure to others. This was true even in her last moments; witnesses saw a look of great satisfaction on the face of the mountain lion that ate her.

Long John, boa constrictor, age unknown. Poor John ended his life by means of a hangman’s noose made from his own tail. He was assumed to be despondent because his fellow stage performer for more than 40 years, Ms. Boom-Boom LaDouce, had announced her retirement from show business.

Okay, this may not be great journalism, but even Woodward and Bernstein had to start somewhere. At least one thing is clear—there’s nowhere to go but up. Today, pet obits. Tomorrow, a Pulitzer.

Back in the 1930’s, my
partner’s Great-Aunt Margaret made a journey from West Texas back to Arkansas
to search out the family history. Travel was difficult at that time, and she
spent several weeks on the trip, so it was a big project and a considerable
investment of time and money for her. When she got back, everyone was naturally
eager to know what she found out.

Her response? “I’m not going to talk about it—it was just
too awful!” And she never did. Did she discover someone who ran a house of ill
repute? Was there a murderer in the family? A bigamist? Or maybe even a
Presbyterian? The family’s speculations were probably more lurid than the
reality, but nobody knows. Whatever secrets Great-Aunt Margaret uncovered were so
shocking to her that they are still secrets to this day.

Of course, not everyone is shocked to find ancestors who
were less than law-abiding. Some of us would prefer to find a few colorful
characters. They make the family much more interesting—at least as long as they
are several generations back.

Among my ancestors, for example, is a several-times
great-grandfather we always thought of as a mountain man and explorer. An old
picture of him in a buffalo coat and fur cap supported this story. Then my aunt
started researching the family tree.

It turned out that Great-Great-Great-Great-Grandfather did
start out to participate in the California gold rush in 1850. He got as far as
Council Bluffs, Iowa, where he settled down and started a business that was terribly
mundane—buying excess property from overloaded immigrants. Later he was one of
the founders of a new town, where he started the first school, was the first
postmaster, served as a prosecuting attorney, and was in general
disappointingly respectable. My father said one day, “You know, I liked him
better when I thought he was about half a horse thief.”

Tracking down ancestors is challenging. It involves tedious
digging through archives, census records, church records, court records, and
newspaper files. It requires laborious deciphering of faded old records—when
you are able to find them. The frustrating reality is that sometimes it’s just
not possible to find what you’re searching for.

Since finding ancestors can be so difficult, it’s only
reasonable that once we do track them down, we’d want them to be the right
kind. Famous ones, preferably. Infamous ones, as the next best thing.
Unconventional ones, at the very least. A pirate is more exciting than an
admiral. A circuit-riding pioneer preacher is far more gratifying than a
city-bound bishop. A rich great-great uncle who made his fortune in the Yukon
is much more interesting than one who did the same on Wall Street. And even if
our immediate ancestors are ordinary Norwegian farmers, we can laugh at
Norwegian jokes with equanimity, secure in the shadow of the fierce Viking
raiders a few dozen generations further back.

Most of us have our share of ancestors who would embarrass
us horribly if they came to life and showed up at our front doors. As long as
they stay safely removed by three or four generations, though, they’re merely
colorful. Unlike Great-Aunt Margaret, most of us are more than willing to claim
them. Their presence adds a little drama and excitement, even if they are on
the shady side of the family tree.

If a group of lions is a pride, and a group of geese is a gaggle, what are the names of some other gatherings of unique species? Here are a few:

A group of six-year-old girls is a giggle.

A group of four-year-old boys is a vroom.

A group of 12-year-old girls is a shriek.

A group of grandparents with pictures of grandchildren is a brag.

A group of high-school jocks is a swagger.

A group of uncommunicative teenagers is a shrug.

A group of new members at the gym is a groan.

A group of menopausal women is a flush.

My daughter recently got married. As significant family events tend to do, this one highlighted some of the little quirks and dysfunctions that affect our closest relationships. As she and I were busy planning the wedding, I was forced to face a difficult truth about myself.

I know that the first step to recovery is to admit there is a problem. It’s hard to even admit such a failing to myself, much less write it down in black and white. Still, I know that being honest about this dysfunction is essential. Therefore, I am making this public confession. I am seriously decorating-impaired.

I discovered that planning a wedding means making decisions about Important and Significant Issues. Things like centerpieces. Bridal magazines devote entire articles to centerpieces.

Frankly, I don’t understand what all the fuss is about. I have centerpieces at home. The dining room table almost always has something or other in the center of it. Junk mail, usually. Or a half-finished crossword puzzle. Or, since I live with a geologist, a random assortment of interesting (to a geologist) rocks.

Okay, so centerpieces I can handle. I’m still at a loss, though, when it comes to knickknacks. Some people have all sorts of attractive objects strewn about their houses. They drape scarves here and set candles there, and are thrilled when they find some interesting piece of crystal or a pretty bowl at an antique store. I just don’t seem to have the knack for that sort of thing.

It’s a little-known fact, by the way, that “knickknack” is an old word from Sanskrit. Its literal translation is “stuff you have to dust.”

Of course, I do have things strewn about my house. There are the stacks of papers to be filed, the piles of magazines, my four pairs of reading glasses, and the occasional random hiking boot or teacup—not to mention all those assorted rocks.

Despite my disability, I do decorate my surroundings. I even own three paint rollers, four paint brushes, and a stud finder. I’ve painted complete interior walls of entire houses. One of my favorite things about painting is browsing through the color chips—not to look at the colors, but to read the names someone comes up with. Some of the actual colors I’ve used are Seashell, Snow Ballet, Early American Champagne, and my all-time favorite that I bought just because of its name—Pudding.

No matter how colorful their names might be, though, all those paint colors have one thing in common. Every one of them is off-white. Snow Ballet or Early American Champagne just sound so much more appealing than “beige.”

It isn’t that I don’t like color. I love color. I especially like the way it shows up against all those off-white walls.
In my office hangs a brightly-colored quilted pinwheel that my mother made for me. I picked out the fabric myself—four different shades each of four different colors. That’s sixteen separate and distinct pieces of fabric. It took me three hours, and by the time I got out of the fabric store my decorating disability had kicked in so badly that I had to go home and take a nap.

I know there is help out there for this failing of mine. There are entire magazines dedicated to the art and science of decorating one’s home. They have names like House Beautiful or Better Homes and Gardens. I’ve even seen one—this is a bit scary—called Bathroom Yearbook. I just can’t force myself to use these recovery materials. The only time I look at one is at the doctor’s office when the only other choice is a medical magazine with a name like Kidney Dysfunction Journal.

Because of my reluctance to change, I have decided my best choice is to learn to live with my decorating disability. It really doesn’t  impair my ability to lead a normal life. It isn’t causing difficulty in my significant relationships. I honestly believe I can manage my affliction.

One thing I need to do is learn not to blame myself. This doesn’t mean I’m a bad person or that there is something wrong with me. And after all, it really isn’t my fault. I can’t help it. I simply was born without any designer genes.

Reading the newspaper with breakfast and a cup (or two or three) of tea is an important part of my morning. My day doesn’t quite start properly without it.

The good news is that our newspaper is delivered reliably. It’s there in its little white plastic box every morning by 5:30 or 5:45. The bad news is that the newspaper box is out at the street, at the end of our sloping gravel driveway, about 100 feet from the front door.

During the summer, this isn’t a problem. The trek after the paper is a pleasant little jaunt in the early morning, a chance to take a few deep breaths of cool morning air and get a first taste of what the day will be like.

During the winter, it’s different. For one thing, going after the paper becomes a project, involving putting on a coat and trading my cozy knit slippers for a pair of snow boots. That isn’t the real problem, though. Even when it’s cold or there’s snow on the ground, it’s still pleasant to get outside in the freshness of early morning.

The real problem is the mountain lions.

We certainly do have mountain lions here in the Black Hills. The population is increasing, and every now and then one is seen in town. A while ago, one even grabbed a small dog as a snack while the dog’s owner was out in the yard only a few feet away.

Still, I’ve never actually seen a mountain lion. In truth, I’ve never actually seen a mountain lion track. The risk of encountering a mountain lion in my own front yard is miniscule. I’m far more likely to be injured by slipping on a patch of ice or stumbling on the gravel. The trouble is, though, that at 6:00 or 6:30 in the morning in the winter time, it’s still dark. And when I start up the driveway, I can’t help thinking about mountain lions.

Once I start thinking about lions, it’s only one short imaginary step to seeing them behind every rock and pine tree. I stay exactly in the middle of the driveway—that means I might be two pounces away from the nearest hiding place instead of just one. I walk as fast as I can, but I never run. I might slip on the gravel, and besides, they know you’re afraid if you run.

I speed-walk up the driveway, grab the paper out of the box, and start back toward the house. The trip back is worse than the trip up, because all the critters my mind has conjured up are behind me. So I scoot down the driveway—is that heavy cat-breathing I hear in the shadows behind me? I trot across the grass—I’m almost there; maybe it won’t get me this time. I scurry up the steps onto the porch—thank goodness, I made it again!

By the time I’ve started my morning with this self-inflicted dose of adrenaline, I hardly need a cup of tea.

My partner expresses his sympathy and understanding by saying, “If you do get attacked, could you please just toss the paper toward the house? That way it won’t get shredded by the lion’s claws, and I’ll still be able to read it.”

Most winter mornings, I just let him go up and get the paper.

Is the truth a bit too plain, even a trifle painful? No problem—just call it something else. This is the mantra of creative marketers, selfless souls all, whose purpose seems to be to save us from the harsher realities of life and get us to buy something at the same time.

Real estate agents, of course, have been doing this for years.  Describing a house as having “loads of personality” means “we hope you won’t notice that there’s no closet space.”  “Quaint” translates to “plumbing last updated in 1927.”  “A view to die for?”  It overlooks the cemetery.

This kind of creative renaming has expanded far beyond real estate ads. When, for example, did a movie become a “motion picture event?”  Most often it’s a “major motion picture event,” unless it’s based on a literary classic or an incident from history, in which case it’s an “epic motion picture event.”

There’s certainly nothing wrong with calling a movie a motion picture.  I can even live with “major motion picture.”  After all, no one is going to invest the time and money to produce a film and then advertise it as a “minor motion picture.”  But why tack “event” onto the end?

It seems to me that “motion picture event” more appropriately describes something that happens during a movie.  Suppose you are at the theater, and the guy in front of you gets a call on his cell phone.  He keeps yakking and yakking until finally you can’t take it any longer.  You leap over the seats, grab the phone out of his hand, and use it to thump the bejeebers out of him.  Now, that would be a motion picture event.

Since such behavior would probably get you banned from the theater, you’d have to entertain yourself at home.  You might choose to read, perhaps enjoying that descendant of the humble comic book, the “graphic novel.”  Or you might watch TV—where a movie, of course, is a “major television event.”  If you did, you’d never see something as blasé as a mere rerun of an earlier program.  Instead, you might watch that crowning glory of creative euphemism, the “encore presentation.”

If an encore presentation of last year’s reality show doesn’t hold your interest, you might decide to go shopping.  The renaming game is alive and well here, too, especially when it comes to clothing. 
The current trend is to describe clothes by what one is supposed to do in them.  You can buy sleepwear, loungewear, activewear, sportswear, leisurewear, and careerwear.  But what if, in the privacy of your own home, you decide to sleep in your loungewear?  Or lounge in your activewear?  How are they going to know?

Oddly enough, something we don’t buy any more is plain old “underwear.”  Instead, we shop discreetly for “intimate apparel.”  Nor does any woman today have to subject herself to the kind of intimate apparel once known with such uncomfortable directness as a “girdle.” She can now hold herself together much more gently with “shapewear.”

Slacks and blouses have been dumped into the all-purpose categories of “bottoms” and “tops.”  This terminology is not without its risks; a while ago I saw an ad for “plus size women’s bottoms—half off!” Don’t we all wish.

That particular ad, with the incredible breadth of its vision, has inspired me.  Instead of deploring this creative renaming game, I’ve decided to join in it.

For example, last summer my garden was a dismal failure if you considered it a place to produce vegetables.  I renamed it a “grasshopper habitat.”  It was instantly a thriving operation—as well as a perfect complement to the back yard “dandelion refuge.”

Using this same logic, the dining room table becomes a “newspaper and junk mail deposit area.”  My desk, once a surface cluttered with piles of paper, is now a “horizontal holding facility for documents needing attention.”  My untidy daughter used to have a bedroom with clothes all over the floor.  Now she inhabits a spacious “walk-on clothes closet.”  And since that space under the bed is now a “dust bunny sanctuary,” I certainly can’t disturb its ecosystem by vacuuming.
 

This renaming has its place outside the home, too.  When I rear-ended someone a while ago, I wasn’t being careless—I was just practicing “overly-assertive merging.”  Want to escape the stigma of overdrawing your checking account?  No problem—you’ve merely done “anticipatory pre-deposit spending.”  Have to give a speech?  Those butterflies in your midsection aren’t a sign of stage fright.  You merely have “oration-induced intestinal activity.”  I used to be a procrastinator—no longer. Now I can proudly say I have a “deadline-driven work style.”

This is only the beginning; there are some real possibilities here.  I’ll have to come up with them later, though, because I need to go get dinner started.  I’m sure it’s going to be a satisfying gastronomic event—we’re having an encore presentation of last Tuesday’s meatloaf.

Let me begin by stating categorically that I am not prejudiced against cats.  I’ve known many felines who were outstanding citizens.  I’ve welcomed cats into my home on many occasions.  Some of my best friends have cats.  I think cats should have the same opportunities as anyone else.  I’m just not comfortable with my daughter having a committed relationship with one.

I do my best to be non-judgmental and supportive, but it’s hard to sit back and say nothing when your children make choices that will make their lives more difficult.  It’s even harder when those choices make my life more difficult.

It all began when my daughter graduated from massage therapy school and chose to move back home.  The plan was for her to stay with me until she found a place to live.
She moved in—with her garage full of stuff and her two cats. 

I figured this arrangement would be for a few days only.  After all, the newspaper had full columns of ads for rental houses and apartments.
It turned out, though, that almost none of those rentals would accept pets.  So the few days stretched into a week, and then nearly two, and there were no prospects in sight for permanent housing. 

I love my daughter dearly.  She’s bright, loving, even-tempered, and fun to have around.  She’s also severely tidiness-challenged.  The clutter was creeping out of the guest room and taking over.  Clothes mysteriously disappeared out of my closet. Shoes–too small to be mine–appeared in the middle of the living-room floor.  Half the time I couldn’t find the telephone.   

Clearly, something had to be done.  The chief impediment to her finding a place of her own was the cats.  The obvious solution?  The cats had to go.
What I needed was a good, old-fashioned catastrophe.  Yet I had to be careful—I didn’t want anything to happen that could be traced back to me.  It had to look like an accident. 

I started out by writing down all the ideas I could think of—my catalyst.
The first step was a whispering campaign.  “Wyoming,” I would tell the cats.  “Did you know Wyoming has the juiciest, fattest mice in the whole country?  Gophers, too—lots of them.  A cat with any ambition at all can have a wonderful life in Wyoming.”  They didn’t take the hint.

I tried a different approach.  We’ve all heard the stories of lost pets making their way hundreds of miles to get back home.  Hoping to inspire the cats to do likewise, I read them excerpts from Lassie Come-Home.  They were unimpressed; maybe it was a mistake to choose a story about a dog.

It was time to get ugly.  I borrowed my mother’s copy of 101 Uses for a Dead Cat and left it, open to one of the gorier cartoons, lying casually near the cats’ food dish.  They merely yawned. 
I prayed for a cat burglar.  None appeared.
I pondered ways to lure a mountain lion into the neighborhood—one that wouldn’t scruple to dine on its relatives.  Reluctantly, though, I had to abandon that plan when I realized it would merely replace one cat problem with another.

My hopes soared one night when we had a huge thunderstorm.  One of the cats was safely shut into the garage, but the other one was nowhere to be found.  I slept well that night, smiling to myself.  One down, one to go.
In the morning, though, the missing cat appeared.  She had spent the night, warm and dry, in my daughter’s car.  She apparently had slept even more soundly than I had, perhaps because she was curled up so cozily on my favorite sweater.

By now I was becoming desperate.  I began having fantasies of increasing violence.  I considered building a machine that would launch the whiskered interlopers off the back deck—a catapult.  I began seeing images in my mind of two stuffed felines above the fireplace—catamounts.  I wondered what the market might be for catgut.
Still, I couldn’t see how to accomplish any of these without leaving evidence of foul play.  Besides, some of them were simply too category.

As many problems do, this one finally resolved itself.  One wonderful morning, we found a landlord with an affordable house, who uttered the magic words, “Cats?  Sure.  Cats are no problem.”
So they moved on. 

I helped my daughter load her stuff.  I watched her drive away, with two little whiskery faces pressed to the back window of the car.  I smiled and waved. 
Then I went into the kitchen and made myself a cup of tea. I sat down to drink it, so relieved I could hardly move.  It was a soothing, refreshing catatonic.

Now, I enjoy the tranquility of my feline-free house.  There are times, though, when I seem to get the feeling that someone is watching me.  Or I think I catch a glimpse of movement out of the corner of my eye.
Then I have to get up and check the house, just to make sure they’re really gone.  Once I’ve done so, I can relax again—reassured by the negative results of my cat scan.