Thad's Take on Things

Footin' It for Felines

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 11 Aug 2011 18:09:00 +0000

Please consider sponsoring me as I run a half-marathon to benefit Furkids, Georgia's largest no-kill, cage-free animal shelter. Learn more at Footin' It for Felines.

Wiggin' Out: Episode #1

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 28 Jun 2011 14:00:00 +0000

The rage within builds. While walking Boo the other day a neighbor's big brown mutt charged us from their open garage. I shot at him with the pepper spray but missed. He got the picture, though, and stopped, at which time his owner came from around the side of the house, slow and unapologetic. She uttered the same response that all owners of aggressive dogs utter: "He won't hurt you." It took all I had not to give her a dose of pepper spray just for good measure, and so I left her with a simple, loud, "F**k." I'm tired of the thoughtless and the selfish, but short of all out medieval violence, I don't know how to rid my world of those people.

We've decided that it's just a matter of time before I simply wig out. I'm not prone to violence - which is probably why I'm in this mess - so I don't think you have to worry about seeing my mugshot on CNN any time soon. Then again, maybe you do. Running can only soothe the burning anger for so long and drinking only makes my tongue more of a liability than an asset. I don't know anyone who sells crack and meth is just too scary. I ask God to forgive my trespasses as I try and forgive those who trespass against me, but all that seems to come of those supplications is more trespassers. Karma (and the threat of prison) prevent me from swinging madly at the world. I wonder what I did in a past life to warrant being surrounded by so many people wearing blinders. Perhaps I was one of them once and my soul is paying its dues. Either way, I don't have much confidence that religion will save me from doing something rash.

The thought of pulling a Ted Kazinsky and living out my days in a shed in the mountains has its appeal, but 1) that's not high on Ida's To Do List, and 2) hiding only lasts for so long. They'd find me eventually; those you want to be furthest from are always on your heels.

I'm not sure what will ultimately send me into a tailspin. My guess is it'll be another dog incident, but maybe it'll be the texting driver that slams into my car or someone's kid chasing a cat or perhaps even a library patron that pushes my customer service Do Not Push button too many times. The pressure is building and I kind of want me to just explode just to get it over and done with. It reminds me of when Homer Simpson goes to buy a handgun and is told he has to wait 24 hours. Homer replies, "But I'm angry now!"

Mission from God

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 22 Jun 2011 19:38:00 +0000

We recently attended a fundraiser for FurKids. I can say with a measure of certainty that most of those in attendance were cat people, and since cats were the one thing we all had in common, cats were the main topic of discussion, at least at our table. Non-cat people don't understand how cat people can talk for hours about cats. Dog people will talk at length about dogs, of course, but eventually they move on to other topics, their attention span being much like a dog's, short. Cat people are more focused, beginning and ending most conversations with something about cats.

I can't explain why it is I like cats. I'm not fanatical about them; I just like them. Part of my fondness for them might stem from the fact that the domesticated cat is the only animal that we have been unable to truly domesticate. Every single cat has the urge to hunt. Some are better at it than others, but all cats are all born with that instinct intact. We haven't been able to breed the wild out of cats.

That unwillingness to bow to the human animal is one reason why the cat has been and is far more demonized than the dog. Despite there being more cat than dog owners in the U.S., cats are more often victims of abuse, torture and basic maliciousness than dogs. Once in the backwoods of Canon City, CO, I stumbled upon a grey tabby that had been strung-up with a wire. Last year there was a story about a cat that had been nailed by its paw to a utility pole, and the case of a man throwing a kitten on a grill made international headlines in 2002. Urban and rural hicks like to boast about how if they see a cat in the road, they speed up. I like to believe that only the in-bred among us find that funny. And just yesterday while on my way to work, I saw the still madly twitching body of a kitten on the inside lane of I-285. It would have been impossible for a cat that young to cross four lanes of rush hour traffic, only to get hit in the fifth, so it either escaped from a moving car, or more likely, was thrown from one.

Cats are my calling. What that exactly means remains to be seen, but it's now clear to me the meaning of my life. Cats are my mission, and I shall carry it out with religious zeal. You will, I hope, forgive me if I digress little from that mission and, perhaps, forget that you exist. When we do talk again, I will try and speak of non-cat things, but don't be surprised if I let slip something about cats into our conversation. You should expect nothing less.

Nothing to Say

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 09 Jun 2011 15:26:00 +0000

I got nothin'. My brain constantly hums with ideas, opinions and deep thoughts, and yet when I go to put them into words, nothing. Some of my ideas and opinions are half-baked anyway, while others might not go over so well with my limited audience. I'd like to sound off, for instance, on pit bulls, Israel/Palestine, unions, Christians (not Christianity), "patriotism", lame Pearl Jam fans, and selfish people. All those things (and more) make me madder than Hell, but I just don't have the energy to fight the good fight. And I don't want to get angry; I'm tired of being angry. Some of what is on my mind has already been discussed ad naseum so my input would only add to the mess. That's the price I pay for being someone who tries to think about something before shooting off about it.

Just Breathe

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 18 May 2011 02:00:00 +0000

This is for my little friend, China, who was euthanized Monday due to complications related to renal failure. China was our foster cat, a partially blind, partially deaf, elderly cat who was so thin she could've been the poster child for starving cats. A birth defect affected the structure of her face so that it was almost flat and no one is quite sure why her legs were bent this way and she walked that way. She had long back feet that reminded me of a jack rabbit. We gave her pills for hyperthyroidism, wiped her chin after meals because she didn't groom herself, administered subcutaneous fluids, and mashed her food to mush because she only had a few teeth left. She was a mess, really, a being Mother Nature would normally never have let live to be 12-13 years old. Someone took care of her, however, and when she was abandoned, other people found value in her, and we were eventually led to her. We were able to fill her last few months with what we all deserve: comfort, companionship, and love. The last I saw her she was laying peacefully in her carrier, relaxed, aware, and ready.

In retrospect, China gave me signs that her time was near. She stopped meowing, rarely strayed from her room, and slowly she began to stop eating. She never tired of being petted, though, even during her last night, and I think if she could have said as much, China would have echoed the final lyrics of Pearl Jam's "Just Breathe":

Nothing you would take
Everything you gave
Hold me 'till I die
Meet you on the other side.

It's All About Me

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 28 Apr 2011 15:12:00 +0000

This blog is an exercise in egotism. It's very existence means that I believe you want to know something about me: what I think, do, say or feel. No one asked me to start a blog or said, "You know, you're a funny guy. You should start a blog." I am quite funny, but mine's the kind of humor that only my wife finds funny. Nor is this an extension of my professional self, although in a previous blogging life I did vent a bit about my chosen profession. I'm certainly not getting paid for my efforts to grace you with what's on my mind. Unfortunately, I have no expertise to lend you, no wares or services to peddle; I'm not part of a network of people sharing photos of cats (but I certainly have some to share) or swooning over vampires; and though I would like you to think, believe and act like me (because if you did the world would be a better place), my goal is not to convert you religiously, politically or philosophically. I simply have things to say and felt that you might like to hear me out.

Horn-y

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 05 Apr 2011 12:45:00 +0000

To get to and from work, I travel a total of 36.4 miles, and in Atlanta that amounts to almost two hours in my car each workday. That car is a 2002 Saturn sedan, and though we've traveled over 94,000 miles together, I'm not that attached to the Silver Bullet. For starters, nothing about him is automatic. I have to use a key to open his doors and passengers have to be reminded to lock the door behind them. My elbow actually moves when I roll down a window, and I have to stretch across the front seat to roll-down the passenger window. Rolling down the back windows requires pre-planning. The radio is factory-made, and I have to manually remove the antenna each time I take him in to get washed. The one feature the Silver Bullet has that many on the road lack, however, is a horn that speaks volumes.

The American car horn is a notable exception to poorly made American products. The horns of foreign-made cars can barely reach a fevered "beep!" while their American counterparts elicit a blasting "honk!" They are loud, annoying and difficult to ignore. It's important to me that the object of my honks understands my point fully, and beeping just doesn't do that.

I'm not a car-person - for me, they serve only a practical purpose - so I can't speak with authority on car horns; however, I know that my Saturn has a horn that packs as much punch if not more than the SUV's bearing down on me. And I'm not afraid to use it either. Having appointed myself the arbiter of good and bad driving, it is my duty to pass judgment on others' driving skills, or, more appropriately, their lack thereof. I'm particularly fond of honking at someone who isn't paying attention when the light turns green or who fails to signal before turning. People who talk on their cell phones or text while driving are also favorite victims. I'm looking forward to the day when I pull aside someone texting while driving and just letting the Silver Bullet's horn blare away.

Not everyone shares my affinity for the car horn. In Montreal, it's considered rude to honk at someone, and once I could barely contain myself when my mom let a car pull out in front of us, then stop, go in reverse, and then do a u-turn right in the middle of the street without so much as a honk. Her response? "We don't honk in Colorado." Arrrgh. Chicago and New York are more my style. In Chicago, the person five cars behind the light will start honking in anticipation of the green light, and New York just isn't New York without a 24-hour chorus of car horns. Music to my ears.

The Silver Bullet is aging, and the day will come when I will have to replace him. My next car will have power-everything, including a power-horn, and I plan to submit each car horn to a test. Any model that "beeps" is out of the question.

Judgment Day

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 24 Mar 2011 13:05:00 +0000

Judgment Day this year is May 22, which is a Sunday, if you don't have a calendar handy. I know this to be true not because I'm a prophet or because of visions or dreams I had foretelling of said event. No voice(s) spoke to me in the dark and the only cult I'm guilty of associating with has more to do with cats than the end of the world. No, this knowledge was imparted to me from a billboard on the way to the veterinarian's office. Normally, I wouldn't remember this particular public service announcement any more than I remember the those announcing the next gun show, except that this one offers something others lack: a guarantee. That's right, Judgment Day is "guaranteed" to happen on May 22. Guarantees of this sort are hard to ignore, so naturally I've begun to evaluate whether or not on May 22 I will ascend to loftier heights or be sent further south than I already am.

Like all people, my life has not been sin-free. The degree of my sinfulness has fluctuated over time, with my younger years being oriented more toward vice than virtue and my more recent years being not so much more virtuous as less inclined to vice. I think that come May 22 the transgressions of my youth will be overlooked and the focus will be on who I am now. Using the Seven Deadly Sins as a benchmark, I feel I'm well positioned to be judged favorably, despite some noticeable flaws:

Gluttony:
I love large portions of food and drink. While I publicly renounce America's gluttonous lifestyle, I am guilty of not being able to hold myself to just one cookie or brownie or doughnut. I believe that the more french fries there are before me, the better off I am, and if you want to get my attention, just say, "buffet."

Wrath:
People piss me off and most are no damn good. My anger at their (and my own) incompetence bodes ill for me on Judgment Day. Generally speaking, if I don't allow myself to dwell on the bad that other people do or to use power tools that I've never used before, I'm usually pretty mild mannered.

Sloth:
I'm not so much lazy as I am undisciplined. I'm not a good project manager because I often just stop projects and let them be; I lose interest easily and my wandering mind then focuses on something else only to lose interest again. Knowing this about myself, I simply don't start projects. For instance, I want to have chickens but that requires building a coop which requires using power tools which will make me wrathful, and so I don't try to build a coop and subsequently I don't have any chickens. I'm hoping that my intentions more than my inaction will have some impact on the Judge(s).

So, I have some work to do boosting my life's resume before May 22. How you will fare come Judgment Day this May, I don't know. I know some of you will exult in eternal bliss, while others...well...you're goners. One thing I've learned from watching "Judge Judy" that might help is that you should always go to court well-dressed, so on May 22, please wear your finest. But don't overdue it; Pride is the worst sin of them all, and if on Judgment Day you're looking and feeling too fine, too sure of yourself, then, you're going down. Guaranteed.

Given to Fly?

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 15 Mar 2011 20:08:00 +0000

I like to fly. Or, rather, to be flown somewhere, since I have neither wings of a feather or a pilot's license of my own. I like how I can board a plane in the morning and be on the ground, eating lunch hundreds, if not thousands, of miles away from where I was only hours before. I love staring out of the window at the world below me, and I'm always awestruck when on cloudy days the sea of clouds stretches endlessly like I imagine ice does in Antarctica. Flying for me never loses its wonder...unless I'm in the middle seat, and then the whole experience pretty much sucks. Nonetheless, flying is quite possibly humankind's greatest achievement. And, yet, I don't think we are supposed to be up there with the clouds and the birds. I understand that we can and are able to fly; it's just that I'm not convinced that simply because we can and do, that we ought and should.

Life in the clouds was once reserved for the heavenly hosts, whether they were on Mt. Olympus or just beyond St. Peter's gate, but when man in his airplanes broke through the water vapor separating us from the divine and, to the delight of atheists worldwide, debunked the vision of harps and angels and so forth, that spiritual connection was lost. We've pushed the heavens out into planetary orbit, so that all we have now is the sky. I like the sky very much, but I miss the days when there was more mystery to it.

If You Can't Control Your Dog...

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 07 Mar 2011 15:30:00 +0000

Recently a man in Colorado Springs shot and killed a dog that attacked his dog while out for a walk: http://www.krdo.com/news/27062645/detail.html. What annoys me the most about this story is the attitude of the owner of the offending, now deceased, dog: "...she thinks the greyhound's owner did not give her a chance to regain control of Flato before using his gun." The simple fact is that Flato would be alive today had his owner not been so irresponsible and lost control of him. If I had been the owner of the greyhound, I would have done the same thing. Of course, I'd need a gun, but that's a story for another day.

It's something I encounter regularly when I'm out walking our dog, this holier-than-thou mindset on the part some dog owners that makes them think keeping their dog under control at all times doesn't pertain to them. Or maybe it's just careless stupidity. Controlling your dog means more than keeping him on a leash; it also means being able to prevent him from, say, bolting after another dog (or squirrel, cat or kid). If your dog is big enough to make you lose your balance or prevents you from having complete control of the situation, then you have no right bringing him out in public. I see it all the time at the park: tiny women "walking" their Pit Bull or Boxer or Rottweiler or Lab and almost falling over trying to stop it from breaking away. Big dogs are like bottom-shelf tequila; if you can't handle it, don't order it.

"Oh, but he just wants to play." Well, dude, we don't want to play with him, so get him the f**k away from my dog.

With some big dogs there's not enough time to "regain control" before the damage is done. A dog as big as a mastiff can seriously hurt if not kill another animal by the time the owner "regain[s] control" of it, which is why owners of big dogs need to have complete control of their dog at all times when out in public. Have you ever noticed that owners of big dogs that attack animals and children universally place the blame on the victim? They will claim their dog has never hurt anyone or anything before, and that the dead dog or maimed child must have done something to provoke the attack. If you can't control your dog, you don't deserve to have him.

But it's not just big dogs that need to be kept under control. Those yappity, snarling bundles of fearless fur are no less dangerous when not controlled. I don't care if your dog is the size of a football and can't hurt anything but itself; just keep him away from my dog. Sometimes I take a spray bottle with me when I walk Boo to keep him in-line (it's called RESPONSIBLE dog walking), and one time this little Jack Russell muttly thing came running up behind us and sniffing at Boo. I shot the f***er square in the face with a stream of water and sent him hightailing it back to his no-good hippie owner who, then, leashed him. In a fight, Boo would've taken him, but that's not the point: keep your dog under control and away from my dog, or else.

Or else what? Well, I don't have a handgun, and despite the effectiveness of a spray bottle, I doubt it would do much good against a dog hell-bent on doing harm. But know this: if your dog hurts my dog (or cats), I will go medieval on its ass. I may be a card carrying member of the ASPCA, HSUSA, and Best Friends Animal Society, but I will not let your irresponsibility go unchecked if it threatens my dog. I love dogs, I truly do, but I love mine more than I love yours, and if I have to kick, beat, bite, gouge, scratch, strangle or run over your dog to protect mine, trust me, I will. So, keep your dog leashed and under control, and there won't be a problem. Someone should have told as much to Flato's owner.

Hug a Cop

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 22 Feb 2011 18:55:00 +0000

As you near the top of the escalators in Atlanta's Hartsfield-Jackson Airport, you'll notice two or three senior citizens donning red, white and blue and waving little flags. All arriving uniformed military personnel are met by these enthusiastic seniors with clapping, handshakes, and words of thanks. It's probably the same in many of our airports: veterans and average civilians personally thanking our enlisted men and women for "all that [they] do." It's a good thing. Whether or not you agree with our foreign policy the men and women who volunteer for military service do deserve our gratitude.

I find it sad that we don't extend the same gratitude to police officers. Clearly there are differences between the two, and I'm not equating patrolling the streets of Norcross, GA, with those of Kandahar or Kabul. Nonetheless, when you volunteer to become a police officer, to serve and protect, you, too, place your life at risk for the greater good. Many police officers have made the "supreme sacrifice" in their service to our country. How many of you knew that 1) 161 police officers were killed in the line of duty in 2010, and 2) that only 16 of those deaths were considered accidental or health-related? Take a look for yourself.

Why don't we give the police the same respect and adoration we give our soldiers? Two reasons come to mind. One is the common (mis)perception that the police can't be trusted, that all police officers are corrupt. "All cops," I've been told, "are bad cops." Unfortunately, there are police officers who engage in racial profiling, destroy evidence, use unnecessary force, commit sexual assaults, and participate in those criminal activities they're charged to stop. However, you can no more say that all police officers are bad because some of them are bad anymore than you can say that all soldiers humiliate and torture prisoners, rape and murder civilians, and throw puppies off of cliffs simply because some of them have done just those things. The Department of Defense contends that such actions on the part of our soldiers are isolated incidents and those soldiers are in no way representative of the majority of men and women serving in the military. And we believe that because we know it to be true; we need it to be true. Well, I contend the same for our police force: the illegal and immoral actions of some officers are not representative of all officers. If you are one of those who believe that all cops are bad based of the actions of a few, then by your own logic, you must also believe that all our soldiers are rapists, murderers and animal abusers.

The other reason people don't readily give hero status to police officers is that the police have the power to punish us for our bad behavior, and we don't like that. Police have the thankless job of keeping us in line. They stop us for speeding, tell us to keep the music down, ticket us for public drunkenness, arrest us for shoplifting. We bitch that a cop is never around when we need one but are just as quick to bitch when they bust us for breaking the law. We want the enforcement of laws to apply to everybody but ourselves. And while we hystericize about police states, we conveniently forget that if it wasn't for the police there would be a lot more wife beaters, child molesters, gang bangers, dog fighters, rapists, burglars, and murderers hanging around neighborhoods, schools, and parks. Why don't we thank them for that?

Soldiers aren't perfect and there are some who aren't worthy of hero status; still, we recognize that most of them do the best they can and we honor and thank them for trying. Your local police officer deserves no less.

A Twelve Year Lie

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 09 Feb 2011 12:44:00 +0000

Jackson and I have been together for 12 years. The shelter folks told me it was unlikely I would find a kitten in January since it wasn't "kitten season" but I found him tucked away in a cage, a small orange ball. I lied on the adoption application, saying I lived in a house where pets were allowed and that he would be an indoor cat. My application was approved, and we went home to my 400 sq. ft. apartment where pets were not allowed. I had successfully adopted an out-of-season, red-headed cat using lies and deceit.

Living with Jackson has not always been easy. His younger years found him in constant conflict with the world and me. I can't count the number of objects I've hurled at him to prevent one behavior or another (but he's fast and I always missed). I once had a bean-bag chair that he considered a litter box and a litter box that he considered a sandbox, sending litter far and wide, so I started to let him go outside. He was promptly pounced upon by another cat, chased through the screen door by a dog, and bumped by a car. He remained (and remains) undeterred; the outdoors are his oyster. What with all the cat fights, illnesses, syndromes, and, yes, even an animal behavioralist, I can't calculate the amount of mental and financial resources that have been spent on Jackson's physical and mental well-being. Throw in a 48 hour mystery disappearance and a blundering vet tech who nearly caused Jackson's liver to fail, and you can say he's become quite the drain on resources.

It hasn't been all roses for him either. I use to dip the tip of his tail in Tabasco because he used to suck on it and the sound woke me up. He got blamed for tearing up the toilet paper when it turned out to be Lucy's handiwork, and he eventually had to share his life with three other cats and a dog. Still, he's been a trooper. From Austin to Chicago (and two years stuck in an apartment) to Ithaca to Atlanta, Jackson traveled well, claiming wherever it is we lived as his own and letting everyone know it. He's a model patient, taking his medicine without much complaint or hassle, something that can't be said about the rest of our brood. Jackson's a poor hunter, but that didn't stop him from trying to snag a wild turkey and he twice refused to back down to some shifty deer who thought they had the right of way. And when trouble rings the doorbell, he's quick to cast differences aside and hide under the bed with Algebra.

At 12, Jackson lives a quieter life. I miss seeing that mischievous gleam in his eyes but it's also nice not being forced to walk around the neighborhood shaking keys or tapping his food dish with a spoon trying to lure him home. He still has an attitude problem, and everyone, including Boo the dog, knows to respect his personal space, that our casa is his casa. His lower canines are gone so his bite doesn't inflict the same damage it once did, and at 16 pounds jumping on and off the counter requires more effort. Almost every morning he sits on my lap while I drink coffee and at night he'll get on my lap and lord over the rest of us.

Better (and lesser) writers than me have and will pen their experiences with their cat or dog and become best-selling authors. Over 12 years, Jackson has provided more than enough material for a book, and it's to my discredit that I didn't keep a journal of his escapades, brushes with death, eccentricities, and overall impact on my life. Matt Damon would've made a good me in the movie version.

I did lie on the shelter application, but I've never reneged on my signed pledge to provide Jackson with the best life possible. Few cats have had it better than Jackson; few people have had a better companion. Not all lies have bad endings.

A Rock Feels No Pain

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 26 Jan 2011 12:44:00 +0000

There isn't much that surprises me, and I pride myself on being able to handle the unexpected. To face trouble and uncertainty with a calm and detached manner is what I've trained myself to do over the years. In a crisis, emotions get in the way, and I've taught myself to set them aside when necessary. It's not that I'm indifferent or that I lack emotion; I simply know when to shut that part of me down. It's a skill that has allowed me to constantly move forward when times get rough. In such times, you can count on me to hold down the fort, to stand tall, to be a pillar to lean against. My emotions are reliably in check.

Or such was the impression I had of myself until last Sunday when word came that one of our cats was seriously ill. Suddenly faced with the realization that one of our household might not be with us much longer, I buckled. All other thoughts left my mind - job, family, friends, bills, weather, everything evaporated from my mind with this news. My one consuming thought was of the cat and a life left to live without her. I crumbled inside. Not knowing what else to do, I had a drink, and my three and a half year wagon ride was over. I cried.

It's a shock to the system to find out you aren't who you thought you were, to learn you aren't as strong as you thought yourself to be. I'm not a rock after all, and that disappoints me. There's nothing wrong with men showing their emotions, and I don't think of myself as any less manly for feeling them. What troubles me is that I cracked when I should've been solid. When one is as lacking in natural-born talents as I am, one has to find something about themselves to hold on to, and I latched on to my ability to calmly face a crisis. And it's not like I haven't experienced death before. Like most in this world I've lost family and friends and pets before, and so death is no stranger to me. Like all living things, our cats must someday die. I just thought I'd be ready when the time came, and I realize now that I'll never be ready.

Some might think I'm over-reacting, that a cat is a cat. I know this sentiment exists because people have told me as much. "It's not," I was lectured, "like a cat is a person, a child. It's a cat." Some people raise children that will grow up to be doctors and lawyers and such, while others will raise "children" that will be lions and tigers and bears. They have their family, and I have mine.

The future isn't as bleak for our cat as it was a few days ago, but the our time with her is drawing to a close. I'll buck up and show a good face because that's what I expect myself to do; inside, however, I'm in tatters.

Actors Behaving...Well, Not the Way I'd Like

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 18 Jan 2011 14:30:00 +0000

A lot has happened lately that might ordinarily evoke a comment or two out of me, such as the AZ shootings, blood libel and the Week Atlanta Stood Still. I do have my opinions, but they're probably nothing very different than those forced upon you by others. No, my thoughts have been focused on the much more pedestrian but no less important departure of Steve Carell from "The Office." Apparently, he will not be finishing out the season and the last three episodes of "The Office" will be sans Michael Scott.

I think that's selfish. I mean, the fact that he's leaving the series to "focus on his movie career" is selfish enough but to not even finish the season is a slap in the face to the show's viewers. Entertainers have an obligation to entertain if they want to continue to reap the benefits of our adulation, and when the form of that entertainment is a character on which the existence of an entire series rests, well, said entertainers have an obligation, nay, a duty! to continue performing in that role. Carell OWES it to us to finish out the season! Millions of people have sacrificed 30 minutes every Thursday night to be entertained by "The Office" (not to mention countless hours of re-runs) and to have that sacrifice thrown back in our faces by Carell's departure is an act of treason. It's as though it doesn't matter to him what we want. "Howl, howl, howl, howl! O!, you are men of stones!" (That's a Shakespeare reference)

"The Office" owes its popularity to Carell's performance, and the producers and directors are fooling themselves if they believe the show can survive without Michael Scott. Television history is replete with excellent shows landing in the Nielson ratings trash heap because of acts of betrayal on the part of actors thinking they can make it big in the movies:

Northern Exposure:
Rob Morrow left to pursue a movie career, and one of the best series to grace the TV screen dissolved. Morrow's movie career was a bust and, lo and behold, he's back on TV.

The X-Files:
Special Agent Fox Mulder wanted to believe and we believed in him. David Duchovny eventually dumped the beautiful Agent Scully for Hollywood sirens, and though the series lasted a few more seasons, it was lackluster at best. So, too, was Duchovny's movie career, and he also finds himself back on TV.

CSI:
The most watched show on TV for, like, eight years, CSI dried up in the Las Vegas sun when the character of Gil Grissom went in search of insects (and William Peterson went in search of a stage). Now you don't even see "CSI" advertised unless it's the Miami or NY spin-offs.

That 70's Show:
Ashton Kutcher did launch a successful career after bailing on a pretty funny show, but it certainly wasn't in the movies. He is more famous now, but we all know it's not because of his acting talents.

Add to those a string of failed movie careers by former "SNL" stars and the vast television audience is left empty-handed. Sure, it's selfish of me to think it's selfish of an actor to take his career in a new direction; I very much doubt Carell would mind if I took a step up from the academic to corporate (or CIA) library world. Then again, I'm a nobody and he's not. I'm the consumer in this relationship and being selfish is part and parcel of the role that I play. Actors should play their roles out to the end. Without Michael Scott, "The Office" won't last much longer, and we'll all eventually forget about the Scranton branch of Dunder Mifflin. That makes me sad. I sure hope Steve Carell can sleep at night.

My Banned Words List

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 05 Jan 2011 14:28:00 +0000

Lake Superior State University published its annual list of banished words for 2011. As a librarian, I'm supposed to be opposed to the banning of things such as books, ideas, and words, and for the most part, I am. Censorship raises my liberal hackles in much the same way freedom of speech for everyone raises the hackles of conservative pundits. Still, I find myself opposed to the use of certain words and phrases, mainly because of their rude and crude nature. If I had my way, I'd have the following familiar words banned, banished, and binned:

Poop:
Recently I heard a woman tell her toy dog to go "poopsies" and it took all I had to stop myself from yelling to her that the dog doesn't know "poopsies" from "shit" and that she should grow up and use adult words. "Poop" just sounds stupid.

Boob:
Whether referring to a certain part of the female body or a bumbling doofus, I don't like it and now is the only instance you will know me to write or say it. "Knockers" should go, too.

Fart:
The word is as bad as the sound and that which follows. Please keep the word and action to yourself.

Pee:
Men should never say it.

Booger/Snot:
Both words are repulsive in their sound and imagery, especially the latter. Tanner from The Bad News Bears is perhaps the only person to use the former without sounding, well, like a booger-eating moron.

Potty:
It's a toilet.

Pussy cat:
Call my cats that and you die.

In Defense of the Top 1%

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 14 Dec 2010 03:10:00 +0000

I am not rich. I am not poor. I am middle class. Neither upper or lower middle class, I am simply middle middle class. As an academic librarian, higher education's social worker, I have no reason to believe that I will ever elevate myself beyond my middle middle class standing. I have no talent, no non-librarian marketable skills, no gift for the entrepreneurial. I have more than what I need in life and a lot less than what I want from it. I am one of those "mass of men" whom Thoreau described as living a life of "quiet desperation." That being said, I don't think it's right to punish the rich for being rich.

Democrats believe otherwise. They think it's good - even noble and righteous - to punish the wealthy, in this case, by not extending their tax cuts, tax cuts Dems think every other American should retain. It is selfish and un-American to deny one group of individuals the same benefit being doled out to the majority. Liberals would normally claim such a situation discriminatory and would rant until blue in the face about the injustice of it all, but since the rich tend to be conservatives they are now more than happy to uphold the injustice of it all. Discriminating against the top 1-2% of our society is still discrimination, and it is hypocrisy like that which drove me away from the Democratic Party.

The rich are an easy target because we envy them. We know we will never be their financial equals, and so out of spite we look for ways to get back at them. I don't know anyone in this country, however, who wouldn't trade places financially with someone making over $300,000 a year. That's what we all work for, isn't it? To make money? And yet some insist on punishing those who just happen to be better than the rest of us at making money. It's not the fault of the wealthy if you pursued a career in a field our society doesn't appreciate enough to allow you to make over 300K. Blame your fellow riff-raff for that! Also keep in mind as the Dems salivate over sticking it to the wealthy that in a lot of instances, we, the oh-so-downtrodden, helped to make the rich get rich by buying their products, going to their concerts and games, eating at their restaurants, and enjoying their movies. It's not only bankers and Wall Street CEOs who we would punish. You explain to Oprah, Tom Brady, Regis, George Clooney, and Lady Gaga why they should pay more in taxes because we like what they do.

The idle and the incompetent don't become rich, and so it is that somewhere in the history of every wealthy family is someone who worked very hard to EARN a fortune. I thought that the ethos behind the American Dream was that if you worked hard enough, opportunity and fortune would follow, and yet here we are on the verge of punishing a small minority of people for accomplishing that dream. Sure, there are some whose fortunes were made bilking, cheating and swindling others, but to judge all wealthy people by those few is no different than proclaiming all poor people deadbeats who prefer living off welfare to having a job simply because there a few who are just like that! This idea that "working Americans" are everybody but the wealthy and thus more deserving of tax breaks is laughable. The rich work, too, sometimes harder than you and me, sometimes not, but they work nonetheless and shouldn't punished for it.

BTW, it should be noted that the same small group of Americans that the Dems want to punish for making money is the same small group that donates almost $2 billion more than the rest of us combined to assist those in need. Perhaps it is just because they have more money to give to the less fortunate but there's nothing saying that they have to donate anything at all, and yet they do. (see Table 9, page 12).

I will never be rich. Mine will most likely always be a life of financial mediocrity, resigned to entertaining but never living out fantasies of a more affluent lifestyle. I'll never have a yacht, London flat, private airplane, swimming pool, or gardener. I'll never be able to afford to travel to Venice before it sinks. And I'm not going to hold it against those that do have those things and can visit Venice (especially if they take me with!). Tax cuts for everyone or tax cuts for no one.

A Death Sentence

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 07 Dec 2010 14:38:00 +0000

Over the past several days, HomeAgain, our pets' microchip company, has sent out "Lost Pet in Your Area" email alerts featuring at least three cats who went missing. Each cat had been declawed. Short of finding their way home or being found those three cats don't really have a chance. Since they have no front claws they can't climb trees or fences to escape dogs and they can't really defend themselves against other cats. Their ability to catch mice, insects and other animals that might help keep them alive is severely diminished. Add to that the fact that overnight temperatures in the Atlanta area have been in the 20's with highs during the days being in the 40's, and their prospects look grim.

People who get their cats declawed don't value their cats. Or, rather, they value their sofas and lounge chairs more than their cats. There's no knowing if any of the lost cats were declawed by their current or previous owners, but somewhere along the line someone thought so little of their cat's life that they paid money to surgically remove the cat's first line of defense. Anyone with an iota of common sense knows cats are the ultimate escape artists, and no conscientious owner would have placed their cat in the situation now facing those three lost cats.

As I type this my right index finger is throbbing from a nice gash Jackson inflicted on me last night. Despite routinely clipping his front claws since he was a kitten there's no way to count the number of scratches my hands, arms, knees and legs have endured over the past 11+ years. The other weekend Ida had to once again cut fraying threads from a $400 chair that Lucy likes to sleep on - being too fat to jump up on the chair, Lucy claws her way to the top. In fact, we don't have a single piece of furniture that doesn't bear the tell-tale evidence that a fully-clawed cat lives in our house. Of course, it all could have been avoided had we each had our cats declawed, but we never placed our material things or our own inconvenience over the well-being of our cats. The value our cats bring to our lives far exceeds the cost of every piece of furniture in the house and every tube of Neosporin we've had to buy. I can always get another sofa or chair; the cats, on the other hand, can't be replaced.

I feel sad for the owners of those cats - losing a pet is heart-wrenching. But I feel more for the cats. Cats are tough, resourceful animals, and though lost, cold and completely out of their element those three cats would normally have a fighting chance. However, thanks to people, they don't have any front claws, and so the odds are now against them. People who have their cats declawed are cruel, irresponsible, and selfish.

Any Volunteers?

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 02 Dec 2010 00:56:00 +0000

USA Today recently reported on how charitable Americans are with their time and money. Not surprisingly financial donations are down; however, the number of people volunteering is trending upwards. A long-time financial contributor myself and but usually a step or two behind the trendy, I'm happy to say that I, too, can now be counted among the volunteers.

In October I started volunteering at a cat shelter, Furkids. In some ways it was a selfish decision. I finally came to accept the reality that I am never going to be a humanitarian, a Carnegie, Vanderbilt, Rockefeller, Duke or Sloan, and that the only thing my name will likely adorn will be a grave stone, a very grand one, mind you, but a grave stone nonetheless. Humbled by this epiphany, I began thinking of how I could make a difference in the world, and naturally cats came to mind. I toyed with the idea of helping people, like supporting literacy efforts and teaching immigrants conversational English, but helping people is why we have churches, right? So, cats won the day.

It's a no-kill, cage-less shelter with about eleven good-sized rooms where the cats hangout on elaborate cat trees and shelves, and I would estimate that there's well over 100 cats total. I'm generally assigned a room or two to clean litter boxes, refresh water and food bowls and sweep and mop the room. It doesn't leave a lot of time for socializing (industry speak for petting) the cats, which was my true desire when I started but I'm OK with that. The world needs its ditch diggers and this shelter needs its litter scoopers.

This isn't my first volunteer gig. When we lived in Ithaca, Ida and I both volunteered at the Cortland County SPCA doing pretty much what I do now except the cats were all in cages. I got sucked into running for and winning a seat on the Board of Directors, thinking that I would be even better positioned to do some good. Man, was I an idiot. Small town politics usurped every meeting, and frustrated that we hadn't done a thing to help the animals, I stepped down and never looked back. I'll do most anything for cats...except work with small-minded people. If I win the lottery, I'll start my own shelter and/or a ranch where disabled and disadvantaged kids can ride horses and care for other farm animals. Until then, I'm satisfied with the grunt work of keeping the cat rooms clean.

Lest you think I care for animals more than I do people...oh, wait...I do care for animals more than I do people! But I'm not completely lacking in compassion for my own. This year I donated to the Haiti relief efforts, helped Ida serve dinner at a Ronald McDonald house, collected and redeemed yogurt tops to fight breast cancer, and for the past three holiday seasons I've donated to the Atlanta Food Bank and Heifer International. This year through Heifer I gave the gift of honey bees. It's not nearly enough to get a building wing, street corner, or elementary school named after me (they'd probably spell my name wrong anyway), but that's alright. I can only do what I can do and hope it makes a difference to someone...or something.

Here kitty, kitty, kitty...

T, as in Tango...

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 18 Nov 2010 14:49:00 +0000

In the spirit of giving thanks, you should count your blessings if you have an ordinary name. Based on 41 years experience, I can say that having a name that, according to the Social Security Administration, is not in the top 1000 male names for any year of recorded births is more a burden than an asset. Clearly there are times when a unique name has its benefits, like when people google you they don't get millions of hits (mine yields 774) and Facebook searches usually don't result in over 400 possible friends. My name, then, makes me easy to find. Those benefits, however, are out numbered by the hassle that comes with not being a Steve, Mark, David, John or Bill.

For instance, I have never known the pleasure of finding my name on any merchandise. I challenge you to find (and document) a "Thad" key chain or license plate. If I want my name on something, it has to be custom made. People also seem to have difficulty pronouncing my name. My 10th grade biology teacher called me "Tad" the entire school year. I tried to correct her in the beginning, but eventually gave up. I mean, it's not that difficult a name to pronounce: TH + AD = Thad. Phonics, people, phonics. Non-native English speakers are exempt from my annoyance since "TH" is not always pronounced "TH" in their native tongue. I also have to deal with the apparent difficulty of spelling my name correctly. The following are real-life variations I've experienced:

Phat
Phad
Shad
That
Pat
Matt
Tsat
Thaderic
Chad

It's as though no one wants to believe that you spell my name, T-H-A-D, so somehow P-H-A-T makes more sense to them. As a result, it has long since become habit for me to immediately spell my name upon uttering it, even when meeting people in person: "Hi, I'm Thad, T-H-A-D." To save restaurant hosts and hostesses the trouble, I often give them a different name and hope that I remember that I am now "George." I also always wonder about those who ask about my name, "Is it short for Thaddeus?" Sigh. I wonder if those same people ask, "Oh, is 'John' short for 'Johnathon'?" I once started a new job at a restaurant where a cook was disappointed that I was white. THAD, he explained, is "a brother's name" and I think he was tired of working with a bunch of white guys.

It's not like THAD is that unusual of a name. A few more notable THAD's than myself include:

Coast Guard Adm. Thad Allen (think BP oil spill)
Sen. Thad Cochran
Thad Jones (jazz musician)
Thaddeus Stevens
THAAD (Terminal High Altitude Area Defense)
Thads (a missionary group)

I don't begrudge my parents for naming me as they did; in truth, I've come to like my name quite a bit, despite the hassles. Once it sinks in to their brains, most people remember my name even if they don't remember me, and I'll be eternally thankful they didn't name me, SUE.

Back on the Chain Gang

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 15 Nov 2010 01:10:00 +0000

Sometimes when I take Boo to the park there's a prison work crew picking up trash, blowing leaves, emptying trash cans and doing various other jobs to keep the place clean. It's a sight I like to see, and I think it's too bad prison work crews aren't used more often. In fact, I don't understand why I don't see one every day.

Prisoners are a dime a dozen. According to the Dept. of Justice, there were over 1,613,656 prisoners at the end of 2009. That's more than the populations of some our mid-major cities. Clearly there's no lack of orange jumpsuits behind bars, so why don't we put them to work doing those jobs us non-felons won't do?

Liberals argue that prison work crews are dehumanizing, a form of cruel and unusual punishment. I, on the other hand, contend that they represent one of the better rehabilitation methods. Work builds character and the harder the work, the stronger the character. If you're in prison you're probably lacking in character and could use a little boost, so a little hard work might do some good. More work crews would also give more prisoners something better to do with their time than sit around and stew and fight and kill each other. Military leaders of old knew the value of keeping a standing army busy by building walls, digging trenches, cutting downs trees and so forth because the work helped to maintain discipline. Working out in the open in full view of the public and cleaning up after said public also brings with it a certain amount of humility that any good felon could use. People who have committed crimes for which they are imprisoned should feel a sense of shame, and they don't get that hanging with the peeps in Cell Block C. Besides, work crews could be a good deterrent of juvenile crime - no adolescent I know wants to be seen picking up trash on the side of the road. The law is not for breaking and if you break it, you pay for it.

Always eager to show how tough they are on crime, conservatives argue against work crews because they think letting criminals out for any reason is being soft and somehow jeopardizes pubic safety ("Will someone please think of the children?!"). I argue that given the amount of money tax payers invest in corrections, you would think conservatives would be more willing to get something out of it, like clean roadsides and parks and new hiking trails and roads. Many of those services conservatives like to cut funding for can easily be taken care of by prisoners that tax payers are paying for anyway. Have drug offenders and other non-violent criminals do city jobs while those more inclined to violence can work the swamps, mountains and deserts. And if an offender escapes while fixing a trail in the Catskills? Most criminals are not survivalists and would succumb to Mother Nature.

I'm not advocating that we abuse or exploit our prison population by forcing them to work in unsafe conditions. Even the most loathsome of criminals has inherent rights and they must be respected. Still, that doesn't mean that they can't help the society they wronged by doing it some good.

To Read or Not to Read

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 08 Nov 2010 22:38:00 +0000

Here's another stereotypical librarian characteristic that doesn't suit me: I don't love to read. I'm not the person you want to ask to recommend a good book or a favorite author, and if you ask me, "Have you ever read...," the answer will most likely be in the negative. It's not that I don't read or that I haven't read. I mean, I do have a degree in English Literature and you can't really get one of those without reading a lot of books and poems and plays. I'm not big into articles either. I used to read The Economist from cover to cover, but I partially did that out of obligation: I didn't want the paper the articles are printed on to go to waste. So now I subscribe to the online version and occasionally read it when I remember how much I'm paying for it.

Reading takes time and I don't have a lot of free time. There's always something that needs to be done, whether it's scooping litter boxes, battling the lawn, walking the dog, spying on neighbors, cleaning up hairballs or vacuuming. Reading is a luxury, and it's just not in my nature to sit idly by and read when stuff needs to be done. Reading is not for the industrious at heart. Yes, the implication here is that reading is for the lazy. There's an old saying in food service: "Got time to lean, you got time to clean." If you've got time to read, you've got time to be more productive. Chop, chop!

Also, I read non-fiction almost exclusively and that takes time and mental effort. With fiction, you don't have to think very much and can just breeze through a book. I recently broke and read "The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo," finishing it in about two weeks time, which is good for me. Non-fiction, however, demands your attention, requires you to don a thinking cap. I've been making my way through a biography on Elizabeth I since January or so. Fascinating stuff, really, but the chapters are long, the text dense, and the pictures are too few in number. I love the challenge of non-fiction, but I generally only finish two or three a year. Next on my list: The First World War. Thrilling, eh?

My reading also requires a monastery-like quiet. Since the books I read require me to think, I need to concentrate and music or conversations impede on my ability to do just that. I can't go to Borders or even a library because my mind will hone in on that one voice or song on the other side of the building and it will eat at my brain, like that worm in the Wrath of Khan. Ironically, screaming children don't bother me when I'm reading. I tune them out quite well, perhaps because 1) they aren't mine, and thus not my responsibility, and 2) I don't understand what they are screaming. To me, it's all one long but loud stream of gibberish. Apparently, I can deal with gibberish. But not fiction.

So ends this entry, because, like reading, if you have time to write about yourself, you have time to take the dog for a walk. Oh, and here's my Amazon wish list if you want to get me something this holiday season. Granted, I won't finish it until 2015, but don't let that stop you.

The Sounds of Silence

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 11 Oct 2010 16:42:00 +0000

If there's a stereotypical librarian characteristic that I possess, it would be a predilection for quietness. Despite my best efforts, noise in all it's insidious forms is unavoidable, and so for people like me moments of silence are rare and to be savored. Imagine, then, my surprise at my own unease when for the first time in almost two years the quiet of morning was not broken by a barking dog.

I think Chico had bionic hearing because he heard everything. You literally couldn't open a window, empty the dishwasher or step on a leaf without eliciting a loud series of barks from the other side of the fence. The barking was tolerable but annoying, especially in the morning when the world is supposed to be quiet and calm. Morning is my time, and Chico's booming barks caused a disturbance in my Force. That first post-Chico morning was unsettling, though, because the barking, I came to realize, had become part of the morning, and then suddenly it was gone. I had come to expect it, and I miss it.

I miss the neighbor kids, too. Where once there was high-pitched Spanglish echoing off the trees there is now silence. Their front yard is destitute of bikes, candy wrappers, and empty juice boxes. The house is empty and impersonal. Honestly, I didn't think I would miss Louis and Uriel (everyone calls him Pollo or Chicken). Many times their physical presence and the noise they made intruded upon me. Who knows how many episodes of "PTI" I missed so that they could play our Wii! Still, I miss hearing one or more kids yell, "Mr. Thad, can we play?" as I pull into the driveway. Granted, I usually said "No" or told them to wait and ask Ida, but I miss it just the same.

Those left behind usually have it harder than those who leave. Those who leave have some sort of adventure to look forward to, whether it be new house, job or life, while those left behind are stuck with the same house, job and life, minus you. I've done my share of leaving. Since 1994, I've lived in five different states, with 4.5 years being the longest I stayed put in one place. February 2011 will mark about five years in Atlanta, my longest tenure anywhere since graduating from high school. So, I'm not used to being the one who is left behind. It kind of sucks.

It sucked for Chico, too. He was abandoned without food or water. He never did get much attention, but suddenly no one was there for him at all. We fed him, gave him water, and called Animal Control, who in turn posted notices on a door no one was going to be opening soon. Word got out and one night the neighbors returned with a small bag of snacks for Chico, and then they left again. A week after he was abandoned, Chico was gone, supposedly taken by our former neighbors to Animal Control. I haven't seen him on their list of available dogs and suspect I never will.

We don't know who will be our new neighbors, and there is a certain amount of dread lingering over that unknown. What if they have a dog that barks just as much, if not more than, Chico? Maybe they'll be renters who don't look after the property or perhaps they'll be young folk who blare their music well into the night. Or worse, graduate students. Then again, maybe they'll be nice people. It's been two weeks since the family left and one week since Chico disappeared, and I'm getting used to the silence, although I imagine it won't last for long. It never does.

Happy Anniversary?

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 29 Sep 2010 14:05:00 +0000

I haven't had a drink in three years.

There were no emotional ultimatums, no medical or court orders, no religious conversions, no stupidities of excess that prompted me to set aside my 20-year old way of life. I'm sure a hangover had some say in the matter, but that particular teetotaling influence rarely lasts longer than the weekend, so it wouldn't have counted for much. No, I basically woke up and decided to quit.

I once went three months without drinking but a Kentucky Derby party isn't any fun without whiskey, several mint juleps, and a hat, and so ended that dry spell. I now watch the Derby quietly at home. This time, however, quitting took on a new life, thanks to a sleep disorder and a television show. I needed to see a doctor about my insomnia and I knew that I needed to be alcohol-free if anything good was to come it. A sleep test ultimately determined nothing wrong with me physiologically and a cognitive psychologist said I just needed to make more time for sleep. I quit seeing her. Well, then, back to drinking! Not so fast.

A&E's "Intervention" scared me straight. First of all, if I had a problem it wasn't nearly as bad as it is for the people profiled on that show, and I didn't want it to be. Second, the very idea of being surrounded by crying family and friends telling me how much they love me is one of the worst things I can imagine happening to me. If I can avoid emotional outpourings, I will, even if it costs me a beer.

Notice I said "If I had a problem." Family and friends alike were rather surprised when I began requesting Diet Coke instead of Coors Light. No one ever said, hinted or implied to me that, maybe, perhaps, I should stop drinking. Either they're all heavier drinkers than I was (which seems reasonable) or maybe what I thought was a problem really wasn't. The closest I've come to "relapsing" in three years is taking occasional sips of diluted champagne during toasts and a couple of Dixie-cup sized drinks of some Peachtree City concoction. We have two bottles of Vodka in the house that Ida sometimes breaks open when I'm out of town and a bottle of Jack Daniels next to the Craisins. The temptations are there but I remain steadfast. Is there a problem?

Every decision in life carries a set of pros and cons, gains and losses, and my decision to stop drinking was no exception. Among the gains are not worrying about the state of my liver; lower Applebee's checks; coherent thoughts followed by reasonable actions; playing Scrabble; the whites of my eyes are actually white; and, yes, no hangovers.

My losses are marked by the things I miss. Of course I miss the buzz, but I also miss things like the companionship and social nature of drinking; really enjoying "Cops"; popping open an ice-cold tall boy, or three; and drinking during the holidays. I miss cold beer, red wine, margaritas, Seagrams & Sprite, gin & tonics, spiked eggnog, and Bloody Mary's. I miss scotch!

I've said that if I make it to 45, I'll start drinking again, but that's four long years away. Seems kind of extreme, four more years. Then again, I kind of got a streak going here.

Wabbitt Season! Duck Season!

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 23 Sep 2010 02:55:00 +0000

Hunting season is in the air and it seems there's no shortage of enthusiasm for it. Despite supporting such anti-hunting organizations as Defenders of Wildlife, Natural Resources Defense Council, National Wildlife Federation, Humane Society of the United States, and American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, I actually don't oppose hunting.

Hunting is a necessary evil. Because humans like to kill off all the predators, many animal populations, especially those of the deer variety, have exploded, and so without hunting many more deer would starve, get hit by cars, die by disease, and end up where a deer shouldn't be, like in a convenience store. When we lived in Ithaca, NY, I often heard locals say that if you lived there long enough, you'd hit a deer. Fortunately that never came to pass, but we did see one get hit before our eyes and we came upon another one right after it'd been smashed by a minivan. The minivan drove off, but I got out of our car and pulled the deer's warm body from the road. Death by a hunter's bullet is far more humane and respectful.

Let me be perfectly clear: I do not hunt nor do I support all hunting. I oppose all "hunting" that involves 4x4 vehicles, GPS, private game parks, packs of dogs, baiting, the Internet or any other method or that device gives the human an undue advantage over the animal. I oppose bow hunting because of the suffering the animal endures as it often labors hundreds of yards before dying.

Hunting should be about the thrill of the hunt, not the thrill of the kill. People who feel the need to kill another animal are trying to compensate for their own inadequacies and probably shouldn't be allowed to own a gun. They are the idiots who drink to shoot, who "hunt" with sub-machine guns or handguns, who pay "guides" thousands of dollars to go to a ranch in Texas to shoot an animal that's native to Africa. They don't hunt; they kill. They are this woman.

A real hunter, as any moderate conservationist will tell you, cares about the land and the animals. They hunt to be outdoors, hoping to "bag" something but just as satisfied if they don't. They don't trespass and they don't exceed quotas. They respect the animal they hunt. They are old school, and I sense that there are fewer and fewer of them.

I don't buy into all the propaganda that's spewed to justify hunting. It is not a family event. BBQs, picnics, birthday parties, wedding, funerals, and holidays are family events; not tracking down and shooting dead an animal. Nor can you convince me that more than a handful of hunters are out there trying to feed their family. That's a sketchy way to get by and the family would be better off if someone just got a job. Hunting is no more a sport than poker or chess, and despite what the State of Georgia wants me to believe, hunting is not a God-given right.

Some day I'd like to don the bright orange of hunting season, carry a rifle and track down a deer or elk or even a bear. I'd raise the gun to my shoulder, set that animal in my sights, and pull the trigger. There wouldn't be any bullets in the gun, of course, because I don't have a hunting license (or a passport, now that I think about it) and I don't kill for sport. It's just not something I do.

A Dog's Life

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 14 Sep 2010 01:52:00 +0000

This weekend saw the passing of Otis, the canine companion to some friends of mine. I never met Otis, but I know how much he meant to them and one can't help but be heartbroken. He wasn't simply a pet, an animal, a legal piece of property; Otis was a companion of immense proportions. He was sincerely and deeply loved.

Unfortunately the same can't be said for Chico, our neighbor's dog. Chico is a big mutt with a booming bark. He's well-fed, has shelter from the heat and storms and he has a huge yard in which to run. But that's about all he has. Days pass before I see or hear him get any more human attention than what it takes to feed him and to tell him to be quiet. Our neighbors have three boys, and I'm convinced that when we got Boo, they, like children do, nagged and nagged until they, too, got a dog. For the first month or so, Chico went everywhere with those kids, even making visits to Boo. Chico got bigger, though, and lost that puppy appeal, and two years later, he lives alone in the backyard, 24/7. The boys don't play with him anymore and when guests come over he's tied to a tree with a 6 ft. lead, often for hours. Completely unsocialized, Chico is now a nuisance, barking at most every sound and charging the fence when I'm in our backyard.

I often marvel at how by sheer luck and through no effort of our own the quality of one's life can be vastly different than that of another. To simply be born in this country means your quality of life is manifestly greater than that of millions in other countries. The poorest American will have a better life than his equal in Nigeria or North Korea, not because he earned that better life but because he was lucky enough to have been born here. The lucky and the unlucky.

Otis was lucky, Chico is unlucky. Through no fault of his own, Chico is resigned to a solitary, loveless life. The kids say they are moving at the end of the month to a smaller house, and if that's true, I'm not sure what the future holds for Chico. He's not adoptable so if he goes to a shelter, he'll be euthanized. He'd make a good guard dog but the life of a guard dog is not much better than that he lives now. I fear he'll go to dog fighters. Untrained as he is, Chico would be a bait dog. Chico's fate appears uncertain, and I can't see it ending happily.

My brain understands why there are so many Chicos out there: culture, education, finances, the Bible, speciesism. My heart can't understand, though. All dogs, all companion animals, all animals, really, should live a life like Otis did, and if a person can't or is unwilling to provide that life, then they don't deserve such a companion.

I like to think that there are more dogs out in the world living a life like Otis did than there are those living Chico's life. It's estimated that Americans alone will spend nearly $47.7 billion this year on their animal companions and pet products is one of the few industries that actually grew during the recession. Clearly to many Americans our animal companions are family and are treated as such. It's just sad that's not the case for all of them.