Tag Archives: animals

Echoes on Carpet

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“Goodnight, little boy.  I love –”  I stopped, catching sight of the blank floor space against the wall, next to the closet in my room.  He wasn’t there, curled up into a crescent of silver and white atop a towel riddle with holes and tears.  Wolfgang was gone.

I was reaching for a lamp on an end table, when I started to tell him goodnight and that I love him – as I’d done for years.  I remained in that odd position – propped up on my left elbow, right arm stretched out towards the lamp – for what was probably just a few seconds, but felt like several minutes.  I wondered how long I could hold that position without dropping dead.

I finally shut off the lamp and laid back onto my trio of pillows.  Beneath a single sheet, clad in nothing but skin and body hair, I felt a stick of anxiety materialized in my throat.  I rattled off my usual stanza of prayers to all those who’ve gone before me, pleading for their protection and their strength.

I looked again at the spot on the floor where Wolfgang would camp out every night; that ragged towel – seemingly held together by strings – bunched up beneath him.

I don’t know why, but Wolfgang had a fetish for towels.  It may have come from his previous daddy, Tom*, my former friend and roommate, who carried the puppy around in a lunch cooler; an old purple beach towel of mine that he’d stuffed into it.  The towel provided some comfort to a tiny critter who would grow into a 20-pound monstrosity filled with eons of canine angst.

In early 2005, I lived and worked temporarily in Northeastern Oklahoma on a government project that was part of the contract my employer, an engineering company, had.  The area, bordering Kansas and Missouri, is a mostly toxic wasteland where soil and water had poisoned by decades of lead and zinc mining.  I stayed in a nice and recently-built hotel, along with a coworker and our supervisor.

For most of the time I was in Oklahoma, Wolfgang stayed with my parents.  But, for the month of May, I rented a car and drove all the way up there because I’d decided to take Wolfgang with me.  Some of the hotel staff came to like him.  The first time someone with the housekeeping staff heard him barking, she was certain I had a pitbull ensconced in the room.  There mere sound of his voice frightened her.  But she and a few others were mirthfully surprised to see how small he was.

That little thing can make that much noise?!

Yes, he can!

One night, as I sat at the desk in my hotel room, working on my laptop, I noticed Wolfgang exiting the bathroom with a small white towel in his mouth.  Because of his presence, I made a deal with management that no one was to enter the room, unless I was there also or in the event of an emergency.  Wolfgang’s bite matched his bark.  Consequently, I let bath towels pile up beneath the sink.

A few minutes later, I turned to Wolfgang and was startled to see that he’d removed every single used towel from beneath the sink and to a spot in front of a cabinet.  He lay in front of the pile, curled up like a hairy conch shell.  I laughed.

I keep trying to think of things like that, now that Wolfgang is gone.  It’s the same with my father.  Memories of him behaving like the lunatic he was – imitating Flip Wilson’s “Geraldine Jones” persona, threatening to tickly my mother – roll through my mind.  It eases the pain of losing both of them within a 5-month period.

Today is the first birthday I’ve marked without either of them.  It’s such a weird feeling.  How could this happen?  Why, in the name of all that’s great and wonderful in this world, did they pass away so close together?  Talk about timing!

Last month I finally decided to rummage again through the storage shed in the back yard; a dilapidated structure where my parents stuffed anything and everything they didn’t want or need in the house.  It also had doubled as a tool shed for the plethora of gardening equipment my father had accumulated over the years.  In the fall of 2014, I carted a few large pieces – a dead lawnmower, an antique weed eater, etc. – to the front yard for him.  I taped a cardboard sign with the words “FREE TO GOOD HOME” across the mess and left it all there for whomever.  It was gone before day’s end.

At the same time, I retrieved several boxes of old National Geographic magazines.  “These don’t belong out here,” I told my father.  Old Home & Garden magazines, maybe, but not National Geographic.  I hauled them all into my room and rearranged them, alongside my gallery of books.

But last month I found several other items – a few as old as those National Geographics, but more precious.  There was a box of handwritten journals by my paternal grandmother, Francisca.  A couple of other boxes contained stuff from my childhood: drawings, poems, stories.  Among the latter was a one dollar bill paper-clipped to a fragile slip of paper.  It was a note from me to my father; thanking him for being such a great daddy.  I was about 5 when I wrote that.  And he kept it!  As an only child, my parents were apt to keep as much about my childhood around as possible.  But that a simple, handwritten note dating to the late 1960s would retain a place amidst all of that material stunned me.

And yes, it also made me sad.  But I realized – more than ever before – how fortunate I was to have a father as incredible as mine.  It’s why I get angry now when I hear people say fathers don’t serve a purpose in this world.

Back in July I visited a weight-lifting gym in East Dallas with a close friend, Pete*, who’s a regular there.  It’s a tiny, no-frills joint carved into an aged shopping center; where free weights are the main source of muscle-building and men can work out shirtless.  After showering and changing back at his house, Pete and I had dinner at one of our favorite Mexican restaurants near downtown.

At some point, the conversation turned to family, and – with my voice cracking – I emphasized how badly I missed my father.  I try not to get emotional in public.  Even during my dad’s memorial service in June, I managed to hold it together.  But, planted in a booth beneath dim lighting in the restaurant, I just couldn’t remain poised.  It must have been the margarita swirls.  I was already on my second one.

Pete knows how I feel.  He lost his own father 12 years ago.  Curiously, our fathers had grown up together in East Dallas neighborhoods now occupied by office buildings and overpriced condos.  “My father went to be with his mother,” Pete had told me that night on the phone.  I didn’t understand.  All of Pete’s grandparents were dead.  What was he trying to – aw shit!  I don’t know if there’s an etiquette rule for announcing the death of a loved one via telephone, and if there is, I could care less about it.

I still have trouble sitting in the easy chair near the fireplace where my dad used to sit while watching TV.  His urn resides quietly on the dirty white brick of the raised hearth.  I make it a point to touch it every day and tell my father I love him.  His mother had lived to age 97.  Why couldn’t he?  What is the proper time of year to die?  It seems we have rules for everything in our lives these days.  Meteorologists can track hurricanes with near-accuracy.  As soon as a massive quake struck northeastern Japan in March of 2011, scientists could determine how long it would be before tsunamis struck the Hawaiian Islands and the west coast of the U.S.  Why couldn’t the slew of doctors my father had seen over the years not tell me when his body would finally say, ‘To hell with this shit!’?

A few times over the past few months, Wolfgang would stare at that general area for the longest time.  I’d feel the pressure change in the house.  But it wasn’t a frightening sensation.  I knew my father was nearby.  He had said more than once he wanted to die in this house and not in a hospital, a menagerie of tubes pouring out of him like overgrown hairs.  If I did anything right, I feel it was that.  I was able to grant my father his most heartfelt wish.

There are so many echoes of him and Wolfgang around me, now that they’re both gone.  And the house is otherwise quiet.  I’ve never felt pain like this before.  But, on this 53rd birthday of mine, I’m not too distressed.  My heart and my mind are filled with the happiness of the lives they lead.  I couldn’t ask for more from either of them.

 

*Name changed.

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For the Love of Dogs

Wolfgang in March of 2004.  Behind those sweet, glassy eyes lay eons of canine evolution and aggression.

Wolfgang in March of 2004. Behind those sweet, glassy eyes lay eons of canine evolution and aggression.

I quietly strode towards the bedroom of my roommate, Tom*, merely expecting to find him asleep.  He had just experienced a heart-wrenching loss: putting his 11-year-old miniature schnauzer, Zane*, to sleep.  Surely, Tom was exhausted after a long road trip to and from the Northeast Texas town where he was born and raised; the same place where he’d raised Zane.

Zane and I bonded quickly when Tom and me agreed to pool our resources in May of 2002 and share a two-bedroom apartment.  I was working temporary gigs, and he had a courier job that left him feeling tired and uneasy.  After a car wreck and a major health scare in the fall of 2001, he had managed to put himself back together, while recuperating at his mother’s home back in that Northeast Texas town.  Zane’s presence, he told me, comforted him better than the medications he’d been prescribed and the alcohol he’d consume as an additive.

But, during the first week of August 2002, Tom had to return to his mother’s home to tend to a family crisis.  When he came back, I informed him that Zane was extremely ill.  I didn’t know what was wrong, but the shy little dog had shriveled up to the point where his ribs were visible.  Tom spent the next day in bed; holding Zane tightly.  He finally headed back to that Northeast Texas hamlet where Zane’s old veterinarian was also located.

Upon arriving at the veterinarian’s office, however, Zane suffered a catastrophic stroke…and never recovered.  “My little boy is gone,” Tom cried over the phone that evening from his mother’s house.

I cried with him.  So, while I was surprised to find Tom back at the apartment earlier than expected, I was even more surprised to see a tiny ball of silver and white fur crawling around on his bare chest.

On his way back to Dallas, Tom had stopped off in a town east of the city to visit a cousin.  In a purely spontaneous decision, he grabbed a newspaper and searched for a miniature schnauzer breeder.  He found one and purchased one of the eight-week-old puppies.  He named him Docker.  Where he came up with that I never knew.  But I renamed him Wolfgang a few months later.  That’s because he became my dog when Tom and I decided to go our separate ways in January 2003.

It’s one of the best decisions I’ve ever made; albeit an almost equally spontaneous move on my part.  In an uncertain time for me (I’d just started a new full-time job that felt insecure and I wanted desperately to move out of a complex that was going to hell), as well as for the nation (we were about to invade Iraq under false pretenses, and the economy remained fragile), taking custody of that dog stood out as a bright moment.  Tom left owing me some $700.  But I ended up with the dog.  I was ill-prepared to have a pet, yet I still felt I came out with the better bargain.

All of that came back to me Wednesday morning, as I carried Wolfgang’s quivering form into the veterinarian’s office.  He had gone into some kind of cardiac arrest episode…and never recovered.

Basic evolutionary tree of canines.

Basic evolutionary tree of canines.

Wolfgang’s veterinarian had diagnosed him with a heart murmur a couple of years ago, which explained his occasional coughing / hacking fits.  Earlier this year, though, he began experiencing seizure-like episodes.  One in early May terrified me: he literally fell over onto one side; a cartoonish action that was anything but funny.  An X-ray proved his heart had enlarged and was clamping down on his airway.  The seizures, the doctor explained, were actually moments where Wolfgang couldn’t breathe.  He put him on two heart medications that would be a daily ritual for the rest of the dog’s life.  That life ended sooner than I’d expected – or even wanted.

“I just lost my father,” I whispered to him last Monday night, the 24th.  “You can’t leave me also; not now.”

His behavior was actually quite normal this last weekend and into Monday, the 24th.  Yet, by Monday evening, I could tell he had trouble breathing and began to suspect the worst.  Then it seemed the air around me had thickened, and I sense my father was nearby.

I tried giving Wolfgang the two medicines the doctor had prescribed back in May.  I literally had to shove them into his mouth; a little mouth lined with razor-sharp projectiles, backed up by eons of canid ambivalence.  I always tried to retract my hand as quickly as possible, but each time he managed to scrape my fingers.  Then, on Monday, he did something he’d never done before: he actually impaled one of his dental daggers into my right forefinger.  Blood oozed immediately from the gash, as I hurtled the tiny white pills into his food dish and marched into the bathroom.  My entire right hand throbbed.  It still aches.  But I don’t care.  He was just a dog.  More importantly, he continually spit out those pills.  I’ve found bits of them around the den area.  It was his last act of wolf-infused defiance and stubbornness.  Perhaps he sensed they were of no use at the moment.  He was done and wanted to move on from here.  Are dogs really that sentient?  Do they possess the same level of emotional capacity as their human counterparts?

A variety of studies over the past two decades suggest yes; dogs truly are more emotionally and psychologically complex than we ever realized.

I still find it amazing how we humans become so attached to certain animals.  For me, it’s always been dogs.  As far back as I can remember, I’ve held a special fascination with the canines among us.  Cats and horses are undoubtedly beautiful.  But I’m allergic to felines (as a 2004 allergy test proved), and horses are too big and expensive.  I’m an all-around animal lover, but dogs secured a tight grip on my mind and in my heart.

I often joked that Wolfgang wasn’t really a miniature schnauzer; he was a previously unclassified species of canine – a miniature wolf.  The big mocha brown eyes, soft fur and floppy ears (especially the right one, which rarely stood up, lest he tilt his head back at a certain angle) were just aesthetic ruses.  The mere mention of his name incurred occasional chuckles.

“The name fits,” I told people.

Artist depiction of Eucyon davisi, considered the direct ancestor of modern dogs.

Artist depiction of Eucyon davisi, considered the direct ancestor of modern dogs.

Miniature schnauzers are among the 148 breeds of domesticated dog recognized by the American Kennel Club.  In addition, there are more than 150 other breeds of domesticated dog not officially acknowledged by the AKC, such as the Russo-European Laika, the Peruvian Inca Orchard, and the Prazsky Krysarik from Czechoslovakia, the world’s smallest dog.  Zoologists have also identified more than 100 species of wild canine, such as the South American bush dog, the Australian dingo, and the African basenji, the only dog that doesn’t bark.  It produces something of a yodeling sound.  Altogether, an estimated 10 billion dogs exist on planet Earth today.

Dogs boast an extensive and impressive lineage.  Canines have a longer and more diverse history than any other predatory carnivore, which allowed them to spread across the globe faster than fellow mammals.  They belong to the family of mammals called canidae and to the order of carnivora.  Zoologists believe all mammals descend from Creodonts, a group of small, meat-eating creatures that first appeared about 100 million years ago.  About 55 million years ago, during the Eocene Epoch, a more refined (but not much larger) carnivore, Miacis, arose in North America.  Miacis then evolved into Hesperocyon, or Hesperocyoninae – traditionally regarded as the direct ancestor of dogs – between 38 and 26 million years ago.  Hesperocyoninae generated 28 sub-species.   They were followed by Borophaginae, which produced 66 sub-species, and Caninae with 42.  One member of this latter group, a fox-sized animal called Eucyon, played the most critical role in canine evolution.

Arising in North America about 9 million years ago, Eucyon was omnivorous; a unique attribute that allowed it to survive longer than any of its predecessors and outlive even its contemporaries.  But Eucyon also had longer leg bones, especially the forelimbs, which increased its running efficiency and therefore, its ability to capture prey.  It had a shorter neck than most felines, another top predatory carnivore, which otherwise would have inhibited its ability to tear at flesh.  But Eucyon necks compensated for it with the nuchal ligament; a feature that permitted greater rotation of the entire neck column.

Adding to this was the extraordinary development of canine dentition (teeth) and the power of its jaw bones.  Together this allowed for actual bone-cracking of its prey.  The reason is obvious: inside animal bones is marrow, a rich source of protein.  Among all canine species the power of bone-cracking is no more evident than in the family of hyenas.  These wild African canines have been known to leave little evidence of a kill; they literally consume an entire animal.  Getting inside those bones with its mighty jaw strength helped canines retain their spot as top predators no matter where they migrated.

An artist’s rendition of the extinct Borophagus secundus canine from the late Miocene Epoch in North America displays the animal’s large dentition and low-angled skull that allowed it to engage in bone-crushing of its prey.  Courtesy Mauricio Antón.

An artist’s rendition of the extinct Borophagus secundus canine from the late Miocene Epoch in North America displays the animal’s large dentition and low-angled skull that allowed it to engage in bone-crushing of its prey. Courtesy Mauricio Antón.

Between 6 and 4 million years ago, Eucyon began migrating across what is now the Bering Strait into Asia.  There it developed into Canis lupus, the gray wolf.  Canis lupus then spread further throughout Asia, eventually making its way into Europe, Africa, and India.  It also evolved into both variations of itself and canines such as dholes and jackals.  About 800,000 years ago canis lupus began tracing its ancestors’ migratory paths back into North America where it continued evolving; again into other wolf species, but also into such animals as the arctic fox and the coyote.

Throughout the next several millennia, wolves continually metamorphosed into various breeds of dogs.  At some unknown point, they formed an alliance with humans.  How, when and why this occurred are among the top questions for zoologists.  It’s quite likely that a human somewhere along the way found an abandoned wolf puppy and, feeling empathy for the animal, kept it and managed to raise it.  It’s also likely that canines began following humans, realizing the two-legged beings had a knack for capturing and killing large prey.  When the humans moved on, the canines would descend upon the remains of whatever animal was left behind.  This, of course, would make dogs scavengers, instead of hunters.  But, in a brutal world of survival, that’s what was necessary.

It’s more probable, however, that all of these incidents took place a number of times, all over the world and over a number of years.  As with other animals, such as horses and bovines, canine evolution eventually fell in line with human evolution; that is, their domestication coincided with the development of more complex and wide-spread human societies.

Skull, cervical vertebrae and muscle structure of the extant Canis lupus (gray wolf).  The nuchal ligament allowed for greater movement of the head and neck.

Skull, cervical vertebrae and muscle structure of the extant Canis lupus (gray wolf). The nuchal ligament allowed for greater movement of the head and neck.

The close relationship humans generated with dogs means people began subjecting these animals to selective breeding, in which they were propagated for specific purposes.  Initially, dogs served two primary roles in their union with humans: hunting game and herding livestock.  Later, they were bred to be protectorates, guides, and, of course, companions.  Consequently, we now have a plethora of dog breeds.  No other animal displays such an extraordinary level of diversity in size, color and shape as canines.

Dogs’ sensibilities are extremely acute.  While their visual resolving powers are less efficient than humans, their eyes are more sensitive to light and movement.  Dogs can hear sounds four times farther away than humans and are able to locate the source of that sound in six-hundredths of a second.  Dogs’ olfactory capabilities are their most extraordinary attribute.  The average dog has over 200 million scent receptors in its nasal folds, compared to a human’s five million.

Dogs are certainly among the most intelligent of mammals; perhaps the smartest among non-primates.  Like humans, dogs appear to be sensitive to vocal inflections and emotional queues.  A study at the University of Lincoln, United Kingdom, that dogs “form abstract mental representations of positive and negative emotional states, and are not simply displaying learned behaviours when responding to the expressions of people and other dogs.”

The researchers presented 17 domesticated dogs with pairings of images and sounds conveying different combinations of positive and negative emotional expressions in both humans and dogs. The sources of sensory input – photos of facial expressions and audio clips of vocalizations (voices or barks) from unfamiliar subjects – were played simultaneously to the dogs, without any prior training.  Researcher noted the dogs spent more time looking at the facial expressions which matched the emotional state of the vocalization.

Another study in Hungary went further by conducting MRIs on 13 dogs – six border collies, five golden retrievers, a German shepherd and a Chinese crested.  The animals were trained to lie motionless during the procedures, although they were awake and unrestrained.  Researchers found that dogs processed words with the left hemisphere and processed pitch with the right hemisphere – just like humans.

We’ll never know when the bond between humans and dogs was established.  Whether they save our lives, protect our property, or provide simple companionship, dogs are an indelible part of the human existence.  For dog lovers such as myself, that relationship is indescribable.

Basic evolutionary tree of modern dogs from their wolf ancestors.

Basic evolutionary tree of modern dogs from their wolf ancestors.

* Name changed.

ASPCA

 

References:

Dogs: Their Fossil Relatives and Evolutionary History.”  Richard H. Tedford & Xiaoming Wang. Columbia University Press, 2008.

New Encyclopedia of the Dog.” Bruce Fogle, DVM. Dorling Kindersley, 2000.

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Why My Dog Is a Tax Deductible Expense

“Come a little closer.  I dare you.”

“Come a little closer. I dare you.”

I decided at the start of this year to use the costs associated with the care of Wolfgang as a tax deduction.  A little background is necessary.  I adopted Wolfgang from a dilapidated former roommate thirteen years ago.  Tom* had gotten him in August 2002 to replace a much-loved dog of the same breed he had to put to sleep.  By the end of that year, however, Tom realized he could no longer care for the new puppy, and I realized I no longer could stop plotting to get rid of Tom by making it look like a game of pool and tequila shots gone wrong.  He’d have to give him up.  I couldn’t bear the thought of it.  I’d already grown too attached to the little furball and feared he’d end up in a home with someone more irresponsible.  Tom left in January, and the puppy stayed.  I renamed him Wolfgang.

He’s supposedly a miniature schnauzer, but I realized almost immediately that he’s an undiscovered species of canid: a miniature wolf.  Neither the Smithsonian nor the National Geographic Society has responded to my requests for a detailed analysis.  At first glance, he looks like any other small dog – cute and adorable.  But that’s part of the inborn ruse.  A closer examination, however, reveals the monster lurking behind the pools of dark chocolate known as his eyes and the fluffy silver and white hairs coating his face.  A serial rabbit killer, Wolfgang has terrorized more squirrels than the German shepherd I had decades ago.  A deep, loud voice resides within his little throat; another coy, inborn trick to make the unsuspecting believe they’re standing just feet from a coyote.  He is 22 pounds of raw, canine angst.

But he has become my savior in so many ways.  As I struggled with my freelance and creative writing careers, I realized the value Wolfgang adds to my professional life.  He is my therapist, focus group and lifestyle consultant.  He is the only one who truly understands why I say and do what I say and do, and therefore, is the only one who reserves the right to criticize me for it all.  He truly comprehends the reasoning behind my deliriously twisted stories.  He sees the genius of my mind; whereas others would see a psychiatric trauma case, a recovering Catholic or a porn star reject.  And, since we’re all bearing our souls here, I fit each of the above descriptions in the worst way.

Wolfgang at 3 months.

Wolfgang at 3 months.

Despite my occasional rapid-fire mood swings, bouts of euphoria mixed in with valleys of despair, Wolfgang has proven to be a constant source of inspiration and reality.  Most dogs are like that anyway.  And, as with most dogs, Wolfgang has his own unique personality.  He doesn’t have an attitude – a nasty trait exhibited by those bipedal cretins known as humans.  Just touching him puts me in a better mood, even if I’m already feeling good.  But it’s his visual responses to my stories that tell me if what I’ve written makes general sense.  In one tale, for example, I wondered if a rather mundane character should have a greater role.  Wolfgang’s empathetic gaze told me yes.  So I expanded the character, and the story benefited.  In another, I thought that a rather cantankerous individual was nevertheless crucial to the moral arc I was trying to convey.  Wolfgang’s snarl told me the bitch had to die.  Again, the story turned out better, after the character accidentally stumbled onto a paper shredder.

Aside from keeping his shots up to date, I had Wolfgang neutered years ago, which prolongs a domesticated animal’s life.  (Many people should have the same thing done, but not because their lives are worth prolonging.)  I bathe him every Sunday night and clean his teeth regularly by spreading a dab of canine toothpaste on a small hand towel.  (Actually trying to brush them turns into a physical battle, with my hands on the losing end.)  When his fur gets long, I brush it the day after his bath.  In this case, “brush” is a subjective term, because he often spirals into an alligator-death-roll maneuver.

I’ve had his health care covered through Veterinary Pet Insurance (VPI), which is now NationWide.  Because he’s almost 14, the premiums have increased.  But again, he’s worth the cost.  The money I’ve spent on that insurance, along with other veterinary bills and food, could have just as easily bought me a high-powered computer, an I-Phone, the complete Photoshop Suite to create art for my stories, and / or a week at a leather bondage festival.  I suppose I could have churned out some really good stories with all of that.  (Yes, even a bondage festival can be enlightening.  I have the handcuffs and thong underwear to prove it.)  But, without Wolfgang’s presence, I just can’t see any good stories popping out of my head.  What good are all sorts of luxuries if you’re not mentally fit?  I mean, look at the Kardashian girls!  Well… they’re mentally ill; they’re just dumbasses.  Regardless, medical expenses are often genuinely tax-deductible.

My followers surely know by now that I’m a devout animal lover.  I’d rather see a thousand drug addicts or sexually-irresponsible people die of AIDS than see one animal suffer due to human neglect.  A close friend shares my sentiments; he likes cats.  Cats are pretty, but I’m allergic to them.  Besides, when have you ever heard of a rescue cat?

Still, the more I get to know people, the more I love my dog.  I seriously don’t know how the Internal Revenue Service (a.k.a. the “Washington mob”) will respond to this deduction on my 2015 tax return.  And I seriously don’t care.  They can laugh all they want, which I’m sure they’ll do.  I’ve had worse happen to me, such as pretending someone who cuts me off in traffic is just having a bad day and they’re not really an asshole.

For now, though, I have another story to run by Wolfgang.  This one’s kind of mushy, so I have to conjure up a more creative demise than a demonically-possessed paper-shredder.

For real!

For real!

*Name changed.

 

ASPCA.

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Saving the Animals, Too

Unlike Hurricane Katrina, there has been a concerted effort to save animals along with people in the wake of Hurricane Sandy.  As many coastal residents evacuated ahead of the storm, they brought their pets with them to shelters.  And, for those trapped in their homes by the floodwaters, their pets are being rescued along with them.  This is in stark contrast to the Katrina debacle, when not only were animals refused entry into shelters, the Coast Guard and other rescue personnel forced people to leave their pets behind.

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Goodbye to Another Cyber Friend

For the second time in less than a year, I’ve pissed off a cyber friend.  This time it was over something rather innocuous – at least in my opinion.  But, you never how people will react to things.  Last year a guy told me to remove his email address from my list.  I complied without a word.  I really didn’t know him, as we’d met online.  Strangely enough, though, he connected with me through Facebook several months ago.  Okay, great, I thought.  Can’t stay mad forever!  What good are cyber friends, if you can’t connect with them anyway?

Ironically, I met that guy through Gary, the one who told me Sunday night to stop sending him “dog crap.”  He means any information about dogs – funny or serious.  As a canine devotee, it’s almost impossible for me NOT to send out something related to the loveable beasts.  But apparently, Gary hates dogs bad enough that the mere mention of them turns his bulging stomach.  I thought he was just joking, or having one hell of a Maalox moment.  But, he issued me a dire warning: send him anymore “dog crap,” and he’ll spam me.  Oh my God!  Not the dreaded spam folder!  That’s not as bad as being blocked – the “Death Penalty” of the e-world – but it’s still pretty hideous.  When someone blocks your email address, you’ve either called them for bail money once too often, or said they look fat in designer overalls.  The spam folder is your computer’s automatic trash disposal; a dumping ground; slush pile.  If you send them a birthday greeting, they won’t get it.  If you tell them you’re dying of cancer and want to make amends, they won’t see it, and you’ll die without either of you knowing what could have been.  If you find an extra World War II bond and offer it to them with a 48-hour acceptance deadline, or it’ll go to charity, they won’t notice it.

I had met Gary more than a decade ago via a web site he runs.  We struck up a quick and curious electronic friendship.  He gave me pointers on taking digital photographs and setting up this blog.  He’s liked my stories and essays.  We’ve had disagreements before – usually over something much more serious, like race or gender.  But, dogs?  All this drama over an email I sent with the attachment below?  I don’t know what’s wrong with Gary, but it must have struck a raw nerve.  I didn’t think anybody could despise dogs that much.  I’m not a cat person, but I don’t get upset when someone sends me cat stuff.  I’ve never threatened to – SPAM someone over a cat-related email.

Gary had gotten annoyed with me recently about another email I sent out regarding pit bulls being put down, or something, with my comment about there being no bad dogs, just bad people.  Gary replied, ‘Yea, until it attacks your kid sister.’  I don’t have a kid sister, or brother, so I can’t relate.  But, when I sent out this one email, he replied, ‘My sister is still injured, and you’re not helping!’  Whoa, I thought.  Is this for real?  Surely not.  So, I replied again – this is where I guess I made my big mistake – pointing out that he was “the only one bitching about the dogs.”  And, that’s what did it.  That sent him over the edge.

If his sister – or any other relative was attacked by a vicious dog – I can empathize.  That would be a horrible sight.  My mother became terrified of Dobermans at the age of 6 when, she saw one attack a man.  Her family had a golden retriever-type dog at the time.  I have a sepia-toned picture of her at age 2 with it.  But, my mother eventually developed a phobia about all big dogs.  Still, she swallowed her fear, when we moved to suburban Dallas in 1972, and my folks got me a German shepherd.  She fell in love with that dog as much as I did.  Then, some neighbors bought a Doberman puppy; a chocolate one who developed an affection for my mother.  He was the type of dog that, once you touched him, you had to keep touching him, or he’d nudge the crap out of your hand.  But amazingly, my mother would sit there at the neighbor’s house and caress that mocha monstrosity that looked like a small horse.

Gary, however, seems to think animals have the exact same psychology as humans and therefore, should be held accountable for their actions.  It’s kind of sad that we kill animals that show aggression towards humans and can’t be integrated into society.  When people display similar tendencies, we suggest aroma therapy.

The city of Dallas has launched an aggressive campaign to pick up stray animals and either try to socialize them, or euthanize them.  No word yet on how they’ll handle the city’s gallery of drug dealers, prostitutes and criminally insane homeless people.  But, I have the perfect solution!  Save the animals – even those that show aggression towards people – and kill the humans who show aggression towards others: human or animal.  It’ll save a boat load of money and heartache for everyone involved.  Their bodies can be used to train medical students, or feed rescued big cats.  Since these humans can’t be socialized back into society, I suggest at least neutering them to prevent their kind from breeding.  We need more German shepherds and Dobermans – not more homeless crack addicts.

But, Gary feels humans who commit even the most heinous of crimes shouldn’t be put to death; they should be sentenced to prison for life and made to suffer.  Like animals.  At taxpayer expense.  He’d never win political office in Texas.  In some ways, he’s a stereotypical West Coast liberal; the kind who thinks Jeffrey Dahmer was worth saving, but an unfriendly Rottweiler needs to be slaughtered because they’re not sociable.  He became frustrated whenever I made negative comments about Judaism and Islam, although he was just as hateful towards Christianity.  Personally, I’m an equally opportunity offender, since I deplore all three of those religions.  As a recovering Catholic, I feel I’m entitled to such angst.

Animals, of course, don’t possess religious beliefs.  In that regard, they’re much more highly evolved than humans.  But, like humans, animals are products of their environment.  If an animal has lived a life of abuse and neglect, their natural response to a person is hostile.  Who can blame them?  Yet, because of their limited mental capacity (relatively speaking), I feel they should be forgiven.  When people react in such a hateful manner, they’re prescribed Xanax and a wine cooler.  If they’re lucky, they get to talk to Dr. Drew.  If they’re really lucky, porn studios reach out to them.  Look at Casey Anthony.

I’m not upset that Gary threatened to spam me.  I guess I need to be more considerate of other people’s feelings – especially those I met online.  Those relationships can be as fragile as the band width on which their lovingly formed.  I have done something with Gary that I haven’t done with many other cyber friends: I’ve talked to him on the phone.  But, that was a long time ago.  A lot of wine has passed over the tongue in the years since.  I said to hell with it and removed Gary altogether from my email address book.  I really didn’t know him THAT well.  But, even with one less email contact, I’ll still be able to pick up the tattered pieces of my life and move forward.  Besides, I have other things to worry about: my new full-time job, my elderly parents and my dog who’s having trouble getting used to me being gone all day.  But, who knows?  I may meet Gary again in another electronic life – with a bottle of wine in one hand and a big black snarling canine at my side!

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