Thanks for joining me!
Good company in a journey makes the way seem shorter. — Izaak Walton
Thanks for joining me!
Good company in a journey makes the way seem shorter. — Izaak Walton
If someone said “Scooter Dog” two days ago I would have expected to see a big brown dog scooting his butt on the white carpet.
No longer. I have found nirvana in the form of a restaurant near our house: Scooter’s World Famous Dawg House. After 30+ years in this area we finally tried Scooter’s. Consider my mind officially blown. Basically you get a hot dog, regular or long (go for the long, trust me) with any odd pairing of toppings you could imagine. I had a macaroni and cheese dog. It was delicious! John had a basic bacon dog but there are Hawaiian dogs, and about 30 other combinations. Then, you get about 100 french fries (that’s a small) with available malt vinegar packets. Be still my heart! Of course the stomach may not be still but that’s a gamble I’m willing to take.
What surprised me is that I had no idea it was there. I guess on Fridays and Saturdays the line stretches out the door. It’s like Weber’s in Ontario. The inside has antique auto memorabilia and they also serve ice cream. How did I miss something so important? It advertises to be the “home of the happy hot dawg.” I don’t know how happy the hot dawg was but we were delighted! How did I not know? Think of all the happy hot dawgs I’ve missed out on.
I guess sometimes good things can fly under the radar.
My mind was blown again this week by a realization I had while I was walking Chester. I had been listening to Sirius XM which I get for the fantasy football channel, but nothing’s cooking in fantasy right now so I listened to the 60s on 6 station. I had this realization that no matter how hard a band tries, it is literally impossible to write another 60s song.
Let that sink in for a minute. A composer could write a song inspired by the 60s. A singer could sing a song from the 60s. But there are NO MORE 60s songs There never will be.
I’m not used to finality. I’m not used to something hard and fast and irrevocable. I’m very good with ambiguity. I can argue either side of most debates. I can bargain (don’t like to but I can). I like to say anything is possible, and if we try hard we can do whatever we want. Ummm, no we can’t. We cannot write a 60s song.
This realization came on the heels of Scooter Dawg. How can this world be turning and I missed it?? How did I miss writing a song in the 60s? (OK, I was a little young, but the 70s? 80s?) How did I drive by the exit to Scooter Dawg and not see it? I feel like I have been asleep at the switch. How many other things have I missed?
At some point it’s going to be too late for me to do what I want. Finality will throw up a blockade in front of me just like the 70s did to the 60s. It’s a scary thought. I guess I better wake up, get out of my routine a little and experience new things.
On a side note, Chester has a renewed determination to go after squirrels. He has not caught one, but we put up a deck. He sits on the deck like a king surveying his kingdom and eyeballs every corner of the yard daring some four legged moving interloper to show its furry self. The difference is he is now also laser focused. Below are three pictures taken over an hour. Mind you, the squirrel is in the NEIGHBOR’S tree (It’s one of their squirrels I’m sure, although they have had some racoon fights over the squirrel food so I’m not sure their squirrels are too happy. They may relocate to our yard which is probably what Chester is determined to avoid). The squirrels are probably thinking “we’ve lived here 3 years and never new this yard existed.” “our little minds are blown!”
Anyway, he spent an hour first running up and down the FENCE, yes the fence that the squirrel was on the OTHER SIDE of, then sat down and barked. This picture shows him with his mouth open. Imagine the bark.
Next he got a drink and went back to running. He sat down and stared, barking occassionally.
Finally he lay down and watched. The squirrel barked at him saying “ha, ha you dumb scooter dawg” in it’s most sinister accent.
Poor vigilant Chester.
Right now I am sitting on the deck, thinking about finality and thinking that I hate it. Chester just took off to the corner of the yard. There is nothing there. I guess I’ll have to go get him.
When we went to Clear Lake Cottages in Northern Ontario, my father would make us dig our fishing worms from under the cow pies. He wasn’t trying to be mean, he did it too. He truly thought the worms would gather under the cow poop and digging there was a really good idea. I have no thoughts about this theory that can be expressed in a g-rated blog.
I can testify that the best cow pies were to be found just on one side of the cattle crossing. The cattle were to be kept on one side of the gate so as to keep them from coming into the camp and foraging amongst our garbage…or maybe that was the bears. At any rate, there were bars with openings that apparently cattle shy away from, like vampires and garlic only wholesome. So the cattle would poop a lot on their side of the gate while plotting to overtake the camp. My father in his wisdom named this area “worm heaven.” He would stop the car at the gate and call out “worm heaven” then drive on muttering about no passengers getting on or off the car. This exempts the blackflies and mosquitos of course. They rode for free.
My sister visited us for the last couple days and we have had an experience of nightmarish proportions. Chester walked through some high grass and got a couple ticks. I can hardly type the word…I go into a genuine freak-out mode with ticks. I don’t care if you never saw a tick in your life, you would know what it is. Thank goodness she was here to ground me a little with comments like, “oh I’ve probably had a thousand ticks on me.” She’s a naturalist so ticks are old hat. Seriously though that did help. Plus none of them were embedded thank you God.
We examined every inch of poor Chester, and the couch. I had taken him down Bacon Road which is a known ticky area but usually not this early in the year. And he never had more than one. I had brushed one off of him but either there were more than I saw or this was the magical reappearing tick because I had one on my leg and arm too. EEEEEEEeeeeee. Kim flushed them and we both started feeling a little itchy. But we had identified the area and the time of the attempted hijacking of the dog by the beasts, and we were pretty confident we had them all.
The next day we went to Holden Arboretum to see the stickworks, an art piece made of willow branches. It is very cool. Here is a picture of my sis in stickworks. I may have posted one of these before, if so pretend you didn’t see it, and if you are an older reader you probably forgot anyway, I know I did.
We had a wonderful walk and got a free Redbud tree for Arbor Day. We came home, dropped off Chester then went to lunch. When we came back, I went to pet Chester and there was another tick! This was a new kind of tick and my sister the naturalist seemed more concerned. Then she found one on herself which got us both feeling buggy again. ARGH!! She took pictures of this one but I won’t torture you with a pic, I would have to block myself. I was on the phone to the vet immediately begging for some Bravecto flea and tick medicine since I tore apart the pet closet and realized I was out. They were most accommodating and we dashed there (as fast as we could while fuming at the stupid 35 mile/hour speed trap in Madison…) got the Bravecto and rushed home. I ran into the house and gave Chester the supposedly dog pleasing flavored pill which he promptly spit out. I covered it with peanut butter. He licked the peanut butter off and spit it out. Honest to Saint John what was wrong with this dog?? I covered it with peanut butter, wrapped bread around it and made him do a trick. That worked; he spit out some but ate most. I repeated the peanut butter prompt and it was successful. I haven’t seen a tick since, so I think we caught them with no harm done. I washed and dried the clothing and vacuumed my car. Again, none were embedded so I didn’t have to deal with that horror. I’m taking the gruesome experience as a warning.
As we were driving home later from another outing, I stopped the car on Bacon Road where I believe we picked up the first of the monsters. I stopped the car and called out, “Tick Heaven.” My sister complimented me on my delivery, and I felt like I had won an academy award. For just a minute we were kids again, shaking our heads at the thought of visiting worm heaven with shovels and buckets. But this time I didn’t wait long enough for anything to jump in or on or remotely close to the car.
So if you have a dog and live in Ohio, be aware. Do a check after walking in a park and try not to let them into long grass. Check yourself too, before you go in the house. Wear light colors since they will show up better. They don’t take over your house like fleas but they are good at hiding. Flea and tick medication is expensive but it lasts several months and for me is worth every penny.
I’m not terrified of ticks any more. I faced that fear out of necessity and had no choice whether to deal with it or not. Chester’s health was at risk. It seems like once I actually experience and deal with the fear I’m wary but not terrified. Maybe it’s not knowing that creates the fear. My dad could laugh at just about anything and sometimes that’s the only option. I’m not exactly laughing out loud but I can call out “tick heaven” and shake my head. Meanwhile, we are staying away from long grass. We won’t be walking there, but I will acknowledge them.
Below is Chester and his flea-free bunny.
It is a dark and stormy night. But earlier today it was almost 80 degrees! Yesterday was in the 70s also. However, on April Fools Day it snowed. Yes, it snowed. The people in Cleveland decided to forget how to drive in the snow and there was a pile up on 77. Luckily I was working from home. I don’t think this is going to last though. As we move back into the workplace I am rediscovering little joys I forgot. Like listening to the guru on the Sirius fantasy channel. I have come to the sad conclusion that my fantasy team, The Killer Tomatoes, is just pathetic and in need of a new name. The Cleveland Indians will not be the only team changing names, but I’m going to give the Tomatoes one more year. My problem is that I get sucked into the rookie or sleeper mode. I want to strike it big like in Vegas. But I end up with a bunch of rookies and the sleepers stay asleep. Our league, Cut That Meat, has been together for years and years and I’ve only won once.
While walking Chester in the snow, I was thinking of new names for my sad fantasy team (suggestions are welcome). The I heard the theme from Harry Potter. That would be my cell phone. I carry it with me in case I fall or something I can call my husband to come get Chester. And he might even get me. Anyway, I looked at who was calling. It was a 330 number which is somewhere near Akron, not that far. It could be someone I know, or from work. So I answered it.
“Yes, you have an ad in the busy beaver?”
“The ad in the busy beaver?”
“I think you have the wrong number I don’t know what the busy beaver is.”
“Umm hold on, is this umm 321-3134?”
“No, it’s not.”
OK about now it was dawning on me that this might be a phone call I might want to get out of. I mean he sounded nice enough, but the longer I stay on the line the longer he has to sell me something, right?
“Ohhhh, I see what I did.”
“OK, thank you.” (and I hung up)
Why on God’s green earth did I thank him? Come on, Martha, what were you thinking? Thanks guy for calling me and interrupting my thoughts of fantasy stardom. I was on the verge of a breakthrough name there. Sheesh.
No really I didn’t care, but as we walked on I wondered what the busy beaver was. It hit me that it may be a sex line, like I’m supposed to talk all hot. I got a chuckle out of that one, because I could talk the talk but I’d be picking up Chester poo at the same time which isn’t exactly walking the walk he’s probably thinking.
I went home and after burrowing under a blanket like a kid after bedtime I looked up the busy beaver. Turns out it’s a home improvement store in Ashtabula which is only 20 miles or so from me. I never heard of it! I looked to see if they were hiring, figuring that must be it, but they weren’t. So what ad is he calling about? I was tempted to call him back and ask him.
“Hey, remember me, the lady who thanked you for calling the wrong number? So what ad is in the Busy Beaver and how do I get the ads? What kind of stuff do they have there? Any good sales going on? Do they have Christmas deer that light up? I mean it is snowing here…what’s the garden section like?”
He’d be thrilled I’m sure to make my acquaintance. Actually I’m going to drag my husband to the Busy Beaver when it’s a nice day. We will take the Model A and drive through Dairy Queen. This must be done after my diabetes blood work is taken tomorrow. But so it shall be written, so it shall be done.
On another note, I am a terrible dog mom. We were on the park side of the fence when who should walk by on the other side but Enzo and his owner. (for the newer readers, Enzo and Chester got into it ONE TIME and ever since are arch enemies) Enzo did absolutely nothing (good dog) but Chester went berserk (bad, bad). Why, Chester, why??? The gate to the park has about a foot in between the rails…it’s for cars not for Chesters. Chester was throwing himself around, I was hanging on for dear life (Enzo’s probably) and Chester was trying to shove his big head through the gate. I did the unthinkable. I dumped some water on his head. He stopped lunging and looked confused. While I had his attention for 2 seconds I told him to “LEAVE IT.” He whined a little but oh my, he left it. Granted it was halfway down the street by now. I do not advocate this as a training method in any way, in fact it’s probably just one more reason for him to hate Enzo, although that may not be possible. But sometimes we all slip a little and at least he didn’t dislocate my arm. I did buy a clicker and some cat treats (for Chester not the cats) so I can try to continue his PetSmart basic training. He did graduate believe it or not, I have his diploma. He got an extra biscuit because I felt bad. I hope Enzo got one too for having to put up with the Chester display.
Have a good weekend, and send me some fantasy name ideas. I will give you naming rights in the fantasy stadium.
By the way, I’m glad they are going to change the Indians name. It’s overdue. Just please not the Spiders…the mascot for the New School in NYC is the Narwhal. What about that???
Recently I had the urge to revisit a song. Happily there was a video as well. Some songs are just so awful they are brilliant. This is one such song. It’s called “Fish Heads” and it is done by a group called Barnes & Barnes. Apparently it was shown in 1980 on SNL, which explains where we likely saw it, as we didn’t have kids yet and could stay up and watch SNL without passing out during the opening monologue. We used to sing this song all the time even when we didn’t want to. Talk about ear worms, this is the night crawler of earworms. This is the king cobra of earworms. The lyrics are simply about fish heads doing things that fish heads oughtn’t do. This doesn’t sound bad but believe me, it is. SOOO bad. In fact, it has sunk through the hole at the bottom of the toilet of badness and returned to claim its place in the sun like the victims of Motel Hell.
Anyway, I had the urge to watch “Fish Heads” again, and to my delight I still enjoyed it. It has aged well. It’s just as bad/good now as it was in 1980. Then, while walking Chester, I thought about things that age well and things that don’t.
Well: peeps. According to my husband they actually improve with age.
Not well: a container of something that I left in my car for a whole year during the pandemic. I recently fished it out..sing it everybody…fish heads, fish heads…
I want to age well. I have another 30 years or so according to the psychic in New Orleans, so I have to start thinking about it in another ten years or so. Seriously though it’s not like I don’t have any good role models. My mom died when I was young and impervious to aging. But my Aunt Alice lived a nice long life and was the epitome of aging well. She was royaler than a queen to me. She played the piano her whole life and held herself with grace and kindness.
Grace and kindness…I want to be these things. I am not. I am generally kind but my thoughts vacillate between “I understand” to “What on God’s green earth were you thinking?” I used to not feel bad about it, I just figured it was my lot in life to be a smart ass. Then I attended this class where they told us to look (not really look but pretend) at ourselves and ask “would I want to be this person’s friend?”
That threw me. Now, every time I have a sarcastic comment or put down I feel like a bad person. No, I would definitely not want to be that mean girl’s friend! Sigh… what a complete pain in the butt. How am I supposed to age gracefully when I have literally no practice. What can I do? I want my kids to be proud of me, and better yet, I want my grandkids to be proud of me (it’s too late for the kids). I don’t want people to avoid me because I’m a jerk. I want people to call and see if I can go out for coffee. Well, most of the time I want that, the rest of the time I want to sit and watch the British Baking Show.
It’s going to be a long 30 years. I figure the best hope I have is to forget about it and think about something else. So while Chester and I were walking I thought of what I want to accomplish.
I want to learn Spanish. I’d like to learn the program Finale. I want to read about Anne Reinking and Gypsy Rose Lee. I’d like to learn something about Czechoslovakia.
I want to say the right thing without putting my foot in it. I want to be able to talk about something interesting for once. I want to remember somebody, anybody’s birthday in time to get a card to them. Thank God for facebook on that score but it’s not enough time. I’d have to remember to look ahead and that isn’t feasible.
I want to be fearless. If I want to zipline I will (I don’t but could be talked into it). I want to write a book and submit it until I don’t feel like it, regardless of rejections. I think I’ll get another tattoo that says fearless so I don’t forget. Then try to live up to it. Suck it up buttercup.
Speaking of buttercups, our crocuses have literally exploded into bloom. OK, maybe not literally, exploding crocuses would be awesome though. They seem to have tripled in number. I see the squirrels have been busy too, moving around the bulbs. Some must have been buried in my Hosta garden because I didn’t plant them there. Spring has arrived in Cleveland. It’s a beautiful thing. It’ll probably snow this weekend but hey, it has to snow on the daffodils 3 times before winter is over. Then we can move on!
Chester has become insistent at the CVS drive-through. They always give him a biscuit. (remember, Milk Bones = doggie crack) The last time he was boring into her face with his eyes until she looked at him. “Does he want a biscuit?” she asked.
Gaaaah…….no he wants to eat you, stick your hand in here just a little further…
“Yes thank you. He would love one.” Maybe I’m learning to age gracefully just a little.
The squirrels are up to no good. You know I like squirrels and you know Chester does not. They have decided in their small-brain wisdom that it’s fun to play in our backyard. We started knocking on the door before letting him out, but they are getting bold and don’t even care. Especially when I have just put out a cylinder in the bird feeder. Note I said bird, not squirrel feeder.
In my quest to support small businesses I go to the Willoughby Wild Bird store. I buy these cylinders of bird food. Because I am physically and spiritually unable go into a store and come out with only what I went in for, I have obtained a bag of peanuts and ears of corn. The peanuts are for the blue jays who literally sit outside the window and squawk until I throw some out. The corn cobs are for the squirrels. I don’t understand why they ravish the cobs but ignore the already removed corn on the patio. I guess they don’t like that the corn has touched some other bird food. Like my grandkids.
Anyway, I toss out an ear of corn and one minute it’s there, the next it isn’t. Where do the cobs go? My husband has found a couple while mowing the lawn, but I blame the neighbor’s squirrels. I suspect the neighbors pay them. A couple days ago I tossed one out and it was gone in an hour. I thought maybe a fox or racoon took it, but then I saw something in the tree. I couldn’t figure it out. It was yellow. Guess what?
Yep, somebody put the corn in the tree. I guess sharing is not a concept squirrels embrace.
Chester and I had quite the adventure! We were enjoying the nice day on our usual walk when I heard a kid yelling. I couldn’t figure out what it was, but when we walked by the Great Danes’ house I saw one of the Danes out in the yard jumping around. When you have dogs, your house is known as “the grey dog’s house” or “Jackson and Brutus’ House” or “Macy’s House” or “Chester’s House.” The Great Dane’s live on our usual route. I stopped because something seemed off. They are usually extremely well behaved. Then I realized the Dane had a racoon trapped and I went into action mode. You know the fight or flight reflex? And moms lifting cars off of kids? I get it! I have never met the two Great Danes in person, but a dog is a dog. I took Chester up on the patio and asked the kid if he needed help. He explained that the Great Dane, Ozzie, had slipped out of his collar in his quest for the racoon. I called Ozzie, thinking he’d want to see Chester. He didn’t care about Chester. Chester was too busy sniffing their grill to be much help. I got excited and in my best “oh boy isn’t this great” voice, like Flounder in Animal House I started calling Ozzie and clapping.
The racoon was hissing and spitting. Ozzie looked up like he was interested, came toward me, but when the racoon tried to leave he decided it would be more fun to chase it. He was play bowing, lunging and happily dancing around. The poor racoon couldn’t catch a break. The kid asked me “should I get treats?” and I responded “YES.” Meanwhile Chester was enjoying the patio smells.
When the racoon decided to play dead for a minute, I called Ozzie in my mom voice. You know the one. He didn’t have a choice when he heard that. “Ozzie, come.” He came, tongue hanging out and I swear he was smiling. He looked so happy to have played with the fluffy thing. He glanced at Chester who was still mesmerized by the grill. I kind of laid across Ozzie and held on. I didn’t have to bend over much. The kid opened the door and offered treats, wisely backing into the house with each one. Apparently Ozzie is food motivated like Chester because he didn’t hesitate. It was like Hansel and Gretl dropping pieces of bread. Ozzie couldn’t resist. Once the door was shut, Chester and I left, Chester oblivious to the racoon. As we started home, I watched the racoon for a minute to make sure it was OK. (what was I going to do if it wasn’t? sheesh) It seemed ok, just scared, and kind of shocked. I felt bad but Chester and I continued our walk. Now whenever we walk by there he slows down to see what’s going on. So far, nothing else, but I really want to know what they grilled! It must have been spectacular!
Before any of you dear people lecture me on dangers, I am a grown-ass woman (as my friend says) and I know the risks. But when an animal is likely to get hurt, I just automatically act. Internally I knew what to do, I mean I didn’t grab the racoon! It comes from years of dog ownership. You would have done the same thing.
It’s funny, my husband has quick reflexes, much quicker than mine. Once we were somewhere with the boys when they were little, maybe 3 and 5. They started to get up in this fake covered wagon. My husband leapt up the step and grabbed them, pulling them out. There were wasps inside the wagon. I didn’t even see them and stood there like a log while he was a hero. I don’t have quick reflexes but I guess I’m better at it than I thought at least when it comes to dogs.
I haven’t seen Ozzie since, but I’d like to, he was a nice boy. Chester was a wonderful boy! He thought it was an adventure too, new smells galore. We are going to take him to a new (for him) park today and let him explore the Grand River. No grill to sniff but maybe he’ll catch a fish! Have a great week!