Wednesday, December 29, 2010

The obligatory "Best of 2010" awards

As a blogger I'm required by law to produce an end of the year, 'Best of 2010' list. I had no idea about this until late yesterday afternoon I got an email from President Obama reminding me of my obligation. He said, "Mr. Sharp, I've been scanning all the blogs in the U.S. and it seems the only two blogs that have not completed their 'Best of 2010' posts are you and a tiny blog by a guy who can play the National Anthem entirely by cracking his knuckles. I'm in Hawaii right now but I've taken my laptop with me and am checking every couple of hours. Please complete your list as soon as possible so I may focus on making sure Dick Clark is ready for New Year's Eve."

I had no idea the president was such a micro-manager. So in order to keep the feds off my case, here goes.

Best of 2010

Best dog that isn't mine: Olive, the French bulldog
Best cat that isn't mine: none
Best TV show recommended to me by my daughter: 'Modern Family'
Best beer: Great Lakes Dortmunder Gold (that was the 2009 winner too)
Best vodka: Still Water made in a Canadian micro distillery by (shameless promotion alert) my daughter's boyfriend's father.
Best restaurant discovery: The Crossings in Aurora down by the tracks.
Best movie: Harry Potter 7-A
Best drum solo: 'Grandfather's Drum,' performed by me in the summer concert season of the Trinity Concert Band.
Best clarinet accompaniment on 'Grandfather's Drum':  Barry Simpson.
Best wife: Mine, for 28 years running
Best kids: Not mine.
Best kids at tolerating dad's "humor": Mine
Best episode of 'Rescue Me': The one where Tommy gets drunk and really screws things up...wait, that's all of them.
Best blog: I cannot name it because it contains a word that is not in keeping with the family nature of this blog, plus it's pretty much defunct. It was a shooting star.
Best TV show that was on for a really long time and finally ended: 'At the Movies'
Best Second Best TV show that ended: '24'
Best outpatient surgery: I'm sorry but HIPA prevents me from disclosing.
Best 'Glee' moment: Do I seem like someone who watches 'Glee?'
Best confession: I AM someone who watches 'Glee.'
Best 'Glee' character: Brittany
Best Best Dressed Best Man to go into a Best Buy with his BFF: Unfortunately there were no entrants in this category

So Mr. President, I hope you're happy. And let me know if you need a place to board Bo. We do require all the shots be current, and we can allow up to three Secret Service personnel to sleep in the kennel with him. They would totally make my 2011 Best of list under the category Best Guys With Semi-Automatic Weapons to Sleep in the Corner on a Pile of Blankets. 


Sunday, December 26, 2010

Dogs are like the Ferengi

I get these daily emails with helpful tips about dogs and cats, some of which I've shared. I've also linked them over there on the right so you can get them too. Anyway, the other day one of them explained why dogs love having their ears stroked, and being the geek that I am, I immediately thought of the Ferengi. Now you Trekkers know what I'm talking about, but for those who do not I'm afraid that I'm not going to explain because, well, I've linked it, plus I feel that everyone should be well versed in Star Trek: The Next Generation (TNG). If ever you ask me if you should do something and I say, "Make it so, Number One,' you should not look at me as though I'm from another planet, (like Betazed or Cardassia.) You should just immediately do that thing with the utmost efficiency, then report back to me wearing a form-fitting red uniform. And if there is the slightest problem you should call out, "Red alert, shields up" and we can brace for impact together.

The Ferengi love having their ears stroked, and while for Ferengi it's got a whole other wrinkle that we won't get into here, so do dogs. I discovered this with our dobe, Ty, about whom I already posted. Most dobes have their ears cropped, but we elected to leave his ears long, which detracted from the whole Killer Dobe Vibe were were kind of going for, and made him look...well, goofy. But endearing. And leaving them long didn't mean he just had regular ears, he had huge ears. You could cover both eyes with one ear. You could almost tie them into a knot above his head. And they were soft and often so very warm, and it was a pleasure stroking them.

He loved having them stroked. If you started on his ears he would stand there forever, or until one of the cats darted across the room, or there was something to bark at outside, or a wisp of air made his food bowl vibrate. But otherwise, forever. And one night while I was watching a Star Trek TNG re-run and petting his ears, there was a Ferengi scene where they were getting their ears stroked, and I decided that the Star Trek TNG writers must have had a floppy eared dobe, or a basset hound. And I recall actually calling him a Ferengi (yes I am THAT geeky).

So the next time you're petting your dog, check out his ears. And if it's for the first time., go ahead, explore new soft spots and new sources of pleasure; boldly pet where no one has petted before. But never, and I repeat, never get into a business deal with a Ferengi.




Sunday, December 5, 2010

Old Blue

Here is a wonderfully written little thing about a girl and her dog in a journal called McSweeney's.





Wednesday, December 1, 2010

The Mambo Kings Play Songs of Love

Goodreads is a website where you can keep track of the books you've read, are reading, or intend to read, and also share in the book reading experiences of your friends and others. Each month they send a newsletter. Here is how their latest newsletter started out:

Dear John,

You started reading
The Mambo Kings Play Songs of Love
857 days ago.

Update your progress.



Since you asked.

Dear Goodreads,

857 days ago I read the first couple of chapters, which were just fine, especially that section about the father and uncle being on the ‘I Love Lucy’ show, then the book got lost in a pile of old newspapers for a couple of weeks. By the time I found it, I’d already finished another book and was in the middle of yet another, so I set it on my To Read shelf for later.

A brief word about my To Read shelf: items that go onto the shelf seldom come off the shelf. I buy books I’m pretty sure I’ll never read. That’s not entirely true. At the time I’m certain I’ll get to all of them, just as I’m certain that one day I’ll finish cleaning out the garage, but sitting here now I can safely admit that the chances are slim. For the books that is; I still have hope for the garage.

One of my problems is that the library sells used book for 50 cents apiece, and I can’t help myself. Stay away from the library, you say? Clearly you’ve never met me. And even if I could, there are still Borders and the Learned Owl, and even WalMart for crying out loud. Books are everywhere. And many of them are on my To Read shelf, stacked in front of ‘The Mambo Kings Play Songs of Love.’

Flash forward several months. I decided to clean my shelves in preparation for house guests. I picked up ‘Mambo Kings’ and said, “There you are,” and set it next to my chair. That night I started it again, and again I enjoyed the part where the father and the uncle went on the ‘I Love Lucy’ show. Then my wife gave me ‘The Book Thief’ and I decided to read it first because it’s Young Adult and I’m in the process of writing a YA novel. So between the time I started ‘The Book Thief’ and the time that our house guest arrived, ‘Mambo Kings’ was once again relegated to the To Read shelf. Or so I thought.

Your email reminder, Goodreads, is oddly timed. Just the other day I found ‘Mambo Kings’ in the kitchen on a shelf with recipe books. I have no idea how it got there but I will offer this conjecture: I had it in my hand, intending to put it on the To Read shelf, but in my hand were also several other items I was cleaning off my chair-side table, like an old sports section, a dirty fork, and a list of things I was supposed to remember to buy three months ago. I began carrying these things to other rooms for proper disposition, and then I got a text from my son. I set down the book, the sports section, the fork and the list, and replied. Then I left everything on the kitchen table and got myself something to drink. Later that day my wife threw away the list, put the fork in the dishwasher, and stuffed the book onto the first shelf she could find because she didn’t feel like tracking me down to ask where it should go.

So now ‘The Mambo Kings Play Songs of Love’ is once again on my To Read shelf, because my glasses prescription is sadly out of date and the extra effort needed to read makes me sleepy. I have an appointment with the optometrist but that’s not for a couple of weeks. In the mean time I’m just going to rent the movie.

Yours,
John Sharp


Tuesday, November 16, 2010

Gone but not forgotten

The dogs and cats who stay with us are often more than just business transactions. Admittedly, many pets visit us only once or twice, or maybe once every couple of years, and we don't have the chance to know these guys as well as many of our more frequent guests. But many, many dogs and cats have been coming here for years, and often they are the second or third in a family of pets we have cared for over the years. We know the people and we know their pets. They're like friends and we know just what they need.

For example one dog may need to be in an end run because he doesn't like to come in the doggie door; another can't have a blanket because he chews it; yet another doesn't like the platform beds we provide and always tried to sleep on the concrete so we remove the bed and fill the whole run with blankets. Some dogs need no-spill food bowls; others need no-spill food AND water bowls.We know which dogs like to play with balls, and which only want to walk around and sniff in the play area. We know which dogs always need baths before they go home, and which dogs hate baths more than anything in the world.

But familiarity has a downside. All of these dogs and cats eventually leave us, one way or the other, and this is about one such dog.


Wally was a briard--a large french herding dog, with furry Ewokian ears and hair down over his eyes. When Wally came to us a few years ago, he seemed to not like us. Whenever we put him into his run, he would turn and bark at us, sometimes including a growl for good measure. He never offered to bite but it was clear we needed to pay attention to Wally.

He ended up visiting us many times per year, and eventually stopped the barking and growling. Then something really neat happened. One day when he was being dropped off, and I was at the computer checking him in, he came over to me and nuzzled my arm. He wanted me to say hi to him. Most dogs stay at leash's length, just hoping their being here is a big misunderstanding and that their people won't leave without them, but Wally was glad to see me. I scruffed his head and said hi, and every time he checked in after that I always made sure to sure to greet him.

Wally had been sick for a few weeks and I got the call today that he was gone. He went peacefully, with his people right there with him. And when I think of Wally, I end up thinking of Theo and Abby and Kira and Murphy, and all the others who I considered friends, who I hoped considered me their friend, and who I hoped enjoyed knowing me as much as I enjoyed knowing them. And I remember how important it is to find that one thing that they like, and make sure I give it to them.


Tuesday, October 12, 2010

So hide the chocolate covered raisins.

We all know chocolate is bad for dogs. And did you know onions are bad too? So when you let your dog clean up the dinner plate make sure you didn't cook with onions. And then there is gum with xanthan.

Also, grapes. And raisins. You may have heard that too. Just so you know how seriously pet professionals take it, here's a little story.

Our new dog, Leo, a seven month old golden doodle, was table surfing on Sunday and got into some grapes that were left out. We figure he ate about a half dozen. My wife, the veterinarian, immediately fed him milk laced with hydrogen peroxide to make him vomit. After several minutes of waiting we decided it wasn't going to work so she took him to the clinic to give him an injection to make him vomit.

Within two minutes he started heaving up all the grapes, plus what remained of his breakfast and anything else he'd gotten into that morning. Poor little guy. The bad part was that he had obedience class later that day and was a little out of sorts for it.  The good part is, after careful inspection, all the grapes were accounted for. (Inspection isn't as fun as it sounds).

The lesson here is that any grapes are bad. Even one. We don't know what element of grapes is the problem, but the result can be acute kidney failure.* And it's not dosage dependent. It's not like a big dog can eat one grape and be fine. It's more like a roll of the dice, where some dogs have a problem and some don't, like some people can die from a bee sting and some don't. And there's no way of telling.

* this link is to an article that requires registration to read. It's free and you can opt out of unwanted emails

Many years ago, before we knew about grapes, which have only been implicated for a few years, we fed our doberman grapes all the time. In fact any grape that has a bruise or blemish was called a Katie grape and fed to her. She never had a problem. And if she'd developed kidney failure at some point we'd have had no clue it was due to grapes.

One day well know what causes it, but that probably won't change the rule: No grapes for dogs. Or raisins, which are 4.5 times more concentrated. Save them for yourself.


.


Monday, September 27, 2010

On the saying of Goodbye

 Our doberman, Titus, passed away last week. He was only 6. A few weeks ago he started coughing and tests revealed he had cardiomyopathy, which we knew meant he didn't have long. We tried several medications but it was like throwing a pillow in front of a car to get it to stop.

We've been through this before, the end days of a cherished pet, and we watched for the signs that it was time to help him along. But he never got there. Every day he seemed like he was still happy to be around, and that he could go another day or two. Even though he wouldn't eat his food, he did eat deli turkey, and we figured that was good enough for now. Good enough, considering. Every day we watched for a sign he was ready. It never came.

With our last dog, Comet, who died a year ago last February, we knew. He'd stopped eating and wouldn't get up. His looked at us with pleading eyes, reminding me of the day I whispered into his ear a promise to take care of him in the end. He'd trusted me all his life to do the right thing and he was going to hold me to it. My daughter came home from college and we took him to the vet, where they had an overstuffed bed waiting on the floor, and we gathered round him and sent him on his way. We were lucky to have that one, official goodbye.

With Titus--Ty for short--it went differently. The morning my daughter left for college she said her goodbyes. I knew it wasn't quite his time but I also knew he wouldn't make it to her next visit, and watching her pet him for the final time, not wanting each stroke to be her last, but having to finally break off and drive away, broke my heart. When we went puppy shopping those years ago, she was the one who hoisted him from the litter and declared he was the best. She is the one who has always claimed him as hers. And now she had to say goodbye first.

My goodbyes happened over a couple of days.One morning he visited me in the bathroom and I stroked and hugged him, and I asked him if he remembered when he was a puppy, and how we used to lock him in the kitchen, until he was potty trained, but sometimes he'd slip past the barrier and run around the house at full speed, and the kids would sing 'Freeeee-domm, freeeee-dommm," and we'd laugh and gather him up and bring him back to the kitchen. Or last year when we went on vacation and he barked at the kennel the whole time we were gone. When we came home he'd completely lost his voice, and when he tried to bark a pathetic little squeak came out which embarrassed him so much he wouldn't bark for a week.

The night before he passed, he stood my by chair while I was watching TV and I petted him for the longest. time. I found myself wondering if he was just feeling a little better or if he was trying to squeeze in one last visit. The next morning I heard him let out three wheezing gasps, and when I checked on him he was gone. My wife felt cheated out of her goodbyes, and my son maybe did too, though he never really said, but I feel that night Ty kind of knew and he gave me my chance. Or maybe he was asking me to help him. I'll never know. 







Tuesday, June 15, 2010

This is not the duck in question

Someone sent me this to cheer me up Actually I apologize for alarming people. I'm not really broken up about it. I'd classify it more like being a teensy bummed, but then I went out for ice cream and everything is better.





 




Of Ducks and Men

Several days ago my son was mulching the beds next to the house, and when he tried to spread some behind a shrub, there was an explosion of feathers and quacking and a mallard duck rose up and flew away. We looked and there, in a little depression she'd dug right next to the foundation, were ten eggs. Naturally we all had to go back and have a look, then we worried whether we'd scared her away for good.

So I called my favorite optometrist/duck expert, Jim Tomko, who told me that she would indeed be back, and that it would take nearly three weeks for the eggs to hatch. He also said by walking to the nest we'd created a scent trail that predators could follow. Rats!


There's this big tom cat who roams the property and one day I saw him head toward the nest. I got outside in time to see the duck jumping out of the nest, flapping and squawking at the cat. She landed about ten feet away and continued quacking. The cat started checking out the nest. I chased away the cat with hissing sounds, but the duck stayed put. It took the duck about fifteen minutes to go back to the nest and I didn't see the cat again the rest of the day.

So then I felt responsible for the cat knowing where the duck is. I had no idea how much longer until the eggs hatched and there was no way I could watch for the cat 24/7. But my computer faced that window and for as many hours a day as I could I tried to be that duck's guardian angel, even though she probably thought I was just as worrisome as the cat.


A couple of days later I saw a broken shell. Then another. Every day there were one or two or three and the duck would look at me like, 'Guardian angel my tail feathers.' I'm not sure if the cat would eat an egg, but we have raccoons here, too. The last time I saw eggs in the nest there were three. 


Now there are none and she is gone, probably off complaining to her friends about the crappy place she chose to nest and looking at the all other ducks' babies with a broken heart. 

Now, I know this sort of thing takes place all the time, but it's usually out in the woods somewhere, or next to the pond. Ducks lay eggs. Egg eating creatures try to take those eggs. Ducks hope they've lain enough eggs to outlast the onslaught. If some manage to hatch, they're still lucky if even one makes it to adulthood. This is all fine and good, but not when it plays out right under my dining room window. All I wanted to do was help the duck and there wasn't a thing I could do.

The ducks seriously need to take lessons from the geese. Geese don't care what kind of thing you are, if you get next to the nest, they're coming after you. The male duck was nowhere to be found the entire time, like he was off with his buddies having fun. I hope mama duck found him next to some pond and gave him a piece of her mind.

And if she tries again next year I'm going to hire a sentry with a super soaker. .




Wednesday, May 19, 2010

An Interview with Bogey

As I've posted before, the Akron Humane Society has lots of dogs and cats to adopt, and at Facebook I've friended them, so in my feed I get to see the featured pet of the day/week or whatever.  I want to use this blog to help promote them and hopefully (yes I know hopefully is poor usage) help them get adopted. As such, I conduct interviews with selected pets. Some interviews don't get published because the subjects are boring, or barky, or run away to chase a mouse, but some I put here. So here is an interview with Bogey.


Aurora Boardealis:  Hi Bogey

Bogey: (sniff) Hi  (sniff).

AB: Where were you before you were here?

B: (sniff) I don't really know, but it smelled like wet newspapers and garlic. (sniff)

AB: Being a Beagle mix you go a lot by smell, don't you?

B: (sniff) (sniff) Now that I think of it, you smell a lot like wet newspaapers and garlic. (sniff) (sniff) (sniff)

AB: Okay, that's enough sniffing me.

B: Seriously? (sniff) There is never enough (sniff) sniffing.

AB: Let ask you what type of home you are hoping for.

B: I'd like it (sniff) to smell like (sniff) sausage.

AB: So a home hear a grocery store then?

B: Or (sniff) a pizzeria.

AB: That narrows down your options, doesn't it?

B: Not really (sniff). I can smell eighteen different pizza places right now. And a Chinese restaurant.

AB: We're nowhere near any restaurants.

B: Exactly (sniff).

AB: Well you are a very sweet little dog. I hope you find a forever home very soon.

B: (sniff) (sniff) (sniff) Orange cat.

AB: What?

B: You have (sniff) an orange cat, don't you?

AB: You can tell that by smelling?

B:  (sniff) No, there's hair all over your pants.

AB: Thanks, Bogey, and good luck.









Sunday, May 9, 2010

A dog story to warm your heart.

There's a little blog where some writers post things they've written that aren't really literature, but more like conversations between themselves. Here is one such post about a really stupid Labrador and the people he loved.




Thursday, April 29, 2010

Nick nack paddy whack, give your dog a ....wait. A processed synthetic bone shaped toy?

According to the Dogblog at Dogster.com, there are ten very good reasons not to give your dog a meat bone. I've long lived in a home with veterinarians who have forbidden our dogs to have bones, and when I tell people that, sometimes they say, "But dogs have always had bones," "they evolved eating bones," "if bones were bad for dogs, Old Mother Hubbard would have needed a different word to rhyme with 'bone.'" Granted, that person was seven years old.

So people, people, people, please heed this. No veterinarian likes having to open up a dog on a Sunday evening and root around for a bone he wasn't supposed to have. Okay, I may take a little grief over the term, 'root.' They have fancy x-ray and ultrasound machines to help them locate the precise location of an obstruction before they have to go in a root around for it. My point is, let's not make them do it.

Here is another link to Dogblog in case you missed the first one.  It's just that important.




Monday, April 26, 2010

NaPoWriMo


Okay, there's this thing called National Poetry Writing Month, where people who consider themselves poets, or people who don't consider themselves poets but write poems anyway, are supposed to write a poem a day for the entire month. That's 30 poems in 30 days for you counting at home.

I think they got this idea after being jealous of the National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) people where in November would-be novelists crank out an entire novel in 30 days. My biggest worry about that is in December I'm betting there are thousands of crappy, unedited novels sitting in the slush piles of publishing houses everywhere. On second thought why do I care? I'm not reading them.

Actually, NaPoWriMo occurs during Nation Poetry Month, where we're encouraged to seek out some of the millions of poems that have already been created and read them and maybe pass them on to someone else. If you're interested in checking out some poetry try here, and this one is dog related by one of my favorite poets, and this one about poems. And if you like short poetry, lots of it here. But at some point someone actually thought is was a good idea to add to the giant pool of poetry, and we now have NaPoWriMo (by the way, we veterans pronounce it Nay-Poe-Wry-Mo).

This is my third year. My first produced maybe a dozen pieces, but last year I did the whole thirty. Some of them have been published in modest little journals, and some of them are still looking for a home.

Here's one that will never be published (for obvious reasons):

#11

My chocolate lab
likes to chase chocolate
bunnies, which we all
know are poisonous
to dogs. So when my
chocolate lab licks
himself, will he die?

Yes, day 11 was especially bereft of ideas. I my defense, that was a day where I had only four minutes to write, with dull a crayon on a McDonald's napkin while standing in line at Heinen's.

So this year it's day 25 and I've done only 22. Five are pretty good, and the rest are just something to get me to the next one. I'd post one for you but in the publishing game, putting it on my little blog here is considered being published, and most places do not want it anymore.

I write this for two reasons. 1. To finally have a place to use my chocolate lab poem, and 2. In hopes that you will go find a poem and read it and share it, especially with a child. In fact there is no cooler book that one of Shel Silverstein's, where the poetry is magical and really accessible, and the kids really love it. Adults love it too.

And if you're so inclined, take a quiet moment to grab a pen and clean sheet of paper, and find something from your heart and share it with us. That's all poetry really is.


P.S. You can find one of my published poems here, and another one here (scroll down).



Tuesday, March 30, 2010

Shameless self promotion

As it says over there on the right, I'm also a published author, albeit modestly published. I just got a poem in a new little journal called Yes, Poetry.

Enjoy!



Tuesday, March 23, 2010

I probably shouldn't share this

I just did a one hour webinar about online marketing from a terrific guy named Adam Lapsevich from Digital Design Video, in nearby Chagrin Falls, Ohio.  I learned some really cool stuff, like YouTube is the number 2 search engine in the world. And what WIIFT means. And that there are only two Adam Lapseviches in the whole world. 

One thing I learned is that I may need to move my blog to another host (shh, don't tell Blogspot). Another thing is that by doing this blog I'm off to a good start, but I need to do more networking. So all of you get out there and link to me. Link, link, link. Actually at no point in the webinar did Adam instruct us to beg you to link us, I made that one up myself. I'll pass it along to Adam and see if he wants to add it. 

Check out Adam on his website and see if maybe he can help you in your marketing.

And now that I've shared this with you I've given away my competitive advantage. Alas.



Monday, March 22, 2010

An interview with Puddin Pop

On Facebook,  which is the newest, coolest way to ignore people you don't like, I have become friends with the Humane Society of Greater Akron. Granted, I was invited via a third party, second generation, round-about intermediary, but nonetheless, we're friends. 



The best thing about being friends with them is I get pictures of cute animals on my Facebook page on a regular basis. Today's pet of the day is Puddin Pop (they left off the apostrophe so I did too). Puddin Pop is a cat and here is their description of her (dictated, no doubt, by Puddin Pop):



Hi, my name is Puddin Pop. I am about one year old. I recently came back from foster care where I had the chance to flourish. I can be a little shy in the shelter, but in my foster home I was very friendly and sought out attention. I love to play with cats so a home with at least one other active cat is preferred but ...not mandatory. There are many cat friends at the shelter I can pick out as a partner if you don't already have one:-) Please share me with all your Facebook friends and hopefully I will find a forever home soon....

 

Puddin Pop is cute, to be sure, but the thing that makes her extra cute is her name. In fact I had doubts about the veracity of her name so I Facebook chatted Puddin Pop for an interview.

Me: So, Puddin Pop, you look pretty cute there on the Humane Society Facebook page. 

PP: Thanks, John, I am pretty cute.

Me: I have to ask, Puddin Pop is not your real name, is it?

PP: Umm, what do you mean?

Me: I mean, Puddin Pop is a made up name to make people like you, am I right?

PP: Well...

Me: Puddin Pop is a sham, is it not?

PP: Thumbscrew

Me: What?

PP: My original name was Thumbscrew. My first owners were Goth.

Me: I see

PP: I had a black leather litter box and a tail stud, which has since been removed. 

Me: Ouch! 

PP: Tell me about it.

Me: So, Puddin Pop is a better name. 

PP: One of the volunteers came up with it. The volunteers here are really nice.

Me: Is it hard to remember to answer to a different name, Puddin Pop?

PP: I'm sorry, were you talking to me?

Me: Ha ha.

PP: Sorry.

Me: One last question, what do you think about dogs?

PP: I think they're stupid, but who else are you going to have take the blame for getting into the garbage?

 Me: Thanks, Puddin Pop.

PP: You're welcome. And adopt me soon, someone out there reading this, preferably with a huge cat bed near a sunny window, with a bazillion cat toys and a weakness for slipping pets a piece of their sandwich. 


(Note: Portions of this post may have been embellished for entertainment purposes.)



Tuesday, March 16, 2010

Dog Toy of the Month

My wife went to a veterinary conference, and part of the fun of that is the huge exhibit hall they have with vendors of anything from antibiotics to x-ray machines. She collects brochures, business cards, pens, To-Do lists, and those red and white mints that don't quite satisfy your sweet tooth and only make your breath smell fresh for ninety seconds. She gets to watch videos of the latest in laser equipment and ultrasounds, and practice her polite smile that tells the salesperson, "No thanks, I'm not interested in hog castration tools today."

She also likes to find the latest in toys for our dog, Titus, while she's there. One year she brought home a set of purple toys made by Premier, which have lasted very well through vigorous chewing. But this year she found the best ever. It's called a Bouncy Bone, with a ball made of the indestructible purple rubber in the middle, and nylon ends. One of the nylon ends unscrews and you place a "gnawhide" disc on it and screw it back together. The disc is made of cornstarch and probably flavored like a steak dinner or one of your tennis shoes.



This is Titus enjoying his Bouncy Bone


[Dog Toy of the Month is a periodic feature of Aurora Boardealis and is not to be confused with Toy Dog of the Month, which will celebrate a tiny canine we have met.].




Friday, March 12, 2010

How to Play the Cymbals


I was asked to sit in with The Suburban Symphony for an upcoming concert. I am a percussionist--if we use the term loosely—and I've been playing with them for several years. If you go to the website, listen to the excerpts, and hear various crashes, clangs, booms and tinkles, that's likely me. Tinkle, by the way, refers to triangle sounds and not, erm, the other thing.

Wednesday I went to a rehearsal as a last minute sub for a guy named Joe Adato. Joe, for those who don't know, is retired from the Cleveland Orchestra. He plays all percussion but his main job there was cymbalist. (I'm not sure cymbalist is a word but I'm using it anyway. Makes me think of Efrem Zimbalist Jr, or his daughter, Stephanie. I liked Stephanie.). He has the most amazing collection of cymbals, some of which I've had the opportunity to play. There really is a difference.

He came on Wednesday to assist me in learning the part. It turned into a lesson. I hear you laughing. Cymbal lessons. Ha! Anyone can play cymbals.. Even a monkey.



Yes, that is exactly what I look like when I play the cymbals, except I'm in better focus.

Cymbal playing is thirsty work so this is what I look like after



So anyway, Joe gave me some tips, and some really excellent advice, but I learned more from the things he didn't say.

I had set up my stand with my music and had placed some mallets on the stand in front of the music. It's a very inconvenient arrangement, which I would never do for a performance, but which I felt would be okay for this rehearsal since the page turn came in the middle of about 30 measures of rest. The plan was to start counting the rests, remove the mallets, turn the page, replace the mallets and continue counting. No problem—it was rehearsal.

"Where are your mallets?" Joe said.

I pointed. "Right here."

He found a chair, borrowed a towel, and made a mallet stand for me, while I stood there and tried to think of a way to make myself look not stupid.

"You can't have your mallets on your stand like that." he said.

Lesson1: Treat every rehearsal like a performance.

When I'm asked to play, my normal routine is to get a copy of the music, download a version from iTunes., and work on it.  The more difficult or exposed or important my part is, the more time I spend on it until I feel I know the music. I play the CD in my car over and over until I can sing along. It usually works out, but I don't really "know" the music. Since for this I was a last minute replacement I hadn't had a chance to prepare, but I was assured it was easy enough.

Partway through Shostakovich's 5th symphony, Joe wanted to demonstrate for me. All along he'd been humming the melodies and counter melodies and using his hands to cue in the various parts, as a conductor would do, and many of us know the music well enough to do some of that. But not well enough to play it without music. When he took the cymbals I pointed to the page, as if to advise him where we were.

"I know where we are." And he proceeded to play to the end without the music. Perfectly. Beautifully. He confessed to one bad crash but on a scale of 1 to ten it was probably an 8.75.

Lesson 2: Know the music so you can play the music.

I have no illusions that I could ever learn classical pieces as well as someone who has been doing it for decades, but it reiterates something I learned from a wonderful trumpeter named Doc Levy. Doc always said, "Don't play the notes, play the music." Joe didn't need the notes because he didn't play them.

If at any time in my life I'd ever taken a moment to dream I could have been a professional musician, all I have to do is look at how good actual professional musicians are and I know the gap is too wide. I was born with some talent and I had parents who spent a lot of money on lessons, but I wasn't born with 'it.'  'It' is the combination of talent and desire necessary to rise to the top in a crowded and competitive field. "It' is a gift and it was not given to me.

But I'm good in my own way, for the things I am happy doing. I play with people I like and who like me, and we make other people happy by giving them live music. It's my small way to make the world a little better, one cymbal crash at a time. And I'm okay with that.



Sunday, March 7, 2010

Musical cats, not to be confused with the musical 'Cats.'

The internet is chock full of videos of pets doing stuff. I think it's why the internet was invented. I feel it's my duty to pass these along when I find them, since what greater purpose can a blog have? 

Here we have a cat playing a theremin. So you don't have to look up what a theremin is, it's an electronic instrument that made all the cool sounds in the Beach Boys' Good Vibrations. I read once the inventor of the theremin wanted it to gain acceptance equal to oboes and violins, and one day gain a spot in every concert orchestra, but alas, it's really just a cool toy. 

At the close of the video, there is a link to another video which shows you how to build your own tiny theremin, in about a minute, which is the first clue that a theremin can never be the equal of a violin. It takes hours and hours just for the violin glue to set.

Anyway, here is my first embedded video. Wish me luck.





Monday, March 1, 2010

A few words about the Olympics


Just a few words on the Olympics.

First, I hate when the Olympics ends. When the IOC guy says, "I now declare this Olympics closed, and call upon the athletes of the world to meet again in four years in (insert city here)" I feel real sadness. I invest a lot of emotion into the successes and failures of a bunch of people I don't normally even know exist, and I genuinely miss that involvement. Plus, now we're stuck watching the rest of the closing ceremonies.

I will be happy, though, to get my evenings back. And all those hours spent watching curling.

Curling. How is it I missed this sport for all these years? Official description of curling: slide a hefty stone over some ice and try to be closest to the center of a circle. Some helpers will use a broom to (wait, don't fall asleep I'm almost done) guide the stone until it stops. What curling actually is: a game of complex strategy that even after a hundred hours of watching on TV with knowledgeable commentators, you will not understand, but which you will not be able to tear yourself away from due to amazing shotmaking and unbelievable drama. Yes, I love curling. I think one person described why it's kind of caught on. It seems like something anyone can do. I even looked up local curling clubs. There is one in South Euclid but I really have no intention of trying it. I have a lot on my plate, and who needs to spend money on the latest in Norwegian curling pants? I think I'll remain content to be a spectator.

Anthems. I love 'The Star Spangled Banner.' It's the most rousing anthem I've ever heard. It's distinct and energetic and it's a great song, even though more than half of Americans cannot sing it over it's full range without going into falsetto or just mouthing the high parts. But at the end of the men's curling finals, when the game was pretty much in hand, the crowd of about 5,000 spontaneously burst into 'O, Canada,' and it was beautiful. I cannot imagine a U.S crowd bursting into 'The Star Spangled Banner.' And for a few minutes I felt envious that we didn't have an anthem that was so lovely and so easy to just start singing as 'O, Canada.' then I remembered we do. We have two actually. 'God bless America' and 'America (the Beautiful).' Either of those would be perfect for an impromptu serenade. Both are lovely and both are easily sung by all but the worst of us. I prefer 'America' personally, and some have suggested that we make that our national anthem but I don't agree. Our current anthem, despite its unsingability, and despite the fact that it's written in waltz time, is perfect. If you cannot sing it, then just mouth the words like most of the rest of us.

Friday, February 26, 2010

While the cat's away...

My wife is at a veterinary conference out of town and she has left me with the care of all the mammals who live in our house. This includes one human boy, a dog, and four cats. One would think, given that my job is to care for mammals who live with other people that it would be a snap. One would think that the same guy who obsesses over making sure all the water bowls are topped off, and that every single dog has the correct amount of food, and all the medicines are properly distributed, and that they're not out too long in the cold, February snow, would just bring those skills right into the house. It doesn't seem to work like that.

The human boy is easy, as he's 17 and can hunt and gather his own food (from the kitchen) and can get himself up and drive himself to school, and such. And the dog--I should mention the dog.. He's a 90 pound floppy eared Doberman named Titus. I don't mind sharing his name because number one he won't read this and number two, I've not used it for any of my passwords. Titus lives a life of routine. First thing in the morning we let him out of his crate (more on the whole crate thing another time), and he scrambles to the back door, spinning in no less than four complete circles, regardless of how many chairs he rams into. We let him out, he rushes to do his job, then slams into the back door mere seconds later so we can let him in for his breakfast, which is the reason he lives. In the evening, when he feels it's time to eat, when he just knows that any second he'll drop over from starvation, he pesters us mercilessly until we feed him dinner, which is the other reason he lives. So it's pretty hard to forget to feed him, and since I regularly share in his feeding, it's ingrained. I'm not so good with the water, however, and my wife usually keeps it full so when she's gone the only indication I have is Titus' metal ID tag clanking on the water bowl. So the boy and the dog are easy.

The cats are a different story. I never care for the cats. It's not that I don't love the cats, it's just that their food and water do not fall under my jurisdiction. And anyone who knows me knows that if it's not something that's a habit, it's probably not going to get done.

So she left me with one admonition: don't forget to feed and water the cats. One of the cats is old and I'm told that he cannot go without water. Cannot. So I was reminded of the various places she has placed the cats' water bowls, which are spread around the house like Serengeti watering holes, and instructed me to keep them full. Sounds easy. (Wait, I better go check them now).

Okay, all full. Anyway, it's easy to get caught up in other stuff and before I know it a water bowl is a little too low. But it turns out the cats owe a very big thank you to the dog, whose metal tags clanking on the bowl reminded me to water not just him but the cats. I have gathered the cats together and given them crayons and paper and told them to make Titus a nice card. So far they've made little progress.

So if my wife is checking the blog from Columbus, she can rest assured all of the animals are still alive and happy. Especially the boy, who has a snow day today.

And as for the kennel, those dogs have it good. Their water bowls are full, the heat is turned up a notch, they have finished their breakfast, and are resting happily on their blankets. I think I'll go out and toss them a cookie.

Thursday, February 25, 2010

Opening Day

This is a blog about dogs and cats, and maybe some other stuff. Though I have access to veterinary advice, this will not be a veterinary advice blog. It will be more about people who love dogs and cats hanging out and talking about things that are mostly about dogs and cats, but sometimes not. I hope that's clear.

One thing I know about blogs is that virtually no one will read this first post today, or tomorrow, or maybe for a while. I know when I discover blogs, they've already been going for a while, which has a lot to do with me never being asked to be in the group with the cool kids. I always have to mill about on the periphery and wait for one of them to say the name of a great blog a little too loudly, at which point I scribble it on my hand with a pen and run home to check it out. Sometimes I'm so late to the party that the blog has run its course, like FireJoeMorgan.com, which was a great, if a little mean spirited, blog about baseball journalism. I discovered it about a month before they folded up shop. Oh well, there's always the archives.

You will notice that I will make baseball references. I like baseball, and seeing as how spring training has started I've got the fever. But don't worry, this won't be a baseball blog. It will be a blog about pets, mainly dogs and cats, and how we love them and care for them and what kind of trouble they get into when we're not looking. It'll be about what they expect from us and what we expect from them. And it'll be about what it means to be human as our pets would define it. Like, did you ever have your cat stare at you while you tied your shoes? He's thinking, "How can he lick his toes with THOSE things on?"

Anyway, welcome to this tiny corner of the blogosphere.