Walking the Dog

"Poopsie!' I said.

'What?'

Considering the verve and umph I'd put into my opening remark, I found her response, weighed in the balance, to be lacking in luster. I mused on this mystery, and it could only be deemed a mystery when this Wonder Woman fails to rally round. After due consideration, I decided to give it a miss. It was her snit and she was entitled to it but I didn't let this detain me.

'Do you realize,' I said, 'and I'm sure even as I ask that you do know all about it in those Slavic bones, that towels have two different sides?' 

'It would be impossible to have a towel with only one side,' she said.

'Exactly!' I cried, 'And each side has its own purpose.'

'Each side has its own purpose?'

'Just so,' I said, 'you're doing great. Two out of three. Now if you can answer the next question correctly, you will win the prize.'

'The prize?'

'Your brain is a finely tuned instrument,' I said, 'We've never been so synchronized, you and I. Now, tell me what are the two sides used for?'

'Used for?'

'Yes, what are their specific purposes?'

'Are you alright?' she said. And at this precise point it became apparent to me that, although we had seemed to be in complete agreement throughout, we had somehow jumped the rails at the crucial point. It was the same with King Harold when Windy Bill breezed in at Hastings.

'Poopsie, have you been paying attention? I mean really close attention? Remember, when we are not mindful, we fall into the default mode where there is weeping and gnashing of teeth, and that never works out well.'

'You're driveling,' she said.

'And you're yanking the dog's chain!' I said and I meant it to sting because the memory of that guy and his dog was still green.

'What are you talking about?' she demanded. Yes, I think "demanded" is the very word, the mot juste. She demanded that I enlighten her and I did. I let her have it.

'I'm sure I told you about the man training his puppy to heel and each time the puppy pranced ahead of him, doing a little doggy dance, the man would jerk the chain and pull the front half of the puppy's body off the ground. He had an angry scowl on his face when he did it too--the man, I mean, not the dog.'

'What does this have to do with anything?' she asked.

'Everything,' I said, 'Don't you see? The dog lives only to please the master. This is the defining characteristic of dogs, I believe. Shakespeare noted it in one of his plays. And yet the man was not simply training the dog. The man lacked patience. The man was telling the dog that he was bad just because he had not yet learned to heel. And the intensity of the move indicated a very bad dog--a stupid dog. Not the right tone if you ask me.'

'And,' said the Wonder.

'Well, you know how Princess Amy is.'

'You're limbic system,' she said.

'That's right. She hotted up when she saw this abuse and descended on me like one of those goddesses in the Iliad that descend from clouds and spur their favorite on to action. Amy spurred me. She rode me like a Voodoo loa.'

'You didn't?' said she.

'Of course, I did. Am I a man to stand around and watch animals abused? The emotions surged upon me like the seventh wave. A voice inside me shouted kawabunga! . Of course I did something. Not much. I simply asked the guy how he would like it if someone treated him that way. It was only later that I realized that someone had treated him that way. That's the only explanation for mistreating animals.'

'I'm disappointed in you,' she said.

'Me!' I said. 'What about that man?'

'He was minding his own business.' she said.

'So was I,' I said.

'No, you were minding his business,' she said.

'Exactly,' I said, 'I am my brother's keeper.'

'You're not even your keeper,' she said.

'You don't see the irony in Princess Amy controlling me like a goddess and then me controlling a total stranger? I'm a very powerful person, although not as powerful as you, Ms. Wonder. Still.'

'You're a Looney Tune,' she said but in a kind and caring way, I'm sure. I thought this would be a good time to get back to the subject. Side issues can be very distracting, or don't you think so?

'One side is for drying, it's the more open and fluffy side,' I explained. 'You use that side first and then the smoother side is used for buffing and invigorating.'

'You're crazy,' she said. 'Towels don't have two sides.'

'Manic-depressive,' I said, 'and you've already admitted that it wouldn't be a towel without two sides.'

She gave me a look then she said, 'I love you anyway,'

'Thank you, Poopsie.'

'Not at all.'

The First Lesson for Authors

Having re-read the half dozen pages I’d written in the middle of the morning when the large family next door was still having the time of their lives, I lovingly saved the pages to the cloud, like a mother goose tucking her goslings into the nest. I had that feeling that often comes upon authors when they know the book they're working on is just the stuff to give the troops.

Happiness, a wise man or woman once said, comes from making others happy. It’s possibly one of Shakespeare's gags. He made a career of writing stuff like that. But no matter who came up with the little thing, it was someone with a finger on the nub, because I was happy and all because I knew that little story I'd just written would bring joy to many.

One of the first lessons we writers learn is that you can’t please everybody but this story was sure to please even the dourest reader. It’s the story I call Cabbage Head and it’s the details of an encounter between my old friend, let us call him Jody, and a guy in Ireland’s Bar out in the West End district of Nashville when we were in school there. 

I won’t go into details now. You will have to wait until the book is published for that, but the gist of it is that Jody thought he’d met the girl of his dreams only she’d arrived with someone else that night. After the exchange of a bit of name-calling, "Cabbage Head" being the one I remember most fondly, and a jostle or two--I still think management made too much out of a few broken dishes--and yet the bouncers competed for the privilege of throwing us out.

With only that sketch of the thing, I'm sure you understand why I was so happy with the morning's output. I rose, stretched, and I remember thinking to myself, 'life is good', and if I anticipated a perfect day, why not? 

The day’s work was done and the trademark-pink sunrise of Cocoa Beach was still flooding the village as I made my way to Ossorio’s for a cup of Jah’s Mercy. The lark was on the wing, as Browning said, and the snail on the thorn—doesn’t appeal to me but it takes all kinds—and then there was a bit more muck of that kind, followed by the punchline—all’s right with the world. And so it seemed.

As soon as I entered the café, I spotted Ms Wonder staring fixedly at a plateful of bagels—Ms W. was doing the staring, not me. For several days prior she’d behaved as though she had something on her mind. If I didn’t know her as well as I do, I might have suspected her of stealing someone’s pig, for that was just the kind of look she wore. I'm sure you know just what I mean.

“Poopsie,” I said.

My voice startled her. She jumped a couple of inches and gave me the look most of us reserve for the ghost of Hamlet’s father. It was Hamlet, wasn’t it? I doubt they read those stories in school anymore. Probably scares the children, in the same way, I seemed to have frightened the Wonder.

“Get hold of yourself,” I said. “It’s bad enough that I frighten old ladies and small children on the sidewalks. I don't have room for scaring the whatsit out of my wife. Do you realize that when I stopped in the park to qigong this morning, a small child started crying and the mother rushed into Thai Thai’s to tell the manager that a man was in the park having seizures?”

“Sorry,” she said, “I was lost in thought.”

“You were lost in the movie playing in your mind, is where,” I said. “Lost in the default network and that never turns out well. It leads to negative thinking and unhealthy behavior. It’s a scientific fact. You can read all about it on my blog.

“You’re probably right,” she said, “and I think I’ve caught a chill too.”

“That’s why you wobble is it?”

“I think so,” she said.

“You’re not practicing the steps of your new line dance?”

“No.”

“Try a stiff whiskey toddy,” I said, “I understand they'll put you right in no time.”

“I don’t drink,” she said, “remember?”

“So I do,” I said on reflection, “and if I remember correctly, neither do I.”

The next few moments were filled with silence. Finally, she said, “Oh, I almost forgot. I picked up your phone by mistake and someone texted you a few minutes ago about your book. It was someone named Kayser.”

“My agent,” I said.

“He was asking how the book’s coming.”

“Yes, but it's not a book. It's my blog and he’s interested in selling the rights to dramatize it to a theatrical consortium in New York.”

“Someone wants to turn your blog into a play?” she said.

“That’s right. You don’t think it a good idea?”

“It doesn’t seem to be the kind of thing that becomes a play,” she said.

“That’s what I keep telling Kayser,” I said. I considered saying more on the subject but realized that there was no profit in it. Besides, now that I was in the company of the wonder worker, I felt in mid-season form and ready for whatever life sent my way. My plan was to wait for the right quantum wave to rise up, then get up on my surfboard and ride it all the way to shore. 

"Kowabunga?" asked Ms. Wonder.

"Did I say that out loud?" I said, and then without waiting for a reply, I said it again.

"Kowabunga, Poopsie!"

"Kowabunga," she replied.

Some days are made for letting go of the anchor and sailing into the sun. This was one of those days.

So Close and Yet So Far

Sunshine, calling to all right-thinking persons to come out and play in its mood-lifting light, poured into the windows of our suite in Cocoa Village. I stood at the window, having completed my morning qigong, and stared without seeing into the duckweed bog that bordered the gardens. I like the sunshine as a general rule—in fact, my morning constitution includes a brisk 20-minute walk in it. But on this particular morning, it brought no cheer. I must have looked like something standing in the showroom of a Harley Street Taxidermist.

A moralist, watching me standing there, might have remarked, smugly, that it cuts both ways. The peer of the realm, he might consider me to be, enjoying a robust fitness far above that which his irresponsible younger years warrant, often suffers the outrageous slings and arrows of uncertain fortune. This world is, after all, full of uncertainty and bogs filled with duckweed—duckweed, and alligators! At any moment, life may come swooping down out of the blue and smack one behind the ear with a sock of wet sand. It pays to be ready.

I, of course, have none of the training of the normal person who after suffering years of waiting 45 minutes to be seated is prepared to take the big one in stride. No, I am one of the blessed ones who have slept well, learned quickly, and measured up to the demands of a rigorous life. In short, the universe has worked things out in my favor. Oh sure, sometimes the moment seems to be lost but it always works out all right in the end.

Is it any surprise then that in the agony of this sudden, treacherous shock I was left feeling and looking stunned, like the blowfly that has met the swatter? You may have seen a comic illustration of the ostrich that has swallowed something he shouldn’t. You may have or you may not but, seen or not, that’s the way I felt. And I’ll tell you why I felt like a large flightless bird with a brass doorknob in its throat. I absolutely insist on being happy, joyous and free that’s why. Well, maybe just a tad more explication is called for.

I’ve recently become acquainted with the work of Nobel laureate, Daniel Kahneman, founder of behavioral economics and widely regarded as the world’s most influential living psychologist. When you’re a psychological phenomenon like me, you pay attention to what the world’s most influential living psychologists are thinking. According to Kahneman, we are happy when we can look back over our lives and remember plenty of happy memories.

If happy experiences are to be stored in long-term memory, he argues, those experiences must be as meaningful as they are happy. Otherwise, all that short-term happiness doesn't amount to beans. To be happy, really happy, we must have happy experiences that are truly meaningful. Now you will understand I think, why a recent scheduling conflict that prohibits the happiest and most meaningful experience of all, had led to the melancholy that flooded my soul. Melancholy heaped up, pressed down, and overflowing.

As I stood brooding, if that’s the word I want, the door behind me opened and Ms. Wonder entered the suite with coffee. I glanced at her with an apprehensive eye because she is not known for great empathy with those who, as she would express it, whine. I feared she might wound me with some flippancy. My concern lessened when I took in her countenance and discerned no frivolity, only a gravity that became her well.

“Bad business,” she said handing me a cup of Jah’s Mercy from the Rastafari Café on the corner.

“Hell’s foundations quiver,” I said.

“What are you going to do about it?” she said.

“Do?” I said. “What can I do?” This is my standard answer to a question about what I plan to do but it seemed especially appropriate in this case.

“Well, there’s no need in spending extra money when we can get a discounted rate at an inn farther away from the arts district,” she said.

“Wonder,” I said, “just what are you talking about?”

“Spring training, of course,” she said.

“I’m sorry, but it sounded to me that you said spring training.”

“Spring training is what I said,” she informed me. “It’s March and the baseball games have filled the hotels up and down the coast, right? We can’t stay an extra night in this hotel so we have to find another one and I have a coupon for the Fairfield by the Interstate.”

I stared at her dumbfounded. In my darkest hour, she has focused her attention on where we will spend tomorrow night. We have within easy reach a prime opportunity to experience a day full of wonder and amusement leading to many long-term happy memories. It’s so close by, less than an hour's drive, and yet it’s so far away because we have not been able to fit it into our schedule. It could very well determine our future happiness. I’m sure Dr. Kahneman would agree. I would sleep in the car if it meant a chance to be happy. Wouldn’t you?

“Wonder,” I said. “I would gladly sleep in the car to ensure a joyful tomorrow.”

“We are not having that discussion again,” she said. “Can’t you simply accept that we need to focus on exploring Cocoa? We can go to Orlando on our next trip down.”

She turned, shaking her head, and left the room but I heard her say as she walked out of sight, “I’m calling the Fairfield to see if they have any rooms left.”

Once again I turned to stare into the bog. Memories of a happy childhood played out like movies in my mind. My dearest and most cherished memories lived once more and it created a bitter-sweet mood because of what might have been. I felt the impact of Tom Hank’s words, like a sock full of wet sand to the occipital bone when in the role of Walt Disney in the movie, Saving Mr. Banks, he said, “I love that mouse.”

Construction Zone

The dawn of another day crept upon the SoDu. Minute by minute the light grew stronger as it made its way along Coronado Lane until it filtered in the window of my bedroom. It would have awakened me from slumber had I been in bed but I wasn't of course. I'm always up and doing by the time dawn arrives. The early bird I'm sometimes called. Getting around the morning worm and all that.

The sun was dimly conscious of finding my bed empty on previous mornings. I say 'dimly' because it's been some little time since the day began with an appearance from the sun. Spring break for him probably. Doing a little surfing on Top Sail Island I shouldn't wonder. That’s where I’d be given the chance.

I'm told that few things have the tonic effect on a man accustomed to being a little slow to wake as the discovery that he has stolen a prize pig overnight. I would dispute that. I had not stolen such a prize but I was tonic-ed to the gills. I waded through an incoming tide of cats to get to the door of the sal de bains. I opened it and stepped into the tropical environment of Ms. Wonder's bath.

The river pebbles underfoot were slippery and I held to the palm fronds to keep from falling as I made my way to the sound of falling water. Eventually, I found myself on the edge of a deep, clear pool. Eddy the cat was licking a paw and when he saw me gave a yawn and turned his back.

"Don't be smug," I said, "It doesn't suit you." She was seated on a flat boulder in the middle of the bath, not too near the plunging water. I called to her above the roar of the falls.

"Wonder," I said, "Hell's foundations are shaking."

She turned the water off so we could hear each other.

"What?" she said.

"We've got to rally round Tiger," I said, "She needs us."

"Why? What's wrong?" she said.

"I’ll tell you what’s wrong," I said, "She’s headed for a rubber room at the laughing academy, that's what's wrong."

“I will not listen to that kind of talk,” she said. “You of all people should be more considerate. How would you like it if people spoke of you like that? Remember, people who live in glass houses.”

I mused on this for a moment but could not think of a single person silly enough to live in such a house.

This is probably a good time to pause and offer five cents of backstory for the newcomers. This Tiger mentioned above is my very best closer-than-a-sister friend. She has never abandoned me no matter how dark the skies nor threatening the v-shaped depressions. I’m sure you will fully understand my concern over her recent bizarre behavior.

“Just tell me why you’re concerned about Tiger,” she said.

“First,” I said, “let me warn you that what I’m about to say includes depictions of graphic violence.”

She waved a hand indicating that I had the floor and should continue.

“As you well know,” I said, “This Tiger is no stranger to wild, impulsive behavior. I mean she rides a motorcycle for one thing and she is married to the Cowboy, which tells you something right there.”
 

Her eyes met mine and we shared a meaningful look.

 

“But until recently, her behavior has been confined to the normal range of lunacy. In the last few days, however, and follow me very closely here because this is the seminal point, that has all changed.”

 

“Imagine if you will, Tiger lounging on the sofa watching marathon episodes of Murder She Wrote.”

 

“Yes,” agreed the Wonder, “or Big Bang.”

 

“As you say, Murder She Wrote or The Big Bang Theory. Doesn’t matter which. Then during the commercial break, she rises from the couch to wander aimlessly into the kitchen and then suddenly she whirls around and, with a kung-fu shout, rips the door off a wall cabinet and throws it out the window.”

 

I thought this statement might get a reaction out of her and I was not wrong. She stared at me for several seconds as though waking from a dream. Then slowly her eyes grew larger and rounder. Her lips parted as though she would speak but nothing came out.

 

“I haven't been there to witness this behavior but she speaks openly of it, as though it were just everyday behavior. Imagine how difficult it must be for the Cowboy to come home from work each day and deal with the aftermath.”

 

The Wonder remained silent.

 

“In a recent episode, she ripped a cupboard off the wall. I know! When I spoke to her about it, she mumbled something and I can't be absolutely sure of this but I believe she has plans to tear out the sink.”

 

“The sink?” she said.

 

“In the beginning, she must have known something wasn't quite right about her behavior because she didn't speak of it in public. Now she posts pictures on Facebook! I am very worried.”

 

“But how did all this begin?" she asked. "I mean there’s usually some gateway behavior isn’t there? Childhood tea parties leading to binge drinking at the corner tavern—that sort of thing?”

 

“Well," I said, "we can never be sure about causal relationships, can we? Still, I think this must surely have something to do with the Cowboy falling through the kitchen ceiling.”

 

“I’m sorry?” she said.

 

“Oh he’s unhurt,” I said. “Nothing to worry about. Just a few scratches.”

 

“I mean,” she said, and I thought she seemed to be hotting up, “what or why did he fall through the ceiling?”

 

“Well, you’ve got me there, not really sure but you know the Cowboy—he works in mysterious ways his wonders to perform. The point is, he crashed through the kitchen ceiling and something must have clicked inside her. I think she's out of control.”

 

“I know she would stoutly deny it if asked. Probably say that she can stop anytime she likes. You know how that story goes. But I'm not buying it. I'm convinced that she's in the grip of a disorder. If it feels good to knock off a cabinet door, then it will bring joy unconfined to smash the countertops with a sledge hammer. If pulling a cupboard down lightens the heart, then pushing the fridge off the back porch will bring ecstasy. Where does it all stop?”

 

“I think an intervention is called for,” she said and I thought the drama was a bit thick but her heart was in the right place.

 

“My thoughts too,” I said.

 

And so the Wonder and I put together a plan to call all our friends, confront Tiger before she leaves for work this morning, and get her into rehab at Habitat For Humanity Restore. Life comes hard and fast, as I’m sure I don’t need to tell you, but we can get through the hard times if we only stick together.

 

You’ve been here for us, Tiger, and we will be there for you. Count on it.

 

Rogue Star Unleashed

The sun appeared in the sky on Retired Gods Day in Durham like a poached egg, all bright and warm and wiggly. The mists rose from the lowlands in grey and gold streamers, moist and ragged around the edges like the fading fragments of dreams.

I like to sleep late but never do and this morning was no exception. I was up at 5:30 walking aimlessly around the lower levels of Chadsford Hall. It's a mindfulness technique, really. Walking around with attention focused on nothing--aimless. Still, I could sense the magic filling up the place.

It's nothing new to have magic in the air of the Hall, it's usually full of the stuff, but it's normally the old, comfortable sort of magic that's about as exciting as pilling a cat. The magic I felt rushing underneath the door jams was the new stuff, the newly minted variety fresh from the Source.

Not a good thing for me, new magic that is. I'm allergic. Ms. Wonder says that everyone is allergic to magic. She says that's the point. But it's different for me. The general background magic that supports all thaumaturgic activity is harmless but the new stuff clings to me like static. It builds to a critical mass and then bang! It's not pretty and it never turns out well.

The distraction from bright, cold drafts of the stuff wafting about the rooms of the Hall, glistening like Empyrian electrum and shimmering with octarine green and blue, was too much for my aimlessness. I needed advice and I needed it fast. I headed upstairs where I heard gushing torrents of water filling a bathtub. "Poopsie," I said, "I need your advice. Rally 'round."

"What's up?" she said.

"What's up?" I said, "That's the point, isn't it? You are aware that new magic is rolling off the press even as we speak and that's it's coming from Woodcroft?"

"I noticed," she said, "Are you puissant?"

This got right by me, of course. Puissant? Is that a word? What could she possibly mean by it? Must have something to do with magic. There was no time to muse on this mystery. I felt the need to get right down to it so I gave her the best response I could.

"Probably not so puissant as you," I said and I thought it pretty good. Don't you agree?

"That's sweet of you to say," she said, "and probably very true but what is it you wanted to ask."

"Well," I said, choosing my words carefully. "You are aware that Gladdis..."

"Witch of Woodcroft," she interrupted.

"Yes, all that," I said, "but put that out of your mind for the nonce. Let me finish my thought or I'll wander off the path. We cannot afford distractions. You will be leaving for work shortly and then where will I be? Lost among the lilies, that's where.

"Lost among the lilies? Is that a saying?"

"Isn't it?"

"One of yours then," she said.

"Ah," I said because I'd lost the thread. "What was it we were talking about?"

"Something about Gladdis," she said.

"That's right. You are well aware that Gladdis..."

"Witch of Woodcroft."

"As you say, Gladdis Lyremark Ironarrow or the Witch of Woodcroft, has published the first installment of Rogue Star."

"We looked at it on her website together," she said.

I raised a hand. "Poopsie," I said, "please." I gave her a look and it seemed to have quieted this tendency of her's to pop off.

"She has published a seminal chapter, is seminal the word?" 

"Seminal," she said, "or original, informative, carrying the seeds that will develop into the fruit of the work."

Although I felt that we were at a critical juncture, I could not hold back another long, meaningful look. I hoped it was meaningful and I hoped it would stick.

"Wonder," I said.

"Yes?"

"This new magic that even now has filled the lower levels and is creeping up the staircase is generated by the release of Chapter 1 on the Rogue Star website. And although we agree that it is a seminal chapter of the book, carrying the seeds that will develop into the fruit of the work, still, just what the hell are we going to do about it?"

"Do about it?"

"You know what I mean. How to stop the overflow of magic and all the strangeness that follows."

"Just relax," she said. "I realize that this is one of Princess Amy's hot buttons but everything is going to be fine."

"It is?"

"Of course, it is. Just take a deep breath and let life happen. Don't you remember Lucy once telling you that it's not your job to be in control of everything?"

"She did, yes, that's one wise kitten, well she's a cat now but she was only a kitten when she told me that. Animals have a certain wisdom."

"Humans too," she said.

"Well, some humans," I conceded. "I'll try to follow that advice. Thank you, Poopsie."

"Don't thank me, thank Lucy," she said while I took a few deep quaffs of oxygen.