The Hollywood Minute...

Most of us had a pet, or pets when we grew up. Cats. Dogs. Birds. Gerbils. Fish. We had a parakeet; a (grouchy) cocker spaniel mutt; a german shepherd; and a good little dachsund dog (The Beloved Doggy).

I barely remember the bird -- he was around when I was really young - Chris Jingles was his name. Yes, birds get quirky names that any proud dog would hang their head on, if they were so-named. Anyway, I really don't remember much about the bird, except that every time I let it sit on my finger, I was half thinking (and expecting) that it would either bite my finger... or worse (if you get my drift).

About the only specific memory I have of our pet bird, was when we buried it. If I remember correctly, we buried him in an empty, semi-clear, yellow-orange colored, plastic .22 bullet container, which was put inside a cardboard box, or something. I don't know why it worked out this way... but now that I think of it, I was there for all of the burials (or putting to sleep) of all of the pets we had as a family --the bird & the 3 dogs (including The Beloved Doggy, last year).

The first dog we had, I remember as always being slightly afraid of. He reminded me of a really cranky Richard Nixon... yes, I read way too much history & current events as a kid. I think he died on halloween night, and was discovered the next morning, in the backyard, laying on the frost covered grass where he finally fell asleep. Stiff as a board, he was. I remember that me and Dad took him someplace - but I don't have a specific memory if we buried him, or took him to the Vet for burial, or what we did. I was probably a little sad that he was gone, but not sad enough to shed any tears. Come to think of it, I never cried when Richard Nixon passed on, either.

The 2nd dog we had was a big, friendly german shephard. A pretty dog, as far as dogs go. Not at all mean and sour like I remember the first dog as being. This 2nd one was very friendly, always wagging her tail. The poor dog, was going blind, and getting old, and starting to suffer just from moving around. When it was decided that the humane thing to do was to take her to the Vet, and put her to sleep (the dog, not the Vet - hehe), it fell to me and Dad to do the deed. I still remember how she must've sensed that something bad was gonna happen. She dug in her paws like she was putting on her brakes, as me and Dad tried to get her to go into the back of the pickup truck. I rode with her in the open-aired back, all the way to the Vet's. When me and Dad dropped her off there, and it was agreed that her condition was not a good one for her to keep suffering thru, I remember Dad telling the Vet: "We don't have to stay around for it, do we?"

Dad was an old softy... I remember seeing him getting all teared-up, doing his best to blink them back, so I wouldn't see.

It was a quiet ride home.

And about a yr and a half ago, me and Mom had to put to sleep The Beloved Doggy. The poor little doggy was old, losing his motor skills (couldn't walk -- would suddenly lose his back legs, and flop around on his back & sides). He was a sick little dog at the end. I took some video of him during that last week of his life, and on the morning we took him to the Vet to be put to sleep. Poor little dog. He was such a good puppy (he was 14 yrs old, but I still called him 'puppy').

The Vet asked if either of us wanted to be present when The Beloved Doggy was put to sleep. I asked him how it would happen. Basically, he would be given a lethal injection, and everything would shut down. It would be painless, and not a suffering kind of death -- and it'd be less than a minute. Stupid me, I had this Hollywood image in my head of those movie inmates on Death Row. I figured it'd be like it was in those prison movies: he'd get the injection, and linger around for about a minute, and slowly close his eyes and go to 'sleep'. I knew that if I stayed during it all, it was a two edged sword: On one hand, I could be there to comfort and hold The Beloved Doggy in that last Hollywood minute, after he had the injection. But also, I would always have that memory of watching The Beloved Doggy die.

I chose to stay for it. I knew The Beloved Doggy would be afraid (he always shaked like a little leaf at the Vet's, anyway). And, I figured I could at least hold him and pet him while the injection slowly took him away, during that final, Hollywood minute of his life.

As it turned out, it happened so very fast -- less than 5 seconds -- that I didn't get to comfort or hold The Beloved Doggy at all. I was standing in front of him, so he could see me. I still remember him looking up at me with those brown eyes. The Vet was on one side of him, about to give the injection. The assistant was holding The Beloved Doggy in her arms, craddling him to keep him still. I figured I'd get to hold The Beloved Doggy once the injection was given. You know, for that final, dramatic Hollywood minute type of ending.

Previous to my re-entering the room, the Vet had stuck a tube into one of The Beloved Doggy's front paws, where the injection would be given. I remember standing in front of The Beloved Doggy, seeing him trying to wiggle out of the Assistant's arms, and looking directly at me, like: 'Help me'. I was telling him to hold still, in my most comforting voice. I took my eyes off of him while I watched the Vet insert the syringe into the tube on the front paw. I remember noticing just a little bit of blood from where the tube was stuck into the paw, and I remember thinking: "Awww, poor little doggie. I bet that hurt him & scared him". I watched the Vet do the injection. And suddenly, no more than 5 seconds after the injection (probably only about 3 seconds), I remember taking my eyes off of the paw and the syringe, and watching the Assistant lay The Beloved Doggy down.

He was already gone.

I felt awful that I hadn't had a chance to hold him. I figured I'd hold him after the injection, for that last Hollywood minute, which never came. I was glad that it was quick, and he didn't suffer. But I wasn't any help or comfort at all to the poor little Beloved Doggy -- not like I had wanted, or planned to be.

I still feel bad about that.

The last memory I have of The Beloved Doggy while he was alive was when he looked at me, wiggling in the Assistant's arms, expecting me to help him get outta there. He was afraid, and even tho I was in front of him (which, I guess, was some form of comfort to him), I wasn't even petting him or touching him when he passed away. Some help I was...

When the Assistant layed him down onto the table, at the time, I figured that he was just becoming knocked out -- this was going to be the Hollywood minute that I had planned on. I started petting The Beloved Doggy, and saying: "Gooood puppy... Goooood puppy...", thinking he was still alive. The vet put a stethoscope on him, & checked several places for signs of life. "He's already gone", he said. It was that quick. He was gone when the Assistant layed him down.

I wasn't any help to The Beloved Doggy at all, except for standing in front of him, and letting him see me do nothing to help him. But, as terrible as I felt (feel) about that, I am glad that we took him home, and gave him a good burial. We buried him, and layed him down in his little doggy bed, and covered him with his stupid little towel/blanket.

I still talk to The Beloved Doggy, every day. I still say the phrases in the 'dog voice' that I always said to him. At this point in the game, it's a safe bet that that little stinky dog was as close as I'll ever get to having a kid. Stupid dog -- he thought I was his Dad. Whenever he'd do something bad, I'd protect him or hold him, & I'd tell him: "You're lucky I'm your Patron, you stupid dog".

The other day, I was watching the DVD I had made of The Beloved Doggy: It had a few photos of him, at various ages in his life (some of which are shown here in this blog). And, luckily, also some video clippings of him when he was still a frisky little dog, sniffing all over the yard for the elusive Squirrels (which he never could catch). It was good to see him healthy, happy, and spoiled. It was good to see him looking up at me, holding the camcorder, and wagging that stupid tail. It was good to see those puppy dog eyes, expectant of a treat & no care in the world... & not scared to death...

Everytime I see the parts of the DVD that were filmed on the last morning of his life, and I see him losing his little legs, and flopping all over, and those open sores on his sides that he got from uncontrollably scratching himself over and over til he was raw -- I know that it was a good thing to put him to sleep as painlessly and quickly as it was...

... But, even so, I wish I had been given that Hollywood minute...

He Was A Man, Taken For All In All...

"He was a man, taken for all in all. I shall not look upon his like again".

This passage from Shakespeare's 'Hamlet' (Act I, Scene II) crossed my mind this past week. It reminded me of my Dad.

It's been several yrs since his passing, and I still have dreams about the man. I still miss seeing him. I still get sad when I dwell upon his passing. I guess that's a good thing, in a bittersweet kinda way?

Sometimes, I compare my life to his. By my age, he had endured a relatively poor childhood. He had already worked during The Great Depression to support his family when he was a teenager, while struggling thru school. He volunteered for military service before the War came, and fought in some of the most important battles, both in the Pacific and in Europe.

And to all the anti-Nukes crowd out there, you will NEVER convince me otherwise from the fact that the Atomic bombing of Japan to end WWII saved more lives -- Japanese and American -- than it took. Probably including my Dad's. Therefore, mine as well.

By my age, he had long since married, was raising a large & still growing family; supported it with lots of long shifts in the freezing cold of snow & wind, and not much sleep. But never any grumblings or complaints. When Dad was my age, I had still yet to be born.

As I remembered that line from Shakespeare, I remembered my Dad, & measured my life thus lived at my current age vs. his... and I came up with a life by comparison as being barely lived, and muchly wasted. And I wonder, would he tell me to stop moping around, and do something about the things I need to change & correct? I'm sure he would.

"'Tis sweet and commendable in your nature, Hamlet,
To give these mourning duties to your father.
But you must know, your father lost a father;
That father lost, lost his; and the survivor bound
In filial obligation for some term
To do obsequious sorrow. But to persever
In obstinate condolement is a course
Of impious stubbornness; 'tis unmanly grief;
It shows a will most incorrect to heaven;
A heart unfortified; a mind impatient,
An understanding simple and unschool'd...'"

Despite all of my supposed smarts, I really haven't learned much -- truly, mine is "A heart unfortified; a mind impatient, an understanding simple and unschool'd". It is pretty much a given that I shall leave behind no offspring to remember me -- altho, as I mentioned earlier, when Dad was as old as I am now, I hadn't yet been born. So, I guess there's still that outside chance. (I'm not, however, betting on it). But when I am looked back upon by anyone, will they shake their heads at the life that could've been? Or will they say of me:

"He was a man, taken for all in all. I shall not look upon his like again."

Don't Drink Outta The Milk Carton, Cowlick Divets, & Apollo 11...

If things worked out the way they're supposed to, we should all look back on our childhood with fondness. Whether we were athletic, or not. Or responsible, or not. Or brainy, or not. Whether we liked store bought Ginger Snap cookies, or cookies made from scratch. Somehow, those fond, childhood memories have a way of coming back to us, triggered by certain sounds, or smells, or images that have implanted themselves forever in our brains. And, when they re-surface years later in our adultness, I think it's kinda Creation's way of reminding us that somewhere within our Suit & Tie Shell, that skinny kid in the overly-baggy swim trunks is still inside there, running thru the neighbor's sprinklers. Childhood memories are the Cosmic equivalent of God tapping us on our burdened, adult shoulders, & saying: "Hey, don't sweat the small stuff... I've taken you this far. Don't worry -- I've gotcha covered". Childhood memories are meant to help us relax, laugh at ourselves, and keep moving on.

Some things about being a kid, I think, are Universal. For example, there is the T=N1N2N3 Equation. (The amount of Trouble we were in is equal to how many of our Names were called out when we finally got busted). If we drank the outta the milk carton, or trampled on the freshly planted flowers, or was caught swearing, we could always tell the severity of our offense by how much of our name was yelled out. If it was just our first name... eh, not so bad. We'll be out riding our bike in ten minutes. First and middle names... might need to do some sweet talking to smooth things over. All 3 of our names... better plead some sort of hereditary ailment, taylored to whichever parent is calling for us. If that fails, go to trusty ole Plan B: blame one of your siblings. :-)

It's amazing how even some of childhood's most painful incidents will later make us smile. I must have half a dozen scars and divets on my mid-life body from multiple bike crashes; or from bailing out of swings at their highest point (pretending to be a Fighter Pilot, shot down over Nazi Germany); or from flipping over park benches while running full speed, trying to catch a frisbee. All were plenty painful at the time (some of my bicycle wrecks would've put Evil Knievel to shame). But, when I look at those scars now, I can't help but smile. Those painfully acquired scrapes on my knees have become: "Wow! That bike wipe-out across ten feet of asphalt and little, sharp rocks was soooo kewl! God, I loved that green bike w/the loopy handle-bars!" There's a mysterious divet on the top of my head, where the cowlick should be, that I have no earthly idea where it came from -- tho I haven't ruled out Extra Terrestrial Abduction. And the notch on my right calve, where the teeth from my bike pedal ate out a chunk of flesh.... yeh, a badge of pride.

Even now, several decades later, the aroma of fresh baking bread conjures up memories of me racing up the street on that fast-as-the-wind green bike, to be there when my Mom or Dad would take the fresh loaves out of the oven, and sneak us kids a piece, still nice n hot.

When I smell lilacs after a rain, I am transported back to being The Invincible Bee Catcher & Tormentor. No empty Miracle Whip jar was big enough to hold my day's catch. One of my favorite childhood skills wasn't when I learned how to drive a car; but, rather, when the neighbor kid across the street taught me how to sneak up on bees, and smash them with the palm of my bare hand, while they were busy sucking on clover. (No bee stings -- I truly was Invincible!).

And when I catch a rare rerun today of the cartoon, 'Gigantor', The Space Aged Robot, I can't help but imagine again that I'm flying, and start to sing to myself the Gigantor theme song. You couldn't be a little kid growing up in the late 60's without knowing or loving Gigantor. One of my brothers even immortalized the Space Aged Robot on the inside wall of the garage, using a blue crayon. Gigantor is still flying today, on that same garage wall, almost 40 yrs later.

It's amazing, really. Childhood memories are salve for the ailments of adulthood. Mental Band Aids for our everyday stress. Momentary little time capsules that propel us magically away from the frantic Now of our lives.

Today, I begin to panic when I even think about being in a very confined space, unable to move my arms. Even if I dream about a situation like that, I wake up in a sweat & panic, my heart racing 90 miles per hour. But when I was a kid, I used to slide the lowest, 3rd bunkbed underneath the 2nd bunk. I'd somehow squeeze myself into that impossibly cramped space, with my little transistor radio in-hand, and tiny earplugs. On a clear nite, it could just barely catch the staticky signal from 'Might As Well Be The Moon', far-off Oklahoma City, and radio station KOMA, & I'd pretend I was one of those Apollo Astronauts inside the Command Module. I'd probably give a good chunk of my savings account to find one of those tear-out/fold-out, paper replicas of the Apollo 11 Lunar Lander, that my Dad bought for me at the Union 76 gas station, on the day that Neil Armstrong first stepped foot on the moon.

Yes, if things worked out the way they're supposed to, we should all look back on our childhood with fondness. And as I now look back at my rather mundane life, several thousand lunar orbits later, I'm starting to see that instead of being uneventful, my life really has been an adventure rivalling those first, tenative trips to the moon.

Maybe I really have achieved something notable? Maybe even the most awesomely plain life is an accomplishment & a wonder all to itself, with real value? Maybe I finally get it??

"Houston, Tranquility Base here. The Eagle has landed".