Jackie

It's been a pretty busy week for me, so all I have for you today is a picture of my little Jackie. Angel looks like hell because his hair has grown out so much. I wanted to take pictures of him and Jacqueline during a walk, but it has been so warm lately that I keep the walks short so Angel doesn't suffer from the heat.

Anyway, here's a nice picture of my little baby sitting on her bed.

Have a nice long weekend.

My pretty litte girl.

Check in next week for a new chapter in The Adventures of Angel and Jacqueline. And don't forget to check out the Carnival of the Dogs at Mickey's Musings, and the Friday Ark at The Modulator for more interesting animals.

Lazy Boy Thalia

I haven't had much of a chance to take great shots of great cats doing great things, but I did happen upon Thalia this morning, and took this picture...

Thalia has been resting in this chair more and more. I don't think it will ever take the place of her beloved sheepskin throw, but it might be a close second.

More cats can be found at the Friday Ark at The Modulator, and the Carnival of the Cats this Sunday.

Pedie Twinkie Goes Home

Pedie Twinkie, the dog formally known as Pedie, is going home. Well, that's not exactly true. The truth is Twinkie is going to her new home.

The deal is that Twinkie used to belong to my mother-in-law, but my mother-in-law has since moved into a new place that doesn't accept pets. (Barbarians.) So, Twinkie has found a new home with a family member who lives in Arizona. That family member has been staying with us for the past few weeks, and has taken a shine to ol' Twinkie, and the feeling seems to be mutual. All parties agreed it was the best thing for Twinkie, and the new name was unanimously approved by secret vote.

Twinkie has been a part of our little crew for so long it seems like she is a permanent member of our pack, and I am sure there will be tears shed when she leaves for home this afternoon. Still, we are full up with pets, and Twinkie will have much more territory to roam in Arizona, so I think it will work out quite well.

Twinkie, you have been a great companion and playmate for Jackie. Sure, she gets a little short tempered with you, but I know she will miss you very much. Angel will also miss the only animal in the house who dares take his prized stuffed toy. And is able to keep it.

Twinkie is a pretty little girl. Those tear stains under her eyes have pretty much disappeared making her even prettier. Twinkie is NOT a vampire. But she does play one in the movies. This is one of Twinkie's stranger moves during play time. She tries to stand on my baby Jackie! Jacqueline doesn't stand for it, and will ultimately get Twinkie back in a position where they are on equal ground. When Jackie has had enough, she makes her point known.

Be well, dear Twinkie. Angel, Jackie, and I will be looking forward to your visits, and we will certainly go visit you. In the mean time, send us plenty of post cards!

Check in next week for a new chapter in The Adventures of Angel and Jacqueline. And don't forget to check out the Carnival of the Dogs at Mickey's Musings, and the Friday Ark at The Modulator for more interesting animals.

Why Fritz' Father Told Him Not To Accept A Ride In My Camaro

This entry is inspired by a comment left in response to this post by my old high school friend, Fritz. Hence the title.

My first gig was as a cook at a very popular restaurant. The restaurant is still standing today, and in fact has branched out, and is in nearly every town in the western United States. I worked for the restaurant for three years, and it was through this job that I earned enough money to buy my first car, the infamous Camaro.

The crew of the restaurant were all fairly young people like myself, who had yet to learn the value of a dollar, much less a hard day’s work. None of us, except for the manager, was over thirty years old, and most of us, me included, were just a mere seventeen. But we worked well together, and some lasting friendships were discovered in that time. Still, since the crew was so young it’s social matrix was susceptible to the social foibles that plaque people at that age, and that affected who worked when. But that mattered little, after all we are talking about the fast food industry, and we all have seen what caliber of people that lot employs.

The most coveted shift to work was “closing”; so named because it is the shift that works until the restaurant closes. That meant the people who worked that shift would have to shut down clean, and prepare all the equipment for the next day. Sure it meant more work, but once you understood the closing procedure it was really quite easy, and almost every night, after all the work was done, there was invariably a small party held in the dining room.

I often worked these shifts as I had lucked into the right clique for the first time, (and alas, the last time,) in my life.

It was during one of these social get-togethers that the weather turned inclement. A simmering rain turned to torrential downpour that even after an hour just wouldn’t let up. Though all of us in attendance that night enjoyed the after hour frivolities, most of us still had a curfew of 2:00am that we were compelled by our parents to abide by. Our proclivity for underage drinking notwithstanding.

We decided we all should leave, and drew straws to see who should go first. I drew the lucky straw, and so was the first to brave the hydraulic onslaught. I made a mad dash for my waiting Camaro debating to myself along the way if running to the car would result in my clothing soaking up more water than had I just taken a leisurely stroll. Once inside, it didn’t matter, and I turned the ignition and pointed my car towards home.

All was fine except for the claustrophobic feeling that enveloped me caused by the illusion of driving through a continuous, massive wave. It was a rare storm that brought with it so much precipitation, and my puny windshield wipers struggled to briefly brush aside buckets of water. It was like driving with a radar screen for a windshield. For one of the few times in my life behind the wheel I was actually worried I might come to an unpleasant end.

My luck seemingly changed, however, when the rain miraculously let up. I was just a few short blocks from the main drag that was part of my path back home. The street I was on had more water on the surface than I had ever seen before, but it was passable as the city sewer system in place at the time could easily handle the runoff.

Or so I thought.

I reached the main drag, and as I sat at the light waiting for it to turn green I beheld another first; the main drag was literally a river of rain water.

Like most streets that are three lanes, our main drag is a convex layer of asphalt so designed such that it allows rain water to run off into the gutter. From there the gutter takes over and channels the water to the city sewers. But in this case there was simply more water than the sewers could handle at one time. And of course the water was deepest at the gutter, (which it had over run,) and was at least four inches deep.

Not far from where I turned the corner to enter this temporary tributary was a car dealership. Like most dealerships, this one had a practice of showcasing some of their finer cars at the front of their lot. The lot ran right up to the sidewalk, and was easily within splashing distance should a car run down the street close to the water burdened gutter.

So that is just what I did.

At thirty miles an hour, much less than the posted fifty miles an hour the city thought safe, I plowed through the water with tires that were worn down far enough that you could almost see the air inside. I laughed maniacally as a huge wall of water leapt up from my wheels, and came down upon the hapless Chevys imprisoned on the lot. Ahead I saw the large driveway that led into the lot, and wishing to maximize the amount of water forced out from between my wheels when I hit it, I accelerated.

At this point in my life I had not had the benefit of a working knowledge of basic physics. I knew nothing of inertia, or the compressibility of water, or a condition we all know today as “hydroplaning”. However, I was soon to experience a crash course in all of these phenomena.

Quite literally.

It turns out that when a large object, say, a 1968 Chevy Camaro, is traveling at thirty-plus miles an hour, comes in contact with a large body of water, the leading edge of that large object immediately slows down. The rear of that object, however, does not, and must therefore find a way to keep moving. In this scenario, it does this by swinging around towards the front of the car, in so doing it will trade places with the front.

Do this continually, and it is referred to as “spinning”.

The object will continue to spin until the friction between the tires and the road expend the inertia of the moving object. In my case, these two entities weren’t in contact anyway because the water acted as a lubricant, and let them slid freely across one another.

But I was lucky!

There was one of those nice new cars on the lot just up the driveway I was now sliding uncontrollably through. When my car started to swing around, it was also drawn up the driveway. (Something about inertia and the force of a moving object changing directions blah blah blah…)

Suffice it to say the front driver’s side of my Camaro melded itself with the front driver’s side of a brand new El Camino. The El Camino was pushed into the curb, and back into the brand new Chevy Impala. No air bag deployed, no crumple zones crumpled, just heavy metal meeting heavy metal at 20 or so miles per hour.

I got out of my car and surveyed the damage.

Mother wasn’t going to be happy.

The cell-phone would not evolve to the point where it would become standard issue for every teenager for another twenty years or so, so I sprinted across the car lot, and across the adjoining supermarket parking lot to a payphone. I called my father, who called a tow truck, and then the proper authorities. (My father is as law abiding as Superman.)

By the time I got back to my car, the police had arrived and we all once again surveyed the damage.

The Camaro suffered a direct hit to the front, but it appeared the only damage was to the body. The El Camino suffered body damage on all four sides, and the Impala’s grill would never be the same.

My father arrived on scene, and we waited for the tow truck. Once the tow truck arrived it was obvious the driver was not a very amicable man. Most likely in response to being called out into the rain at 2:30am because a dumb kid ran his car into a car lot. But my father reminded him it was the profession he chose, and that he should try a more affable approach towards those who put food on his table.

The driver was not impressed, and remained in a permanent sulk.

So that is how I first lost the Camaro, but as in most tales involving me and my Camaro the ending is a happy one.

A few weeks later my father, brother, and I located a whole front end in a wrecking yard in Los Angeles. We drove down in my father’s truck, and picked up the front end for a song. I replaced it myself with little help from anyone, and learned all about how the Camaro was wired, how the body parts were connected, and how the suspension was put together. All invaluable information I would need for keeping this heap on the road another five years.

The insurance company cut the dealership a tidy check, and I went on to take an elementary physics class the next semester at the junior college.

Slow Down Driver Want to Stay Alive

My driving skills are legendary.

When the California Department of Motor Vehicles foolishly issued me my first driver’s license in late 1978, I went right out and bought a 1968 Chevy Camaro. While it was hardly built for speed, what with the stock 327, and a two speed powerglide transmission, that made little difference to me. I drove that car as if every time I got behind the wheel I was attempting to qualify for the Indy 500. I paid little heed to the posted speed limit. I practiced sliding at an angle through corners. I averaged a traffic ticket every three months.

I grew up in a family that adored muscle cars. During the era now known amongst the survivors as the “Camaro days”, my family had a 1968 Pontiac GTO, 1971 Lotus Esprit, and a 1971 Chrysler ‘Cuda populating the family driveway. Add to that the years of mechanical experience accumulated by my brother, father, and both grandfathers, you had a family of car enthusiasts that could have given the Unsers a run for their money.

Probably more through some sort of bizarre familial osmosis than actual education I not only learned how to repair my old Camaro, but how to keep it on the road at high speeds as well. It was all that knowledge that helped me turn that dog into a respectable hot-rod. I re-built the motor myself, and heaped on a new intake manifold and a Holly 850 double pumper. I did all I could afford to lose weight, and increase horsepower.

I LOVE to drive, and back then did so at every given opportunity from the moment the DMV handed me my license. I found the long, winding road that runs the length foothills in our small beach town a fun place to risk my young life, and when other less talented drivers lost theirs, I wondered how they could be so incompetent.

I ran that road at speeds twice the posted limit, and even higher after night-fall when I knew no other drivers would be out, and most cops would be taking bets of who could eat the most french-fries in a half hour at the local Denny’s. That road was like my lover; I knew every turn, every dip, every nuance and how to maximize each to my advantage. I ran it for time against my friends who sometimes had newer, more powerful cars, but I never lost. I pushed my car to the edge, and through some miracle and against all odds never lost the wager.

I graduated to a longer, more dangerous route that runs from Ventura, to Ojai, to Santa Paula, and returns to Ventura, and became as well acquainted with it as I had with good ol’ Foothill road. I would run it for fun all day long when gas was cheap, and the junkyards were well stocked.

It was my freedom.

It was my domain.

Back then I wore my seatbelt more to keep me in my seat than to keep me alive. I knew the road and my car would never betray me, and I never thought I would die, because I was young and had no real comprehension of death. Though I am sure now death sat next to me in the passenger’s seat, I knew not his breath because he held it so tight as we slid together around a mountain turn at fifty miles an hour, or accelerated down the quickly shrinking suicide lane between two passing semi trucks.

This was my thrill. While my friends rode the surf on fiberglass boards topped with wax, or slid down snow cover hill sides on smaller fiberglass boards bottomed with wax, I was strapped in three thousand pounds of steel and rubber hurtling down the road at speeds up to 120 miles per hour. It was like flying.

Those days are gone, but the memories remain. I never once thought I would die, but now when I drive those same roads, and when I increase my speed just a little to re-live those thrilling times flying down the road, I realize just how lucky I am. I realize just one wrong move, and the words you see here, wouldn’t be here at all.

Thalia Loves Survivor

Thalia loves watching Survivor. She was touched a couple of weeks ago when Survivor Cirie Fields was able to visit with her husband.

This was the only picture I was able to get. Thalia gets grumpy if you interrupt her while she watches Survivor.

By the way, Thalia wants to see Cirie get the million bucks.

More cats can be found at the Friday Ark at The Modulator, and the Carnival of the Cats this Sunday.

Angel Gets the Brush

Angel is a Maltese. At least that is what they told us when we bought him. A standard Maltese weighs in around seven pounds. My little man tips the scales at twenty pounds.

A standard Maltese also should have a long flowing coat. Papa's is a bit wavy, and can get rather unruly if not kept in check.

It was just last February that Angel had his last haircut, but as you will soon see, he is due for one again. When your hair is as long as Angel's, and you are as close to the ground as he is, you can get pretty dirty very quickly, so yesterday he got a bath. Angel hates baths. If he hears the water running in the tub from anywhere in the house, he runs for cover. But Angel is also a very good boy, and so when I call him he comes to me, ears drooping and tail low, but he comes.

After the bath he gets treats, and when he is dry enough, he gets brushed. Angel is a sucker for a good brushing...

One of Papa's favorite places to be brushed is his neck. Here he offers it up so that the brush can cover as much territory as possible. Doesn't he look like a seal on the beach in this picture? Notice Jackie on the left. She must be present for all phases of Angel's bath. If he is in the tub and the door is closed, Jackie scratches at the door until I open it. Then she sits quietly and watches as Angel has his bath. She loves her brother. Another favorite place to be brushed for Angel is his belly. After he has had enough of brushing his neck, he rolls onto his side and raises his paw so that I can brush his belly. This of course results in much back leg peddling. When we finish we pose for a picture with little sister Jacqueline. She looks happy now, but little does she know she is next.

Check in next week for a new chapter in The Adventures of Angel and Jacqueline. And don't forget to check out the Carnival of the Dogs at Mickey's Musings, and the Friday Ark at The Modulator for more interesting animals.

Spectator Thalia

That wrestling match between Jackie and Pedie took place this morning before I left for work. Before that, Thalia had found a place on her favorite sheepskin from which to watch the morning's activities.

Here she is watching the rest of the animals from her perch...

And here is what she was watching...

It was sort of the warm-up act before the main event.

More cats can be found at the Friday Ark at The Modulator, and the Carnival of the Cats this Sunday.

Are You Ready To Rumble!!!

This week I am going to be lazy and just post a bunch of pictures, but skip the narrative. There is a theme though. Midget Wrestling...

Check in next week for a new chapter in The Adventures of Angel and Jacqueline. And don't forget to check out the Carnival of the Dogs at Mickey's Musings, and the Friday Ark at The Modulator for more interesting animals.

The Terror of Wednesday's Afternoon Walk

I am sorry we missed you last week, I became quite ill last Friday afternoon. Evidently I contracted food poisoning. Let me tell you, it is everything that you have heard. And more. Even yesterday I was still feeling the effects.

In any case, as you know Angel, Jacqueline and I go for a walk as soon as I get home from work. Pedie, my mother-in-law's Chihuahua, is still with us, and so I take her as well. Yesterday we all went for the walk, and it turned out to be quite harrowing.

What happened actually pisses me off a lot. It involves dogs roaming around the neighborhood with nothing more to identify them than a worn collar. I am sad to say I see this ALL the time, and each time I do, I become quite angry because I cannot fathom the idea that an owner has that little regard for their pet.

That a person doesn't have a secure area to keep their dogs is bad enough, but that those dogs are able to get loose with NO means of identification is criminal, and irresponsible. Your dog COUNTS on you to keep him safe, and you do that partly by ensuring he has an area where he cannot get out, and no one can let him out. If by some chance a dog does get out he should have on him some sort of identification. This isn't just common sense, it is the law, but moreover without any id a dog is in extreme danger. There is not just the great likelihood of becoming hopelessly lost, but a good chance of that animal being injured or killed as well.

On our walk yesterday Angel, Jackie, Pedie and myself were all on our way home when two large dogs approached us. They had collars, but no tags. They seemed friendly, but were aggressive as they sniffed at Angel and Pedie. The two dogs circled us, and soon my three became nervous. Nervousness became out and out alarm as the two dogs became more aggressive in their "sniffing". Almost as soon as I remembered I had pepper spray in my back pocket I heard Jackie scream as if she were in pain. I whipped around and shot the smaller of the two dogs squarely in the face with the pepper spray. That was enough for her, and she ran off, but the larger dog just backed up a bit, and then circled us some more.

I was beginning to really worry now. I had always thought that all I would need do is spray that pepper spray at a dog, and that would be enough to deter them. I was wrong. The larger dog persisted, and kept menacing Angel and Pedie, so I sprayed him as well. He backed up again, and seemed to shake off the effects of the spray. Behind him the female dog returned, foaming at the mouth because of the pepper spray.

I some how got my little crew a little closer to home, but they were very worked up, and I was quickly becoming tangled in leashes. Worse, the two other dogs were up on us again almost as if they knew I was out of pepper spray. I pointed the can at them again, and pressed the button, but by now there was little left, and it would only shoot a few feet.

I started yelling for my stepsons who were home at the time, but they couldn't hear me. All the while these two dogs circled us and sniffed at all three of my little dogs. I used the spray again, and got a lucky shot right on the face of the larger dog. He backed off again, and that was enough of a break for me to scoop up Jacqueline, who was so scared she literally couldn't move. She had been whining and crying the whole time, and whenever I tried to get the three of them to move, she would just hold her ground, and I had to drag her by the leash.

With Jackie under my arm I told Angel to "come", and he, Pedie, and I made a mad dash for the door of my house. The two other dogs were on us in an instant, and followed us right up to my front door. I opened the door just enough for Angel to get in. Pedie followed, and then I went in still carrying Jackie. Even after I closed the door, those two dogs, two dogs that had both taken a good shot in the face with pepper spray, circled around my front door and yard for a good fifteen minutes before leaving.

I was angry. How can people be so irresponsible as to not have a safe place to keep their dogs, and no tags for them in case they do get out? I was angry, and upset because I had to inflict pain on two animals whose crime was really nothing more than their owner's negligence.

Tonight instead of the afternoon walk I am printing up flyers, and posting them around my neighborhood. The flyers will tell the story of how I had to pepper spray YOUR dogs because YOU were lame enough to not have a secure place to keep them.

I will try to get some pictures up tomorrow, and perhaps even a happier story for you to read. Whatever happens, however, ALWAYS keep your dogs in a safe and secure area. ALWAYS have some means of visual identification on your dog. And finally, ALWAYS carry pepper spray when walking your own dogs. It might not have worked all that well in my case, but imagine if I hadn't had anything at all!