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Timmy's WHERE?

By Dick Monaghan

I'm tired of stories and television programs about loyal, intelligent, caring dogs that rescue people and do everything around the house except file tax returns.

We've got a dog that's devious, treacherous, belligerent, and, on occasion, floridly insane - he chases police dogs. Part of his problem, of course, is that he's smaller than the cat. He's either a Yorkshire or a Silky terrier (I can't tell the difference), and he will attack anything, including my feet. It seems beyond him to realize the feet are attached to me, his master and intellectual superior. I've tried to remind him by helping him across the room with my foot, but he learns not.

On television, Lassie responds instantly when advised that "Timmy's in the well!" She leaps into action, summoning the fire department and rolling bandages, in case they're needed. If you told my dog that Timmy had fallen in the well, he would roll on his back, put one paw over his eyes and laugh himself into a case of hiccups. Andy (it's short for "Prince Andrew" or "Randy Andy") has the same capacity for compassion you'd find among the Mongol Horde.

He sleeps on our bed, which he believes belongs to him. He likes to snooze in knee-crooks, but if you move, he growls. Sometimes he hides under Miss Kate's chair, then rushes out and attacks anyone who comes near her. He also hides until he's forgotten about, then rushes out the front door when someone opens it, out into the forbidden neighborhood, where he terrorizes cats and stops traffic until someone brings him home. He is incapable of remorse, even after he's been yelled at for the hundredth time for arfing at our cat.

He does know enough to act cute on occasion, smiling (yes, he really can) and throwing around wet tongue-kisses. In his tiny mind, this makes everything OK, despite the pathetic fraudulence of his performance.

Someone on the internet cited a classified ad that read "Free Yorkshire terrier. Unpleasant little dog." That about sums it up.

If it weren't for the fact that he likes baseball on television and sits on my lap for hours watching a game (growling when I re-cross my legs), I'd consider him a total loss.

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GARBAGE CANNED

How I long for the simpler days of yore, when "garbagemen" picked up "garbage" and got the hell rid of it - cleanly, cheaply, and permanently.

Today, we have "environmental expediters" who "collect disposables" and "recycle" them. (All these name changes come at the cost of higher taxes and fees.)

I nearly put my Martini down in disgust the other night, watching Miss Kate sorting "newspaper," "glass and metal" and "paper" into the three bins provided by the recyclers, then lugging them out to the curb. You'd think the government would go easier on a woman who retired some years ago. But no: she has to squash the cans (after she's ripped the labels off) and make sure each castaway meets the stern specifications laid down by the giant corporation that hauls the stuff away.

It used to be you could throw away anything that would fit in the can, and some things that wouldn't, and it would magically disappear. "Recycling" is the current buzzword. It's hard to criticize the theory: instead of wasting the stuff, it is re-used and we save on increasingly rare natural resources.

I'd be happier with this if someone were reporting on how much material is actually re-used, and how much it has resulted in lower prices, or saved resources.

They won't take just anything, anymore. "Glass" means the kind of glass they want, not necessarily the kind you want to get rid of. We included the remains of a picture glass that I had broken with my head while trying to pull on a T-shirt, and they rejected them (the glass pieces, not my head and T-shirt, although they wouldn't take those, either.)

I'd throw everything in the regular garbage can and forget about it, but you're limited in the number of cans you can have for the same charge. Then there's the threat of the "politically-correct police" taking down your name.

Perhaps the source of my skepticism is World War II ("the big one,") when we were badgered into collecting scrap metal and kitchen grease. I've read since that none of this stuff (including the battleship "Oregon," which ended up as a training hulk) made the slightest difference in the war effort; the point of it all was to keep people busy. I read in The New Yorker a few issues back that the current recycling programs make no economic sense because there's plenty of room for landfills.

Just collect my garbage, folks; I'll see to keeping busy.

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A FAULTY RITUAL

By Dick Monaghan

With all these admissions of character flaws by public officials, I think I had better come clean about a deficiency of my own: I watched that American quasi-religious spectacle known as the Super Bowl - all by myself.

That is simply not done. You're supposed to get together with a small tribe of men, preferably the day before the game, drink and eat yourself into a stupor. You mutter things like "Awwwright!" during the pre-game show, during the part where they list the childhood diseases of a dozen players, then interview their primary-school teachers to see if their genius was apparent in their youth. ("We knew he was going far when he kicked a waste-basket through the window and knocked out four of the janitor's teeth in the sixth grade.")

Although I can get through the pre-game show without embarrassing myself, the game itself presents insurmountable difficulties: I have never mastered the jargon of the true football fan. Every time the teams line up for a play, somebody says, 'Look out for the blitz!' Why wouldn't you look out for the blitz? If the blitz is a bad thing, shouldn't you always be looking for it?

I cannot fathom another statement, used by both fans and announcers: "These guys came to play!" Why else would they be there? Certainly, at the salary level of the average NFL player, I would expect them to arrive ready to play. What else would they do? Start a quilting bee?

John Madden is the dean of football commentators. He's the former coach of the Oakland Raiders and the winner of a Super Bowl. He's a man who can explain things clearly. Still, he can leave me confused. Every now and then he says of a player," He's a real man." If that's the point of the game, couldn't they just measure everyone's testosterone levels and save all that wear and tear? What about the other guys on the field? Should they be wearing tutus? Whatever reservations I may have about the game, I have never doubted the masculinity of the players. (I have no comment on the assertion sometimes made in the gutter press that some of them have boyfriends. The Roman army had generals with boyfriends, not to mention Julius Caesar's love life.)

Even if alone during the game, I try to maintain the traditions as best I can. I bellow "Wooeee!!" whenever there's an exciting play, and I applaud the fireworks during the halftime musical debauchery. I clamor loudly for Miss Kate to supply me with more beer and trash food. (I know it's difficult for her with a broken leg, but you have to maintain the observance in its pristine state, or civilization is headed for the old dumper. Super Bowl women fetch and carry. I'll pay for it later.)

Maybe next year I'll invite some of the guys over and buy a football we can toss around. We can wear our imitation jerseys and pretend helmets. I worry, though, that some guy will get carried away and tackle me as I return with a new bowl of popcorn. And I don't have access to a trainer and a Jacuzzi after the game.

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CROSS MY WORD, WILL YOU!?

By Dick Monaghan

There's something missing from all that advice available to young people who think they want to marry.

They're told to openly discuss and resolve problems about money, religion, ethnicity, etc., before they tie the knot, but no one says anything about crossword puzzles. Miss Kate and I are crossword fans, but some things should have been put right out in the open 46 years ago, when there was still time. I do the New York Times puzzle on the internet, and she does the NYT puzzle when it appears in The Oregonian, about six weeks later. This gives me a decided advantage (which she doesn't know about), since I've already seen her puzzle. While that makes me appear positively brilliant, it by no means solves my problem. (I don't pretend to remember the individual puzzles, but I do sometimes remember the scheme that was used by the puzzle maker.)

Miss Kate takes crosswords personally. That is, if she can't figure them out, she mutters very bad words designed to put a curse on the puzzle's father. Worse, she usually uses a ball-point, with which she inserts a lot of dirty words, then hands the puzzle to me and says, "You finish it!"

That puts me in an insoluble bind. If don't finish it, she's mad, and if I do, she's even madder. Through a process I'll never understand, she somehow links me to the puzzle-maker, as though I'd put him/her up to cheating.

Here's a sample of what goes on:

K: I got the answer, which is "Starts something", and I understand that clue. "S" is the first letter.

D: Right. So what's the problem?

K: The clue for this one here is "H" and the answer is "Beethoven's Fifth".

D: "H" is the fifth letter of "Beethoven".

K: Pooh! That's cheating! How about this one, "V", where the answer is "center of gravity".

D: "V" is in the middle of the word "gravity."

K: How about "Subsidized housing in Riyadh?"

D: "Low rents of Arabia."

(Sound of paper being slammed on table.)

K: Heat up your own dinner, smart ass.

I suggest strongly that marriage counselors recommend that crossword fans not marry each other. (All clues and answers courtesy of The New York Times.)

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ONWARD!

By Dick Monaghan

Some seek Eternal Youth, some the Holy Grail, while others just try for shoes that fit. Miss Kate is looking for The Perfect Toaster.

Our old one had the temerity to cremate the top of the bread while leaving the bottom un-bronzed. Miss Kate, relying on childhood memories that may not be entirely accurate, believes that somewhere there is a toaster that will uniformly heat her toast to a uniform golden brown. I think she has about as much chance of finding it as those other people do of reaching th eir dreams.

I did my best to help, forgettin g that anything I buy for the kitchen comes with an indelible curse. I w as off on an adventure of my own in Portland, so I sought out the appliance inventory of Meier & Frank, where gleaming ranks of toasters in chrome, white, and assorted colors promised a new era in breakfast dining. Choosing one wasn't easy. You have your choice of the usual push-the-lever types, wide and narrow slot (or a combination) and toasters with the kind of control panel Captain Kirk used to beam himself from the Enterprise to the surface of the planet. I chose one from the middle of the pack, one with a mouth wide enough for bagels and long enough for two slices of ordinary bread.

Once home, however, I could tell by Miss Kate's gelid stare and sharp intake of breath that I had ventured into forbidden territory, and that the toaster was not going to last long. Miss Kate, carrying it as though it were a ticking bomb, took it to the kitchen counter and subjected it to a four-slice test, which, I regret to say, it flunked. "I'm taking it back", she announced, grimly.

I never accompany her when she is returning something. We differ vastly in this department. She likes nothing better than argle-bargling with trades- people, and I hate it. That's because she's descended from Middle European peasants who have bartered for centuries, and I from royalty (I'm sure) who are above this sort of thing. Anyway, she took it back, got a credit, then went to Target (we pronounce it "Tar-gay", in the vain hope of impressing strangers with the idea we shop at an upscale French store) and bought a $20 model. She explained that she didn't like Meier & Frank's toasters, because "they all had a funny bar you had to push".

Back home, the new toaster gleams triumphantly on the counter, where it does exactly the same thing the previous two did; it chars, browns and ignores parts of the bread. Miss Kate has said nothing, and I'm sure that whatever I might say would be exactly wrong. This is a woman who just this evening announced sadly that the dinner wasn't "Stroganoff-y enough".

If you'll translate that, I'll ask her what she thinks of her new toaster.

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Of Course I'll Love You For Eternity, Providing Eternity Doesn't Last Forever

By Dick Monaghan

Ah, young man! You've come to me for advice on whether to marry, believing that my 45 years in double-harness ought to provide some insight. Actually, I don't know whether you should marry or not, but I can suggest some exercises that may assist you in making your decision.

Let's set the stage: You've met a woman the very thought of whom causes an invisible choir to sing a mighty chord; at the mention of her name, your vitals are struck by miniature bolts of lightning; she looks at you with huge, moist eyes, her mouth in a little smile---something like Joan of Arc going to the stake. You see yourselves as the two halves of the Yang-and-Yin symbol, different but united. There are no major reefs on which your ship of matrimony might founder---at least, none above the surface.

It's OK to feel like that; if people didn't feel that way, there wouldn't be any marriages at all. However, it might not be a bad thing to put the theory to the test, or tests.

Here's a simple exercise that may re-direct your thinking a little. Find a dirty window and put yourself on one side and your intended on the other. Clean your side. I have a theory that no woman is capable of admitting that a man can clean his side of a dirty window without her guidance and advice. There is bound to be that "eensy, teensy, itty-bitty smudge" (before you're married), or "that great big smear" (after you're married) that you, in your helpless role as a male, failed to seek and destroy.

A more advanced technique for discovering what might lie ahead is to spend a week on a smallish cabin cruiser with another couple. (Some have objected that this is an invitation to unmarried hanky-panky, but it's more likely an invitation to homicide.) After a few days of banging your noggins on the overhead, trying to master the intricacies of marine toilets, eating while the boat rolls in a freighter's wake, sharing the cooking and dish-washing (using tiny appliances), and sharing the costs of moorage and fuel, you'll have a better understanding of each other (if both have survived).

A cheaper alternative is to go camping with a tent, outdoor stove, air mattresses and sleeping bags. This is a good way to establish a rational division of labor. For instance, if I awoke hungry, I would let the air out of Miss Kate's mattress so that the hard ground would awaken her and she could get at her chores. She complained that she "was doing all the work," but by the time she had left to find wood for the evening's bonfire, I had explained that nature had intended that she "gather" while I "hunted." I could hardly be responsible for the fact there was nothing to hunt and no need to hunt it, since we had loads of canned goods. I really believe this approach was pivotal in our reaching our present relationship, in which we sit across the room from each other, staring silently with narrowed eyes, listening to our arteries hardening.

Playing recreational games with someone you might marry is to be discouraged. For one thing, women are apparently governed by internal, unseen forces that require them to let a prospective husband win---until they're married. I know of one wretched case in which the female and her swain played a lot of bridge. The woman would drop her cards, fail to follow suit, trump her partner's ace, and pretend to have fainting spells if asked to keep score. As soon as the marriage took place, it turned out she was a Life Master, or whatever bridge players aspire to, and all her husband saw of the game after that was the flight of tricks off the table as his helpmeet swept through the opposition. There are similar horrors involving chess, golf, tennis, swimming and skiing. But even if your skills are equal, it is unwise to compete with someone from whom you expect cooperation. Wives do not take naturally to Good Sportsmanship where their husbands are involved. Beat her at something, and she'll wake you up in the middle of the night with an accusation of some sort: "You were just lucky, weren't you, or did you cheat?" This is not the kind of remark that bodes well for your romantic expectations.

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***PartII*** Of Course I'll Love You For Eternity, Understanding What She Is Saying!

By Dick Monaghan

What you hear is NOT what you get. No, I'm not accusing women of lying; it's just that they have additional agendas of which they themselves may be unaware. I've set down a few of the things they might say, and then, in parentheses, the hidden baggage that goes with it.

"Your hair is SO cute" (It could be re-shaped a little, and maybe combed differently, but that can wait..)

"You always know just what to order!" (It's loaded with heavy fats and cholesterol, and there don't seem to be many vegetables...but there'll be plenty of time to discuss that.)

"Where did you get that suit?" (I can forgive you for being color-blind..we can talk about that later.)

"You certainly have some unique friends!" (You must have grown up in Loserville..but we'll see to them another time.)

"My mother has never met anyone who makes his living the way you do." (My mother thinks I've gone out of my mind considering you, when I "could marry anyone I wanted.")

"You do whatever you want to do." (You do whatever I want you to do, or I'll slump down in my seat and sulk with my arms folded.)

It has been brought to my attention that in order to be fair, I should set down what men say and what they mean. OK, but because of inherent difference between men and women, I'll put down what men say, and then, at the end, one parenthetical expression, because men have only a one-item hidden agenda.

"Man! You are beautiful tonight!"

"I think Mahler is an underrated composer."

"Quadratic equations are my idea of fun!"

"I think what you've done with your life is just amazing!" "Boy! Can you ever sing karaoke!"

Those and all other male remarks require just one parentheses: (When does the honeymoon start?)

There is one test left, but it is of such a demanding nature I hesitate to recommend it, especially since I never had the nerve to try it before marriage. (I performed variations of this several times AFTER we were married, but that doesn't count.) This attempt to measure the depth of her commitment should only be attempted by those of iron nerve and steel sinew---the kind who could bet $10,000 on one golf shot and lose without increasing their heart-rate. It goes like this:

Arrange the fanciest party you can manage. Dress up. See that your date is draped in her finest.
Drink too much.'way too much:

1. Go up to the hostess in full view of anyone, stare at her cleavage and say "Boy, I didn't know they could do THAT with silicone!"

2. If her husband objects, say "I was sorry to hear about the indictment."

3. Throw up on the dog.

4. Ask whether anybody remembers the Marx Brothers movie "A Day at the Races," where Harpo dangles his feet in Edgar Kennedy's lemonade, then take off your shoes and socks, lie on the refreshment stand (preferably on the refreshments) and slosh your feet around in the punch-bowl.

When it becomes apparent no one thinks you're funny, pull yourself to your full height, throw your keys to your girl and say "Let's go home and do what you said!"

If she's still with you when you get home, she's a keeper. If she leaves you, you're better off---she obviously has no sense of humor.

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