For Frying Out Loud (20 page)

August 2009

EIGHT IS ENOUGH

I think I have overdosed on cuddly cute Schnauzers. All breeds, for that matter. It's been the year of the dog and it's only been a week.

Oddly, this has to do with golf. Many of my friends trotted off last week to an LPGA tournament in Chicago called the Solheim. From my theatrical point of reference I kept calling it the Sondheim which I think annoyed people.

But as Team Rehoboth left to watch the match, what to do with their four-legged sons and daughters? They all came to my house, Camp Schnauzerhaven.

We had our own two, Moxie and Paddy, plus Paddy's littermates Cody and Kelli, and another distant sibling, Ashley. Then it got weird. Niki the Yorkie checked in along with Gentle Ben the Airedale.

I know, seven. But with Bonnie as the resident Alpha dog, I'm just another pack member and that makes eight which is truly enough. Actually, on two different occasions last week we had day spa clients for grooming, so the thundering herd swelled yet again.

Each of the boarders checked in with their own food, treats, bedding, leashes, clean-up bags and toys.

Luckily, like me, most of the guests were of a certain age. Also like me, they were more interested in food than exercise. There are some amazing parallels here.

After check-in we had a meet and greet cocktail party featuring ice cold beverages and Snausages. Most of the shorter guests sampled from the bowls on the floor. Gentle Ben had happy hour in a raised porcelain bowl in another room. Ewwwww, yuk. As for me, I was the only one having Grey Goose on the rocks, and a lot of it.

Dinnertime. Each guest came on vacation with his or her own dietary regimen, requiring great coordination by staff to
fill the bowls with the correct choices and have all entrees come out of the kitchen and onto the floor at the same time.

The chef had to juggle diners requesting yogurt on the side, green beans and carrots atop kibble, a variety of pills inserted in a variety of incentive choices and an assortment of measurements for portion control. With meals prepared, seating assignments (or would that be standing assignments?) needed to be made.

Bonnie and I mapped out the standing chart and starting calling names and placing bowls. Incredibly, each dog waiting until their name was called and then went obediently to where we pointed. Nobody tried to slip us a treat for a better table. I've seen rowdier crowds downtown waiting for tables.

Moxie! Paddy! Ashley! Niki! Cody! Kelli! Ben! Like clockwork.

The trouble began when the hoovers among them, namely my Moxie with Ashley a close second scarfed up their meals and went trolling for leftovers. Or didn't wait for leftovers and stood breathing down their prey's backs until they could make their move. There was a lot of snarling and whining and of course that was from me, as we humans got served last.

Then the pack needed to go out. Moxie! Paddy! Ashley! Niki! Cody! Kelli! Ben! Out they obediently trouped, most of them going off the deck for their evening constitutional.

One dog who shall remain nameless insisted on creating a literal poop deck.

Moxie! Paddy! Ashley! Niki! Cody! Kelli! Ben! Time to come in. We always had to count heads, and Kelli was always missing until we went out and carried her in personally. From that moment on she became Princess Grace Kelli.

After dinner came TV time and the flock took their positions on the living room floor, sofa or comfy laps. Amazingly peaceful – until a doorbell went off on a commercial and the whole house erupted.

But nighttime was my favorite. I've heard of three dog night, but this was ridiculous.

Four pack members insisted on sleeping in bed with Alpha: Niki, Ashley, Paddy and me. The rest took positions on the floor as IEDs (Improvised explosive devices) booby trapping my route to the bathroom.

And then came the storm. At the first huge crash of thunder Cody and Moxie also leapt on the bed. And they all started shaking and drooling in response to the thunder and lightning, turning our Posturepedic into one of those sleazy motel vibrating beds. And it continued for over an hour. Ben slept through it, the upside to hearing loss.

By morning the routine began anew. Moxie! Paddy! Ashley! Niki! Cody! Kelli! Ben! Time to go out, then breakfast. Then naps, then snacks, then playtime, then snacks, then naps, then dinner, then….

It was such a great routine I hated going off to work and missing it. So I quit my full-time job. Really. Honest. Done. I intend to be a stay-at-home pack member, writing this column, doing some freelance work and getting my napping skills just right.

Ashley went home on Saturday, then Cody and Kelli on Monday. Niki is checking out sometime tomorrow and Ben has a late check-out the next day.

Pretty soon it will be Alpha, me, Moxie and Paddy, alone again, naturally.

I'm looking forward to an afternoon snooze and some kibble, followed by a martini made by the leader of the pack. I know they say that unless you're the lead dog, the scenery never changes, but for now, I'm perfectly content to follow the fleet.

Did somebody say treats? I'm so there. A bath? I'm next in line. Flea dip? You can never be too careful. I'd like the rainbow collar please. I'll pass on the game of Frisbee, but I sure could use a nice walk.

Ahhhhh. Retirement. Sit/Stay. Pardon me if I go take a snooze. I'll try to keep my muddy paws off the furniture, but I can't promise.

September 2009

WHAT COMES AROUND…

There's nothing like spending the day with old friends out on the water. Especially since it was in the best kind of boat – somebody else's.

As a former boat owner I can tell you that Bonnie and I spent 13 years boating on Chesapeake Bay and we have pitiful 401Ks to prove it. Boating is one expensive hobby.

So there I was, lounging on this boat, with no fiscal responsibilities, enjoying the water, the weather and the relaxation. Everyone aboard but me had a fishing pole and I can report that I caught as many fish as they did.

As we headed for a restaurant along an area called Kent Narrows I smiled, as this glorious September day reminded me of one from many years ago. Same captain, same crew.

Back then, our buds invited us boating “to run the gas down” so they wouldn't leave the boat with a full tank all winter. We gladly accepted the invite.

As we boarded the vessel, I said, “Let me go back to the car for my camera.” I was as prolific back then with film as I am today with digital.

“The heck with it,” said Bonnie, “for once, dammit, just go out and enjoy the ride without all the camera business.”

Obviously, Bonnie was starting to view me as paparazzi, so I reluctantly agreed to leave the camera behind.

A half hour later, as we reached the middle of the Bay, near the famed Chesapeake Bay Bridge, I asked the captain how long it would take to run the gas down to an acceptable winter level. “I mean does it have to be empty on the gauge?”

“Well, said the captain, “the gauge is broken so it's hard to know, but we have plenty of gas, so let's just run around a while and head back.”

At which point the boat's engine hiccupped, belched, bubbled, then quit.

Apparently we'd had a lot less gas than the broken gauge was able to indicate.

“Crap,” said the first mate, “we're in the shipping channel.

Now, for my non-boating readers, simply put, being in the channel meant we'd likely wind up as flotsam and jetsam if a large boat came along. There's a lane in the middle of the wide bay, marked by buoys, that is deep enough for giant oil tankers and container ships filled with Mitsubishis. That's the channel. We were stalled in it, or at least perilously close to it and we'd all heard stories of small boats being hit and sunk by tankers, or perhaps even scarier, being sucked to the deep by the undertow of a passing cargo ship.

Of course, we instantly grabbed the marine radio to call for help. The sheepish captain's face said it all. “Um, the radio is supposed to go to the shop tomorrow. It only gets channel 17, so I hope somebody is listening.” By this time Bonnie and I were incredulous as well as scared, and re-evaluating our relationship with boating and its boaters.

So we put out a call on the radio and waited for a reply. Nothing.

In the meantime, Bonnie tapped me on the shoulder, pointed toward the horizon and said, “What's that?”

In the distance, beyond the bridge, a boat approached. A very big boat.

“What is it, a tanker?” Bonnie asked.

“I dunno,” said the captain. “It's tall, and almost looks like a passenger ship.”

“Is that Leo DiCaprio on the front? Damn, I see several smokestacks,” I said, watching the enormous blob lumber toward us, slicing the water, heading for the bridge. The thing was so big, in fact, it looked like Pittsburgh on a barge and I doubted it would even fit under the bridge.

“Holy shit,” or a version thereof, said everybody.

We held our breath as this behemoth gained on us. Exactly how much trouble were we in? From the look of things, the monster vessel was hugging the left side of the channel and
we, in the equivalent of a rubber bathtub ducky were off right. Maybe, just maybe, we would luck out. But then again I didn't know the clearance required to avoid being sucked into the depths.

“My God, it's clearing the bridge by inches.” I said, with the first mate adding “good thing the water's calm.” Well, the water was the only one.

“Look at that thing!” “Holy Moly.” “I'm peeing.”

“Oh my God, it is a passenger ship. I've never seen so many decks in my life.” I said, now looking up at an increasingly steep angle, with the giant bow approaching. Then, as we watched in dumbstruck awe, our eyes looked heavenward as the bow, with its massive anchor and chain, then the side, with its hundreds of staterooms and lifeboats, then the stern, pushed by its colossal propeller passed above us, regaling us with the giant lettering Queen Elizabeth II.

It was a passenger ship alright and when I realized, remarkably, that we were still afloat, I was incredibly pissed not to have a camera.

We watched the ocean liner's hind end travel down the bay, its wake causing us to bob up and down like that aforementioned bathtub toy and frantically called again for a tow.

Hooray! Somebody heard us on channel 17 and said, “I read you, changing to Channel 16.”

“No!!!” we yelled, too late, understanding that the rescuer was being polite, getting off the open channel and telling us to go to channel 16 for a private conversation. Only we had no channel 16.

We tried again on our lone 17.

Our hero came back. “Switch to 16. Over and out.” Click. God he had ants in his pants.

“Nooooo!” we hollered, despairing of getting his attention in time to get out of the channel before Moby Dick or The Titanic came by.

Finally, on the third try he listened long enough to understand our dilemma. We told him our location and he promised
to be out to get us as fast as he could.

Meanwhile, the most beautiful sunset I have ever seen, before or since, took place on the Western shore of the bay, framing the departing QE II in a pink glow and providing us with the show of our lives.

No camera. My spouse knew there would be consequences.

Finally, the Lucky 5 rescue boat appeared to haul our lucky four asses back to shore.

In the ensuing years, and there have been many of them, that captain and first mate have remained two of our closest friends, fuel emergency and broken radio not withstanding. They've purchased a new boat and, for the record, have kept it in tiptop shape. We've boated with them often and somebody always makes a snide comment about running the gas out.

So here we were, almost two decades later, heading back to shore from our fabulous day on the water, when a stunning sunset appeared.

“Hey team,” I said. “How ‘bout a photo.” So they dutifully posed on deck, before the lovely setting sun.

I was using the fancy 8-megapixel camera on my new Droid phone. But the battery had gone dead. No camera. Dammit. We all laughed.

What comes around, floats around.