I have a bizarre fixation on “Champ“, the costumed mascot for our local short-season A minor league baseball team, the Vermont Lake Monsters. Despite the creature obviously just being an employee in a suit, I have a habit of projecting that he’s a barely-tame creature of menace that is only kept under control by being fed copious amounts of ballpark hot dogs.
Carole has grown used to my texting running comments about Champ during games:
Champ makes a lot of public appearances and, if I can, I try to show up. Like I said, it’s weird.
So when the local mall (we’ve only really got one in the whole state, in terms of an actual mall with interior areas and not just a big strip mall) announced that they were going to have an Easter Bunny Mascots Parade this past weekend, I promptly added it to my calendar. Apparently they’ve done this before, getting something like 12 local mascots from various teams and nonprofits and so forth to show up and pose for pictures with kids and the Easter Bunny and so forth. I knew I had to be a part of it.
YEA VERILY THERE WILL BE WEEPING AND GNASHING OF TEETH. AMONG MY FOES, THAT IS
THE LUND CENTER DOES VERY GOOD WORK TO SUPPORT FAMILIES, PREGNANT AND PARENTING TEENS, YOUNG ADULTS, AND ADOPTIVE FAMILIES. NO NEED FOR GNASHING THERE! HA HA HA
PLEASE SPONSOR ME AND IN SO DOING HELP FUND THE VITAL PROGRAMS THAT SUPPORT WOMEN AND CHILDREN ACROSS VERMONT.
I SHALL BESTRIDE MY OPPONENTS LIKE A COLOSSUS OF YORE. COME WATCH ME AT BURLINGTON INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT ON MAY 12 STARTING AT 11 AM. BRING SUNGLASSES TO PROTECT YOUR EYES FROM THE MAGNIFICENCE OF MY CORNHOLE BAG PITCHING GLORY
The lovely folks at the Vermont Lake Monsters minor league baseball team (short-season A, New York-Penn League) offered a special deal this year — for a low, low price, their team mascot, Champ, would deliver flowers, chocolates, a special customized card, and vouchers for two game tickets to the special person of your choice. Needless to say, I didn’t pass such an opportunity up.
Note 1: Carole, like any adult, has occasional bad dreams that prevent her from getting a good night’s sleep.
Note 2: Carole typically has a terrible temper in the morning, made even worse by tossing and turning all night.
Note 3: Carole would like to come downstairs to the room I sleep in (when I’m in town) and be comforted after a bad night, but, unfortunately, her terrible temper means it’s hard, if not impossible, for her to find a polite way to request said comforting services. And she doesn’t want to come down and just yell at me when I didn’t do anything wrong.
So I suggested that I simply put up a poster somewhere in her room where she could wake up and see it, something that said something along these lines: “IN CASE OF HORRIBLE NIGHTMARES AND YOU NEED COMFORTING, TELL JAY THE HOONS HAVE BEEN SQUAWKING”.
She liked that idea a lot.
So I blew a few minutes, needing no further encouragement to exert my creativity in pursuit of inanity, and produced the following:
I think that oughtta do the trick for even the surliest Carole, don’t you?
With the 2018 Federal government shutdown careering along, I thought I’d share a treasured old, but true, story.
Carole and I were on our first date on Saturday, December 16, 1995 in downtown Washington, DC — during the 1995 Clinton/Dole/Gingrich shutdown of fond memory. There was nothing else open in DC thanks to the shutdown so we went for a walk around the Mall and Washington Monument and environs.
An ABC TV news crew was there at the Washington Monument interviewing tourists, and since we were just about the only tourists there (except one cranky old guy and a bunch of homeless people) we of course got interviewed. Didn’t know until later that we’d actually been aired as part of that evening’s ABC World News Tonight, but Carole’s dad had set the VCR to record just in case, so that’s why we’ve got the video to share (see below).
I suspect we’re just about the only married couple who can truthfully say that their first date was aired on national television as part of the evening news. We got married in September of 1997 and are still married twenty years (and two more shutdowns) later.
Until today, I had no idea that Elvis had been using “Also Sprach Zarathustra” (a.k.a. the opening theme from “2001: A Space Odyssey”) at his concerts in the 1970s. Nor that asking an Amazon Echo Spot device to play “Also Sprach Zarathustra” would invoke the Elvis version. But of course it does.
Last Saturday, January 13, 2018, we said farewell to our beloved tabby boy, Huck. He’ll be sorely missed. Carole and I don’t have children of our own so our cats have always been very special and precious to us.
Carole and I adopted a cat in the summer of 2005, a fine healthy recently fixed tabby cat that we promptly named Huckleberry. He was our second tabby — we had adopted another tabby boy that we’d named Freddy the previous fall only to tragically find him deceased on the hallway floor the Saturday before Memorial Day. We never did figure out why Freddy passed so quickly; the veterinarian suggested it might have been a congenital heart defect or something similar.
Huck joined our other two cats: a ginger and white short haired female named Thursday and a tortoiseshell short haired female named Starlight. Thursday was about seven, Starlight was about four, and we assumed Huck was something over a year old, but it was hard to say by how much.
He had to be fixed before we could adopt him, so he was still quite full of testosterone during his first few weeks with us. Translation: he was quite the bitey-bite-bite cat at first. If you petted him, he was as likely to try to eat your hand and disembowel your wrist with his hind feet as he was to sit there and enjoy it. But he wasn’t like that all the time, and as he got used to living with us, he calmed down.
He had some very interesting quirks that neither of us had ever encountered in a cat before. He loved to climb up on the bed pillows when one of us was lying in bed and would then paw at the tops of our heads, sometimes even drooling on us. Carole figured that he’d been taken from his mama cat too early and that he was looking for a nipple.
When we first got Huck we’d already gotten our other two cats, Thursday and Starlight, little beds that we kept under the living room coffee table, and we knew that eventually we’d need to get one for Huck. He kind of forced the issue, though, by walking in to the master bedroom, looking around, and plopping down directly in front of Carole’s dresser at the foot of the bed. Every night. Every afternoon. We’d come in to the room and find him there and he’d give us a look like “you know, this spot right here would be just great for a little bed.”
So, after a couple of weeks we got around to going to the pet store to get him a little bed and we put it right where he’d indicated that he wanted it. He was so happy when he saw it for the first time; he came trotting into the room, spied the little bed at the foot of the dresser, and gave us a look that spoke volumes: “Finally.” And that was where he spent almost every night the entire time we had him.
Huck was definitely a “people cat” in that he always wanted to be where the action was. Not standoffish at all. I was very fond of picking him up and toting him around from room to room with me in a way that we called “portaging the Huck”. His “elevator butt” skills were unparalleled; he got so into being petted that his rear legs almost lifted off the ground.
He was also notorious for wanting to get out. We had to be very careful when bringing groceries in from the car to keep an eye on where he was. If we weren’t vigilant, he’d sneak out into the garage, and if we really screwed up, he’d make it all the way outside and be off to the races. If you’re wondering why we considered this a problem — well, we’ve always kept our cats indoors. There are lots of things in the Vermont woods that would eat a cat, and all things considered equal, we preferred Huck whole and undigested.
Like any cat, he could be a bit … destructive at times. He was a mighty deconstructor of boxes; if we left an Amazon box sitting in the dining room, it was more or less a given that he would chew it to pieces. He was also a fierce and mighty hunter, and once in a while we’d find all the books on the bottom shelf of a bookshelf pulled off onto the floor. Whenever we saw that, we knew he’d been a-mousin’ and had been trying to get at a mouse that’d taken cover. And when there were no mice, he found other things to hunt. He was particularly interested in Christmas ornaments, so much so that we eventually got him his own set of relatively shatterproof round ball ornaments that we could hang on the lowest levels of the tree for him to bat down and kick around the room.
He vigilantly protected our house from all enemies, foreign and domestic. If he wasn’t in his little bed or chilling on a sofa, we could count on him sitting in a window or hanging out on the credenza in our dining room (which we’ve always called “the cattlements”).
He was a very friendly cat and always got along with everyone, saving only those first few weeks we had him when he was still a bit rambunctious. When we walked into a room he was in, he’d give us a look that we interpreted as “‘Sup?”
Huck was kind of my cat; Carole preferred our two girlcats, Thursday and Starlight, and considered Huck a big ol’ friendly lummox of a cat that properly belonged with me. Carole had had many tabbies when she was a kid; tabbies were nothing special to her. But I’d never had a tabby boy before, not counting poor Freddy who was with us for such a short time, and so I found him charmingly companionable.
We had a lot of pet names for Huck. He rarely got called by his full name,”Huckleberry”, but once in a while we would call him “Huckleberry Sassafrass Q. Puddytat Furr”. He picked up the nickname “Droolbarge” during the first year or so we had him when he was so fond of drooling on our heads. Sometimes I called him “Huckletrousers” and now and then I referred to him as “the Delegate from Tabco Unlimited”. At mealtime he tended to get called “Hoover” for the vacuum-cleaner-like way he sucked up his food. Once in a while he was referred to as “The Hucken” as in, “RELEASE THE HUCKEN”. But the one that I probably used the most was “Rupert”, as in “My assistant, Rupert”. No idea where I got that from, but Huck didn’t seem to mind. So long as he had his little bed to sleep in, three squares a day, and warm places to lie around philosophizing in, we could call him whatever we wanted.
He would always greet us in the basement when we came home, sitting on the stairs up to the dining room as we came in from the garage, like a little welcoming committee. If I got up in the middle of the night, he’d often come strolling out to say “Heya” and to see if might be persuaded to toss some cat treats his way. He was a loyal, faithful, friendly cat.
A few days after Christmas Carole noticed that Huck’s abdomen was swollen, like he was retaining a lot of fluid or had … well, something. We’d noticed that he was eating less, but he was an older cat, at least 13 and probably closer to 14, and we know that appetite drops off with age in many cases. But the swollen tum was a concern. We took him in to the vet and the vet’s reaction immediately told us we had a problem. Our local vet recommended ultrasound, so that necessitated a trip to one of our two local vet hospitals, and that’s where the really bad news came down. Huck had a tumor on his spleen that was already fairly far along, and probably more tumors on the lining of his abdomen, and was retaining a ton of fluid. I had the odds presented to me in a kindly, but very matter of fact fashion. We could prolong his life through heroic measures but probably just make him suffer, or we could try to make his last days comfortable and show him all the love we could.
Carole took Huck in to have the excess fluid drained one day last week. Huck perked up a bit and showed a bit more appetite, but still clearly felt very bad. I know very little of cat physiology and tumor growth, but he’d gone from acting more or less as he always had to looking very peaky and sick and afraid in a pretty short amount of time. The fluid draining only seemed to help for a day or so and then he was back hiding in closets and showing the characteristic behaviors of a cat who would like to be allowed to go off somewhere and die with dignity, as Carole put it. She had him drained again last Friday before I came home from an out of town trip so I could see him somewhat lively one last time, but I think by that point it was already too late. He looked absolutely miserable.
And that’s why we lost him last Saturday. We took him in to the local vet and Carole stayed with him while the vets did what they had to do. I was so sad that I stayed sitting in the waiting room. I knew that if I’d gone in I’d have just bawled. I felt bad about not going in, but I knew I’d feel even worse if I did go in — the memory of watching his eyes close for the last time would have haunted my dreams. We’ve lost Thursday and Starlight in a similar fashion, euthanization after realizing there was no hope of recovery from a wasting illness, and so I know perfectly well what it’s like to see a cat go to sleep for the last time.
It was different with Huck, though — as I said, Carole always said he was my cat, just as Starlight was hers. I really wasn’t able to grasp that I’d never again come home from an out of town trip at 1 am and find him sitting on the stairs, that I’d never again have him come climb on top of me as I lay in bed reading. That I’d never again see his elevator butt. Or scritch his head. Staying in the waiting room was about all I was up for, and I was barely keeping it together even so.
We haven’t buried Huck yet. The ground in Vermont is thoroughly frozen and it’d be impossible to dig a grave. But his body is stored in a freezer at the vet, and come spring we’ll say our proper goodbyes to him. We’ll bury him with everything he’ll need in the afterlife, as befits a proper cat funeral — his food bowl, and of course, his little bed.
Once in a while, when you’re not looking, life up and hands you an absolutely perfect moment. It may be brief. It may not be obvious to others. It may defy explanation altogether. But when one happens, you take down every detail, note every facet, and treasure it forever.
For me, one such perfect moment happened during the summer of 2000 when Carole was working as box office manager for the Vermont Symphony Orchestra. In other words, she sold tickets to people who stopped by the office, mailed tickets out to subscribers, and manned a mobile ticket sales table when the VSO went on the road to play concerts around Vermont. The VSO annually holds outdoor concerts for the Fourth of July in places like Rutland and Manchester and Shelburne and Quechee. I went along to most of the concerts to keep Carole company and to serve as all-purpose gopher, roadie, and coordinator of volunteers.
One concert took place at Hildene, the home of Abraham Lincoln’s son Robert, just outside Manchester in southern Vermont. It was a hot sunny day, not a cloud in the sky, just perfect for an outdoor concert with fireworks and the 1812 overture (which together, could reliably be counted on to set off half of the car alarms in the parking lot). The big outdoor tent was set up at one end of a field and Carole’s table was at the opposite end of the field, near where everyone was supposed to park. We had quite a few volunteers show up to help hand out programs, direct people to parking, handle will-call ticket pickup, and so on.
Unfortunately, the rest of the VSO staff mostly hung out over at the tent and stage prior to the concert and paid our part of the operation no attention whatsoever… so this meant that no one brought us any water. We all got fairly punchy standing around, thirsty, in the sun, smiling politely at the concertgoers walking in with their bottles of wine and their coolers full of picnic food and drink.
Finally, at one point, some of the other staff did wander over. There was a little knot of ’em: the development director, the assistant development director, the publicity and advertising director, the overall office manager, and Carole. Lurking a few feet away was yours truly, quietly eavesdropping but not overtly paying attention.
And that’s when it happened. They were discussing logistics and what still needed to be done before the concert started, and one of them — I think it was Mary, the development director, started to say “We need more… we need more…” and then couldn’t think of the word she wanted.
I happily filled the gap in for her, although probably not with the actual word she’d been groping for:
I said it in this polite, quiet, helpful, friendly way that left no doubt whatsoever as to what I’d said, only for their brains to utterly crash trying to make what I’d said make sense. It was absolutely perfect: everyone in that little circle of people had the most “what the ___” looks on their faces. Total, unequivocal pole-axed confusion.
Everyone, that is, except Carole, who of course was used to me saying strange random gibberish at the oddest of times, and who was kind of peeved at the rest of the staff over having been ignored and not having gotten supplied with water and all that — she was trying hard not to wet her pants laughing.
As for me, I was also trying hard to avoid laughing — it was important for the overall effect to work to look absolutely composed and calm, as though I expected my comment to make sense in context. But in my head, I was going “Where the hell did that come from?” Sometimes I even surprise myself.
Neither of us had ever seen a group of people all suffer simultaneous blue screens. It was just an absolutely marvelous moment. If I could’ve, I’d have taken a picture right then and I’d hang it on my wall and look at it on cold winter nights.
Okay, so what? So do a lot of people. It’d probably be easier to list the people who don’t. I’ve got a friend who has a pet bunny and the bunny has a wish list. You wander around the net, reading stuff on blogs and forums, and it’s more or less inevitable that at some point you’ll come across some stranger’s wish list, posted on the off chance that a random reader might be so taken by the author’s analysis of Freud’s seduction theory as to want to drop $25 and send the author a pair of Hello Kitty snow socks. Some people want a lot of Harley-Davidson miscellany. Some people want semi-precious rocks. You name it, someone’s probably hopefully added it to their wish list in hopes some stranger might one day have a momentary lapse of reason. (Okay, I can’t recall seeing anyone posting their wish list for Leather Masters, but that’s probably because I don’t tend to hang out in those communities.)
If you were bored enough to look at my wish list, you’ll notice my tastes and wishes are a little more pedestrian — mostly I use it to keep track of books I’d like to buy and read but haven’t because I, er, already have a library cart full of impulse purchase books and don’t want to have to buy another right away. But I also keep a few stupid-ass items on my list just to confuse someone who might wind up there, maybe some randomly-paired Secret Santa partner who winds up trying to buy me something despite having absolutely no idea who I am.
Case in point:
Well, Carole usually has no idea whatsoever what to get me for birthdays and Christmas and most years just gives me a card and shaves my back and calls us even, but this year she decided to put in a little effort. And promptly wound up on my Amazon wish list, which I hadn’t really expected anyone to actually use — as I said, it’s mostly books I want to remember to think about buying one day, and strange crap put there to confuse strangers.