July, 2012

And I’m Still Waiting For The Farrier

July 31st, 2012 7 Comments

After many decades of messing about with horses, I feel I am now qualified to make a Sweeping Pronouncement of Irrefutable Truth about our equine partners.

 

Horses are great teachers. The most obvious lessons are the ones they teach us about themselves—their needs, wants, likes, dislikes, fears, how they think, what we should do when they don’t think—but the most important lessons are the ones they teach us about ourselves. The horse is the mirror of the man, and of all the lessons a horse can teach us about ourselves, perhaps the most important is patience. If you own horses, you will learn patience.

 

You will learn to wait for the horse to understand what you want him to do.

 

You will learn to wait for the horse to do what he knows you want him to do.

 

You will learn to wait for the horse to figure out it’s a better deal for him to do you what you want than not to.

 

You will learn to wait for the horse to learn to trust you.

 

You will learn to wait for farrier.

 

You will learn to wait for the vet.

 

You will learn to wait for the hay to be delivered.

 

You will learn to wait for guy who fixes your fences, barn siding, gutters, water troughs, floats, or anything else your horse feels like playing with.

 

You will learn to wait as you recover from injuries.

 

You will learn to wait as your horse recovers from injuries.

 

You will learn to wait.

 

You will learn patience.

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The Slaughterhouse at Night

July 24th, 2012 6 Comments

Nature, for all its outward poetry, is a slaughterhouse.

Luke Jennings

 

If you live in the country you are reminded of this daily in dozens of different ways: a Red-tail hawk with a ground squirrel in its talons; a golden eagle with a snake; a king snake slowly swallowing a gopher snake at least its own size; a raven with a baby blackbird in its beak, two adult blackbirds pursuing, harassing, attacking, all in vain; three coyotes eating a still-living deer; once, a nesting Red-tail catching a marauding raven’s leg in her beak without ever leaving her nest; a bobcat with a weasel in its jaws; a Red-tail hitting a barn owl in the air so hard it broke her back; and, on one memorable night, an hour long battle on the back patio, right in front of the sliding glass door, between two great horned owls, one already mortally injured, but still struggling, vainly, desperately, trying to survive. All this and much more.

 

We’re in the middle of a heat wave, so at night we open every window and every door to catch the cooling air as it slides down the hill behind the house. We leave the barn open for the horses for the same reason. And yesterday Darleen and I went down to the barn in the morning to feed and clean and found a large pool of blood on the concrete apron, a trail of blood through the barn, the spatter pattern showing clearly the direction of travel, and out the far side where it vanished. This was a substantial pool, more blood than any scurrying nighttime rodent might leave, more blood even than a rabbit might leave. Pete was with us, our rescue Boxer, and he followed the trail as diligently as a bloodhound. I walked with him as he tracked, hoping to find a carcass and learn what might have occurred in the dark, but at the property-line fence we had to stop, and Pete showed no particular interest in any airborne scent from the neighbor’s side. Was it blood dripping from a body dangling in an owl’s talons? Was it blood dripping from a body dangling from the jaws of a bobcat or coyote? I could find no tracks or footprints, but I doubt it could have been a larger predator at work—mountain lion or bear or feral dog—because the horses would have raised enough of a ruckus to wake Darleen or one of our dogs, or even me, though Darleen claims I could sleep through the final trump, and I hope she’s right.

 

There was no way to determine what violence had occurred. Whatever it was had happened long enough before that horses were only interested in their breakfast, and they wouldn’t have told us anyway. Horses are notoriously secretive about what they observe in the dark and quiet of the night. It was just another of the countless, the myriad dramas that go unnoticed as the world sleeps, of no interest to anyone except the owners of the barn and their dog.

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Return to Laughter

July 16th, 2012 28 Comments

An observant visitor to this site noticed in one of my biographies that I mention a novel of mine entitled Return to Laughter and wanted to know where she could find it. Well might she ask.

 

The truth is I had forgotten entirely I made any reference to the book in my bio or anywhere else, but it does exist. As its Shakespearean title suggests, it is about an actor, and about the acting business in both New York and Hollywood, and it weaves fact and fiction together in, I hope, an intriguing and amusing way. There will be a very small prize awarded to the reader who correctly identifies the play that provided the title. Bonus points if you can name the character who says the words, and the correct act and scene number.

 

(Purchase absolutely necessary to enter. Contest void where prohibited or restricted. All federal, state, county, and local laws, ordinances, and regulations apply. Contestants must be old enough to be able to read and must be legal residents of the planet Earth. No employees or wives of the author of this blog or website are eligible to compete. Prize is to be determined by the sole whim of the author of this blog and will not exceed one farthing in value, and will almost certainly consist of nothing more than a mention of name, though it may not even amount to that, depending on the author’s mood and phase of the moon. By participating in this contest, contestants agree to be bound by official rules yet to be determined and possibly impossible to follow or even comprehend, and to be equally bound by the judge’s final and completely arbitrary decision. By accepting a prize, contestants agree that the sponsor (this web site/blog) and its employees, officers, directors, subsidiaries, affiliates, and dishwashers will have no responsibility for anything of any kind anywhere, including—but not limited to—injury, loss, damages, death, dismemberment, loss of time while trying to find the phrase return to laughter, loss of parking space, loss of hair, or any other conceivable or inconceivable mishap whatsoever that might occur to anyone anywhere for any reason. But have fun.)

 

I decided not to release the novel just yet. I wanted to make some very minor revisions, and my agents suggested I wait and see how sales go with the books I already offer on the site. I realize this last paragraph sounds like an unsubtle way of saying, “Buy those books, ladies and gentlemen! Recommend them to your friends and neighbors! Tell the world!” And you’re damn right it is. But it is also true that my agents recommended I wait. Complain to them.

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Another Job Opportunity!

July 11th, 2012 6 Comments

Email From: Luetta H……..@*********.com

To: Parker Jameson

 

Hello, We want to extend the sphere of our business activity, that’s why we proudly want to offer you a vacant position

 

A” vacant position? So you have more than one? To whom are you offering the other positions? Parker Stevenson? Jameson Parker?

 

of International Administrative transportation manager

 

“International Administrative Transportation Manager.” Wow. That’s heady stuff. The only site I could find that made reference to that particular job title also included as an employment requirement, “One year of full-time specialized experience in the use of a wide range of qualitative and quantitative techniques for measuring effectiveness, efficiency, and productivity…” And, see, that’s where we might have a little problem. Because I don’t have one year’s full-time experience. In fact, I don’t have any experience at all in that field. In fact, I’m not even sure what that sentence means.

 

in our new international personalized logistics project.

 

I have another little problem here. I don’t know what “personalized logistics” means. Actually, I’m a little vague on the whole logistics thing.


We are searching for adult persons,

 

“Adult.” No problem. You got it.

 

self-motivated

 

I’m self-motivated out the wazoo.

 

with permanent US address.

 

How permanent? I mean, these are troubled economic times. What if I move to Gaping Jaws, Oklahoma, and then decide I’d be better off in Split Lip, South Dakota, or Moose Drool, Alaska. You see where I’m going with this? Maybe you better define what you mean by “permanent.”

 

Applicant must have computer notebook connected to the internet and printer.

 

No problem. I’m connected. Oh boy, am I connected.


The role of the International Administrative transportation manager is to plan, execute, and finalize projects according to committed timelines and within project/product cost targets.

 

Okay. Give me enough time and I’m sure I could figure out how to do all that. I think I’m pretty sure I could figure it out. I think.


This includes acquiring resources and coordinating his tasks in order to deliver projects according to plan.

 

That sentence is a little vague, Luetta. Does that mean I’m supposed to acquire resources and coordinate my tasks, or am I suppose to acquire someone whose name or title is “Resources” and coordinate his tasks?
The International Administrative transportation manager will also define the project’s objectives

 

No problem. I think I’ve already done that.

 

and oversee quality control of project deliverables throughout its life cycle – ensuring compliance to Company’s New Product Transportation Process.

 

Huh? You lost me there.

 

International Administrative transportation manager expected to participate in continuous improvement activities.

 

I am a firm believer in constant improvement.  

 

This includes constantly evaluating process and identifying improvements

 

Improvements! You bet.

 

to on-time performance and cycle time. The successful individual for this position will be a quick, clear and independent thinker who is naturally responsible,

 

I’m your man, Luetta!

 

is metrics and number savvy, has an analytical mindset

 

Oops. Number savvy? Metrics? Uh, I can count. I can even do basic supermarket math, but anything beyond that might be a problem. I mean, I sort of just make guesstimates when I balance my checkbook. Drives my wife and my accountant nuts.

 

and has ability to fulfill transportation tasks in time, to receive and proceed client’s purchases and orders via services with which we co-operate FEDEX, UPS, USPS.

 

You mean take things down to the local PostNet, right?

 

This person will need an ability to see the big picture

 

Hey, to quote Butch Cassidy: “I’ve got vision and the rest of the world wears bi-focals.”

 

and fulfill on grass root level to develop the overall net-work, after promotion.

 

Ooh! We’re talking promotion already? Wow.

 

Additionally, they are never satisfied with the status quo, can achieve success in following-up and getting things done and have the ability to thrive in a fast-paced, customer-centric and ever changing Customer Service environment. To receive any additional information feel free to contact me directly via email, by clicking reply.

 

Actually, I’ve been thinking about it, and I’m satisfied with the status quo.

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Breaking News!

July 9th, 2012 6 Comments

For a variety of reasons, Darleen and I cannot get either the local paper or a national paper delivered to our isolated place, so the bulk of our news, local, national, and international, comes to us by way of television or online. As a result, I have now come to the conclusion that the English language is rapidly going the way of ancient Aramaic. The abuses of what P. G. Wodehouse’s Bertie Wooster once described as, “…the richest and most varied language the world has ever known, crammed full from end to end with red hot adjectives…” are appalling. Subject-verb agreement, for example, has vanished, and there’s lots of examples I could give you. When did “troop” become synonymous with soldier? Today’s online New York Times, informs me that six US troops were killed in a blast in Afghanistan. My sorrow at the loss of life is mitigated by confusion because the Grey Lady’s headline doesn’t tell me how many soldiers were killed.

 

I have decided, in a fit of despair, to chronicle this decline, randomly, as I catch it, and I shall begin with the NBC affiliate out of Bakersfield, California. The caption at the bottom of the screen, backing up an otherwise perfectly acceptable spoken narrative, informed me that someone somewhere had had a really good view of the “Urora Borealis.” Since I have never seen or even heard of the urora borealis, I am wild with jalousie. A few minutes later, the caption informed me that children raised with pets are “more healthier” than children raised without pets. As a pet owner, I am certainly more happier to hear that, but something about it makes me more sadder, too.

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Man’s Best Friend Needs a Little TLC

July 7th, 2012 14 Comments

One of the great things about having a blog is that it provides a forum—and an unparalleled opportunity—to outrage and offend large numbers of people, which is what I am about to do. At least I certainly hope so.

 

We have had a concatenation of events (to use a phrase of Bertie Wooster’s) around here in the last couple of years, all having to do with dogs.

 

We rescued a German shepherd (an Alsatian for those of you in Great Britain) a few years ago after her owner died, and I won’t bore non-German shepherd people with a recitation of bloodlines, but factoring in both show and working lines, she made the Prince of Wales look like a parvenu, red-necked, blue collar, nouveau riche, social climbing wannabe. Her uncle was imported by a Texas oilman for more money than any other German shepherd (or possibly any other dog) in history. The accomplishments of her ancestors, close relatives and littermates, are comparable to the accomplishments of the Manning family in football or the Marsalis family in jazz. Ours was sweet and loving, and that was the end of her talents. We put her down last year, at the age of six, after the side effects of renal failure made her life insupportable. Hereditary chronic renal failure is common in German shepherds; it is one of fifty-one hereditable diseases the breed is prone to, according to the University of Cambridge database. (Other databases give different figures, some considerably higher, but I’m going with Cambridge primarily because it seems both rational and dispassionate.)

 

The German shepherd who proceeded her in our home, also a rescue, had to be euthanized at four because of degenerative myelopathy (think spinal cord, pain, and ultimate paralysis) which is also a hereditary disease common in shepherds (and forty-two other breeds).

 

We have a rescued Cardigan Welsh corgi who may have to be put down eventually because three surgeries have proven incapable of fixing a severely pronated foot. Pronated feet are common in Cardigans because they have been bred to have feet that turn out. Other than that, they’re fairly healthy, with only four hereditary diseases listed.

 

We recently rescued a young Boxer, a magnificent specimen about whose bloodlines we know absolutely nothing (he was found running loose in the mountains), and when we took him in for his shots, our vet told us to be prepared to lose him young. Boxers, it turns out, are subject to thirty-six hereditary diseases, including five different and fatal forms of heart disease, and multiple forms of cancer.

 

I could go on with other examples, personal or from any one of dozens of databases, but I think you can see where I’m going. The list of heritable and/or genetic diseases in all breeds of dogs is so long and depressing I’m not even going to try to count or list them.

 

One of the other concatenating links was an article by my friend Tom Davis about new evidence concerning the evolution of dogs, specifically the timeline. It used to be thought fifteen thousand years ago was when man and dog began to co-exist. Then it got pushed back to about thirty-three thousand years. The most recent thinking is that the relationship may go back as far as one hundred and twenty thousand years. Even more dramatic, more astounding, and harder for some people (non-dog lovers specifically) to believe is a new theory of co-evolution, a sort of symbiotic relationship between proto-humans and proto-dogs where both species evolved as they did at least in part because of the other. In other words, dogs are what they are today because of man’s influence, and man also is what he is today because of the dog’s influence. This is not as extraordinary as you might think. Another example of co-evolution would be man and cow: Europeans, who domesticated the bovine ancestors of the modern cow, have a far lower incidence of lactose-intolerance than non-Europeans. Actually, if you think about it, the only surprising thing about this theory is how much better a subject the dog was than man, and how much more adept he was at climbing up the evolutionary ladder.

 

There are, depending on how you count them, approximately four hundred different breeds of dogs, with greater variety across the spectrum (coat, size, temperament, etc.) than any other species, and over three quarters of those breeds have been created since the so-called Revolutions of 1848 which gave non-aristocrats and the emerging and newly affluent middleclass created by the industrial revolution, both the right to hunt and the financial means to own dogs. New breeds were created all across Europe, but both the British and the Germans in particular embraced the idea of tailoring the dog to meet man’s needs. Which brings me to the next concatenating link. Scientists believe the dog has a genetic component, something in his DNA, that allows him to evolve faster than any other species, specifically something that allows a given trait to be fixed in fewer generations than any other domestic animal. So if you wish to breed a dog for a certain kind of coat, or a certain color, or a certain attribute—for example, the ability to detect a specific cancer by smell, or a gift for herding, or a tendency to protect—you can fix that trait relatively quickly. The downside is that you will also almost certainly fix any number of traits you would rather not have. Hereditary chronic renal failure, for example. Or degenerative myelopathy. Or cancer. Or heart disease. Or hip dysplasia. Or…

 

One of the things the newly emancipated German dog owners did was institute testing programs for the breeds they were creating, breeding only those dogs that were able to perform the tasks for which they had been bred. Today, variations of this kind of testing exist around the world in many different genres: field trials, retriever trials, versatile hunting dog tests, hunting retriever tests, Schutzhund, herding trials… The list goes on. The idea was—and still is—that breeding the best to the best was good for the breed. In theory, it works. Unfortunately, it also, by definition, creates a closed gene pool and a concentration of fixed traits, both good and bad.

 

One of the breeds born out of the Revolutions of 1848 was the Deutsch Drahthaar, for years reviled in Germany as a bastard non-breed. It was Hermann Göring, an ardent hunter, who was responsible for the Drahthaar’s eventual popularity when he pronounced the breed, “Germany’s hunting dog.” But prior to that the dog was looked down on because Drahthaar breeders took as their motto:  “Take the good where you find it; breed as you like, but be honest about it; let the results be your guide.” In other words, if you need to go outside your own creation to keep your creation viable, do so. Don’t close the gene pool. Were they right? Well, the Deutsch Drahthaar is now considered Germany’s premier and most popular hunting dog, and it’s worth noting that it is one of the healthiest purebred dogs in existence. I have no idea if the national club, the Verein Deutsch Drahthaar, still occasionally goes outside its own gene pool, but I tend to doubt it. However, I think it is time for all breeds and breeders to go back and heed their original advice.

 

There are countless thousands of breeders around the world who devote their lives to improving their particular breeds to the detriment of their bank accounts, and they deserve praise and credit, but their efforts are doomed by definition. A closed gene pool will concentrate the bad as well as the good, and the proof is in the results. There is not one single purebred breed that doesn’t have at least some heritable disease in its genetic makeup. Some—usually less common breeds like the Cardigan—are relatively healthy, but not completely so. But most—especially the more popular breeds, like the German shepherd, the Boxer, the Labrador, the Golden, and so on—are so riddled that the odds are slim you will ever own a specimen that lives out its full canine allotment of ten to thirteen years.

 

This doesn’t have to be taken to ridiculous extremes, crossing basset hound to Irish wolfhound, or Chihuahua to mastiff, but if you know some of the breeds that went into making up your particular favorite breed, why not go back to the source? The description by von Stephanitz of the randomly bred sheepdog that caught his eye back in 1889 is very close to the description of today’s Belgian Malinois. (It is also of note that von Stephanitz placed little emphasis on looks; to him intelligence, temperament, and soundness were paramount.) The Malinois is one of the healthiest breeds around, with only three heritable diseases. Today’s German shepherd, the original police and army dog, once considered the king of working dogs, has been largely surpassed by the Malinois for those tasks primarily because of health issues. Would more harm be done to the German shepherd by breeding back to a similar ancestral type and improving the overall health of the breed, or by keeping the gene pool closed and speeding the decline of a once magnificent dog? Would your Labrador be better or worse for having a small dose of healthier Curly Coated retriever blood? “Let the results be your guide.”

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Mother-in-law

July 5th, 2012 4 Comments

The mother-in-law is a standard joke in America, perhaps around the world, for all I know, and like most old standards there is a basis in fact for this. Consider my friend the judge in Missouri. His mother-in-law lived with him and his wife, and the judge tolerated it with a commendable combination of equal parts patience and humor, seasoned with an occasional dash of homicidal longing. A few years after he and his wife got married, he came home from his annual physical and reported to his wife that the doctor had cautioned him that his cholesterol level was dangerously high, and he had to start watching his diet. The words were barely out of his mouth when his mother-in-law jumped up out of the judge’s favorite chair, marched into the kitchen, and whipped up a huge platter of fried chicken, dripping with Crisco.

 

I don’t have a mother-in-law. I tried it once, but I didn’t like it, and my mother-in-law showed enough good taste and sensitivity to die about twenty years ago. But it’s a standard joke, and I made use of it recently with mixed results.

 

I was digging out a ditch at the far end of my property, down by the road, when a neighbor and his wife pulled up and asked what I was doing. They’re an older couple, the kind of neighbors I wave to when our trucks pass on our little road, but I don’t even know their names, so perhaps I showed poor judgment, but as I leaned on my shovel I said, “I told my mother-in-law if she criticized me in front of my wife one more time I was going to kill her, and she did, so I did, and I can’t think of better place to put the body than a ditch.”

 

I expected merry laughter, and I almost got it from the husband, but whatever he might have felt was cut short by the distaff side who gave a gasp of horror followed by a snort of disgust. Then she turned and said something very brisk that I couldn’t hear to her lord and master. He looked straight ahead and drove on.

 

If I need to borrow a cup of milk, I think I’ll go to one of the other neighbors on our road.

 

Here is Allen Toussaint’s take on his cross to bear. The song was recorded in 1961 by Ernie K-Doe.

 

Mother-in-law, mother-in-law,

Mother-in-law, mother-in-law,

The worst person I know,

Mother-in-law, mother-in-law,

She worries me so,

Mother-in-law, mother-in-law.

If she leave us alone,

We would have a happy home,

Sent from down below,

Mother-in-law, mother-in-law.

Mother-in-law, mother-in-law,

Satan should be her name,

Mother-in-law, mother-in-law,

To me they are about the same,

Mother-in-law, mother-in-law.

Every time I open my mouth,

Then she tries to put me out,

How could she stoop so low,

Mother-in-law, mother-in-law.

Mother-in-law, mother-in-law,

I come home with my pay,

Mother-in-law, mother-in-law,

She ask me what I made,

Mother-in-law, mother-in-law.

She thinks her advice is a constitution,

If she would leave that should be the solution,

And don’t come back no more,

My mother-in-law, mother-in-law.

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