You know, I never really feel like I have a day off. Today, President’s Day, is a day off for the kid. She slept in, video chatted with friends, did homework, read a little from her new book, and generally has been a really good kid. I don’t think she’s brushed her teeth yet, hence why I am holding back and giving her a “generally good” rating.
Me? I had to get all the normal Dad stuff accomplished. The feeding of everybody, and doing laundry, and making sure this home runs smoothly. Not that I am complaining, but it’s not till 4pm that I get a chance to sit down and do this; put a blog up.
But something that has become painfully clear to me know is that I am running short on days that she will sit around the apartment with me. I can’t stop her from getting older, and more than I can stop myself from getting older. Soon, on days like this, she’ll be off to her friend’s place to hang out. I wouldn’t call this a melancholic thought; more like a dark realty of the world that is barreling toward me whether I’m ready or not.
The solid truth that I hold to is that as my kid gets older, that this is the most enjoyable age to be with her. Like the baby phase was great, and who doesn’t love a snuggly cute baby! But, the kid now has opinions, and can make jokes, and likes to show me stuff that’s she learned, and it is infectious to be around a person who’s view of the world is still optimistic and exciting. I like this age. And in another year when she’s a teenager, that will be the best time! and so on and so on.
This might just be the fastest eighteen years of my life.
So, I’ve had this cold for almost a week now, but it’s not a normal cold. Stuffy nose, post-nasal drip, coughing, but I don’t feel run down like I normally do when I have a cold. Also, this cold only seems to come alive for the first two hours of my day, and then all night when I try to sleep. Other than that, I feel rather normal. But the damn thing won’t go away. It won’t get worse, and it won’t get better. It just exists in a perpetual state of being… Neither gaining nor losing energy.
I am sitting and writing in a blazer today. No real reason to be this formal, other than I want to sit on the couch, my computer on my lap, trying to think up three jokes to write about, with a blazer on. It’s not cold in the house, and I have no one to impress, just felt like something I should do. Like, how I should put jazz on, get a glass of wine, and catch up on some reading. Hell, here’s a picture to prove that this is really happening.
So, Thomas Frank got sacked as manager for Tottenham Hotspur this week. I think it was a mistake, yet I also freely admit that things can and will get worse for this team. They just can’t get out of their own way, and with the injuries piling up, there seems like little chance of hope. Relegation is a very real possibility. I won’t blame Frank for this, as it seems like he just has had the worst luck for a first-year manager. I put the blame for this situation on Daniel Levy and Peter Charrington. Levy created an untenable situation where the expectation is that managers are interchangeable. Honestly, the team hasn’t been the same since Mauricio Pochettino was at the helm, and he was fired for a stupid reason like not being successful enough. Sure, do wish we could go back to those days when we were in the Champions League Final and at the top of the table in the Premier League. Honestly, I don’t put it past West Ham to get enough of their act together and make a run to get out of the bottom three, and kick either Nottingham Forest or Spurs down the ladder. I don’t want to see Tottenham in the Championship, but if that’s what it will take for the owners to get their heads out of their respective asses, then so be it.
(This is a Flash Fiction piece that I am releasing to the world…)
No matter what we do, the dog always smells bad. And when I say, “smells bad,” it’s a smell combination of a “wet dog,” and corn nuts. We bathe her with expensive shampoos and conditioners, one’s specifically for serious, industrial grade dog odor. It only holds for a day or two. Then she returns back to her stink. Sometimes with a smile.
We asked the vet about it, and she said that some dogs smell – it’s just who they are. But she ran a couple of tests anyway, to make sure there wasn’t an infection or something worse. Nope, the dog was fine. Her teeth and gums were fine, bloodwork was fine, pee and poop was fine. No signs of infections or parasites. No cancer, no ticks, no fleas, nothing. The vet suggested that we change her diet, maybe that would help. And to be safe, the vet thought it best to shame us – “This is who your dog is, maybe you should learn to accept her.” I accept the dog, just not the smell.
She’s a mix of shih tzu and something else small. Maybe a chihuahua, maybe a wiener dog. We rescued her from a puppy mill, or at least that’s what we were told when we adopted her. She was a sad sack of a lost cause – a little under fed, and not looking happy to be rescued. While the other dogs wagged their tails, and jumped for attention, our dog just lay there on the cold linoleum floor – looking like she’d given up on life. She didn’t exactly exude the traditional joy and happiness that a dog brings to your life. She was giving off a “I’m going to get picked last” vibe. What can I say; I was always picked last. It just seemed fitting.
We wanted an animal in our life; my wife wanted a dog, and I wanted a cat. The animal adoption event at the Paramus Petco only had dogs, though the Facebook posting said cats would be available. But when you walk on the lot, you gotta buy. We just assumed that the bad smell was due to neglect. How were we to know it was a factory setting. We made sure we added pet shampoo to our overflowing cart of pet supplies at the store.
She was nervous to come home with us; shook the whole way. The wife wrapped her in a blanket from the trunk to see if that would calm her down. It didn’t. She shivered but didn’t make a sound. At home, we fed her and bathed her, and let her explore our apartment. We sat on the couch and watched her sniff around wondering what she would do next, which was to take a big poop in the middle of the living room. In hindsight, we should have walked her when we got home.
Walking her was an enlightening adventure. We discovered that our dog hated all other dogs. Our little dog displayed a level of animosity and rage that I didn’t think was possible for an animal. She would growl, hiss, and bark. Spit would fly out of her mouth, and her fur would stand up. Possession might be a good word to use – as it was like the Devil entered her body. And it didn’t matter what the other dog’s reaction was, our little guy still wanted to kill them. Once, she pulled so hard on her leash, she almost chocked herself out. So, walks became a game of avoiding other dogs.
Before you ask, yes we tried all the training tricks to get her to be more comfortable around other dogs. We tried treats, and positive reinforcements, a firm hand, and all that other dog whisperer shit. Nothing took. We had a neighbor in our building who was a dog walker. She was positive she could train our dog. After three days, even she gave up. And she couldn’t figure it out either. Why was the dog so nice to people, but when another dog came around, she devolved into a demon? It’s just who she is, we told the neighbor, and we accept that this is who she is.
This was just an odd day. I went to bed on Thursday feeling like I might be sick. Come to find out when I woke up that I was sort of sick; stuffed up nose and a sore throat. But it never got any worse than that. I kept expecting to have that run down feeling come over me, yet it never showed up. I just felt odd.
As such, I got a bunch of stuff done except writing.
Now, here I am, writing on my phone while sitting in bed, ready for sleep, but knowing that I cannot end this day without writing something.
And this is it; purely a statement of being – I am here, I exist, and I have made a squeak in the void.
My mother was a nurse, and she loved helping people. It wasn’t a job; it was a calling. I say this because she told me often that she never saw people at their best. When you show up at the doctor’s office, and especially at the hospital, people are usually at their worst, and don’t always behave well. She would try to approach each patient with a level of empathy, knowing that the person just wanted to feel better, and a little kindness goes a long way. Reading Angela Kubinec’s flash fiction story “To the woman who conducted my disability benefits interview” touches on this theme, and uses a format to reinforce that idea.
Three main tenants landed with me as I read this piece. First is the protagonist/narrator who wrote this letter to the social worker. I was touched by the humanity of this person. Though it is never fully identified what the disability is for the protagonist, medication bottles and past delusions are mentioned, so a possible mental disorder seems applicable. This character has a nervous frantic energy, but at the same time feels like they are doing their best to hold it all together. Through it all, charming bits of humor and vulnerability peek through. The second part of this story that intrigued me was how the social worker is described in this letter. From the start of the story, the social worker’s annoyance is almost tactile, and she is covered in a harried tiredness which exemplifies a person who is overworked, and underappreciated in the essential job they perform. She is presented as a person who has seen and heard it all before when it comes to these interviews. This creates a simple yet very effective tension between these two, but humanity and sympathy still finds ways to bloom forth in this situation. This lead me to the third point, which is how Kubinec’s use of the letter as the structure to frame this story. Though this isn’t a formal letter, using this format elevates the emotional impact of this situation. The protagonist, the writer of this letter, states that this incident between them occurred years ago, implying clearly that these events have stayed with them. That this act of simple kindness has had weight and impact on their life. By using the letter format, or second-person narrative if you will, the social worker is the target audience, leaving us the reader in a role of witness to the protagonist’s unguarded honesty. It’s as if we are being let in on a secret, instead of being told a story.
“To the woman…” is the kind of flash fiction story that reminds me not to give up on humanity. Just a little sympathy and kindness can help others in immeasurable ways. Perhaps not the most original theme, but a vital one, and one that in the time that we live in, we desperately need reminding of.
