Category: 2024

Twizzlers and Combovers

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My sister has two children, a girl and a boy. But to be honest, she had three. Zodiac was her third. Zodiac was a Field Spaniel. Well, to be more precise, that was his breed. Zodiac was her child, friend, confidante, and roommate. My sister is a photographer, and by extension, Zodiac was the most photographed furry friend ever.

Gentle didn’t begin to describe him. Like most dogs, he had one mission: to love you. As a Field Spaniel, he had the traditional long ears and feathering on his chest, ears, and the back of his legs. He was all black but had gained some whisps of white as he aged. Years ago, like many Field Spaniels, he had ocular issues and lost one eye. But if you asked him (and if he could tell you), he’d have said it never bothered him to lose it. He just kept moving forward – and loving. The hair on his head was long and wispy and could be combed in any direction. His combover was always a source of entertainment over the years! Oh, and he loved Twizzlers. I bought them for him whenever I could, and my sister always had some on hand. She kept them in an upper cabinet in her kitchen. She has a two-step, painted wooden stool beneath the cabinet. Say the word “Twizzler,” and Zodiac would run to the step stool and stand on the top, patiently awaiting his treat. He’d help guide you to the location of the hidden treasures by pointing his nose at the upper cabinet. The paint had worn away on that step from his many trips there.

They say only the good die young. Perhaps that’s the price of loving. And since dogs always love unconditionally, their lives are shorter than ours. We’ve all heard the saying that a dog year is seven human years. Another way of thinking is that maybe they love seven times as much as we do in any given year. Either way, the cost of their loving is paid in shorter lives.
And we are left to carry the memories of their love with us through the remainder of our longer lives.

Zodiac crossed that mythical Rainbow Bridge tonight. And while I’m a skeptic, I’d like to believe in a place where our departed furry friends wait for us, their tails wagging out of control as we, at long last, approach. So, if you have a moment and are so inclined, have thought for my sister and her kids. If my theory’s correct, your compassion is a sign of sympathy, maybe empathy, and a form of love. It may cost you a moment of your life. And you may die a moment sooner because of it. But isn’t the love we give others, the love we give our furry friends, the love we have for nature, our garden, or our hobbies, isn’t that what makes our lives more than the total of our achievements, tasks, and obligations? If I must go sooner because I love, I will not fear the Reaper. And if I die at 99, I hope that means that without having loved, I would have died at 106. And when I go, please do me a favor, just in case. Stick a few Twizzlers in my pocket. Uncle Chris needs to be ready.

Everyone who ever knew you, Zodiac, is going to miss you. We’ll carry your memory.

The Stupid Factor

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When, in the course of human history, people coalesce around a cause, invariably, it is the fringe and fanatical that visit shame and derision on said cause.

Case in point:

Climate change is real. To assume otherwise is to ignore both established science and our own eyes. Further, and this is also beyond argument, climate change is linked to humans—the extent to which that link is made, whether larger or smaller, can be debated. The fact remains that human action has influenced our climate; our climate is changing, and barring any technological leap in space travel, we have but this one planet on which to live.

There are several sources to this statement (Indian and Greek, among others), but the sentiment is the same:

“A society grows great when old men plant trees in whose shade they know they will never sit.”

Whether it is the group Just Stop Oil or Riposte Alimentaire, I believe in their causes. However, I also know that while fossil fuels are limited in their amount worldwide and the cause of enormous amounts of pollution, I also know that neither Van Gough, Da Vinci, nor Monet will be painting anything ever again. Throwing paint or soup at these masterpieces does two things.

First, it brings attention to the cause. I would argue in the wrong way. Again, I believe in their cause. However, their cause, while not getting nearly enough meaningful action from politicians and nations, is not a generally unknown niche item. Everyone has heard about climate change. You don’t need to draw attention to it as if it’s been wallowing in a distant dark corner. You are turning millions of like-minded individuals from standing with you. They want to crawl into a hole to avoid being associated with you and your idiotic stunt.

Second, I believe the attention you ultimately sought with your stunt had less to do with your cause and more to do with you having your picture taken standing next to a disfigured masterpiece covered in paint or soup while you gloomily pose, maybe glued to the frame.

Grassroots activism takes organization and time. It takes determination and persistence. Ultimately, it takes moving the Overton Window so politicians feel they must be part of your movement. And that comes from the inside. It comes from boldly participating in legislative hearings. It comes from lobbying legislators at all levels repeatedly. It does not come from petitions or stunts.

We need change on many social issues, not the least of which are climate change for the planet and gun violence in America. Mothers Against Drunk Driving set the template for success. Moms Demand Action, Everytown, and other gun violence groups have adopted that template. Just Stop Oil and Riposte Alimentaire may have arms of their organizations that attempt the same measures as these more successful organizations. All I know is what I see on the news. And the photos I see on the news, especially as an art lover, make me cringe. The tiny conspiracy theorist in the back of my head wonders whether these stunts because they are so antithetical to the genuinely just cause, are backed by the petroleum industry to discredit all climate change activists. I hope I’m wrong.

Either way, stop gluing yourself to paintings, throwing paint on masterpieces, and throwing food at art. You look like an idiot and damage your supposed cause. These masterpieces have survived (so far) because art restoration professionals consider it an honor and duty to protect and preserve the art. The activists should adopt that level of care and dedication, again, in whose cause I believe, before a masterpiece is lost because of their stunts. Passion alone will not win the day. It’s a marathon, not a sprint. One cannot plant a tree tomorrow morning and expect to sit in its shade in the afternoon.  

Bigger

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The ride home was uneventful. Clark steered his new vehicle cautiously through traffic, feeling as though every eye was on him, every other vehicle turning into his, and his insurance premium atop his mind.

He maneuvered deftly down his street and turned smoothly into his driveway, feeling the bounce between the street and driveway. With an emphatic bump of his fist, he sounded the horn and awaited his family’s arrival and, more importantly, their reaction.

His son bounded out of the house first, smiling as he saw the new vehicle.

“Cool!” he said, seemingly capturing all his son’s feelings in one syllable.

His daughter came out next, still holding her cell phone and seemingly bothered by the interruption.

“What do you think?” Clark asked, eager for some acknowledgment of his latest purchase.

She responded, “Cool,” although this version seemed to carry disdain and judgment rather than excitement.

His wife arrived next.

“Seriously, Clark?” she said, more in the vein of their daughter than their son.  

As they all sat around the dinner table, passing the plate of DiGiorno pizza, corn, and macaroni & cheese, Clark began to explain the reasoning for his purchase.

“The evolution of self-propelled transportation, while still measured in “horse” power, began with the sedan. “Sedan” was named after litter. Can anyone tell me what a litter is?” Clark questioned.

The children bowed their heads as if their plates held mysteries of the universe previously undiscovered. They knew their father was about to go into one of his history lessons, and they wanted dinner to be history. Finally, with a mouth full of pizza, Clyde, the son, smiled and said, “It’s the place where the cat squeezes off a loaf!”

Karen, Clark’s wife, admonished Clyde while Clark attempted to stifle the smile the visual represented.

Caroline, their daughter, remained transfixed by her plate.

“A litter,” Clark continued, “is a box with extending poles a pharaoh or dignitary would sit in and then be transported by servants carrying the poles.”

“Like in Game of Thrones!” exclaimed Clyde.

“What are you doing watching Game of Thrones?” asked Karen.

“Oh, um, Kenny had it on at his house once, and I saw Joffrey being carried in one. A litter.”  

Sensing the conversation getting away from him, Clark recentered the topic back to automobiles.

“Well, yes, that is a litter. That’s where the term sedan originated. It was a sedan chair. As time went on, the size of automobiles grew and shrank with market forces and gas prices. However, in the last decade of the last century, people moved from sedans to SUVs. Some liked the size advantage for safety reasons, some felt they needed to keep up with the growing size, and some liked the aggressiveness of the size, likening it to the HUMVEES from the military. For example, do you remember what we had before the Grand Cherokee?”

“The Camry,” replied Caroline in her typical, disengaged drone.

“Right!” said Clark, “I sold the Camry because I didn’t feel safe driving in the sea of SUV’s! I couldn’t see around them, and their windows were too high (and too blacked out, don’t get me started on window tinting) to see through when I was behind them. I loved that Camry, but it would have been crushed in an accident with the SUV beasts everyone bought!”

Suddenly interested, Clyde asked, “So why did we get rid of the Jeep?”

“Because, again, sizes kept growing. To gain an advantage over the SUVs, I bought a pickup truck. And when that was no longer enough, I put the huge tires on it,” explained Clark.

And that explains the new one?” asked his wife.

“Exactly!” replied Clark, pleased the conversation was over. He missed his Camry. “I wanted the camo package, but the waitlist on that version was six months.”

“Seriously, tell me what you think of the new vehicle?” asked Clark.

“Is it big enough?” smirked Karen.

“I think it’s cool!” said Clyde.

“Yes, we’ve established that,” said Clark.

Before Caroline could reply, they heard a sound from outside, and they all went out to see their neighbor Bill pulling into his driveway with his new vehicle.

“Thoughts?” asked Karen.

“Damn it!” replied Clark, “And he got the camo package!”