The Incredible Cat-Dog

Some years back, when my daughter was just a wee lil' lass, I vaguely remember her watching some awful cartoon series on Nickelodeon, called "Cat-Dog." Other than finding the titular critter very creepy, and the show awful, I don't remember much about it, except that I can still belt out the incredibly, annoying ear-worm of a theme song (although in terms of horrific children's entertainment songs, NOTHING beats that damned, infernal "Baby Shark." GAH!).

Little did I realize that a "cat-dog" exists in real life. And my daughter owns him (or maybe he owns her, but we'll get to that). Unlike the cartoon character, he doesn't have a cat head on one end of his body and a dog head on the opposite end (which begs the question, just how did the animated Cat-Dog go to the bathroom?). No, my daughter's pet looks like a dog, but shares some very eerie cat-like traits. Kinda creepy at times.

Stealthy as a Hollywood ninja, Baron creeps around my daughter's house as if wearing slippers. Suddenly, he'll fly up in the air to land on the highest point of furniture around, where he'll roost like a cat. The amazing thing is he doesn't even need a running start. Just leaps up like the most agile cat around.

And he'll watch me. Oh, yes, he'll watch me. Plotting against me, wondering how he can drive me crazy next, perhaps scaring me into a heart attack or barking me into insanity. Because that's what Baron's all about: he's an evil genius who wants to take over the world and rule. He's just biding his time, waiting for the perfect opportunity...

Brrrrrrr.

Don't believe me? Check out this chilling video footage:

I know, right? And as we all know, everything you read or see on the intronets is true!

I have further confirmation from an internet source, Wagwalking.com. They write that dogs are territorial and will protect their space where they're comfortable. Furthermore, if they've settled on a spot above you (hello, Baron!), then they believe themselves to be a notch superior to you in the evolutionary chain.

See what I mean? Plotting against humanity. You guys have seen the Planet of the Apes movies, right? Beware the furry interloper in your house, people! They're plotting--like cats--to take humanity down!

Speaking of dangerous furry interlopers, my book, Corporate Wolf, is chock full of werewolves in perhaps the only corporate satire, horror, black comedy, suspense, thriller, murder mystery around. So get yourself a copy and parade it around town so you can show folks what a trendsetter you are. All the cool kids get it right here.

 

...And You're Gonna Like It!

As a kid--an extremely ornery one, no doubt--I learned to read my parents like a cherished issue of "Boy's Life" magazine. And I knew the secrets of working them, too. Not always. Sometimes the belt couldn't be avoided.

But, at least in my experience, most threats were just empty for small kids. Promises of punishment to come. Which more often than not weren't followed up on.

One of the dumbest threats I was ever faced with was this old nugget of goofiness: "You're gonna eat that and you're gonna like it!"

Well, no sir, no thanks, there's just absolutely no way in Hell I'm ever going to eat those lima beans and it'll be a colder day in Hell when and if I ever like them.  Of course this is what I wanted to tell my dad as we sat in front of those damned lima beans around the kitchen table in many a stand-off. But I didn't dare tell him that that even if I knew the sentiment was 100% true. 

I've yet to meet anyone who likes lima beans. If you look up a definition of "mealy," I'm sure there's a drawing of a lima bean accompanying them. And the taste is somewhere between rancid baby food and aspirin. To this day, I still won't touch a lima bean. And NO ONE HAS MADE ME LIKE THEM YET.

Combine a child's fiercely independent, stubborn streak with every child's willingness to push boundaries and you have a no-win situation. Our many endless kitchen table showdowns either ended in my conceding to eat two spoonfuls and make a huge production out of it or my dad would get sick of it and just go to bed.

My point is it was a stupid threat that was destined to fail on many levels. There was truly no way it could have been enforced. And I knew it. So many threats are like that.

Another threat was one of my mom's favorites: "Just wait 'til your father gets home!" Now while this threat did carry the not-so-veiled promise of a spanking to come (which my dad carried out with no regret and possibly a little glee), what it told us kids was Mom wasn't going to follow through with a punishment of her own, instead choosing to throw the onus on Bad Parent while she played Good Parent. 

How did that work in our favor? Great! It meant we had time to show our angelic side to soften Mom up and stop her from tattling. If that didn't work, we could plead. "Please, Mom, don't tell Dad. I'm sorry, so sorry, I'll never do it again, please don't..." And finally, when all else had failed, you pulled out another bit of sass. This sounds counterintuitive to your survival, but hear me out. Moms always leaven their spanking. 

"This hurts me more than it hurts you," she'd say while swatting my butt with an open hand. And I think she was right, too. As she cried, I pulled out the crocodile tears and cried alongside her, knowing that I was getting off easy with a slight paddle as opposed to Dad's go-for-it gusto.

"You're gonna get in big trouble, young man!" Another hollow threat. Even as children, we knew this was a stalling tactic. Either we get in big trouble or we don't. But usually this was leveled at me while I was misbehaving in a store where my mom didn't want to punish me in public. By the time we'd leave the store (hours in fabric shops, usually), the threat had dissipated.

Finally, one of my favorites: "Don't make me come back there!" We three boys would be crammed into the back seat usually giggling over that one. Because where was this threat issued? While we were careening down a highway, usually in a hurry to get somewhere. No way was Dad gonna climb over the seat, leave the car to drive on its own, and deliver fierce and swift justice. However, there was one thing we didn't count on...Dad would wildly flail one hand backward, attempting to swat the troublemaker in question. Usually his aim was bad. So it was always strategically important to sit behind him where he couldn't reach you. Or the far side. The poor middle seat generally took the most friendly fire.

Years later, I saw an acquaintance threatening his bratty kid with a "kinder, gentler approach." While his little terror was running over coffee tables and attacking adults--the usual future serial killer behavior--the dad would raise his voice slightly and start counting, "onnnnnnne...twoooooo...threeeeee..." Didn't do a DAMN thing to change the lil' monster's behavior as he ran rampant throughout the party. The kinder, gentler approach seemed to be a step backward.

What am I saying? Parents, either punish your kids or don't. Your choice. But programming them to realize you're just full of hollow threats ain't doing you or your little darlings any good. They know. Oh, yes they do.

Honestly, I should hold seminars for grade school kids in how to take control of their parents. You're welcome!

Speaking of brats, there are three (literally!) murderous tykes on the loose in my horror novella, "Halloweenie Roast," available in my collection, Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley. Maybe it'll make you parents start doing some punishing before it's too late! Get this edumacational tract right here!

 

Home Unimprovement

Take a look at the disaster that had become our living room. Now...gaze in awe at our dog, Mr. Loomis. Man, all that work sure tuckered HIM out.

Several weeks ago, my wife decided we needed a rowing machine. Being no fool, I nodded my head vigorously in agreement, while my back whined in secret. I knew what this meant; lots of hard back-breaking labor as we'd move stuff around time and time again.

SO why was Mr. Loomis so exhausted? I suppose it's hard work dodging his people as we stumbled over him, carrying 100 pound loads of books, awkward boxes of rowing machines, and Laurel and Hardying incredibly heavy objects up and down the stairs. It can't be easy trying not to get squashed.

I suppose I should clarify: when my wife takes on a project, it's not simply unloading a box and slapping a rowing machine together. No, indeedy. As we're both book collectors (between us there are at least 20 bookshelves jam-packed with books throughout the house), this always means the quarterly unloading, trading, carrying, moving, and reloading of the bookshelves. As inevitable in our house as taxes and vacuum cleaners breaking. Personally, I don't see the need to constantly move and swap books, but I think it's my wife's secret way of punishing me for my "man sins." But I do it anyway.

And there's Mr. Loomis, not missing a beat, always underfoot. No wonder he was so worn out. Pity poor, overworked Mr. Loomis.

Usually, projects like this means moving everything out of one room and junking up another room, in this case, our living room. So after much trading out of the furniture, our tornadic home improvement scenario at long last reached the half-way point. We finally--FINALLY--begin unloading the rowing machine. Not until we reached the heaviest piece at the bottom of the box, did I realize it was bent.

Silence. Crickets. Screams.

Incredibly, I volunteered to repackage it by myself since my wife had impending work deadlines. Or I should say Mr. Loomis and I repackaged it. But I thought I'd go it one better and put it together by myself so my wife wouldn't have to.

Huge mistake number two. When did the instructions get so damn complex? Why do we have 10,000 differents sizes of screws and bolts and nuts and gizmos and whatchamacallits and things I never want to see again, let alone have nightmares about? Why can't they make them all uniform in size? Or name? Is this some sort of sick job security on the "designer's" part? And, the illustrations were so small, I'd squint and squint and then get out my magnifying glass and STILL not be able to decipher what my eyes blurred over.

So, after many, many hours of getting things wrong, bracing parts by using various body limbs and furniture, breaking other stuff in the house, sweating, and lots and lots of cursing (oh my Lord, was there lots and lots of cursing), Mr. Loomis and I had finally completed the task! Ta-da! And with only five mystery parts left over, my new personal best!

Alas, the story has a depressing ending. Not only is my weight over the limit proposed for use on the rowing machine (talk about a damned ironic Catch-22), once we received the replacement, it came time to carry the damaged, accursed package to the UPS store. This time, my wife joined me (Mr. Loomis sat this one out; he was pretty exhausted by our earlier efforts). We struggled, winced, fought, and strained to get that sucker into my car and to the store. I told my wife, "This stupid thing must weigh at least 200 pounds." She replied, "that's nothing, we should be able to handle that easily." Ha.

So we finally get it into the store and the guy behind the desk is screaming, "Don't put it down, don't put it down, don't put it down! Get it on the scale!"

Exhausted with my back screaming, I drop it on the floor. Huffing and panting, I manage, "Okay...just a...second...then I'll..."

The younger clerk says, "I'll get it." He rushes over to it, swoops it up by himself, and drops it onto the scale. "72 pounds," he screams, loud enough for everyone in the shop to know our shame.

My wife and I hung our heads as we exited the store to derisive laughter, from then on forever known as the weakling couple who couldn't handle 72 pounds between them.

But at least Mr. Loomis slept well that night, just plum tuckered.

While on the topic of getting into shape, the protagonist of my book, Bad Day in a Banana Hammock, is in great shape! Well, he should be since he's a stripper...er, um, excuse me, a "male entertainment dancer" as he prefers to be called. Check it out to see what wild, funny antics he gets into when he gets caught up in a murder mystery. Sure, he's dumb as a box of rocks, but he wouldn't struggle with a 72 pound package! 

 

Size Matters! Ask Mickey Mouse...

So, I recently had dinner with my brother and his daughters. We had a heated discussion about the approximate size of Mickey Mouse. Yes, we both need to get lives.

He insisted Mickey Mouse is the size of a real mouse. I, defiantly, stood my ground and explained to my brother, Mickey Mouse is about five feet tall.

Let's weigh the evidence. Mickey has a dog named Pluto. Mickey's larger than Pluto, keeps him on a leash and appears to be a relatively good dog-owner. At least he doesn't dress Pluto in Halloween costumes. Plus, I believe I've seen Mickey drive a car, at least in cartoons.

My brother's defense? He said "Mickey Mouse on Ice" is not indicative of Mickey's real size. He stared at me disbelievingly and said, "those guys on skates aren't real. You KNOW that, right?" He said this in the similar, solemn way he once told me Santa wasn't real. There's no arguing with my brother.

The only problem with my rock-solid argument is...how does "Goofy" fit into my vision of the Disney world? He's a dog as well. I think. Yet, he walks upright, speaks (unlike Pluto) and appears to be a well-adjusted--yet, slightly stupid--individual. Of course I didn't bring this up during our lively debate. No sense adding fuel to the fire of my brother thinking I'm an idiot.

This argument has thrown everything I thought I knew into a tizzy. I lay awake at night, pondering the size of Mickey Mouse. Surely, a sentient mouse who walks a dog is human size. Yet...in the back of my mind, I find myself questioning it.

I know this isn't important in the larger spectrum of life (outside of the Disney empire), but I'm due for a good night's sleep, free of worry from large creatures who haunt my dreams.

Such as the various beasties, spooks, and creepy things that go bump in the night to be found in my short story collection, Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley to be found here.