Let's All Go to the Drive-In...

Since the onset of the Covid slaughter, there have been many things I miss, most of them I took for granted. I suppose I always thought I'd be able to dine out, hang with a pal, and go to the movies on an instant whim. (Dumb, dumb, dumb, sooooo stupidly naive, dumb, dumb...) Yeah, there are temporary patches: take-out, zoom calls, and streaming (boy, have we been streaming a mean streak!), but it's just not the same.

Then on a fine recent evening, my daughter sent me an urgent text: "Dad! Come on down Saturday night and we'll go to the drive-in!"

Blink. Blinkety-blink-blink-blink. Then... Oh, my stars and garters! Fireworks! Jubilation! Twenty-six trombones and...whatever that stupid song is that now I can't get out of my mind!

My daughter had found a truly creative work-around to my movie going withdrawl.There are only a handful of drive-ins left in the country and one of them happens to be in my daughter's small (oh, so very small) town. It's a town where a man's merit is measured by the size of his pick-em-up truck and women are encouraged to be brassy and sassy (just as long as they don't brass and sass their Man). Also, for whatever reason, an independent study I've conducted found that approximately 43% of the female population is named Barbie. Not Barb or Barbara. Barbie. And they're grown women. Don't ask me why.

Anyway, I have fond memories of going to the drive-in when I first started driving. Mainly because it was a cheap night out with even cheaper beer and you got to see 3, count 'em, 3 movies! It was a magical place where you couldn't even see the screen and there were so many distractions that movie-viewing wasn't even the main reason to be there.

So...with great expectations and high hopes, we loaded up the cooler and headed for the Starlight drive-in.

Man. My fond memories must've been based purely on nostalgia.

We came early, wanting to stake out a good spot. The problem was "Jeep-O-Rama" took place earlier in the day on the drive-in lot and most of the "jeepers" decided to stay on. First, we tried the closest spot we found, but my daughter got creeped out having two open jeeps flanking us, rowdy and dumb drunk guys leering down at her on both sides. We kept moving until we settled into a "safe-spot." On one side was a mother and daughter duo that we felt a kinship to and the other was some ol' grizzled fart, just cussin' up a storm in his station wagon. We were home.

We were also right behind the concession stand/bathrooms/projection booth. (Although calling it a "projection booth" doesn't seem quite right as it's all computerized now, instead of having the traditionally hammered sot behind the projector who could never be bothered to keep the film in focus.)

The concession building was painted a stomach-turning nauseous green, a color I haven't seen since the sixties (pre-mod era, natch). Some distracting blonde in a very tiny shirt and shorts that weren't much more than a thong continued to walk to the trash can, carrying a dainty piece of trash each visit. And during each visit, she'd look around to see if anyone was noticing her (and how could you help but NOT notice her). She made at least a dozen trips, when one would've sufficed.

Just like the magic of the drive-in, my daughter's town is a magical place, a fantastical area where Covid doesn't exist. Or so the townsfolk would like to believe. Covid's right up there with snipe hunts, Santy Claus, and honest politicians. No one was masked. Now, that was part of the allure for me of going back to the drive-in: a safe environment. But as my bladder grew fuller, I became more worried as I'd be the only one masking up when I went to the bathroom.

But mask up I did and off I went, stumbling over the rise and falls of graveled bumps, seeking out the bathroom in the dark. Once I reached my destination (the lights were burnt out, so I oscillated between men and womens until a woman finally came out of one door), and with a great deal of trepidation, I entered the Bathroom of Doom.

Now, this REALLY took me back. Even masked up, the overpowering stench nearly floored me. Waste of all three sorts (figure it out) decorated the floor. An army of flies swarmed me, a B-horror movie victim. An open toilet, no stall, and clearly people were more interested in using it as long-distance practice then getting close to it (and I couldn't blame them). And the urinal trough (something I thought went out of style with leisure suits) was an appalling mess. Needless to say, there wasn't any soap or paper towels, so I did my business and got out fast before Big Brutus came in and beat my ass for wearing a mask.

Finding my way back to the car wasn't easy. After the sickeningly yellow light of the bathroom, I came out into darkness, dizzy and disoriented, an uneasy feeling that all of the occupants in the trucks and jeeps facing me were watching me. And they probably were. After stumbling way off course, I finally made it back to our car. Whew.

The first movie ended and rolled immediately into the next flick. Rip-off! Back in the day, part of the fun of the drive-in was the intermission show and previews, but I guess Mr. and Mrs. Starlight wanted to get to bed. We didn't stick around and got the hell out of there.

What were the movies? Didn't matter, nor did I pay much attention as there was too much going on everywhere else. I'm glad to have had the experience, but I don't know that I'll go back again (like eating Rocky Mountain Oysters). I'm thinking my love for the drive-in was purely nostalgic after all.

While on the topic of nostalgia, come on down and visit Peculiar County, a mighty nostalgic tale of growing up in the '60's in a small Kansas town. Albeit with ghosts, murderers, things that fly in the night, witches, and other delights. It's absolutely groovy!

 

Nature is Revolting!

No, wait... I'm not talking about the kinda "revolting" that best describes a lot of America's behavior these days, or the Kardashians' newest show, or the wacky antics of our Dorito of a president.

Nope, I'm talking about how Nature is actually rebelling against us, a coup d'etat if you will. Turns out Alfred Hitchcock was quite prescient with his film, The Birds.

Need more proof? Here are the facts (none of that "fake news" stuff goin' on here, nosiree-bob-cattail!):

FACT: The birds in my 'hood are getting bolder and braver. Robins aren't afraid of me anymore. This weekend, I was pushing my mower (and sweating and cursing and crying in misery; it wasn't pretty) through the yard. A robin sat in my path. And he watched me. Finally, one foot away, he took flight just to come right back. They've been inching closer, staring at me with their lil' birdy, beady eyes... Planning...

FACT: Lately, when I've ventured outside to sit on our deck swing, a hugely obese, three-legged, golden cat is sitting in the swing. Several times. He glowers at me like a James Bond villain's cat, and growls before sauntering off. 

FACT: We have daytime owls who can't tell the difference between night and day. I'm talking big ol' horned owls, the kind usually found in cartoons wearing glasses and a scholarly cap, dispensing wisdom to the fledglings. But these owls don't dispense wisdom. Instead, they dole out TERROR! They swoop and screech and hoot and attack. Quite the showmen.

FACT: The other night I awoke to such a clatter, I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter. (Sorry...) There were loud thumping noises coming from the first floor at 2 or so in the morning. Now, I'm not overly fond of getting shot by burglars so I didn't go downstairs, but rather stomped around for a while. Then I opened the door at the top of the stairs and listened. Nothing. The next morning I carefully crept around the house. The covering over the fireplace had been pushed open, the wine rack in front of it had moved. Something had fallen down the chimney and made its way into the house. I'm still waiting for a rabid badger to jump out at me from his hiding place in a pantry or something.

FACT: When my wife goes outside, angry squirrels pellet her with nuts. Then they glare at her.

FACT: Ants are marching through our kitchen, and nothing--I mean, NOTHING--kills them! We've tried a lot of remedies. My wife even started sprinkling around this awful looking yellow powder. I asked her what it was. She said, "Basically, it acts like broken glass and tears their insides apart." I thought, how horrible...and now our kitchen's gonna be littered with thousands of bleeding ant corpses. Well that hasn't happened. Yet. But DOUBLE FACT: the ants have invaded my nightmares!

FACT: Mother Nature's none too happy with us right now based on the way we've treated her since the beginning. Hence, Global Warming. Yes, I know roughly half of America doesn't believe in it, but c'mon, who can argue with the crazy weather patterns that are just getting crazier?

I could go on with more FACTS, but I've illustrated my point. Now, why is this happening, you ask? I have the answer for you. 

Nature's sick of the crappy way humans have been behaving lately. They'd like the world to be pleasant again.

I mean we have riots based on injustices (hell, I wanna protest because I'm sick of the Corona-weight I've put on recently!), outta control cops wailing on people and reporters (when they're not shooting them), name-calling, hair-pulling, a regular wrestling venue (only real), stupid people running the country, smart people bounced because they disagree, racism, sexism, people still finding ways to destroy the environment on big and little scales, reality television, and all of it led by our very angry POTUS. 

You don't see animals behaving this...well, barbaric.

I tell ya, the world's going to the birds (as they gather for their annual fly-by over my car to make it look like a massive paint-ball victim).

Speaking of bad things happening to people because of the way nature's been mistreated, check out Ghosts of Gannaway, a true (kinda) ghost story based (looser than an elephant's skin) on the heart-breaking (pure ballyhoo!) saga of Picher, Oklahoma.

Sixty Years of Grease!

Have you ever wondered what sixty years of grease looks like (and I'm NOT talking about a reunion of the cheezy musical, either). Well, we uncovered this disturbing sight when we moved out an old range from a house we bought for my daughter.

Wait. Let me back up.

Maybe you remember my kvetching about when my daughter and her two dogs moved into our house not so long ago: Hell-Spawn Hound Dogs. It soon became apparent the only way to get these needy dogs of destruction out of our house was to move them into their own house. Besides, my daughter couldn't keep commuting two hours a day to work.

So. We went house shopping in the small Kansas town where she works at a bank.

Gross.

One realtor proclaimed his advertised house as "Ready to move into!" (Maybe if you're a rat.) The carpet was alternately black and green with hair and urine stains (I hope those were pet urine stains). One house visibly sloped to the side. We'll just call another house, "The International House of Mold" and leave it at that. I didn't think we'd make it out of that house of horrors alive. Things got worse from there.

My realtor buddy turned to my daughter, said, "Sarah, your town sucks."

Finally, we went back to the first house we looked at. In comparison, it seemed a hella lot better. Hey, at least it had a basement (cracked though it was), instead of all of those scary crawlspaces where, undoubtedly, bodies were buried.

So we bought the house. And have been working on it non-stop since, trying to make it habitable. Gotta get those dogs outta our house.

The problem is, the previous tenants (who'd been in the home for sixty years) had forgotten how to clean.

Really, really gross. Moving the dangerous range outta there exposed what sixty years of grease looked like. It wasn't pretty. Imagine "The Blob" if it was black. I went to town scrubbing. (Somehow I always get stuck with the less glamorous and triply gross jobs in the "World's Most Expensive Dog House.") Hours later, it finally came clean.

Proud of my handiwork, I turned to my wife, said, "You know, this is kinda fun. Maybe we should flip houses for a living."

Until the pain set in the next day and I came to my senses.

Speaking of creepy towns in Kansas, how about visiting the twelve or so sites on my spooktacular tour of Haunted Kansas? Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley, just a nightmarish day trip away.

Deaf and dumb is no way to go through life...

Well, I've always been dumb. Just ask my friends and brothers. But suddenly, I'm deaf, too.

Okay, okay, not quite deaf, but pretty much overnight, I woke up with substantial hearing loss.

Whaaaaat?

So I'm now deaf and dumb, just one step away from being like "Tommy" (but I sure play a mean pinball).


How did this happen?  One day, I'm fine, the next thing I'm hearing things from inside a barrel. At first, I poo-poohed it, justified it as, "Ah, I just got fluid in my ears, no big deal, happened to me alla time as a kid."

Two months later, I got a little concerned. "Hmm, this doesn't seem right," I suggested.

I went to a clinic doctor, who said, "Yep, you've got fluid in your ears. Take a nasal spray." I did. It didn't help. I went back to my regular doctor. She said, "Huh, that's odd...I can't see anything wrong with your ears."

Uh-oh.

Off I trotted to an ear, nose, and throat specialist (who oddly enough shares an office with a dermatologist; yeah, I don't get it, either). So, the doc's tossing about some guess-work, sticks me in a sound-proof booth where another doctor straps electrodes to my scalp, and tortures me with a hearing test.

I flunked. The doc came back in, waving the failing grade paper around like my mean tenth grade English teacher, and says, "Yep, looks like nerve damage."

"But...but...doc," I said, "I'm too young for this to happen! And it happened over-night, no gradual hearing loss or anything!"

"That's how it always goes," he said, hardly the voice of reassurance.

See, if it had happened gradually, I might've had a chance to get used to it. Maybe eventually shake hands with the idea. But, instead...BOOM!

"So," continues Doctor Ear, Eye & Throat, "what I'm gonna do is punch a hole in your worst ear-drum, then fill the inner ear with a steroid. You'll have a 50-50 chance of getting your hearing back."

"Wait...what?"

"Come with me."

Down the hall I shuffled. Nurse Rachet forced me onto a bed and demanded I sign no-fault papers. Wielding a terrifyingly long needle, the doctors eyes sparkled as he said, "this is gonna sting for...oh, I dunno, six seconds."

"Wait...what's that? I don't...AIEEEEEEE!"

It didn't just sting, it made me kick and jerk like a hanged man. (Six seconds, my arse.)

About a week later and after I'd nearly given up hope, the treated ear improved. For two miraculous days, I could hear fairly well again. Then...it reversed course. Depressed, I trudged back to the doctor.

"Doc," I said, "now I'm dizzy and both ears aren't working."

"Hmmm, I think you have Meniere's Disease."

"Wait...what? Now I've got a disease?"

He explained Meniere's as where fluid sets deep into the inner ears and is treated with a diuretic. "So, we'll treat that," he continued, "but let's go ahead and puncture your other eardrum, too."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Hold up a sec! I don't think that... AIEEEEE!"

So, here I sit several days later, writing this from the bottom of a barrel, hoping to regain my hearing. I mean, some of it's come back. But I'm an all or nothing kinda guy.

It's not all bad, I suppose. For instance, as an unexpected bonus, I hear inexplicable music from strange objects. My white noise sleep machine mysteriously plays polka music. The fan in the bathroom favors '50's doo-wop.

Also, my weekly shopping trips with my hard-of-hearing mom have become even more fun...

"What do you need, Mom?"

"What?"

"Huh?"

"Did you say something?"

"....What?"

"I asked you what you said!"

"I can't hear you! Gah! We both need hearing aids!"

"Not me, Stuart, but if you need to urinate, go ahead."

People wonder why the mother and son in the toilet paper aisle are shouting at one another.

Still, it's an uncomfortable sensation when your body begins to betray you, a sign of fatalistic aging. Something I'd taken for granted finally had had enough of the one-way relationship, and sent me packing. Humph, thanks for the memories.

So, okay, okay, I'm not totally deaf, but it's scary. Worst case scenario is I'll have to get a hearing aid (I'm NOT going to be like my mom). But I'm still totally, totally dumb as anyone who reads my blog on a regular basis can attest to.

Speaking of dumb, there are a lot of characters making poor and dumb choices in my short story collection, Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley. Furthermore, warnings of unnatural things generally fall on deaf ears. Check it out.

Shopping With Mom, Part Kazillion

In my continuous efforts to save my mother money, I made the mistake of taking her to a different grocery store than the one she's accustomed to. I never learn.

With great trepidation, I called her the next day.

"Well, I don't think those chicken tenders you made me buy were real," she said.

"What?" (Sigh.) "I didn't make you buy--"

"I think the tenders were squirrel or cat."

"Mom, they weren't--"

"I KNOW what they were, I know what I know. It wasn't real chicken, that's for sure. I have a tummy ache."

First of all, if you've lived ninety years, you shouldn't be allowed to say "tummy." Second of all, really, "squirrel?" Third, she thinks Trump's a "God-fearing man," so credibility kinda goes out the window.

"Fine, Mom, we'll go back to your expensive grocery store," I said.

"I know what I know." End of conversation!

My mom knows what she knows and is a tad peculiar, but nothing's more peculiar than this: 

"I was blown away by Stuart R. West’s writing in Peculiar County. The dialogue is colloquial and fresh and full of fun descriptive phrases. I’ve read a few of his other novels, and they definitely deliver a hypnotic and horrifying read. Get ready for enough twists and turns to upset your stomach when you pick up Peculiar County." 5-star review from thriller author MJ LaBeff. Just click already.

Remember when comic-book geeks WEREN'T cool?

I sure do! As a kid, I lived through the disdain, the bullying, the ridicule of being a comic-book kid.

A shove off my bike because I was thumbing through a much-valued issue of Spiderman? A hard-earned, four-color badge of honor. The mockery and laughter when I was caught buying the latest issue of X-Men at the local drug store? Just part of the price to enjoy my fantastical dream worlds, true believer! Punched in the school hallway because I had Wolverine stickers emblazoned all over my notebook? No pain, no gain! (Although to have Wolverine's adamantium claws at that moment would've been helpful. *Snikt.*)

Sigh.

My torment didn't stop with the school bullies either. My two brothers--one younger, one older--ridiculed me at every opportunity while they pursued worthless pursuits like football. Matter of fact, my nieces make fun of me now, because their dad tells them all I used to do was sit in my bedroom and read comic books. (Soooo not true...I used to watch a lot of old movies, too.)

Honestly, as a loner, at the time I didn't think much of the fallout. Just knew I enjoyed comic books. But to everyone else, I was a superhero-reading outcast. Oh, the shame. Even my parents were all, "What's wrong with Stuart?"

Back in the day, as long as you were under the age of twelve, it was considered acceptable to read comic-books. But I carried the tradition on into my teens, even my college days. Along with reading Salinger, Hemingway, and Faulkner, I thrilled to the writings of Stan Lee and studied the artwork of Jack Kirby. 

But--shamefully, eventually--I bowed down to peer pressure. I kept my comic-book reading a deep, dark secret. While most guys my age were stashing away their porn collection, I hid comic-books under my bed. If I ever got so lucky as to invite a girl back to my room, I made sure comics weren't in evidence, hastily shoved into the closet.

Such was the shame my family and "friends" instilled in me.

Today, of course, it's an altogether different story.  No matter your age, it's absolutely cool to read comics. The geeks have inherited the earth. Hollywood banks on comic fans by plugging billions of dollars into superhero movies. Comicon has become one of the biggest, best, baddest commercial outlets for the entertainment industry. Commercials, clothing, food, for God's sake, are tailored around the comic industry! You can get a Thor taco!

Instead of a Thor taco, I used to eat a fist sandwich for my comic-book sensibilities. Me and my kind paved the way for you comic-reading hipster posers. You're welcome.

Let's hold up on the senior discount a bit longer...

Just like Winter on Game of Thrones, old age is coming.

Writing's on the wall and, man, I'd sure like to scrub it off.

The other day I took my mom to get her hair cut. In front of Great Clips, I kicked her out of my car, parked the vehicle, then ran inside to make sure she hadn't started some sorta race riot or something. Everything seemed relatively peaceful, so I took off to run an errand.

When I came back, one of the hair stylists (are they "stylists" if they work at Great Clips?), mumbled, "Welcome to Great Clips, can I help you?"

Well. One look at my shaved pate clearly supplied the answer. But things got worse. MUCH worse.

One of the other "stylists" said, "He's here to pick up his wife."

A great big A-OOH-GA horn blasted my skull to bits. A firing squad unleashed a torrent of bullets into my heart. My chest clenched up like a mean, coiled fist.

"Um...she's my mother," I squeaked, very much a cartoon mouse voice.

The offending stylist took a long, gawping look at me, then my mother, highly amused with herself. Doubtful looking even.

Good Gawd a'mighty! Do I really look like a doddering old man? Have I turned into my mother's peer overnight? Will I ever be able to scrape the horrific ramifications of what the anti-stylist said from my brain?

Mom, of course, was oblivious to the entire exchange. Just sitting in her Great Clips chair, with her Great Clips bib tucked beneath her Great Clips chin. When I later told her about the nightmare, she hooted. Loved it. Went on to brag about how someone couldn't believe how old she was the other day. She missed the sheer terror of it all completely.
  Several nights prior, I went to a movie with a buddy of mine. The ticket girl asked my friend if he wanted a senior ticket. He took offense, corrected her. As it didn't pertain to me (at the time), I laughed it off, chucked him in the shoulder, said, "Does that really bother you?"

He said, "Not really, but let's not rush things along."

Indeed.  

Apparently Karma decided to rush my comeuppance for teasing my pal. At Great Clips, of all places. Stupid Karma. Karma probably even gets her haircut at Great Clips, too.

Kids today think anyone over say, 30, is ancient. And they can't be bothered to try and make an accurate age assessment. Just too much darn work.

Great Caesar's ghost! I didn't realize how late in the day it's getting on. I'm gonna miss the early bird supper down at the Shady Ache's home if I don't get my electric scooter in gear!

Nothing old about my newest book, the third in the Zach and Zora comic mystery series:

Do an old man's heart some good and click to buy.

Ladies and Gentlemennnn...the Amazing Mr. Balloono!

I'm dieting right now. And it's sheer agonizing hell.

Not too long ago, while dressing, I called out to my wife, "Honey, my clothes are shrinking! Did you change the detergent or something?"

All of my life I've had a history of ballooning, then deflating again. I've gone from one extreme to the other more times than I can remember. Once, when I was younger, I lost close to 100 pounds.

That's a lotta weight to carry around and lose. But I did it. In a short span of time, too.

But apparently, I was a lot younger then. Hmph. The pounds don't seem to be shedding as quickly now. 

For seven long weeks or so, I've pretty much starved myself. I've forced myself to eat kale salads (does anyone truly like kale? Tastes like cardboard, but not nearly as good.), and other things a rabbit wouldn't touch. Every day I get on the treadmill and walk anywhere from twenty minutes to an hour, kicking into high speeds 'till my bad knee starts squelching and catching in the back. By the time I fall off the treadmill, I'm drenched in sweat, smelling worse than a men's locker room. I can't even make it to the sofa, panting and wheezing like bagpipes.

Worst of all, I've had to give up beer! (Well, at least in the fashion I used to enjoy it.) The horror! Can you imagine? What's next? Giving up oxygen?

All of this hard work and sacrifice for a lousy eleven pounds.

Frustrated, I asked my wife why I'm not dumping weight like I used to.

"Because it's harder to lose weight when you get older."

Huh. Of course. My shelf life for fast weight loss had expired. 

The other day my wife asks, "So, when you lose all of your weight, what kind of clothes do you want to get?"

"Well, since I'm an old man now," I snapped, "I may as well start dressing like one. Lessee...I need trousers long enough to reach my armpits, yet crawling up the ankles. Suspenders, maybe. Nice, sensible shirts. Black socks pulled up to the knees, with sandals on top. Ready? Let's go to Sears."

The Proper Etiquette of Meatsicles

Meatsicles are a beautiful thing.

When you're famished, when you wanna get right to it, when you don't want to hassle with such unnecessary utensils as knives, when you're absolutely exhausted, a meatsicle is your best friend.

Just jab a fork into a pork-chop and collapse onto the sofa in front of the TV. An oldie but a classic. If it ain't broke, don't fix it.

So, the other night--in an ongoing, concerted effort to get away from the TV while eating--we gathered for dinner at the dining room table. I served pork chops.

My fork stabbed a chop, I hoisted it up. Before I took a bite, my wife shut me down.

"Stuart! What do you think you're doing?"

I looked around, looked at the dog, looked for logic. I kinda thought it was apparent what I was doing. "Um...eating." I gave the meatsicle a hearty shake.

"No. Use a knife."

"But...we always eat meatsicles."

"Not at the table we don't. Act civilized, for God's sake."

I said, "Fine, then let's go sit in front of the TV."

Well. That didn't sit well. 

Still, I couldn't understand where I'd gone wrong. I thought we'd long ago incorporated meatsicles into our culinary regimen. I was mistaken.

My wife went on to explain the rules about when and where meatsicles are properly accepted.

Stunned, I asked, "How come I've never heard of these rules before? Is there a book or something?"

"Just get a knife," she groaned, rolling her eyes into orbit.

This world is confusing enough without new rules being thrown at you left and right, especially when the rule-maker doesn't let you know. It's kinda like Trump tweeting new policy and unless you follow him on Twitter, you're in the dark.

Since the beginning of time, meatsicles have been a perfectly acceptable form of food and eating. Sure, cavemen didn't have forks, but it's a well-documented fact they'd jab meat onto sticks, an early precursor. And it's also a well-documented fact cavemen didn't have TV, so when they sat down at the dinner table, meatsicles were completely acceptable.

The way civilized people ate, not like those uncouth dinosaurs. 

Rules...feh.

Speaking of peculiar, you ain't seen nothin' yet! My new book, Peculiar County, is up for preorder and out July 31st. More about it next week.

In the meantime, click here to preorder one very peculiar reading experience (seat belts are mandatory).

Our Dog Year (and it's only half over)

Pity poor Zak.

Healthy Zak!

Our beloved rescue dog was found as a puppy scavenging through trash, never possessing good taste in food. A mixed breed of indiscriminate nature, obviously Zak was at least part pit bull terrier. Because of that, he's faced a life-time of prejudice. My mom won't even go near him, terrified (even though her bite is much worse than his). People go out of their way to cross the street when we're out on walks. Upon Zak's entry at daycare, other pet-owners slip him wary, highly suspect looks. (Yes, Zak goes to daycare.)

But the thing is, Zak's a lover, not a biter. His licking might scrub your skin raw, but he won't hurt anyone. Unless of course you wear the U.S. Postal Service uniform. Then all bets are off. But for everyone else? He wants to meet you. Become pals. Have you toss a squeaky toy around, one he can tear apart in seven seconds.

Then Zak's world went grey. Six months ago he developed a limp. Of course, it didn't seem to hold him back. He powered through it, the way he doe everything. Problem is Zak's as stoic as Humphrey Bogart with paws.

We took him to his vet, who sent us to the animal hospital. Zak'd completely blown out his knee ligament. We faced several choices, none of them ideal. We settled on an expensive surgery, one where the doc would basically cut Zak's knee bones apart and reattach them in a new fashion, screws and a metal plate keeping everything in place until the bone healed.

Zak in first post-surgery Cone of Honor

Afterward, we found out just how much work was involved on our end. At least four months of keeping Zak quiet and calm in a small room. (Good luck with that, especially during mail delivery). Short walks, four times a day. Drugs, hot and cold compresses, massages, leg exercises...King for many, many days of sovereignty.

Alas, Zak couldn't climb steps. I volunteered to sleep downstairs with him in the guest bedroom on a lumpy twin bed, apparently built with masochistic, diminutive people in mind. Four months of sleepless discomfort and back aches.

Nothing mattered, though, not really. Zak was our dog, dammit. Besides, the neighborhood's rabbit population had grown out of control without his watch-dogging. Seriously. He needed to come back and rein in the terror.

When it came time for a check-up, bad news smacked us like a two by four to the head. Two screws had broken with the third bent. Somewhere along the line--a fall Zak had, too much exercise, something--things went haywire. But all was not lost. His bone had partly healed. Still, it was back to surgery for the dog, the metal parts had to come out.

After this new operation, Zak's incision started draining, then bleeding a lot. Several Sundays were spent at the animal hospital as the staff tried to diagnose it. At first, it'd been tagged as a seroma, nothing to worry about. But Zak's limp persisted, grew worse. The doc was concerned. For good reason.

Zak showing off, posing for Midwest Dogs Gone Wild. The final night before the BIG operation.

Zak went back under the knife for exploratory surgery. All day long, we waited. Silence. Finally, the doc called.

The news completely blindsided me. Zak's leg bone had developed a deep infection, rendered into mush. The doctor said we could put Zak through another iffy surgery, involving pins, pain, and many months, and the outcome didn't look rosy. Or we could amputate his leg, the doc's recommendation.

We chose amputation. It hit us hard, surprisingly so. Much more than it bothered Zak himself, I'm sure. But it felt like a deep loss. Mostly because Zak lived life hard, played like a hurricane, ran to beat the band and outrace all the other dogs in daycare. Frankly, he isn't food driven. Play is his ruling motivator. 

SO. Five months, four surgeries later, Zak's making a comeback. Eventually we hope to get him back into daycare, something he misses dearly. (My wife says I'm anthropomorphizing. The eternal debate in our household continues...).

My wife said it best..."It's better to have a healthy three-legged dog, than not have our dog back."

Ready for his first off-leash, three-legged rabbit hunt!

Hurry up, Zak! Those damn bunnies are multiplying like...well, bunnies!

Fender Bender in Suburbia!

It's tough living on the mean streets of suburbia, Kansas.

Day in and day out, one never knows when you might get accosted by a terrifying, sociopathic gang of grey-haired mall-walkers. Or be attacked in one's home--one's own home!--by a siding salesman. Fear the crazed dog-walker who allows his dog to poop in your yard...and doesn't even pick it up! Beware the out-of-control street gangs, riding their bicycles, listening to their loud music, and wearing their hats sideways and pants hanging off their arses!

It's a jungle out there.

Life on the streets of Shawnee Mission, Kansas is hard, at its worst in grocery store parking lots where people jockey for close parking spots and compete for life-sustaining food.

Last Saturday, my wife and I'd just completed a food run. Packed up in the car and good to go, my wife started backing out of her spot. Some jackass in a truck behind her started backing out, too. My wife stopped, laid on the horn. The guy kept coming.

Bumph!

We get out. So does the vehicular would-be manslaughterer, a typically middle-aged sports fan with a beer gut tucked into a Kansas City Royals T-shirt. Very typical of the unsavory criminal element to be found in the scarier parts of suburban Kansas.

He takes a quick gander at the destruction, chuckles, says, "It was just a little bump."

In Kansas, you don't argue with people. Everyone--no matter how crazy--is allowed to carry an armory with them. All you gotta do is walk into Quik-Trip or buy bulk at Sam's Club or whatever.

Thankfully, our car appeared to be undamaged. The guy apologizes, jumps back into his big rig and takes off to perpetuate crime elsewhere before we even got a chance to exchange insurance info.

It's a big, ol' frightful world in the suburbs of Kansas, just like the Wild West all over again.

The absolute worst thing about our near-death experience? We had a witness. As my wife had laid on her horn, this woman walked toward us, watching the ensuing tragedy unfold.

Did she stop to help? Offer her witness testimony? 

Hell, no! She just laughed the whole way, shaking her head like she'd never enjoyed such hilarity, and kept on going. (The grocery store was having a big sale, after all.)

I kinda wanted to enlist the vehicular thug to run her over, but he'd already long vanished in a cloud of environmentally unsafe smoke.

All I'm saying is it's tough and scary on the well-manicured streets of suburban Kansas, absolute chaos, folks running around ignoring laws and especially, social niceties.

I'm off to Costco now to pick up a batch of guns.