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The (Dog)astrophe

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Yes, I know how to spell catastrophe, but my blog has nothing to do with felines. I have recently written several stories about my continuing war with coyotes and all of my precautionary measures to keep them away. Though none of them are foolproof, the best offense is to secure my pups in my casa at night.

That has worked reasonably well until sometime early yesterday morning. I awoke at six AM, which is highly unusual for me, because I was dreaming about food. After several attempts to lull myself back to sleep, I got up, pulled on some clothes, and decided to go buy a breakfast burrito. I walked into my only carpeted area–the living room and gasped in horror! My berber carpet looked like a cow pasture. I gagged and left.

I have a self-locking baby gate in the hall that denies dogs’ entrance into the living room. However, several years ago my goldendoodle mastered vaulting over it. Particularly when she’s stressed, she can fly over it to escape some unknown fear. I surmise she received an impending threat of Montezuma’s Revenge and had the decency not to let it rip on the tile floor my bedroom. Carpet, though? Yuck.

I returned from the grocery with a burrito and carpet cleaner and attempted to clean up with minimal success. What time is it? 7:00. I went to the computer and searched. I typed in my info and voila! Stanley Steemer would arrive at 10:00! By 10:30, my carpet was restored, my burrito had long turned inedible, and the dogastrophe was resolved. I returned to my bed with no more dreams of food. As Hamlet said, “There’s the rub.”

Cheap, Cheap, Cheap

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In 2020 when COVID roared through America, over one-half of a million of US citizens died. By the end of 2024, another half-million died, and currently 300 people die from COVID each week. (I could have easily become a statistic but somehow managed to survive.) During the mandatory shut-downs, restaurants, bars, cafes, coffee shops were among the small businesses that suffered. When the closures ended, so did my tipping habit. Gone was my 15% of the bill. In fact, my entire outlook on life changed, for my miracle escape from death made me realize I needed to up my ante and pay it forward.

Now, five years later, I have zero tolerance for cheap people, especially cheap wealthier people. I’m sure you, like me, have a handful of friends that are modern-day Scrooges or Silas Marners. They leave meager tips, they ignore the poor, and they have no interest in charitable organizations. Unfortunately, they surround themselves with others of like behavior, such as the current Presidential Cabinet. Isn’t it odd that many legislators enter Congress as paupers and exit as multi-millionaires? They profess to be good, predominately white Christians, while they slash Medicaid, Medicare, SNAP, School Lunch, and Education with “beautiful” pride.

What happened to the Golden Rule?

Weight Loss

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Fortunately, I have never been overweight, which is probably due to my bad habits and overactive foolishness. In contrast, my late mother went on a diet every Monday morning. My sibs and I knew our menu would be severely restricted for several days, until our dad complained about the lack of dessert and fried potatoes. By Friday, homemade chocolate chip cookies were our after school snack and a spaghetti dinner at an Italian restaurant followed. The food would remain marvelous through the weekend…until Monday.

I understand people’s obsession with weight because media has long touted slim, glamorous models. Overweight children have been subjected to bullying. In fact, McGuffey ‘s Second Eclectic Reader (1879), there is a selection entitled, The Greedy Girl.

It begins: Laura English is a greedy little girl. Indeed, she is quite a glutton. Do you know what a glutton is? A glutton is one who eats too much, because the food tastes well. The story concludes: I do not love little girls who eat too much. Do you my little readers? I do not think they have such rosy cheeks, or such bright eyes, or such sweet, happy tempers as those who eat less. (Talk about harsh in second grade!)

A myriad of trendy diets from the Mediterranean to South Beach hit the market. Then came the pills and the deadly side effects of Fen Phen. Yet the researchers forged on in search of drugs to satiate America’s thirst for skinny bodies. Ozempic, Wegovy, and Saxenda hold the new promise. Two of my acquaintances chose Ozempic, and their weight loss is undeniable. However, it is apparent to me they’re nothing more than walking cadavers; it’s as if they are playing How Low Can I Go?

Granted obesity is not healthy, nor is emaciation. Hopefully, those who use these miracle prescriptions can strike a happy, healthy balance, and once in a while enjoy Nonna’s Sunday pasta with gravy!

The War Continues

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Just when I thought I had conquered the coyotes, they returned again. Instead of two, this time there were six predators in my front yard nosing around. My Carl Spackle alter ego took to the internet in search of more preventive measures. I bought another gallon of wolf urine flakes and sprinkled them around the yard.

My research also found that coyotes are afraid of conflagration. Aren’t we all who live in the desert? Obviously, with the Phoenix bad air quality and the environmental destruction of fires, I wouldn’t set my yard on fire. Thankfully, though, I found solar lights that resemble flames, which I installed today. On Monday, I will have installed coyote rollers on the top of my block wall.

If all of these preventive measures fail, I have one more Hail-Mary trick in my bag. Pricey and very labor intensive. According to my hours of study, donkeys will attack and drive off these yellow-eyed beasts forever. I was surprised to learn there are miniature ones who are equally as capable as the full-size. Of course, this drastic, last ditch effort would require building a stable and an arena. Further, I’d have to hire a ranch hand to tend to the feeding and clean-up, as I can barely keep up with the dog poop, let alone that of donkeys. I’d also need a truck and a trailer because every church in my ‘hood would want my donkeys for their live Nativities, and every elementary school would want me to take them for “Read to Donkey” day.

Yes, I remain in all out war with these varmints. If all of my proactive prevention fails, I may have to seek an audience with Pope Donald since he controls everything! Hee haw!

Declaration of War!

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I consider myself a peace-loving person, who would not intentionally ever physically harm any living thing, but today I find myself in full Carl Spackler-Caddyshack mode. I am at war with coyotes!

Spare me your lectures about my encroachment on their habitat. I have lived on the same property and in the same house for thirty-five years and never had any issues with these critters. But four months ago, things changed when they decided to prey on my dogs. (My dogs range in size from 60+pounds to 15 pounds, and they usually all go outside together and wander around my acre property.)

The coyotes chose my eldest–a 12-year-old dachshund for their first victim. Luckily, she escaped with a few bloody nicks and a fear of going outside after dark. Several months later, their second victim was my young, small Bernedoodle who sustained puncture wounds to her back and her side. However, this week my coyote conflict escalated into all out war when I came eye-to-eye with four yellow eyes as they attempted to jump over my six-foot wall into my backyard! Thankfully, my barking dogs and my shrieking voice caused them to abort their mid-air vault. After I had my anxious and over-stimulated dogs safely sequestered inside, I contemplated my strategies. A wildlife specialist at Arizona Game and Fish offered helpful suggestions and an internet search provided even more.

If you would happen to drive by my house, don’t be alarmed. My yard is decorated with motion sensors, blinking white lights, and ammonia-soaked beach towels drape my six-foot block wall. Wolf urine flakes have been sprinkled around the wall. In case you’re wondering, human pee also serves as a deterrent. (I may have to a host monthly stag parties at my casa when I run out of wolf urine!) Finally, within the next week or two, coyote rollers will be installed on top of the block wall–pricey. But after all, my dogs are priceless!

Finally, my nightly attire is a camouflage jacket with an ammonia-filled, super-soaker squirt gun strapped across my chest and an air horn hooked on my belt. So Wiley Coyote and friends bring it on! Dr. Suze is ready! Beep, beep!

NO MORE EXCUSES!

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For the last few years, my nail polish has been Kelly green. Curiously, during that time, I’ve received numerous compliments on the color. That is until, I tell folk why. On May 24, 2022, 19 children and two teachers were gunned down and 17 injured at Robb Elementary School in Uvalde, Texas. The dead were not readily identifiable given their massive wounds. Maite Rodriquez was identified by her Kelly green, Converse shoes.

As a fifty-year professional educator and former twenty-year veteran of a school board, I decided my nails would remain green until reasonable gun control laws were passed. Sadly, two more such shootings happened this week in Texas and Florida–over 80 shootings have occurred this year. Unforgivable. Damn, it’s only April! How many more of our kids will die?

When the President of the United States was notified of the shooting at Florida State University on Thursday, his response was: These things happen. WTF? These things don’t HAVE to happen. They happen because you bow down to the NRA. They happen because you pledged your allegiance to your twisted interpretation of the Constitution’s Second Amendment. Yet, King Donald, you defy the Constitution on due process, birthright citizenship, the balance of power, and the separation of church and state.

According to 2024 Pew Research Center, 64% of Americans support banning assault-type rifles, while 83% support background checks for ALL gun purchases, including private sales and gun shows. But once again, the will of the people is ignored and dismissed by our millionaire/billionaire legislators. Spare me the litany of excuses and protect our most precious resource–our children!

POTUS

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Though not a college history major, I bill myself as a “continuing student” of the subject. Unfortunately, schools tend to teach English, Art, Music, and History as separate subjects; it just makes so much more sense when all of them are taught together. For example, one can’t really grasp A Tale of Two Cities, nor Oliver Twist, without a knowledge of history at the time. However, this is an aside to my blog today, which concerns Executive Orders–those ordered by POTUS with a stroke of a pen.

Now I don’t know about you, but there’s a number of things about which I’m concerned–and it ain’t the price of eggs! It’s about the climate, the abject disregard for science and medicine, the abolishment of special education and school food service, the wipe-out of university research grants, the random firing of qualified professionals, the flip-flop tariffs, and the supposed declaration of martial law on 4/20. (An absurd “smoking idea.”)

Executive order: NO more paper straws! Frankly, I could care less about straws since they would be odd in beer bottles. However, paper straws are ecologically preferred over the plastic ones that kill off our wildlife.

Executive order: Gulf of America! Really? Who cares? I’m too old to change that tune.

Executive order: No more low pressure shower heads. A ludicrous, infantile mandate from a very obese Lothario who is unable to wash away his dalliances without copious amounts of water.

Executive orders: Dismantle departments, terminate any one who disagrees, tax penguins, etc.

To this “student of history,” it seems that The President of the United States has much more pressing issues than these inane executive orders. Issues like, “beautiful bag of groceries,” winning a golf tournament, or the superlative results of his health exam where he’s been declared the smartest, best, greatest, healthiest 78-year-old in the world. (Curious, when one of his professors at Wharton labeled him the “most stupid person he ever taught.” Think about it. Why else would he have threatened to sue UPenn if they released his college transcripts?)

Since none of us are infallible, we will stand in judgment in front of St. Peter and/or historians. Sadly, as future generations engage in their study of US Presidents, the monikers of Honest Abe, Father of our Country, and The Great Society, will pale when children read about the 47th President, dubbed PT Barnum and The Greatest, Golden American Liar.

GOLF

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To clarify, not the Gulf of whatever it’s been renamed this week, but the sport where one tries to hit a little white ball in the cup. The game that’s dreadfully boring to watch on TV, unless you’re in need of a nap. The game that’s certainly not as exciting as playing like volleyball or softball.

This weekend I was reminded of my dabble at golf when POTUS couldn’t meet the plane carrying deceased US soldiers, due to his golf tournament commitment at his Doral golf club. Sponsored by Saudi Arabia, DT managed to qualify for the final round today in the senior division. No surprise, since he’s a legendary cheater at the game. In fact, since his January inauguration, the US government government has spent over $26 MILLION on his Florida weekend golf trips.

Over fifty years ago, I decided to take golf lessons at Mill Creek Golf course. After all, I heard that golf pros were cute, young men, and I was a single young gal. My pro was a married, balding, middle-aged guy, who was an competent and patient instructor. He was highly complimentary of my ability to drive the ball but noted my putting was in dire need of improvement. (Hell, I thought putting was akin to croquet where one slammed the ball into the cup.)

“You have potential, Sue, to be good at this game, but you need to practice. Just play as often as you can.”

Really? Pray tell, sir. Where does one practice in the Lake Erie winters? Thankfully, the beer cart arrived in the St. Nick of time before I flapped my mouth. Aah. I’d found the only redeeming quality to chasing that little white ball around.

The Neighborhood Dive Bar

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I’ve just completed my fourth, and perhaps final novel, which is primarily set in several of these establishments. In order to infuse a dose of reality, I had to refresh my experiences in bars since my college days, and I discovered some of them are much classier than those I hung out in almost sixty years ago.

Upon entry, the first thing that struck me was they were lighter–I could actually see who was in there. Of course, this may be due to better lighting and the no smoking policy. Or it could be because these neighborhood bars don’t cater to the underage, fake ID, college crowds. Secondly, unlike college hangouts, food is served–not bags of potato chips and peanuts–real food, like veggie burgers, wings, club sandwiches, soups, and salads. (Yes, some of it is greasy food, but it’s quality fried pickles, zucchini, and mushrooms.) Thirdly, and most importantly, the bathrooms are immaculately clean. Gone are the phone numbers, the graffiti, and the lipstick smudges. The toilets aren’t clogged; the sinks and mirrors are clean, the waste cans are empty, and toilet paper doesn’t decorate the floor.

Over the last year, I’ve researched this industry and can honestly conclude the owners I interviewed were primarily in their 40’s, some of them were women, and all of them were very customer-service focused. In fact, the bartender immediately uncaps the customer’s favored beer or pours the “usual” before he/she take their seat. Some servers are so adept they can take dinner orders from a table of ten without the benefit paper and pencil–truly amazing what they can remember! (Which is why, at my age, I can’t be a server!)

Finally, my last word of advice, is don’t judge a neighborhood bar and grill by its exterior. Some of these establishments have been around for thirty or forty years. Instead, check out the parked cars, you may see high-end vehicles and fancy sports models. As long as the neighborhood is safe, you may become as fascinated as I am with this industry. Cheers!

The Scrabble Game

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Unlike many of young folk today, I’m very proud of my public school education. Not only, did I learn to read and write, but I learned phonics–nothing more than sounds and letter patterns. Thus, it was not a real brainer when I became and English teacher and a formidable Scrabble player. While the game relies heavily on “the luck of the draw,” it also necessitates the player see patterns, such as ea, ing, ed, re, etc. in the attempt to play all seven tiles at once.

Curiously, the current resident of my casita is also an English major, and we’ll play a game or two once or twice a month. (Since both of us are highly competitive, the stakes are $20 a game. After all, why would I waste my time playing some game?) Last night, the score was tied. She had two tiles left; I had six, but it was my turn. I needed to play all of mine to seize her Hamilton. My remaining letters were: DHAETR. I shuffled the tiles. I had READ, not good enough. I still had the four-point H. I shuffled them again: RED HAT. Damn it!

Think, Sue. If you don’t play these last six letters, she’s going to take your $20. You won’t be able to afford to buy eggs. Once again I shuffled: HATRED.

Any questions?