Cowed by a Dog

On the Road to Houston

When we got Zeus some four years ago, he was a very mellow Jack Russell, which means that he could be nuts on occasion, but generally, he was a sweet and somewhat obedient dog. He would charge out the door if we weren’t cautious, but he’d always come back.

Except for the time a caring driver lured him into his car and dropped him off at the pound, affording us an anxious and sad night. We stood in the field across the street calling his name and imagining him hurt, lying wounded in a ditch, prey for the coyotes that held regular deer parties there. Maybe he’d serve as a side dish.

But we found him, cooped up and whining his heart out to be released and allowed to return to his castle on the hill where his servants anxiously awaited his arrival.

Then we discovered Cesar Millan, the Dog Whisperer, a true genius with animals. Now Zeus doesn’t pull on the leash all the time, escapes but will stop if he decides you really mean it, and generally has aged into the kind of dog that’s a pleasure to travel with. People seem to think he’s adorable, despite the fact that my business partner Frank always thought he was a rag-tag little pain in the neck, and of course Zeus adored Frank and never left him alone.

He still has a penchant for seeking out the most dog-averse person in the room and jumping on his or her lap to smother them with wet kisses, while his victim invariably calls to mind the last place Zeus’ mouth was.

There is one small habit that Zeus has acquired, though, that I have yet to break him of.

Cow alert.

Now I can understand a dog woofing at the occasional stranger outside the door, or at the itinerant doggie who crosses his boundaries, which is to say, the immediate world. But cows? In a field at least half a mile away? What does he want them to do? Run? Cows don’t run. Moo back? Give milk?

But bark he does, and bark he continues, until they are well and gone from his personal movie screen. If I try a Cesar technique and gently poke him to distract him from the cows, I can interrupt the barking, but not for long. He’ll look at me, then bark right in my face as if to say, look at all them big dogs out there. If I poke him again and again, or if I hold his snout closed, he eventually stops, but I can still feel his coda of bark ‘n rumble, so quiet as to be almost inaudible, but definitely there, a last growl or two to let them know he wasn’t a dog to be trifled with.

The other day I was driving, and Zeus was parked on John’s lap, one eye closed in pre-sleep. Suddenly John spoke up: Look Zeus! Cows! Ruff ruff! And of course Zeus went on the alert, barking until the cows were tiny dots in the rear view mirror. Now I know why it’s been so difficult to break him of this peculiar behavior. He has an accomplice.

Is there a Cesar for humans? Am I going to have to start poking John in the ribs when he misbehaves? Does he too need a Gentle Leader, that leash that goes over his nose and pulls his head down when he acts up or strains to be the pack president?

Can I teach this old dog some new tricks? I'll let you know.

Betty

WD40 and the Love Bugs

Mobile Alabama
Route 10 to Baton Rouge



When you drive a bus with a flat front, you spend a lot of time looking for the perfect product to clean the bug splat off your windows.

Our good friend Tony, a master of the Internet and keeper of obscure solutions he finds there, told us that the best thing to unstick the sticky entrails that glue themselves onto your windows, obscuring your vision and making you drive off bridges, run through yellow lights, or hit small people on motorcycles, is WD40.

WD40 is a water-displacement product. I have no idea what that means or how it works, or why displacing water will remove dead bugs, but it was worth a try.

Last night, as we spent a romantic and starry night among the dead transmissions and used oil cans in the repair shop parking lot, John got out his newly purchased WD40 and went to work on our filthy windows. He returned inside an hour later, sweaty and breathing heavily, and announced that as a solution, WD40 isn’t.

Now all of this wouldn’t be as catastrophic if we weren’t in a Gulf State, the geographic home of the Love Bug.

Last I’d heard of a Love Bug was in the 70’s, when it was a movie starring Herbie, a classic VW. I’d never experience real Love Bugs.

For your information, these are small insects of the fly family who spend their entire lives mating. They were, in fact, genetically engineered--in the 70's, coincidentally--by the brilliant scientists of the University of Florida, to kill mosquitoes. Unfortunately, since mosquitoes are nocturnal and love bugs are active during the day, it isn’t quite working out. But even if a few of them decided to stay up late, they still couldn’t do any good because they lack the mandibles (jaws), grasping legs, speed and pugnaciousness of predators. Of course, these mild mannered sex machines managed to escape the lab somehow, and mate and mate and mate until they now cover the entire Gulf area from Florida to Texas. And they have no natural predators. Ooops, somebody’s bad.

The body fluids of lovebugs are acidic and will dissolve automobile paint. If you wash them off within 24 hours, you’re safe. Like everything else they do, they’re slow to acidify. They are attracted to houses. They like light colored paint. Of course they do; they're totally black except for a red thorax. They leave such a lovely smear, don't you know.

These are the stupidest bugs I’ve ever experienced. I’m sure it’s all the sex. If you had sex for two days straight without a break, you’d probably crash into windows too. I was getting out of the car and six of them flew into my shopping bag. That’s 3 couples. Maybe it was a death wish. Maybe they just did it as a “Will you get off my back!” statement. I choose to label it basic-stupid, since I’ve seen them caroming off of the dog, bumping into trees, and perching in pools of Windex.

This morning, with John working the windshield wipers and me aiming the Windex at the smeared WD40 streaks from the outside – and drenching myself in the process- we managed to clean two small patches so that we could be on our way.

Fifteen minutes later, there were 8 sets of lovers pasted on our briefly-clean windshield, and god-know-how-many-more below it, baking their way into acidic harmony with our paint. My guess is, they were attracted to the smell of the WD40. Sex can do that to you.

Betty

Trailer Trash Tess

Mobile Alabama
Monday Evening

After four straight days of no-makeup and no blow dryer, I believe I have reached a new low in appearance, the next rung down being the no-shower level, but I pray I do not go there.

First of all, we’re in Alabama. People here are unpretentious, and many live the simple lifestyle. Which is to say, there is fertile ground for the “What Not to Wear” show, and face painting appears not to be a priority. So when in Rome…

Also, it’s damn hot here. Two days ago I watched from the inside of our air-conditioned coach as the outside temp danced around 100 degrees in the one-day-it-will-be-luxurious-but-right-now-it’s-dirt Gulf Coast Motor Coach Resort and Golf Club outside of Foley. I should have known that something was afoot when the owner invited us to spend three free nights. Nothing is free. Sure enough, six sites were habitable, but the other 250 were just a dust mote in the eye of their creator. The pool was a hole, the clubhouse was a pile of bricks and 2x4’s and the plants were still on order from Burpee. So we parked and sat inside and watched the backhoes do their thing.

We were there and not in Mobile because the coach was hiccupping and burping so badly at speeds above 45 that we were pretty sure we wouldn’t make it there. We hoped against hope that a day or two of rest would perk our transmission up and we would forget we even had problems.

Wayal. We made it as far as Mobile, finally, but Buddy of Buddy’s Transmission told us he was amazed we’d gotten this far. So, tonight we’re sleeping in the repair station parking lot and maybe tomorrow we’ll get repaired. Or maybe not.

Would you bother with makeup or blow-drying your hair in my situation?

So call me Tess. That’s my idea of a trailer park name, and don’t ask me why. Maybe it’s the alliteration.

Yesterday, when I stole the Jeep to take a forbidden ride to the outlet mall – I NEEDED those white pants! -- I was assisted by a lovely African American woman who probably outweighed me by 50 pounds, but who nevertheless made me aware of the frump I’d become. She had on a lovely white skirt, all flowy and cool-looking, a fuchsia tank top, (fuchsia being a word I rarely spell correctly and I didn’t this time either) pretty sandals and tasteful jewelry. Her hair was skimmed back in a neat French twist.

I, on the other hand, had … hair. Clean, definitely, but air-dried instead of blown straight, which meant that with the humidity, it was now sticking out from my head horizontally, not curly, not lush and wavy, more like crimpy and frizzy. I had also not bothered with even so much as mascara, which meant, given my blonde proclivity, that my eyes had receded into my head and gotten lost, my eyebrows, barely noticeable on a good day, had disappeared, and my lips, always “delicate” were now non-existent. In other words, I was a giant dandelion puff surrounding one of those yellow happy faces, but without the black magic marker.

I was so embarrassed to be in the presence of this gracious and perfectly groomed woman, I took out my brush right then and there, swept my hair back and put a rubber band around the mess. Sorry for looking so untidy, I said.

Oh no, she said, I just thought y’all had been to the beach.

Then she added, hastily, but you looked fine before.

Right.

I got into the car and looked in the mirror. I promised myself I’d never go out again looking like this. Like myself. How sad is that. Once back in the bus, I fired up my computer and comforted myself with those pictures of Goldie Hawn, Katherine Heigl, and that one who’s getting killed off on Desperate Housewives, whatsername, Nicole somebody? Without makeup they all look as bad as I do, which is to say, human, normal and with some years on them. Reese Witherspoon I won’t comment on, since she looks perfect no matter when the cameras catch her. She’s probably an alien. As is Nicole Kidman who is taller than most humans, a dead giveaway to her extra-terrestrial roots.

All of this hurry, by the way, is because we have to be in Houston by Thursday in order to fly to… hello … Mexico. Which, as of this writing, our Harvard-educated and therefore presumably brilliant President has recommended we avoid like the plague.

Yes, there is irony in that last statement. Also an incredibly clever pun. I may have ugly hair and absent features, but neither heat nor dead transmissions nor swine flu can dampen my keen sense of the ridiculous. Especially when the ridiculous one is Tess herself, yours truly.

Betty

Putting Down Roots

12 Oaks RV Resort
Sanford, Florida near Orlando

An amazing thing happens here in Florida when people find a place to park their recreational vehicles. People stay. The don't come in for a day or two or a week or two. They come in, park, make friends, hang around, walk their dogs and become social within the social confines of the campground. Which makes for pleasant living, and accounts for the bulletin board notices like Pot Luck Supper Tuesday Night at 5:00, Healthy Dishes Suggested. And Come Say Goodbye to Doris as she heads to her grandchildren's house in Minnesota.

And another phenomenon occurs concurrent with the expanded social life: the RVs, meant for mobility and scaled for simplicity, begin to grow roots.


Here, an example of the early stages of rooting. Note the gracious pathway, tended lawn, mulch (!) and American flag. Then note the shed with handsome plant masking its cold, hard aluminum corner. Remind you of your garage?



Stage Two: Exterior Enhancement
There is a very limited amount of space inside an RV for decoration, but the outside is virtually limitless. Note the storage shed, boot bench with side storage units, small wrought iron table in the rear, various wire sculptures, hanging things and I'll let you count the plants yourself. And of course some do it better than others. But that's just my opinion.

Stage Two and a Half: Car Port and Unique Signage






Stage Three: Vehicle Proliferation
You need a truck to pull your house, a car to drive around, and of course a golf cart to ride within your new community. Plus maybe a bike if you're young enough.



As I said, some do it better. And some are ... well, relaxed.












Stage Four: Root Development
Like that darned avocado pit that sits in that paper cup for ages without doing a thing, then overnight throws out first one protuberance, then another, RVs have their own growth cycle. One day they're mobile, then next day they sprout these little fences, designed to cover up those ugly wheels and anchor their homes into the earth, as homes were meant to be anchored. Do you think Adam and Eve settled into the mobile life after Eden? I'll bet they built a little lean-to just outside the gate and over time refined it into a two-story Cape Cod with maybe a little pool in the back. Definitely a barbeque anyway. Witness:





















Yes, that is a hot tub.








Final Stage: Expanded Landscaped No Longer Mobile Home





And so the cycle is complete. Having set out for a simple, unstructured, move-at-will life, we finally achieve our goal: a complex, rooted, I-belong-here existence. Roots. Love 'em or hate 'em, we never can leave 'em.

Betty

A Man and His Dog

And now you know why I often ask, "In this relationship, who is the man, and who is the dog?"