Tuesday, January 7, 2014

Bark up/Bark down: A neighbor's dog left out in the cold


I’ve since last February been wrestling with a question that apparently consumes wood-burning Norwegians: Stack the firewood bark up or bark down?

As you can see from the “Norwegian hit TV” link below, it’s a divisive issue in that quaint and progressive Scandinavian nation. I’ve always intuitively been a bark down guy, but as I was cresting the steps to the stranger’s forbidding door, I began wondering if my last mortal thought might be maybe I’d been wrong.

Maybe it ought to be bark up.

Either way, I was hoping in the next 90 seconds I wouldn’t find out if I was the kind of guy who when riddled with gunfire died face down or face up.

See, on days when the Polar Vortex plunges western Pennsylvania temperatures to minus-12, I think about firewood. Do I have enough? Is it accessible? Will a passing Norwegian ridicule me if he sees mine’s stacked bark down?

My wife and daughters think different thoughts. They think about the angry neighbor dog left exposed in the deadly cold.

And they think I’m just the guy that ought to do something about it.

That’s how after leaving The Pond before dinner I found myself walking up the steps to the front door of the stranger’s house. The property is always well-kept and the couple in their early 30s who live there take evident care of the home and the property.

Just not of the dog.

It’s a ratty old German Shepherd. Not ratty, by choice, I think. I know many Germans and they are refined about their appearance. Of course, I only know German lawyers, German grocers and one German tailor.

Maybe if I knew a German shepherd he’d have matted hair and fleas, too.

What’s particularly galling is the couple have a cutesy-pie little bone-shaped driveway sign that says, “A spoiled rotten dog lives here,” referring apparently to a pampered house dog we’ve never once seen.

The sign means they’re either being ironic or deliberately cruel because if that outdoor dog can read then the sign’s bound to really piss him off.

So this dog is a sore point for us and, I’m sure, many other animal lovers who drive past it and see it in all weather chained across a little creek on the edge of the woods snarling at every passersby from its dilapidated hovel of a dog house. We’re friendly with all the neighbors scattered on our rustic little stretch, but the house with the dog is beyond our realm and there’s never been any reason for us to stop by for even a quick howdy.

Had I ever seen either of them out getting the mail when I was passing, I’d always meant to stop and ask, hey, what’s with the dog? Clean him up and I’m sure he’d be a fine looking fellow, big and sturdy as he is.

But is it any of my business? I’m not sure. These people drive decent cars and have a satellite dish on top of their house. Certainly, they’re sentient enough to know it’s cruel to leave a dog all alone, especially on a night of record lows.

Guaranteed, nothing I say is going to have them responding, “You know, what you’re telling me is a revelation. It never dawned on me that a dog might freeze to death on a night when the wind chills are minus-28. Honey, get the tub and some scrub gloves. We’re gonna give ol’ Baxter a bath. Tonight he’s sleepin’ in the big bed with us!”

Val tried the Humane Society, but they’re swamped. They said if the dog house has straw, he’ll be fine. We doubt it does.

I cited with futility all these rational arguments for doing nothing, but doing nothing was unacceptable and I get that.

Val said she’d go with me.

No chance.

I couldn’t risk her getting emotional in a high-ground moral argument with strangers, a situation I actually relish. I’m the kind of guy who loves to argue even when he’s, as I mostly am, just dead wrong in both substance and fact.

So I left the bar, headed toward home and pulled into the driveway of the split-level ranch house.

It was dark and the dog was making his usual annoying racket. He has nothing to do but bark and snarl so that’s just what he does. I know if he breaks his chain, he’ll tear me limb from limb.

I really was thinking about the bark up/bark down argument as I climbed the snow-covered steps.

But I was also thinking this: People get killed everyday in America for doing exactly what I was doing -- and I don’t mean scolding a neighbor over mistreating a neglected animal.

I mean knocking on a stranger’s door.

It was dark. It was frigid. It was a night when no one in their right mind would be out knocking on doors. I had a beard and I’d been drinking.

True, it’d just been three beers, but remember: all Trayvon Martin had was some Skittles and a puff of pot.

I was practically fair game.

I instinctively knew if I was shot dead, Wayne LaPierre would in 48 hours be holding a press conference saying I’d had it coming. This is Pennsylvania where so many of us famously cling to our Bibles and our guns.

It’s just that none of us ever respond to a friendly knock on the door with a handy bit of Scripture, preferring, instead, to just start blazing.

So it was not without some honest trepidation that I gave a long, loud knock.

Then another.

No answer.

Part of me was relieved that what I understood was a no-win situation was averted, but I needed to do something so my girls knew I didn’t chicken out. I couldn’t leave a note, at least not one written on paper.

But the parked Toyota Camry had about an inch of snow on it. So with my gloved finger, I traced on the car windshields, “DOG! DOG! DOG!”

They’d have have to know what the crude message meant.

I feared I’d drive by this morning and see the winds had drifted the snow so it looked like “OOOI OOOI OOOI” But they did not.

“DOG! DOG! DOG!” was still legible.

Val reported she drove by later and noticed the dog house was empty, leaving us to assume they got the message and did the responsible thing.

I hope so.

And I hope right now that noisy dog is in their garage where he can in sheltered safety bark up his usual annoying storm.

Or should it be bark down?



Related . . .




Monday, January 6, 2014

Trees, rivalries & the depths of human hate

(889 words)
Much of sporting-obsessed America will be tuning in to the BSC National Championship Game tonight. They’ll be watching for reasons ranging from partisan pride to base wagering that the Florida State Seminoles will beat the Auburn Tigers or vice versa.

None of that interests me in the least.

I care only about how the final score affects just one man.

He’s Harvey Updyke.

Who’s Harvey Updyke?

He’s maybe the most hate-filled man on the planet.

And that’s no exaggeration. There are probably veteran al Qaeda militants who could play Dr. Phil to Updyke by counseling him maybe he ought to consider whether it’s time to simmer down.

Guaranteed, down is not the direction Updyke, 64, will ever simmer. A retired Texas state policeman, he seems like a man who lives at a full boil.

I’m fascinated by any extreme human emotion, none more so than pure hatred.

It’s because extreme and irrational love is easy to fathom. Heck, any boy who’s ever had a puppy or an erection understands irrational love.

It’s something that’s beyond your control. You feel the need to pet it. You think about it all the time even when it’s making a real mess.

I’ll leave it to you to decide whether I’m referring to the puppy or the erection.

But, ah, love, our sweetest emotion. Who among us has not at one time or another made a fool of ourselves over affections we’re too embarrassed to admit?

Certainly, we’re all capable of hatred, but it’s not something in which sane folks ever revel. No one in their right mind celebrates hatred.

Well, no one but your typical sports-obsessed fan.

That brings us to Updyke, maybe the most obsessed fan of the team with maybe the most obsessed fans on the entire planet.

Roll Tide.

Yes, Updyke’s a fan of the Alabama Crimson Tide, heirloom home of fabled Coach Bear Bryant, and perennially among the best teams from the best conference in college sports, the fearsome SEC. Experts speculate the Crimson Tide could beat many professional football teams.

And because they are so good, they are widely reviled by resentful fans of lesser teams.

So who does Alabama hate?

That would be tonight’s BSC Championship participant Auburn Tigers, right now the No. 2 ranked team in America.

Even those of you who are unfamiliar with college football rivalries will sense the merging of combustible elements. And it’s all taking place between two schools just 2 hours and 34 minutes apart within the borders of a state that excels in hating like no other.

That Harvey Updyke’s name will forever stand out in the state’s annals of hate is even more remarkable in that his victims weren’t people.

They were trees.

He killed the stately 130-year-old oaks at Toomer’s Corner, the spiritual center of Auburn’s magnificent campus. If you’re not familiar with it, it’s the kind of place where delirious fans go to celebrate important team victories. Generations of Auburn students have gone there to propose marriage to their sweethearts and have then rejoiced when the offspring of those marriages did the same with other Auburn sweethearts.

And after Alabama lost to Auburn in 2010 as the hated rivals were on their way to a national championship, Updyke drove to Toomer’s Corner and poisoned these magnificent and historic trees with a commercial herbicide so potent authorities were unsure if the groundwater would ever be safe again.

What did he do then?

He called a sports talk show, never a forum for clear thinking, and bragged about the deed. Calling himself, “Al from Dadeville,” he described his crime with telltale clarity that would be his undoing and then signed off with “Roll Damn Tide.”

I know many rational people who thought his crime was so vile, so hate-filled, he should have been given the death penalty.

And I know that there are places in Alabama where he is considered a folk hero who’ll never have to pay for another drink as long as he lives.

He spent six months in jail and was ordered to pay $800,000 in restitution, a sum that’ll ensure he’ll never earn another dime without having to think about the hated Auburn Tigers.

He was freed from jail June 10 to what I thought would be quiet anonymity.

I was mistaken.

His probation includes many sensible restrictions, but watching Alabama football isn’t  one of them.

So, certainly, Updyke was watching November 30 when Auburn shocked Alabama with a last-second comeback win that was probably greatest football game I’ve ever seen in my life.

As euphoric Auburn fans poured onto the field to celebrate, I thought about Updyke and wondered how a soul as tormented as his would react. Had incarceration simmered him down?

It had not.

This anti-social misanthrope took to social media to post what at first sounds like remorse: “I wish now that I had not killed those trees . . .”

But then came the Satanic kicker: “ . . . just so I could do it all over again.”

So, of course, tonight I’ll be cheering for Auburn.

Funny, isn’t it?

I today find myself rooting for a team solely because a hateful man did something heinous to roots.

I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.

Unrepentant tree killers find it impossible to ever turn over a new leaf.


Related . . .



Sunday, January 5, 2014

Re-Run Sunday: My word quest for a true "Zeitgust!"


Had a great conversation with a convivial friend at a party last night, and by “great” I mean she said lots of flattering things about me, my book and my blog. She gushed and gushed and gushed.

Like I said, great!

Like me, she enjoys the playful aspects of our language. I told her I’m intending to make another push to get my book proposal “Zeitgust: How Words Become Words & A Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad Dash at Dictionary Recognition” accepted and published. So I thought, thanks to Jenn (and Susan!) I’d re-run a ’10 story  that touches on the topic and includes at the end 60 of the words I’ve coined.

I have a lot of fun with these, hope you’ll enjoy them, and share a few of your own. 


A heady gush of teastosterone was pulsing through my veins, but my Mamish wife accused me of shamorous behavior. I hadn’t seen her this angry since painful birthquakes had made her stork . . . raving . . . mad! It was the kind of reaction that can make happily married men understand why some guys are slomosexual.

The whole situation made me wish I’d married a mousewife instead of a sassy woman’s fiberator.

She left me no choice but to go down stairs and make goodbye glibberish with my budding slimitator and her sister, the santaclaustrophobic. I was impatient because I had an error-plane and knew at some point I was bound to suffer from comatoes.

I’m watching my garbohydrates so I grabbed a crapple and headed down for a wretched cup of coffee from the failing shop where I volunteer bizzospice care. I climbed back into the car, switched on the radio and decided against listening to any of the blowhard boracles and instead punched in channel that played standards sung by women with unconvincing leyebrows. I knew I’d be seeing scores of mallbergs at the airport and wished for a moment I was going someplace warm, even if that meant I might have to dodge hungry canniblers.

They wouldn’t scare me because I fancy myself a mooscular empathlete. I may spend my days decrapitating silly little stories on my laptop, but in my mind I’m tougher than Ernie Borgten.

Didn’t understand any of that? Did the spellchecker in your head just explode?

Don’t blame me.

Blame the culture and the dictionaries it relies upon for not letting me in.

See, the words that baffled you above are just a sampling of the 30 I’ve coined and am trying to wedge into usage so widespread that they’ll be recognized as significant contributions to the vernacular. I’ve spent the better part of the last four years coining words with the hopes that just one of the little dandies will earn a relatively microscopic spot on a whisper thin page in dense books with more than 1,600 pages and 180,000 entries.

I don’t think that’s asking too much.

See, I’m on a word quest to land one of my neologisms -- self-coined words -- in a major dictionary. Any major dictionary. Once there, it will endure with barnacle-like tenacity through the ages. Once one gains acceptance, dislodging dictionary words becomes as impossible as removing dogged and ill-conceived traffic lights: no one ever thinks of removing them no matter how little traffic they actually stop.

As goals go, it’s not like leading my team to Super Bowl victory, brokering a tricky peace deal between historic hostiles or curing something itchy. It’s not even like writing a 75,000-word bestseller, something even marginally literate athletes, drug-abusing rock degenerates and self-degrading reality TV stars have achieved, so how big a deal is that?

When you think of it in those writerly terms, how worthy a goal is writing any book, even a really good one? They come and they go.

In fact, the only books with perennial staying power to transcend cultural fashions are dictionaries and holy books like the Bible. And I’ve already authored the only book published in the last 2,000 years that can arguably be called holier than even the Bible.

It’s “Hole in One! The Complete Book of Fact, Legend and Lore of Golf’s Luckiest Shot,” (Andrews McMeel, 2003; current Amazon ranking, no. 1,071,643). As the only book ever written dedicated exclusively to the most amazing shot in golf, it documents the story of hundreds of aces. In “Game’s Holy Grail is Far From Elusive,” a August 17, 2009, New York Times story, author Bill Pennington cited me and my book in his story about the art of aces.

If The New York Times cites my book, and only my book, in its story about aces, then I humbly submit my book is the Bible on the subject. And saying a book about aces is downright holy isn’t much of a stretch. And, yes, I’m aware, the dictionary spells it “holey,” but as I’ve already pointed out, the book is not without its flaws.

So, even though it may be a just bit of stretch, I’ve already checked “Write a Really Holy Book,” from my life’s to-do list.

That leaves “Plant One Word in the Big Boring Book Full of Them” next on the list (just below ‘Call Buddies about Happy Hour Plans,’ and about five notches above things like ‘Fix Car Brakes,’ and ‘Find a Job’).

My inspiration is the late Bill Cardoso. I still have the fading yellow newspaper clip announcing his February 26, 2006, death. The Associated Press obituary reads: “Bill Cardoso, the writer who coined the term ‘gonzo’ to describe the frenetic participatory journalism practiced by contemporary Hunter S. Thompson, has died. He was 68.”

The 350-word story goes on to detail how Cardoso and Thompson became friends while sharing long rides and chats together on the national press bus assigned to cover the 1968 re-presidential campaign of Richard M. Nixon. When Thompson wrote his colorful drug-riddled story, “The Kentucky Derby is Decadent and Depraved for Scanlan’s Monthly magazine, Cardoso wrote a flattering letter describing the piece as “pure gonzo.”

“The term stuck,” reads the Cardoso obit. “Thompson embraced it and so did Webster’s, including it in the New World Dictionary in 1979 as meaning ‘bizarre, unrestrained, extravagant specifically designating a style of personal journalism so characterized.”

The brief story mentioned that Cardoso’d written for Esquire, Rolling Stone and other top magazines.

I began to feel a kinship. I’ve written for Esquire, Playboy, Sports Illustrated and a bunch of others. I like to brag that I’ve written for many of the finest publications in America and been rejected by all the rest.

But doing any of that won’t ensure a snazzy obit in newspapers across the country. There’s thousands of underemployed guys like me who scratch out a living contributing 400 word stories to top magazines. I realized I needed to follow in Cardoso’s footsteps. I began to coin words, hundreds of them. Some weren’t worthy of keeping. “Slanguage” is too obvious. “Rimbicile,” a description of dim-bulb copy editors misplacing commas at daily newspapers, was too narrow. And as proud as I am of “vagitarian,” I was fearful my mother might read it and scold me so it had to go.

That left me with the 30 you’ll find below. Those are the core creations I’m beginning to promote. I’ll welcome your comments about the potential of your favorites. I urge you to be hasty because it took 12 years for “gonzo” to be accepted into a dictionary and I intend to do it in 12 months.

I think it can be done. Really, Cardoso didn’t have the benefit of the viral internet or even the self- motivation that’s driving me. He just came up with the word, it sounds perfectly serendipitous, and went about his life. Not me. I’m going to apply all my skills, my genius, my contacts, my promotional savvy to in one year achieve mass exposure for at least one of my 30 (and counting) words. I’m going to do it because I believe I need to secure a legacy that’ll impress my descendants, and because I believe I have something to contribute to humanity.

And, really, I’ve got nothing better to do.

Here’s the list of my offerings. Feel free to use them liberally in speech and in print.


Appallitic: A contemporary effort to make current governance so nasty and shrill that none of the rational mainstream voters will want to participate.

Ambisextrous: Any creature or being with sex organs of both genders; i.e. the Greek god Hermaphrodite or the red wiggler worm.

Ashhole: An otherwise harmless volcano that kills no one, but disrupts the travel plans of millions.

Birthquakes: The intense contractions that convulse a pregnant woman as she’s about to deliver a child; labor pains.

Bizzospice (bi-ZOS-pis) Care Volunteers: Loyal if misguided customers of failing businesses determined to patronize an ill-conceived establishment right up until it dies a merciful death.

Boreacles: Opinionated radio talk show hosts paid to, but incapable of saying anything of interest or insight.

Bornograher: An amateur cinematographer, usually a male who was involved in the act of conception, who in a hospital delivery room spends his time recording all the intimate details of a child’s birth; resulting film is bornography.

Bulldozin’: The non-constructive act of any spouse who pretends to sleep to get out of things like household chores or late-night love.

Cannibler: A picky eater of human flesh; a cannibal with an eating disorder.

Carmpit Stains: The unsightly engine excretions defacing every delineated parking space in every American parking lot.

Carmudgeon: A grouchy motorist, regardless of age or gender, who views a typical commute as a form of nasty combat.

Comatoes: The act of one’s foot falling asleep, uncommonly known as the medical condition, parasthesia.

Commanist: A writer, editor, or essayist who believes, with his or her full heart, in the dogmatic, perhaps, liberal application, or use, of often needless, or, at least, questionable, and, excessive, punctuation.

Confanity: The boring, inoffensive over-dubbed words actors like James Gandolfini must mouth to make shows like “The Sopranos” acceptable for networks like A&E.

Corrral: An rocky ocean enclosure used to house seahorses. Derived from coral, a rocky ocean formation; and corral, an enclosure used to pen ponies.

Crapple: A flavorless apple lacking in texture or taste.

Decrapitate: An editorial elimination of all the bullshit from a specified piece of writing.

eDiot: Hapless sidewalk ambler who stumbles into strangers or the path of a moving bus due to the hypnotizing pull of any portable electronic device.

Empathlete -- Sports fans who pretend they know the game so well they can tell exactly what a professional athlete is thinking and how they should react in any high pressure situation.

Ernie Borgten: What we’ll all be looking for after the great actor Ernie Borgnine, 92, finally succumbs to mortal absolutes.

Error-plane: Typical commercial flight that leaves late, is overbooked, and loses luggage after landing at the wrong airport.

Fauxksiness: The contrived characteristic displayed by a man or woman, usually one with a political bent, determined to appear in synch with the popular feelings common folk.

Fictionary: A dictionary or glossary composed entirely of made-up words with the pretentious hope that each of the words will one day resonate. See “zeitgust.”

Furrious: The unstable state of mind hunters get in whenever they hear about the latest attention grabbing stunt by animal rights group PETA.

Garbohydrates: Dangerous calories so reclusive that even doctors cannot detect them until they make you so sick you vant to be alone.

Glibberish: Pointless party chatter between two people who'd rather be talking to anyone else.

Global Warming SCOPEtics: People who are not only skeptics of climate change, but also believe we can still consume fossil fuels at an alarming rate and things will still turn out all green and minty fresh.

Hollerdays: The chaotic time of the year that used to be revered for peaceful silent nights.

Influenca: A Washington, D.C.,-contained virus transmitted between lobbyists and elected officials. Symptoms include spinelessness, preferential treatment and pivotal memory lapses when summoned before investigating authorities.

Leyebrows: Tattooed or penciled on eyebrows meant to mimic the real thing. Related: Heyebrows (HIGH-brows).

Lollylagger: A high handicap golfer who’d rather aimlessly knock balls around on the practice green than engage in meaningful putting practice.

Mallbergs: Massive ice mounds created by snow plows that push heavy snowfalls into remote areas of mall or shopping center parking lots where they persist until the temperatures finally diminish their masses by mid-June.

Mamish: Any group of mother figures who refuse to let their children play with electronic devices until they’ve done all their homework.

Mephoria: A selfish state of joy characterized by the realization that an individual is having a good time while everyone else is miserable.

Mintometer: Any device built to measure mint flavor on a scale that ranges from spicy peppermint to roadkill varmint.

Moistard: The shaded, bun-soiling liquid that dribbles out the top of any condiment bottle before the spicy substance oozes out.

Mooscular: Adjective describing someone who uses so many performance enhancing drugs they begin to resemble large, hoofed, woods-roaming mammals.

Montehall: A structural feature in any house or building that features a passage way that allows for doors no. 1, 2 or 3.

Motorvator: A highly skilled mechanic capable of encouraging any poorly performing engine to get out there and get really running so it can be the best engine it can possibly be.

Mousewife: Any female spouse who lets an oafish husband do whatever he wants without even a squeak of matrimonial dissent.

Park Splug: A drowsy child who reaches a point of playground exhaustion and succumbs to an involuntary nap.

Pompomposity: The act of being exuberantly aggressive and cheerleading others to say they think you’re great, too!!!

Poperazzi: A Vatican City-based news reporter devoted to coverage of all papal doings.

Raptile: A person otherwise gifted in the art of urban rhyme who behaves like a snake or other scaled creature.

Refoodiate: What a uniformed snack food delivery man or women does on a near weekly basis when the vending machines need re-stocking.

Santaclaustrophobia: The irrational and childish fear of any jolly ol’ elf.

Shamorous: A person, male or female, whose ugly nature is concealed under makeup or plastic surgery or fake, sweet smiles.

Sizemologist: Any man or woman engaged in the clothing trade for purposes of measuring customers to ensure proper fits.

Slimitators: Impressionable teenage boys and girls intent on looking like fashionable Hollywood anorexics.

Slomosexual: A person who devotes his or her life to the self-proclaimed virtues of public heterosexuality before finally coming to grips with their true sexual identity.

Smockturnal: A painter or other creative person who only works at night.

Sniveling rivalry: A childish fit between two unrelated grown adults determined to act like crybabies.

Sprawlidays: An irrational spread of a once-tidy holiday season that used to take about four weeks and now takes four months.

Splashock: The terrifying realization that the person who’d showered previously forgot to restore the faucet to necessary tub dispensing.

Stork . . . Raving . . . Mad! A better, more emotionally emphatic phrase to describe the condition known as “post-partum depression; the mental unbalance that afflicts many women after giving birth.

Teastosterone: The surplus hormones that are released when men view so much pornography that they become consumed with ambitious lust, thus making them universally repulsive to otherwise willing females.

Tumpire: A designated fitness referee who sets the rules for any individual’s battle of the bulge.

Woman’s Fiberator: A woman who is adamant in her demands for full social equality for her herself and her sisters, yet sees no contraction in her expectation that men hold all the doors for the gals.

Zeitgust: The contrived and deliberate act of trying to mass manipulate the popular culture to an individual whim. One lone man’s attempt to zip zeitgust into the dictionary.

Thursday, January 2, 2014

Antarctic rescues and true tales of icy hardships

(670 words)
Because I’m philosophically opposed to rescuing anyone in the middle of a really great time, I’m dismayed by the media-manufactured drama coming out of Antarctica.

Yet that’s the situation aboard the Akademik Shokalski, a Russian research vessel apparently owned my someone who learned to spell watching old “Mission: Impossible” reruns.

Teams of helicopter rescuers are racing hundreds of miles through some of the planet’s most treacherous conditions to save 96 souls whose biggest concern seems they’re about to run out of finger sandwiches.

And by “finger sandwiches,” I’m not inferring they’ve made a fatal turn to cannibalism, which would, indeed, be newsworthy. In fact, if I were a network assignment editor a cannibalistic diet would be on the top of the checklist of every rescue effort deserving coverage.

Have you ever seen anyone having more fun in the midst of international rescue efforts? They’re Skyping skits, enjoying New Year’s toasts and practically auditioning to see who’ll get to meet Matt Lauer.

Understand, these aren’t the Chilean miners from three years ago where 33 men were at risk of being entombed alive hundreds of feet below ground.

These folks have satellite communications, DVDs, booze and for those feeling frisky, members of the opposite sex to keep them from becoming situational homosexuals, something common to seagoing men throughout history.

Sure, they are marooned in one of the most inhospitable places on the planet, but I’m starting to expect Papa John’s to earn some free publicity by delivering 20 large pepperoni pizzas.

Heck, the passengers and crew of the S.S. Minnow were in more jeopardy.

(Irresistible Trivial Aside: The only continent on Earth climatically incapable of  supporting the world’s most prolific species -- the ant -- is the one that begins with the letters A-N-T.) 

How dangerous can it be if people all over the world are bumming that they can’t be on board? I’d love to be there. I’d blog, tell entertaining stories and start getting good and drunk around 4 p.m.

So it’d be just like being here in Latrobe except my outdoor urinations would give me a sporting chance to pee on a penguin.

Maybe I’m jaundiced because I recently saw a Smithsonian Network documentary about the historic travails of British explorer Ernest Shackleton and the 56-man crew of the Endurance during an South Pole exploration from 1914-1917.

Talk about those in need of a timely rescue.

Like the Russian vessel, the Endurance became entrapped in the ice and nearly 99 years ago on January 15 it budged no more.

Shackleton believed the ices would eventually shift and liberate the ship. He was half right.

The ices did, indeed, shift but instead of freeing The Endurance, they crushed it. It sank beneath the surface on November 21.

In all the crew of Endurance would spend 497 consecutive days either on water or ice. What preserved the sanity of the men during these unimaginable hardships?

Dogs. Shackleton had provisioned 70 dogs to take to drive polar sleds.

As soon as I heard the narrator mention dogs, my imagination filled with dread. Students of distant exploration will instinctively know where my thoughts led.

It turns out my dark thoughts were misplaced.

Well, misplaced at first.

The men didn’t eat the dogs until near the end when their own rations were down to a mere pound a day.

But prior to that Shackleton’s dogs are a story of great joy with many men saying their companionship were lifesavers. The dogs were playmates, mascots and loving buddies.

Right up until the dogs became dinner.

I’d encourage you to learn more about Shackleton and Endurance. It’s incredible.

Familiarity with the story is causing me to reconsider my peevishness with my own  little yip dog, Snickers (and I wish our daughters had named him Peeve so I could in all honesty say, “And this dog is my pet Peeve”).

Who knows? Maybe one day he’ll sustain me if the furnace ever goes out.

These days, that’s the kind of inconvenience that qualifies as news.



Related . . .