Cat Haiku

by Steve Barber

If dogs can have their Haiku, it's only fair that cats get a shot at it too. Theirs, of course, would be...different. Like this:

You have allergies?

Cats have dander. Deal with it.

Now go bring my food.

The plans are in place

To overthrow the humans.

But first I must nap.

I shall bring dead things

And leave them on your pillow.

'Cause that's what cats do.

Dog Haiku

Dogs are creatures of few words. How few? Well, none, actually. But if they could speak I'm convinced they'd do it in Haiku.

Perhaps something like this:

 

You know how I do

Disgusting things with my tongue?

Let me lick your face.

I left a present,

Well, not really a present,

On your bathroom rug.

No, it's not my fault.

I begged you to take me out.

Hope you stepped in it.

Steve Barber lives in Ann Arbor, Michigan with Hunny and Tilly the Wonder Dog who just went three straight days without going on the carpet. Hunny's good about that too. Steve's currently working on convincing himself to get back to working on a bunch of half finished short stories. He just may do it, too.

Tilly the Wonder Dog, Part Deux

by Steve Barber

A while back the nice Erma ladies took pity on me and let me post something here about Tilly the Wonder Dog, my new Australian Shepherd. Well, Hunny and I have learned a few things about her since then so it's time to update.

First of all, Tilly isn't exactly an Australian Shepherd. What she is is an Australian Cattle dog. Big difference. The Shepherds aren't really Australian. The Cattle Dogs are by virtue of their Dingo ancestry. And as I'm sure you know, Dinogos are wild dogs that would just as soon eat your face off as shake your paw.

If you missed my original Tilly post (and shame on you if you did) you might remember Hunny and I adopted her from the Huron Valley Humane Society. She'd originally been in a kill shelter in Tennessee, but the good folks at PetSmart Charities Rescue Waggin' ® moved her along with several of her closest friends to the Ann Arbor facility, which has an excellent placement record. They wormed her, neutered her and removed two broken teeth. I imagine it must have been a pretty traumatic time for a dog who'd been surrendered by her original family to have to suffer the indignities of shelter life and veterinary medicine. But she came through it with flying colors. In fact, the only residual problem is that her missing teeth cause her to bark with a lisp--more like an “Arfth” than a real bark. But it doesn't seem to bother her as long as we don't laugh about it in front of her, so it's all good.

Tilly's had some...issues. A two year old dog, she'd never been housebroken. We're still working on it, but it's getting better. She had no training in even simple doggie tricks like sit, stay, sit up or  keep out of my garbage. And she suffers from a terrible separation anxiety problem when she's left alone. Hunny had just the answer. “We'll take her to puppy obedience school,” she said.

“But she's not a puppy. And she's not obedient. You'll be wasting your money,” I said.

“My money? Nuh-uh. Your money. I've already spent enough on her.”

She was right. What could I say? So off we went to doggie school.

Six weeks of intensive training later, Tilly had learned to sit on command most of the time. Okay, some of the time. But you have to understand, she learned that skill in a hostile environment. She does not like other dogs, and she had three dog classmates.  So it was pretty amazing for her to learn anything while she was paying more attention to their unprotected soft underbellies than she was her lessons.

The training program offered a cap and gown ceremony too. If you check out the picture above, you can see the obvious pride in Tilly's eyes as they awarded her her diploma. That this picture was taken mere moments before Tilly lunged for the throat of the huge Labradoodle a few feet away makes it all the more meaningful to us.

Hunny's hired her own Doggie Whisperer now in hopes of building off of that progress. Check back next time and we'll see if Hunny's Cesar has been able to help Tilly cross her personal Rubicon.

Steve Barber lives in Ann Arbor, Michigan with Hunny and Tilly the Wonder Dog. When he's not writing he spends his time applying antiseptic to the cuts, scrapes scratches and bites visited on his person by his new, favorite dog. He recognizes now that ten years is too long to be “between dogs,” and urges everyone to visit their local shelter first thing tomorrow. Look for Steve's short story, Arkie Studabaker's Very Bad Day in No Rest for the Wicked, a Rainstorm Press anthology, available, like, now.

Why Men Shouldn't Shop at Foodland

 By Steve Barber

About fifteen years ago, my ex threw me out and I got to re-experience the joys of bachelorhood. You'd probably be surprised at how well I took care of myself. I did the whole nine yards--shopping, cooking, laundry. I got so good at it I could have given Heloise tips. A couple years later I met Hunny and things changed.

See, Hunny has no faith in me whatsoever. By that I mean she refuses to trust me for even the simplest tasks. For example, she's convinced I'm incapable of running the vacuum, making coffee or even filling an ice cube tray. “You'll do it wrong,” she says to me. Naturally, I do what I can to encourage that kind of thinking. That's why I was surprised the other day when she agreed to let me go grocery shopping.

Daughter # 1 and her brood were coming over to meet our new dog, and we figured a Sunday brunch would be in order. Unfortunately, we don't cook breakfast much anymore, so we were out of even the most basic staples. But I had some free time on Saturday and Hunny was busy pretending to work when what she was really doing was playing Bejeweled on the computer. So, much to my shock and dismay, she agreed I should go to the store. I considered feigning injury, but then thought, Wait a minute. This is only breakfast stuff. How hard can it be? We're talking about things like eggs, bacon and juice, right? Piece of cake. Besides, it's not like I've never been to the store before. So I sucked it up and headed out.

Big mistake.

We needed maple syrup and I found the aisle right away. But the label on the first bottle said,  “Contains High Fructose Corn Syrup.” That left me confused. Why would corn syrup be in a maple syrup bottle? I pawed through several other brands, but they were the same. I finally found one that claimed to be “Pure Maple Syrup,” but it cost more than the GDP of Denmark, so instead, I closed my eyes, grabbed one randomly and tossed it in the cart.

"Milk," I said to myself. "Milk will be easy." Little did I know milk was no longer just whole or skim. Now milk could be low fat, no fat, 2 %, ½ %, ultra pasteurized, soy, lactose-reduced or acidophiles. Does anyone even know what acidophiles means? By this time I was starting to hyperventilate.

Maybe I'd calm down in the orange juice aisle. How can they screw up OJ? I thought. The last time I'd bought orange juice there'd been  two kinds--frozen and fresh. But as I stood there surveying my choices I saw before me low acid, high acid, low pulp, no pulp, double pulp, vitamin C, vitamin D, Organic and Calcium-added varieties. And guess what? Almost all of them had High Fructose Corn Syrup.

Right then, right there, I lost it.

Hunny had been right all along. I had no business in a grocery store anymore. So as I ran screaming out the door, I wondered how I was going to explain to my grandspawn why we'd be eating our pancakes at IHOP. Then I remembered they're both girls, so I figured they'd understand.

Steve Barber picks on Hunny a lot and some of it might even be deserved. The rest is all lies, of course, but what else would you expect from someone who's spent half of his adult life pretending to be an evil, undead Chihuahua? In his rare, lucid moments, Steve writes funny stuff and horror stuff because he doesn't see much difference between the two. You can check out his seldom updated blog at http://whatdoyoumeanishouldstartablog.blogspot.com/, and read his latest short horror story, Arkie Studabaker's Very Bad Day, in the anthology No Rest for the Wicked, (Rainstorm Press), which will be coming out any day now. A.n.y. d.a.y....

On Kids and Dogs

By Steve Barber

I'd planned to write an amusing travel story for my second guest post, all about the funny things that happened while vacationing with my kids when they were young.  There had to be a ton of material I could mine out of those pleasant times, I thought. Then memories of those road trips bored into my brain.

Take, for example, this typical fun-filled backseat dialog between the two siblettes:

“I hate you.”

“I hate you more.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, at least I'm not adopted.”

“I'm not 'dopted neither. I'm bornded.”

“Nuh-uh. We got you from the Shelter. You were in a cage.”

“Was not.”

Lower lip begins quivering.

“Was too. They took you 'cause they felt sorry for you. You were so ugly nobody else wanted you.”

“MOM!”

Much wailing and copious tears.

#

Obviously, these memories are too painful for me to write about. But since I already mentioned shelters and adoptions, I guess I'll write instead about Matilda, the dog Hunny and I adopted a few weeks ago.

The first thing you have to know is that Hunny's been whining about wanting a dog for some time. The second thing you have to understand is that Hunny is insane. I'm not going to dwell on it here, but anyone who has an unnatural hatred of crickets and who keeps the garbage in the refrigerator is not normal, you know?

Anyhow, Hunny has a way of grabbing an issue by the neck and shaking it until I eventually give in to her demands. Still, I tried to get me a few man points by telling her I'd agree to a dog but only if we got a male.

”I don't want a male,” Hunny said. “I don't like the way they pee.”

It occurred to me they probably wouldn't much like the way she pees either, but it didn't seem like a good idea to mention it, and I let it go.

So on April 1^st I found myself in the lobby of the Humane Society. After Hunny made me pretend to admire every other cat in the shelter's Kittyville, I'd inhaled enough cat dander to send the allergies above Code Red. I quickly exited the building and parked myself on a bench outside, gasping dander-free air and wondering what I'd gotten myself into.

As it turns out, what I'd gotten myself into was a two year old Australian Shepherd.

Understand, the dog is fine. But Hunny isn't, remember? That's why we now have a $250 dog bed, three leashes, three collars (different colors for different days), five kinds of scientifically formulated treats, enough dog toys to fill an Olympic-sized swimming pool and a bag of kibble big enough to feed a kennel full of starving Mastiffs for the better part of a month. And this food? It's not Alpo, no. It's some specially prepared combination of kelp, krill and squid, supplemented with mandrake shavings, ginseng froth, beta keratin and cod kidneys. At least it must be considering what it costs. Bottom line? As of today we're about $750 into supplies for a five dollar dog. It ain't right, I tell you.

I have a feeling that "Hunny and the Dog" is going to be an ongoing story. So, stay tuned for updates. And pray for me. Or send money. Both would be good.

Steve Barber is secure enough in his sexuality that he doesn't mind being called an Erma at all, but he does wonder if his writing makes his butt look fat. Check out his hardly-ever-updated blog at http://whatdoyoumeanishouldstartablog.blogspot.com/, and look for his short story, "Arkie Studabaker's Very Bad Day" in the soon-to-be-published anthology, No Rest for the Wicked (Rainstorm Press)

Why Did People Stop Dying?

by Steve Barber

I don't remember exactly when I first became aware of it, but I have known for some time that people almost never die anymore. Don't believe me? Read the obituaries. You'll see. People pass away, pass on, or they're called Home to be with the Lord. But almost nobody dies. I'm not sure why this is, but I'm convinced that some people have gone to great lengths to make the language of death and dying confusing as all get out. Those people are called Obituary Writers.

People who write obits are the reason angels come to take some folks to Heaven while others apparently have to find their own way. But what if you're an atheist and don't believe in Heaven? What happens to you then? Who is there to guide you on your final journey, and where are you supposed to go anyhow? I'll bet the obit writers never thought of that one.

That's not all they haven't thought of. Here's more:

1.    When someone dies from a nasty disease, why does he have to have a courageous battle first? Aren't there any dead cancer sufferers who gave up the minute they got their diagnosis?

2.    Why, when people die, must they be either surrounded by their loving family or have their loving family by their side?  I'll tell you this, if I were concerned about my health and felt my life slipping away, the last thing I'd do is let my family near my sickbed. There's a causal relationship between circling relatives and death. I'm sure of it.

3.    Why can't I be sad when a friend or relative passes away? Why must I be bereaved instead? And did you know that when I go to the visitation, viewing or wake I won't see Uncle Rollo there, but I'll see Uncle Rollo's remains. His remains will, of course, be reposing in a slumber room. Why must dead people repose? Can't they simply lie there? And, you know, he's not exactly sleeping, so why do they put him in a slumber room?

4.    When dead people repose, they must do so in a coffin or casket. Coffins and caskets are overpriced boxes that have handles on the side, the top door open, the bottom door closed and contain a satin pillow on which to rest Uncle Rollo's remains' head, not that he notices. Why do they call them coffins when what they are are boxes?

5.      Uncle Rollo has had his jaw wired shut, little caps shoved up under his eyelids to keep his eyes closed, and his bodily fluids drained and replaced by noxious chemicals. The funeral home staff set his carcass under special soft lights and they've smeared makeup all over his visible body parts. Then people file past the casket and say, "My, my. Doesn't Uncle Rollo look natural?" Why do they do this and whom do they think they are kidding?

You want natural? I'll tell you what's natural. Cremation, that's what. Ashes to ashes and all that. And that's what I'm opting for when I finally cash in my chips, buy the farm, or exceed my 'sell by date.' But I promise you this. The first person that calls my ashes “creamains” is in for one heck of a haunting.

Steve Barber longed to be a shepherd, but never realized his childhood dream. Now, a lonely and bitter old man, he ekes out a marginal living by collecting returnable bottles, and by selling single cigarettes to small children. On rare occasions he blogs at http://whatdoyoumeanishouldstartablog.blogspot.com/