5/30/16
I had been lying in bed for a while, ensconced in the warm
full body embrace that can only be had by well-worn flannel sheets on a brisk
chilly morning. The thick quilts my
mother made me decades ago wrapped me in a warm cocoon. I could feel the pattern stitching with my
right arm, as it lay over the top of the blankets. “THUMP, THUMP, CLACK!” went a noise from the passenger’s
side of the Tardis. James snored on
heavily under his down comforter on the passenger’s side between the bed and
the wall, completely oblivious to the fact that the world had begun its daily ballet
outside of our little home. I finished
my gentle morning stretching routing, and got out of bed.
Sliding the shades open the sun spilled in on the kitchen
table. Looking out, after my eyes
adjusted, I was greeted by the vertical smile of my neighbors’ backside as he bent
over rifling through the basement compartments on his RV……. The Stock car racing people, like the NASCAR
people, had liked to stay up and drink as much beer as possible. This time I was ready. I listened to them, and played Stairway to Heaven on my violin until
midnight. They stayed up, and I put in
my ear plugs and went to bed. I was
surprised to see them up by 0800, they sounded like they had had enough to
drink to sleep until at least 10:00.
I finished my morning yoga, and meditation which focused on
Ghandi’s famous quote “An eye for an eye
will make the whole world blind”.
James and I sat on the steps with the door open. I brushed him with his favorite brush, which
he brought to me while I was sipping my coffee.
The sun warmed my toes, and the black steps soaked up the solar
radiation making them comfortably warm.
I wiggled my toes. It’s a part of
the body I don’t spend much time thinking about, I thought to myself. I have walked a long way with these toes, but
rarely do I ever appreciate them. I
stretched each one individually and examined their form as well as their
function.
My neighbors, two fellas, and two galls, finished packing
their RV. They walked with the kind of haggard
slump, squinted eyes, and generally cranky disposition that one can only earn by
a night of high calorie alcoholic adult beverages. Their coach grumbled to life. It was a gas powered RV and revved up high
when it started. I’m glad mine is
diesel, I thought, It would suck to not have enough torque and power to tow a
car. They staggered in to their RV, the
driver again giving me a vertical smile with his posterior as he stretched to
climb in to the cab, the extra caloric storage hanging over his belt made it
look like any minute gravity would pull his sides all the way down to the
ground. Their RV loped forward, almost
dying, as he put it in gear. Now I had
all the sunshine to myself. My view was unobstructed. A gentle breeze danced across my now very
warm, and very happy, toes.
James and I went off to meet our day. Time passed.
My brother Ty dropped us off at the dog show, taking his
vehicle back home. We walked past the
farm museum, the sign read open, the doors indicated otherwise. They were completely unyielding to our
attempted entry. The bright sun charged
our internal batteries as we strode happily towards ‘The Puget Sound Springer Spaniel Show’ arena. I looked down at James, he waggled as he
walked contentedly with the leash ever so slightly slackened. What an amazing little friend, I thought, I’m
sure they will let us in to the dog show.
I mean after all, James is a dog.
At the door the officiant looked at me, then looked at James. We walked in like we owned the place, a trick
that I learned from presenting and talking for a living. If you pretend you belong, you can do almost
anything. One time I even got to meet
the president of the United States, G.W. Bush because of this strategy. It was not that cool. I thought he would be taller, and unlike a
neat animal or a performer, or spiritual leader he didn’t do anything cool, or
impart any deeply entrenched wisdom. But
hey, I can still say I met him.
James and I continued on to the arena show floor. We found a chair, it was “reserved.” We sat
in it, as though we belonged there. It
was right up front. A middle aged,
portly woman, with about a BMI of 39 (to calculate your own BMI go to: http://www.nhlbi.nih.gov/health/educational/lose_wt/BMI/bmicalc.htm),
seated next to two other similar women, looked over at us. She stopped sipping her wine and examined James. His leash made of climbing rope and a
carabiner all held together with electrical tape will impress them, I thought sarcastically,
laughing to myself inside as a large smile lifted the corners of my mouth. “What breed is he.” Said the woman, in a tone
that denoted innate superiority. “He’s a
‘Bitsa Hound’.” I said with the best German accent I could muster. “Oh, I’m not overly familiar with that
breed.” She replied. “Not many people
are.” I said, “It’s a very specialty lineage.
There are not a lot of them out there, yet.” Several people had now turned their heads
from the show arena to have a good look at James, the rare breed Bitsa Hound, now pleased to be
the center of attention he was wagging his entire body vigorously. “So I don’t remember, but what were they
bread for originally?” asked the woman, her friends, and several other people,
now turned and listening intently. “Well,
they are a general purpose dog mostly.” I said, “I mean, he’s a Bitsa” This
time saying it in my standard PNW American accent, “you know, Bits an’ everything.”
My smile had now turned to a shit eating grin.
Her friends burst in to laughter, and her cheeks turned a fair shade of
crimson. She smiled politely, the joke
having been on her, though I suspect had any of them spoken up it would have
been on them as well.
I stood up and we walked towards, what turned out to be, the
picture taking area. On our way a man asked if he could pet James. “Of course.” I said. He was in his late fifties, with well quaft
sandy brown hair, and a thick pair of glasses, a square strong jaw, and a fair
build, all draped in a layer of business casual khakis, and a ralph Lauren polo
shirt. Squatting down to James’s level
he said “He’s a cute one. Aren’t you.”
He said in a baby voice, talking to James “Say, what kind of dog is he?”
he asked, turning his attention to me, and adjusting his tone accordingly. I repeated the same joke as before. He didn’t bite. “I’ve never heard of that before, but I
specialize in Border Collies.” He said.
I told him the rest of my joke.
He smiled with a mouth full of perfect teeth, which appeared to be mostly
false, at least the front ones. “Well, there oughta be a show for the mutts.”
He said emphatically, “some of the best dogs I’ve ever had have been
mutts.” “I’m zach.” I said extending my
hand. “Ron.” He said, returning a firm
handshake from a tough leathery hand. “Are
you showing here today?” I inquired.
“Naa. I only show Collies. My wife’s showing. She has half a dozen Springer Spaniels.” He
replied. “That’s a lot of high energy
critters” I spouted involuntarily, with what must have been a look of shock on
my face. “Yeah, but she loves them. So I
help out.” He sighed. “There’s a lot of
beautiful animals here today.” I said, “The RV Park I’m at has tons of RV’s
with kennels set up outside them.”
“Yeah, I’m the one on the end space, with all the kennels all the way
around it.” He said. I remembered the
woman who I helped park my first day at the RV park. “We came all the way from Ohio.” He finished. An RV full of six high energy dogs…..seems
like a different kind of road trip for sure, I thought. “That’s a long way.” I responded. “Yeah, this is the biggest show of the year
though.” He told me, “There should be around a hundred girls, and 40 boys.”
“That’s a lot of BITCHES!” I interjected jokingly. “yep.” He continued, without losing his tone
or pace, not the slightest sign of amusement “The best in show is on Wednesday. The show goes through Sunday. Tonight is pups 0-2 years, then vets 7 years
and up.” “We will probably stay for the
pups, but I don’t know how long we will be here. I have been working all day, and James is
tired from sleeping all day. Thanks a lot.” I said, as I turned continuing
towards the picture area.
“May I get my picture taken here?” I asked the photographer
in the pants suit, standing next to her female assistant who was dressed in khakis
and a polo shirt. “You sure can.” She
replied, “What kind of breed is he?”
This time the joke played out.
She had heard of the Bitsa Hound.
Laughter rippled through the frontal lobe of my brain. Finally the joke came to its logical
conclusion. Her assistant blushed for
her, and she giggled. Both of them were
in their 20’s. I wondered how much the pictures
would cost, then I realized I didn’t care.
James got on the podium and they turned on the lights. The woman in the suit came up and took down
the official seal that proudly stated, in gold letters ‘Certified Pure Bred Springer Spaniel’ which underneath had the
regional logo in smaller type. I grinned
broadly. “Look at the camera James.” I requested. His head turned, and he faced the woman in
the pants suit and the bright lighting.
The two photographers looked at me like I was an alien. “He’s a super smart dog” I said, looking at
them as the assistant set down her squeaky toy, realizing that she did not need
to entice him to look at her. The lights
flashed, and the obligatory shutter noise from the digital camera clicked away
as they took several shots from various angles, as James and I struck various
poses. This is a regular fashion model photo
shoot, I thought to myself. “They will
be ready in about a week.” Said the woman in the pants suit, “Thanks for
letting us take a picture of you two.”
Both her and her assistant smiled warmly as James, the rare breed Bitsa
Hound, and I walked to our next destination.
We were turning all the heads, well James was, as we
strolled down the aisle to look for a new seat next to the show arena. We took a little detour through the vendor
booths. Lots of highly overpriced dog
treats, and fancy leashes lined the impulse buying areas on the outsides of the
booths. Most of the vendors had a main
line product that they were trying to get off the ground, but in reality most
of the ‘NEW’ products were just variations of old ones. In the US one of the only markets that
reliably performs, even during an economic recessions, is the companion pet
market. It never shrinks, it seems like
a gold mine that never ends. People are
always willing to pay more for their pets, after all, in an affluent nation
where the nuclear family has all but gone extinct pets are considered
family. ‘Kangaroo Protein’ read the highlight display of one vendor. Showcasing a type of protein that ‘Even the most sensitive dogs are not
allergic to’ at a mere $120 (107.64 euros) per 40Lbs (18.18KG) how could
you go wrong? It would be cheaper to
feed raw beef or pork. I thought about
the dog food we used to sell at the feed store I worked at. The top line stuff was about half this price,
or less, and the manufacturing was done in human grade food processing facilities,
with mostly human grade ingredients.
Show dog people must have a lot of disposable income, I thought, as I continued
on my way from the vendor area. I did
not see Beverly, the woman I had met earlier going to the races. I wondered what she was pedaling.
We found a seat in the second row, it was reserved, but the
whole row was empty. “Must be reserved
for us.” I whispered to James, as I sat down.
He jumped up and sat on my lap. A
pack of spaniels entered the arena, accompanied by their owners. They ran a few laps around it, at a slow
jog. The “show” leashes, which partially
strangled the dogs, kept their heads at an unnatural angle preventing them from
being near the ground as they moved. The
owners and the dogs found their places in a line at the other side of the arena
and stood stone still as they waited for the judge, a heavy woman, to motion
them over for inspection. One by one she
would call them up on to a platform and inspect them. It reminded me of a livestock auction. It was the same as showing pigs, or cattle at
the fair, a childhood industry for the youths in my family’s lineage.
“How’s it going?” Said a cheerful voice from behind my right
shoulder. I turned to see Ron, a big
toothy grin, and his glasses perched low on his nose. “These are all the pups.” He said, cheerfully, “That’s why some of them
have such a hard time behaving. Just
wait till the veterans come out, they behave perfectly.” He stopped to take a sip of his drink “were
over there.” He motioned to a kennel on the far side of the arena, and to the
woman I remembered from the RV Park, his wife.
I could smell, the wine on his breath.
My stomach turned a little. “It’s
only five dollars a glass.” He said, “and it’s pretty good stuff.” He added, setting the glass on his paper
plate and taking a bite of a cucumber finger sandwich. For the last year of sobriety, I have found
that the smell of alcohol actually makes me quite nauseated. “Cool.” I shot back, returning my gaze to the
event transpiring in front of me. Ron
continued on his way, towards his wife’s kennel area.
“Can I give him a treat?” asked the man sitting in front of
us with long grey hair, and a distinguished mustache. “Yea, that’s fine.” I responded. He turned and offered James a piece of
bread. “I don’t feed him bread.” I said,
as he put it to James’s mouth and it was quickly inhaled by the little Bitsa
Hound. “Oh.” Said the man, who I could
now smell had a stomach and mouth saturated in red wine. He turned around and gave James a piece of
roast beef from his sandwich, James took it politely. As he turned back around, he spilled his, and
his female companions glass of red wine on to the floor. The tidal wave of crimson covered the floor
and a bowl of mixed nuts followed after it, as he made a slow, and unsuccessful
attempt to catch the toppling beverages.
Nuts scattered everywhere, including in to the arena, momentarily confusing
some of the pups, and irritating the owners.
The surge of red wine followed, and the smell of tannins filled my nostrils. My stomach did a summersault. I took a few deep breaths. It was time for me to go, I decided.
“Get down James.” I
said, he already knew what I was going to say, and was on the floor before I finished
saying it. Apparently James was not a
big fan of the dog show either, he was ready to go. We started towards the exit. As we neared the bright light of the glass double
doors, which promised clean non tannin smelling air, and a lack of dog smell, Ron’s
wife spotted us. “Hey!” she said
intercepting us with her greeting, as she walked a senior dog of hers towards
the arena, trailed by a slight and very cute blonde sales. “You’re the Bitsa Hound guy.” She said beaming
and repeating my joke to the sales rep who obligatorily laughed at it. “How do you like the show so far?” she
asked. “Well, it’s different.” I said, “I’ve
definitely never been to anything like it.”
That was certainly not a stretch of the facts. “Yeah, just wait till best in show.” She said,
“That’s when things get really interesting.
Her shadow, the blonde sales rep chimed in “So what do you think about
(insert product name here)…….” A litany of interesting facts, and benefits followed. “Well have fun.” I said, smiling as I turned moving
towards the door. I’m glad I don’t have
to listen to sales reps any more, I thought, as I pushed the cold smooth silver
door latch handle with my palm and emerged to the bright light of day, fresh
air filling my lungs.
We strode across the gravel lot towards the bus. The site three spaces down from us, towards
the main entrance, had now filled the car port it had erected with what appeared
to be the meager possessions of a small home.
They had failed, like so many others.
They were now living in the RV Park, in their tiny late model, 25 foot
(7.62meters) RV, with their children, two dogs, and all of their
belongings. My heart sank. There was nothing to do about it. All I can do is tell the story, I thought as I
walked by, trying not to stare, but unable to conceal my sorrowful glance. It would be a lie to say their situation is
unique, but trying to find a place to park in Snohomish county had been
difficult. Many of the parks, in fact
most of them, had been filled with refugees from the ongoing housing
crisis. Parks were full of families,
singles, and retirees who could no longer afford their homes, and had downsized
in to the rolling gypsy camps that now filled the west coast cities of the first
world super power. No tin shack slums
here in the US, I thought as James and I finished our walk, and entered our
refuge.
A galaxy of red stars exploded into life on the silent black
canvas of the asphalt as the cigarette thrown from the car in front of us
cartwheeled across the highway. We effortlessly
glided down the smooth road, while James lay snoring at my feet, as I focused
on the road ahead. I had no desire to
travel the busy seven lane mega highway through Seattle in traffic. Instead I had chosen to leave at 22:00.
I contemplated the scene three rows down from us in the RV Park. It’s one rarely seen by the public. The news never covers it, and no one wants to
think about it. I remembered the signs
as I traveled by new construction sites in the area “Starting in the low $500,000 (448490.84 Euros)” they read. I could not understand how anyone could
consider half a million dollars a “low” starting price. These were three bed two bath houses, nothing
special. I thought about the wages in my
country. They had fallen over the last
decade. It was no surprise to me that
there was a “housing crisis.” People could not afford anywhere to live. Prices had gone up, wages had gone down. The family safety net did not exist anymore. There was nowhere to ‘go back home’ to. For most people an RV, or a trailer, was the
best option. The only option.
I wondered about their children, who would grow and mature raised
like gypsies, traveling often. Most
parks only allow a month stay at a time, to prevent tenancy rights. I was thankful that my life had been such an
adventure, and mournful that others’ lives had become such a tragedy. How I had been so lucky, I thought to myself.
