Category: Funny Business

As you’re probably aware from some of my writings and social media posts, I’m an “animal person.”

Obviously, I’m not an animal person like those found on The Island Of Dr. Moreau, although if I’m being honest, that has a certain appeal. (They’re called “Beast Folk,” by the way).

Alas, I’m merely a human animal who has a deep love for nonhuman animals and enjoy their company immensely. All things being equal, I’d rather hang with them than people – present company excepted, of course.

What does all this mean, you ask? First and foremost, it means the animals living in my home are treated like family.

Why?

Because they are family.

I’ve always been partial to rescue dogs and shelter cats, and currently my wife and I have two of each. I’m not sure how we settled on four companions, but that seems to be the furry feng shui that has worked best for us over the years.

That’s eight hairy ears, 16 legs and four tails to keep track of all at once. It’s a lot, and things don’t always go smoothly.

During the course of any given week, we’re likely to deal with vomit and explosive diarrhea. But you know what? Vomit and explosive diarrhea were integral parts of my college years, so I’m not gonna hold it against the critters.

Yet, even when I leave the house, I seek out animal friends.

Take Bobby, for example. He’s the cheeky chipmunk who lives in a hole right beside our patio. He’s a bit high strung, but that’s OK. If I were a chipmunk and there were stray cats in the neighborhood, I’d be high strung, too.

After greeting him, it’s off to the lake that is less than a mile from our house. Because we’re regulars and go there almost every day, the ducks and Canada Geese have gotten to know us.

At first, the geese would boo and hiss when I’d pass. I didn’t blame them … they’re Canadian and I’m American, so they have every reason to be elbows up. After realizing I wasn’t trying to annex them, though, we’ve become buddies.

They know I’m on their side, and several of them actually come up to me, greet me with a hearty honk, and trot beside me as I walk. We talk about hockey and Neil Young, and have an all-around good time together.

I also have a warm relationship with Muscovy ducks, the most populous waterfowl at the lake. My favorite, who I call Charlene, recognizes me immediately and quickly waddles toward me when she spots me on the walking path. I like to think it’s because of my friendly face and pleasant smile, but more likely it’s due to the fact that I always carry rolled oats with me.

Other ducks have realized I’m holding, so they’ve come to expect treats as well. I make sure they’re never disappointed.

Now, I don’t claim to have reached Dr. Dolittle status; I talk to animals with the understanding and expectation they won’t talk back to me. Well, my chihuahua Steve talks a little, but the words are mostly expletives – loud, piercing expletives.

Regardless, I’ve long had a close relationship with creatures great and small, and it has truly enriched my life.

Years ago a friend had a bearded dragon, Puff, and the little guy loved me. He enjoyed climbing up on my chest and falling asleep.

And I once knew a goat (I did not “know” the goat in the Biblical sense … being from Alabama requires me to address that stereotype and clarify) who would rub her head on me to the point I feared she might go bald. She was named Cliffie Cloven, by the way.

Turtles, frogs, rabbits, squirrels, lizards, chickens – if it clucks, quacks, bleats, mews, barks, honks, moos, neighs, crows, gobbles or ribbits – I want to be its friend.

And if it wants to be my friend, well, that’s about the best feeling in the world.

So yes, I am an animal person and quite proud of it. That being the case, once you’re done reading this please tell your dogs and/or cats I said hello.

There was a meme a while back that proclaimed, “Dear Naps, I’m sorry I was mean to you when I was a kid,” or something to that effect.

Apparently, there were and are children who don’t like going to sleep early in the day. I must confess that I was not one of those kids.

Sleep – and any opportunity to sleep – has always been a real treat for me. Even if an adult was trying to trick me into it, I played along.

For example, I distinctly remember the ruse Mrs. Baker, my first grade teacher, used to prompt naptime. After we’d come in from recess, she’d say, “Children, put your heads down on your desk and close your eyes … we’re going to play the quiet game.”

I saw right through that scam. I’m sure there were some low information first graders who thought the goal was to merely sit in silence, but I knew Ms. B wanted us to cat nap (even though no cats were involved).

I never told my nice teacher this, but in my mind the “quiet game” was the “snooze and drool” game – and it was a game I played to win. Within seconds of her command, my oversized noggin was nudged against my folded arms and I was drifting away. Before you knew it, I was dreaming about eating paste with Dick, Jane, Sally, Spot, Puff and other characters from the Dick and Jane Literary Universe.

Sadly, sanctioned naps were phased out by the time I was in third grade, and that made me sad. I was always down for the quiet game and felt it should have a permanent role in my continuing education. And by sitting in the back of the classroom for the balance of my grammar school years, it did.

Fortunately, I even managed to make time for naps in high school and frankly, it was easy to do. If you played a sport, physical education was replaced by something called “Athletics.” Basically, if you were on a varsity team, you were exempt from P.E. classes so you were given a free period.

I did not waste mine.

I played soccer and ran cross country, and practices were always after school. I felt the best way to prepare for those workouts was to sleep during Athletics.

If you don’t think the top bleacher of a high school gym is a good place to nap, well, you’re wrong. The sound of bouncing basketballs and whistles is quite soothing once you get used to it.

And as for college, many of my elective courses were simply fronts for naps.

I took Music Appreciation 101 and was told by the instructor on the first day that the tests would be based strictly on material from the textbook. Classes, on the other hand, were for listening and enjoying various musical genres. So, I read the book at night, and used the class to catch some Zzzzzzs.

I’ve often wondered what music was played during that class.

Not even my social life was immune to naps.

Once – following a romantic dinner at Wanda’s House of Lard – my date wanted to see A Nightmare on Elm Street 3: Dream Warriors.

I’d already lost interest in the franchise, so this was a perfect title for what I had planned over its 96-minute run time.

The hope was I could convince her that I was closing my eyes because Freddy Krueger scared me, but she didn’t buy it.

We never went out again, and I can only assume it was due to my loud snoring during a pivotal Heather Langenkamp scene.

Now, jump to the present. I’m retired, and that means I don’t have to give a reason for taking a nap. I can do it anywhere at any time and you’re all powerless to stop me. If I choose to flop down in the middle of the spice aisle at my local supermarket, you should step over me and mind your own business.

When at home, naps usually take place right after lunch. Two dogs and two cats will pile up with me, and more often than not, the nap lasts the full 90-minute cycle.

The hour and a half naps are great because they’re like a fun-size regular sleep. I also apparently burrow my head in my pillow because when I arise my hair calls to mind Professor Irwin Corey (put that name in your search engine, kids).

And the best part of taking naps now is that sometimes, I don’t even need them … I just take them for sport. While there are those among us who think sleep is wasting valuable time, to me it is valuable time – and time well spent.

So, if I were to make a meme, it’d probably read, “Dear Naps, thank you for always being there for me.” Not great, but perhaps I can come up with something a bit catchier.

Let me sleep on it.

Things are different once you get old.

Everything hurts a little, and some things tend to hurt a lot. I consider myself in pretty good shape, but Father Time is gonna make sure I grind a gear now and then.

For example, if I say “I just smoked a joint,” what I mean is I tweaked my knee when I tried to stand up.

“What happened Scott? Why are you cursing and screaming?”

“Don’t mind me … I smoked a joint. Now I’m gonna try to claw my way back onto the futon. Just make sure the fire department and hospice are on standby.”

Aging also means that younger people, although well-meaning, can be patronizing. I get called darlin’ and honey a lot when I’m at restaurants. Not by other customers – that would be weird – but by the female waitstaff.

“Would you like another cup of coffee, darlin’?”

“Honey, are you sure you don’t want a dollop of butter with that baked potato?”

It doesn’t really bother me, I just don’t feel like a darlin’ or honey. I’m more of a Mean Motor Scooter.

First time a server tops off my water and calls me a Mean Motor Scooter, that standard tip is gonna get upgraded by at least a quarter.

And in a cruel twist, I no longer get carded when buying alcohol. I used to take it as a compliment when I’d get asked for my ID … it meant they thought I looked young. Now either nothing is said as the bottle is bagged or I hear things like, “What was it like before they invented liquor?”

And of course, doctor visits increase with age, which leads me to today’s column.

As I said, I’m fortunate in that I’m relatively healthy, but once you start carrying around a Medicare card it’s important to get various components of your engine checked frequently.

And trips to the doctor – whether it’s the general practitioner, urologist, dermatologist or witch – means hanging with the hoi polloi in waiting rooms.

This is not my favorite activity.

As my trips around the sun keep adding up, my patience tends to wear thin with inconsiderate humanoids.

Recently, I went in for my annual physical. The appointment was at 9 a.m. but I was checked in by 8:15; sometimes if I get there early, I’m taken back early.

This was a bad idea.

Two seats down a patient was playing a game on his phone, and he was sure that the rest of us wanted to hear it.

I don’t know what the game was, but the sound effects can be best described as bean farts followed by a high-pitched voice shouting “WOW!” a lot.

Fortunately for our game player, he was called back before I could assault him.

Then there was Dwayne. I know his name is Dwayne because he was on speakerphone with his wife.

Her name’s Tess.

“Did you make it there OK, Dwayne?

“Sure did, Tess. Had to park on the sixth level. Then I took the elevator down to the second level where they have the skywalk. Then I had to walk what seemed like a mile to get to another elevator so I could go up to four. I had to stop and pee first, though.”

“You want fish?”

“What?”

“You want fish for supper?”

“What kind of fish?”

“The kind of fish you eat.”

“I reckon.”

“You want bacon?”

“No, I said I RECKON.”

“Oh, I thought you said bacon.”

“Look, I’m gonna go … there’s a fellow coming at me with an aluminum bat.”

That last part didn’t happen but only because I left the bat in my car.

And I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention the people who don’t know how to carry on quiet conversations about sensitive topics.

I think I speak for everyone in the waiting room when I say we have no interest in your visit to the proctologist. The only times I want to hear the words “rectum” and anus” are in a limerick.

I used to be able to ignore such things, but then again, I didn’t spend as much time in waiting rooms back in the day when I was a whipper-snapper.

So, going forward, I need to figure out some way to deal with this. I have earbuds, but I’m afraid if I use them, I’ll miss hearing my name called.

I also have a shovel, but if I bring it with me and start bashing folks in the side of the face, the police might get involved.

Actually, I should try to be a better person. Even those who say “anus” and “rectum” aloud are fighting battles I know nothing about.

Perhaps if I took the time to listen to these folks, who knows?

Maybe I’d become friends with them.

Not Dwayne, though. His house probably smells like fish.