I’M GONNA WASH THAT
“PAIR” RIGHT OUTTA MY HAIR
My
acquisition of a mixed-breed dog and a ‘69 Cadillac occurred entirely by
happenstance. Had anyone informed me it would be my duty to clean and maintain
them both, I would have renounced my right of ownership. These chores aggravate
me.
Consequently,
the dog and the Caddy usually appear grimy and dingy. It takes a heap of
nagging to get me to hose down these critters. It gives me no pleasure to see
them in their original colors, one white, the other brown, as I can best
recall.
My old dog,
Molokai , is
indifferent to his appearance. He is a nephew of the dog with the same name
that my daughter, Laura, reluctantly gave me many years earlier after she moved
into an apartment complex that banned pets. The original Moly had the same attitude about his looks. Each seemed to say,
“Take me or leave me, but don’t bother to groom me.”
One reason
I don’t wash them more frequently is that they give me trouble.
Does the
current Moly bark at strangers,
performing the role of watchdog? No. Does he bark at and terrorize our mail
carrier? Yes. As a result, the postal authorities suspended our home delivery
service for a few months. That’s a high price to pay for owning an animal who
won’t obey my only command, “Shut up.”
Does he
stay outside in the yard all day as a good dog should? No. Does he sit at the
bottom of the stairs, refusing to move, causing me to leap over him every time
I go up or down them? Yes.
Did Moly ever learn any tricks, or play
fetch? No. He would look at me, questioning my intelligence, yawn, lie down and
wait for supper. Who wants to spend time keeping a dog neat and dapper if he
will not even play games with you? He is about as playful as the old Cadillac,
which I may add, could care less about its appearance. All it wants to do is
sit in the driveway, snooze and drip oil.
It came
into my possession after its owner (who had no kin) died and left it to my
wife, her Personal Representative. At the time, it had 42,000 miles on the
odometer. It has 50,000 now. Did it ever provide me with a sense of pride while
racking up these 8,000 miles? No. Most of the 8000 miles added to the Caddy’s
odometer resulted from driving to gas stations. I fill the tank, drive home,
and discover the gauge is near empty. Four miles to the gallon does not define
an economy vehicle. OPEC nations send me Christmas cards.
Did it
provoke me to anger? Yes. The first time happened when I stepped on the parking
brake and couldn’t find the release mechanism. After spending fifteen minutes
sitting behind the wheel, cursing the gods, a perfect stranger informed me,
politely, that the brake released automatically when the ignition is turned on.
What a stupid car.
Having
learned this trick, my confidence allowed me to take the car anywhere, including
the mall. You ask: Does your Caddy like to go shopping? Yes, but it has to be
parked a mile from the store entrance. Where else can you find sufficient space
in which to dock a 22-foot long car?
It’s so damn long that it will not fit in my garage. Its imposing size
deters friends from ringing our doorbell.
I tried to
shower love and affection upon the Caddy. It responded with icy indifference.
It becomes temperamental. Often, it refuses to start after we go somewhere far
from home. Not now, darling. Mechanics
say it is has carbon build-up on its valves, like plaque on Molokai 's teeth.
This brings
me to discuss an indelicate subject, hygiene. Washing the dog is more than a
simple chore. As soon as I approach Moly
with the hose, he starts to wriggle, writhe, twist, turn, shake and bake. Five
minutes later, he looks the same as when we began the process. I wind up
soaked, wearing most of the lather.
Washing the
Caddy can be an all-day affair. I rinse one side, race around to hose down the
other, by which time the first side is dusty again. More water is consumed
washing the car than the amount needed to refill my pool every week.
The dog and
the car are getting more alike. They rarely move. The dog sheds daily while the
car sits out there in the street, aging ugly.
Once a year
the authorities demand the car be emission tested. The same day, the dog makes
its annual trip to see the vet. In advance, they both get a ritualistic bath.
They are warned, “If you fail to get a clean bill of health, you are ‘history.’
If you think I am going to spend a whole day making you appear presentable in
public only to have you cost me money to fix you up, you had better think
again. I’ll replace you with a cat and a Chevy.” They ignore me.
I wish I
could remember which one of them is white.
.
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