He was, on occasion, a very good dog

I was among of group of animal adopters at Carrollton's no-kill animal shelter, holding my right hand in the air like an idiot and ready to make a "promise."

Shelter Lady: Repeat after me. "I promise to keep my animal indoors when I am not present and to never take him outside without a leash."

Me: ... I have a fenced-in backyard?

The volunteer looked at me. Operation Kindness is known to be a demon with it's inside-only standards. A few years back Steve Blow of the Morning News wrote a scathing column after a man complained he was denied a puppy just because he planned to keep it outside.

On the other hand, I was adopting a dog named "Freckles," who had been brought in as one in a litter of puppies. He was now almost full grown, having spent the first nine months of his life in a shelter cage, after the rest of the litter had been snatched up early. He was not an attractive adolescent.

The volunteer ignored me and plowed on ...

Volunteer: "I promise to provide him regular veterinary care ..."

Me: ... and I'm going to let him run around on a farm?

I got the dog -- immediately renamed Jimbo -- because I'd been raised with two canines. I thought my other one, Ginger, could use the company, what with me being away at work all the time. Big mistake. The first time they met, they looked at each other, put their ears back, and started peeing on my floor at the same time.

I still have a couple of scars from the eight or nine times I had to keep them from killing each other. He turned into a tall, skinny dog, able to puff his hair up enough to scare the bejesus out of just about anybody. My family didn't like him. My wife worried about him.

He never stopped chewing. He'd go through an "indestructable" toy in a couple of weeks. Every house I kept him in has some little reminder -- a chewed-up floorboard, a hole in the shag carpet -- that he was there. He was a nervous dog. Any time I had him indoors, he would follow me from room to room, so quietly that I wouldn't know he was there untilI turned around and tripped over him.

He was an athlete, the only dog I've had who could reliably catch a Frisbee. He was so fast that no matter how far I threw a ball, he would catch it while it was still bouncing. Fetch was a life-and-death thing for him.

He didn't have much of a personality. He was awkward. He was either shy or guarded with strangers, and would start avidly licking their faces once he felt safe enough. He seemed happiest just to lie down beside (or on) me while I was watching a movie and drift off to sleep.

He was sick for the last two-and-a-half weeks. I kept thinking that I'd have him euthanized, but he kept acting like he wanted to stay around. He would always perk up and wag his tail when I checked on him. Two days ago, he spent his walk sniffing at bushes and garbage and marking territory, like he was getting back to his old ways. But he couldn't get past this illness, whatever it was. I found him in the garage last night. He had crawled into a corner and lied down, finally giving up.

Looking back, it was a mistake to get him, but it's a mistake I'm glad I made. I was going through some of his pictures today, after I dropped him off at the vet's. He seemed to be happy. He was well fed, comfortable. He had plenty of time to run around, and got to spend a lot of time exploring things on his own. He had 13 years. All in all, a decent life for a dog. I'll miss him.

What do dogs get sick as?

Jimbo, my faithful and utterly destructive dog friend of the last dozen years or so, has been seriously ill* for the last couple of weeks. I've been attempting to nurse him back to health, with some success, but we're not over the hump yet, and it may still be getting close to his time.

Him, and much more obviously my Grandad passing away a few weeks ago, has had me feeling kind of low, and I haven't been able to focus much on the writing or keeping the "30 posts in 30 days pledge." Sometimes the writing helps, but I've found I don't write much when in a general and districted state of bhumitude.

So, just thought I'd let y'all know.

*He just stopped eating a couple of Sundays ago. I thought he'd get over it, but he hadn't four days later, at which point I took him to the vet. She took $400 from me, showed me some graphs and some neat little x-rays, and otherwise told me she hadn't the slightest.

I had him on drugs for a few days, but they just seemed to make him more sick, so I cut them off. Since then, I've been feeding him by hand, encouraging him to drink water, and taking him on slow short walks every day. He's improved, but not nearly enough. He still looks like a walking skeleton with black hair and drool. But at least he's here.

Diet update

Since I've received a lot of comments and questions on the diet, I think I should just pass along an update, instead of answering in comments.

The good part:

• I'm losing a pound a day (8 of them, so far).
• It's nice to feel my body having an easier time with basic functions.
• My wife says I look better.
• I'm no longer eating my family out of house and home -- the total cost of my average meal nowadays is about $1.

The bad part:

• Life has become a sad, depressing exercise with little meaning and no hope.

Man, I miss me some sugar. The granular kind you use to sweeten things.

I realize that eventually, the weight loss will hit a wall, at which time I'll have to add exercise. I still have a long way to go.

As to what the diet consists of, here it is in more detail than my first post:

• There has been a fairly severe cutback in caloric intake, but it's mainly the bad stuff. I'm eating more vegetables than before.
• I've decided that eating high quality meat rarely is much better than eating low quality meat all the time.
• I've cut WAY back on the carbs, allowing myself a cup of cereal for breakfast and a lunchtime sandwich on alternating days.
• The only occasional snack I allow myself is a cup of tea, or maybe, if I really need it, a cup of coffee. Plain.

I've received plenty of suggestions to not go hungry and just pig out on vegetables, but I'm wary. If I eat so many vegetables that I get sick of them, what exactly am I supposed to eat then? Besides, in some ways, being hungry feels good. Being hungry means that work is being done, fat is getting burned. Being hungry tells me I'm losing weight.

The worst part isn't the hunger, it's just the irritability. I think I'm getting a handle on that, but I'd like to go ahead and continue apologising to my wife.

Either New Zealand or Australia

Saw this on The Corner and had to share:



I imagine it's only a matter of time before someone in Texas tries this with longhorns. And things go horribly, horribly wrong.

It was a zoo at the zoo. Haha!

My wife suggested that we do a spring breaky thing this weekend by going to the Fort Worth Zoo. Yesterday made her doubt the feasibility.

From the Star-Telegram:

FORT WORTH — Springlike weather, spring-break timing and half-price tickets lured a record crowd to the Fort Worth Zoo on Wednesday, which also meant lines of traffic around Forest Park worthy of a professional sporting event.

By 5 p.m., about 23,000 tickets had been sold, a zoo spokeswoman said. The final tally won’t be available until today. That topped the single-day attendance record of 17,274 set last Good Friday as well as last year’s spring-break Wednesday attendance of 16,076.

I doubt that gorilla watching has ever caused this much traffic. Meredith got a call from a friend warning her to "stay the hell off of 35." And the zoo is not even on an intersection with I-35.

So, sadly, we'll have to find some other spring break activity to do. Which, if you include being able to bring your 18-month-old, doesn't amount to a whole lot of options.

The Diet: And so it begins.

I realized yesterday where the stress from not having a job lined up and starting a new career went. Mainly, it went into several dozen three-donut breakfasts, two-sandwich lunches and "Fire sale, take it all!" dinners I've had over the last year.

I know this because as soon as I cut off the food supply yesterday, the stress bounced up and started poking me in the eye like Curly in the three stooges. I'm hoping this is like breaking off an addiction -- the first day's the worst, then things get better. Thirty-six pounds to go.

Two things I hate about dieting. First, I really love food. I've lived my life surrounded by good cooks, and I've spent a good part of my adulthood trying to learn how to cook. And now that I can, it's boiled chicken and veggies time.

Second, it feels like my brain doesn't function good when I cut back on the fat. I don't know why this is, but it's definitely there. I recall my wife saying she felt like an idiot the entire time she was breast feeding. I think it's the same thing here. No food translates into bad mind thoughts. We're like Elaine on Seinfeld when she gave up sex.

Anyway, here's the official diet plan:

1. Eat healthy stuff.
2. Don't eat much of it.

I'm hopeful that'll get me through. All meals will be planned in advance, no deviations allowed.

Feel the love. Feel the love.

It's old, but I hadn't seen it

A highlight reel of all the best funny cat videos out there.



I just hope he didn't break the ceiling fan.

Relatives with interesting jobs

My cousin, Lance McIlvain, is the second one to jump in on the action, wearing the light blue.



He's the son of Aunt Melindy, who also sent the pictures in the last post.

Say what you will, but I bet he's never spent a day staring at a computer hourglass, hoping that when things finally boot up, the word document isn't FUBAR.

Sam shots

These are from a brunch we attended before my Grandad's funeral. The pictures were sent to me by my Aunt Melinda.

Sam with his Grandma.

Sam with my Grandma and my niece, Kacy.

You can't really tell from these pictures, but our hosts had a house that was a complete work of art. Glass walls staring out over Lake Joe Pool. Stacked rock walls. Vaulted ceilings. And a four-story tower with a lounge on top.

I guess that it's a sign that I now own a home and have seen what my Dad has gone through with the big house in Hico, but I couldn't stop walking through the place, cringing at the idea of maintenance costs.

Back to the treadmill

So, I started dressing for the funeral on Thursday and discovered that all of my good clothes had mysteriously shrunk since the last time I wore them.

By this time, it was just another in a mounting signs that my fatness has REALLY become a problem and it's time to get serious.

Learning to cook is great. The problem is that I wanted to learn how to cook my Mom's meatloaf, chicken fried steak, cookies, etc. And I've therefore cooked myself out of my clothes and into a situation where tying my shoe causes me to breathe heavily.

Really, it just gets annoying -- having to deal with the extra weight and the sudden loss of the ability to reach areas of yourself that you've always been able to reach.

And so, I've started on the treadmill. I had some chicken fried steaks in the freezer that I had to make, and the dieting and the keeping track of every little thing that I eat starts after I finish those.

My wife doesn't believe me either.

The service

All of my Grandad’s grandchildren got a chance to talk (shortly) about the man at his funeral on Thursday.

This is kind of summation of what I said, along with some addendums of things I wanted to say but forgot.

"You think of the typical Grandfather and you think of a man who wears suspenders, makes fun of uptight people, and otherwise uses a lot of phrases like, ‘By cracky.’

This is not my Grandad.

I always felt like I needed to stand up a little straighter anytime I was around him. I knew I didn’t want to be on his bad side, I just had a hard time figuring out exactly where his good side was.

It wasn’t until I was older and I began to see his humor and his intellect. And what an intellect. A degree in chemistry. A rank of major. He read War and Peace in a week. [My brother’s comment but I liked it.]

Looking back, I never really noticed his generosity – his gruffness tended to cover some things. But he always managed to pay for Grandma’s shopping trips for me, he somehow sent checks for $25 or $50 for all of my birthdays, even when he was decades beyond his working years.

And I can’t remember the number of times he sprung for a steak dinner for the entire family – all four of his daughters, all of their husbands and children and the children’s children.

He was the kind of man whose approval you sought because you knew it meant something.

My wife had a difficult time at the hospital when my son was born 18 months ago. She was worn out. Otherwise I would have driven by to see Grandma and Grandad on the way home. I was so proud of my kid, I couldn’t wait to show him off to my Grandad."

I had never witnessed a military honor guard at a funeral before. It was impressive and touching. Taps was played, the flag was folded and given to my grandmother, the soldier gave the "thank you" speech and it was the one moment I had to blink away tears.

It was a cold and rainy day. You notice these things at a funeral, I think, because of the old superstitious notions surrounding ceremonies -- What is God saying?

A cold day that brought much needed rain to a developing spring. My Grandad wasn’t exactly a warm man. But he was a good, tough man. The world needed and needs people like him to keep it in line. It’ll be worse off without him.

In mourning

Obviously, the usual humor wouldn't be appropriate at this point, but I'd like to report to those who have asked that the family is doing OK.

Really, whenever someone is 94, whenever he's had a peaceful stay at the hospice, whenever his family has had a chance to say goodbye, and whenever the final decision was his to make -- passing on doesn't hit like a collision with a brick wall.

What I'm left with, at this point, is just a blank spot in my conscious, that itches and can't be scratched anymore. I didn't visit or talk to my Grandad enough, like everyone else and their grandparents, but I'm realizing how much comfort and strength I drew from the simple knowledge that he, and the part of my heritage he represents, was there, in real life. Memories will be a poor substitute.

William Harold Garvin, RIP

I'll post a tribute eventually. Here's the obit I put together on my grandfather.

William Harold Garvin of Arlington died early Monday, March 9, 2009, at Arlington Memorial Hospital.

Harold Garvin was born Dec. 28, 1914, in Dustin, Okla., the son of William David Garvin and Margaret Harris Garvin.

He graduated valedictorian of Weleetka High School and attended Georgia Tech University, where he earned a Bachelor’s degree in chemical engineering in 1939.

Garvin was a member of the ROTC at Georgia Tech, and entered the Army with the rank of second lieutenant upon his graduation in 1938. The next year he married Theda-V Sanders. They would stay together for 70 years, until his death Monday.

He began his military service in the Signal Corps and was stationed at Camp Bowie in Brownwood on Pearl Harbor Day.

In the 2nd Army Division, 53rd Battalion, he served in North Africa, Italy and France before leaving the military with the rank of major at the end of World War II, having earned the EAME Theatre Ribbon with seven bronze service stars.

He began his civilian career by moving to Dallas and working as a petroleum engineer at Mobil Oil. Later, he opened Garvin’s Hardware and Paint Company at the old A. Harris Shopping Center in Oak Cliff. After selling the business, he sold Gold Bond Trading Stamps and was named as the company’s top U.S. salesman in 1963.

He finished his career as a purchasing agent with Dairy Queen Stores Inc., and later owned and operated three Dairy Queen franchises. He retired in 1987.

He was a longtime member of Glen Oaks United Methodist Church, later joining Duncanville UMC so he could attend services with his family. He was an avid fisherman and Boy Scout volunteer. He spent his retirement traveling with his wife and doting on his grandchildren and great grandchildren.

He spent much of his spare time solving crosswords, assembling puzzles and growing vegetables in his garden. His family will remember his strong work ethic and his sense of humor.

Watchmen's drawer

I have no plans to see "Watchmen" at the multiplex. It's definitely a Netflix kind of experience for me, albeit one where I'm not scanning the catalog in hopes that it pops up.

To me, the most interesting thing going on here is the guy who drew the comic in the first place.

This guy. Alan Moore.

Yeah. You look at him and you think deranged hermit. And yet.

He can't stop himself from noting that he's put a curse on the movie and that he hates Hollywood and the media. And yet he keeps on showing up for interviews and finding ways to get his quotes in the paper.

He kind of reminds me of Kurt Cobain, always muttering against the corporate media, yet constantly calling MTV to play his videos more often.

I find it kind of fascinating, when people choose an image of disfunction in order to make their business function better. And if you don't believe me, check the hair. Do you have any idea how much time he has to spend every day getting that hair into some kind of functional state? He must have a drawerful of combs and high-pressure water sprayers just for his beard. I bet his bathroom has five different work stations.

The truly disturbed would just chop the thing off and be done with it.

Anyway, I have never been gaga for comic books. The promotional blitz and fanboy reaction for "Watchmen" had me puzzling over the possible reasons why. Comic book fans tend to be aggressive about their love for the graphic novel. Lord knows I've heard a lot about art, theme, style and impact. I've also heard the word "awesome" too many times to count.

I tend to be able to at least appreciate and enjoy some aspects of other people's passions, but comic books? Eh.

Why I'm not into comics. No, it's fine if you are. It's just not my bag. Don't hate.
When I was 10 and first gave the serious comic books a look, I remembered being off put by the violence. And most of the stories just followed a color-by-numbers plot:

1. Show Peter Parker at home relaxing with scantily clad wife.
2. Show villain killing somebody while giving a speech that smells like B.S. even to an eight year old.
3. Alert Peter Parker, who shows his concern with an "OH NO!" expression.
4. Change into suit.
5. Zip around. Somehow cause civilians to question your worth/good intentions.
6. Find villain.
7. Hear another speech from villain that even politicians would find meaningless.
8. Kill/chase off villain.
9. Parker appears back at home, looking somewhat fatigued. The end.

Today, what bugs me about the comics is just the non-sequitor to reality they require us to make. They introduce you to a tough, grity, urban setting with drug dealers, prostitutes, mobsters, etc. OK, I can believe that there are some pretty mean places out there.

But then, you're expected to believe that some buff dude in a skintight, flamboyantly colored outfit would show up and beat the crap out of everybody. That just doesn't follow for me.

My wife, who is somehow more into comics than I am, tells me "Watchmen" is a great story and deserves the recognition, and that "a great story is a great story, no matter the format." This made me think, for some reason, of Huckleberry Finn told through '50s beat poetry.

Curse the thought, but maybe my wife isn't right on this one.

Back in the saddle

Yep, I'm home, after driving my ole Saturn 99 wagon for two whole hours with no breakdowns and no new strange noises.

It's like I have my wings back. I felt like I was one of those characters with a broken wing in a cartoon about birds. The bird looks longingly at the sky as the others fly high above him. Sometimes he has to hitch a ride with his lady bird. Sometimes he and the lady bird get into an argument over just whose damn time it is to fill up the gas. And finally, the healing is over.

I'm lucky in two regards here. One, my father-in-law is a retired military mechanic, and, two, he's incredibly charitable with his time.

The whole screwed up story: After my car broke down, I took it to a shop, where they diagnosed a cracked engine block, and had pretty much written the car off as salvage. My father-in-law, hearing my wife discuss the symptons over the phone, calls that a bunch of hooey. Two weeks later, my car is back, working better than before the problems started. (His diagnosis: Something wrong with the head gasket, and replace the radiator.)

There is only one payment for such a man. And that would be cookies. And about $300 and change for the materials and such.

And another cut! And another cut! And ...

I'm beginning to compare my wife to a soldier -- albeit a soldier who becomes physically ill at the sight of a roach and who really likes to talk about emotions.

But mainly because I can see the mental wear and tear she's had to go through, as the Star-Telegram made its fourth(?) round of cuts in the last two years on Thursday.

Mainly, I see the comparison with the combat veteran who sees his friends get shot, but keeps going on, feeling guilty because he survived.

OK, the metaphor's a stretch, but I can't really imagine working in an environment where the staff keeps getting pared down and the survivors just have to keep on taking on more work. And half the people leaving are in "worst possible time for this to happen" phase in their life. It's not fun to work for a newspaper right now.

I admire her a great deal for being able to hold it together, put me through teacher certification, and spend baby time with the boy. I know I'd have said to hell with all that a long time ago and retreated to the farm, middle finger angrily in the air.

Announcing: 30 posts in 30 days.

Because I couldn't think of a more inclusive unit of time.

I've been slacking off big time here lately, and while I could throw plenty of excuses at you, I realized yesterday that I'm supposed to come here because of my excuses -- as therapy. Life's been busy throwing a lot at the Segrist (Fort Worth Branch) lately, and part of the reason for this blog to exist is for my own naval-gazing purposes.

Therefore, starting today, I'll be posting something for the next 30 days straight. There will be pictures of Sam. Videos of Sam. References to Hico. Ruminations on Texas Tech athletics, derision for Aggie football, western literature, and various idle thoughts on fantasy sagas, the middle ages and all that rot.

Also -- dogs.

Starting today. (This post don't count.) Please join me.