Ever since he first came to live here, Wylie has collected a variety of new names to suit the various facets of his personality.
A lot of the names are affectionate variations of his given name: “Wye”, “Wyler”, “Dub” (short for W) and on occasion, when he’s being nutty, “Wylizenheimer”. On more formal occasions, he’s been addressed as “Mister Wylie,” though when I find myself getting frustrated with him, instead of “Mud” his name becomes “Wylie J. Dawg.”
Other names reflect his mood, for example, when he won’t stop bouncing off the walls, he’s been referred to as “Rocket Dog.” Others make less sense, I’m still not sure how he became “Chocolate Pudding Dog”, though “You Silly Dog,” when he tripped over his own leash, is a bit more obvious.
This past week though, Wylie’s been working to earn himself a new name.
A few times in the past when Wylie’s been confined to the bedroom, he’s tried to dig his way out, resulting in a shredded carpet. I really don’t want him damaging the floors (it could be bad for both Wylie’s health and my blood pressure), so as part of Sunday’s activities, I cut up a chair mat to fit in the doorway of my bedroom.
Of course, with summer approaching, I also don’t want him to get overheated. A few weeks ago, I purchased a child-safety gate to put across the bedroom door. The idea was that this would keep Wylie in the room while at the same time, letting the air circulate. Before the floors went in, it seemed to work pretty well (aside from the time I didn’t put it up correctly and he and his buddy Riley teamed up to knock it down twice in five minutes), but now that the floors are in, I may need to rethink my strategy.
Every time I’ve left the house this week, I’ve put Wylie in the bedroom and put up the gate to keep him there. And every time I’ve come home this week, Wylie has either met me at the door or come downstairs shortly after I arrived. (What I forgot is that in Wyile’s world, there’s no such thing as a fence. Instead, Wylie’s world contains nothing more substantial than obstacles made of gossamer that he can pass through any time he so chooses.)
On Tuesday I discovered that not only had Wylie escaped from the bedroom, he’d somehow managed to open the basement door (see my previous comment about gossamer barriers) and instead of eating the food in his dish, had figured out where the milkbones were hidden and had a little picnic. (Predictably, he didn’t bother with his regular food for the next several meals.)
Thursday evening I went out to my Swing Dance class down in Glen Echo. Before I left, I put Wylie in the bedroom and closed the gate. When I came home several hours later, the basement door was open and ol’ Wylie was staring down the steps. I went upstairs to change my clothes and took Wylie out for his evening walk. When we got back, I went down the stairs to get him his evening treat. That’s when I discovered what he had been staring at.
At some point in time, Wylie seems to have decided that the cushions on my sofa are his mortal enemy, and Wylie attacks the cushions at every opportunity. While I was at my dance class, Wylie had launched another attack on his enemy. What he’d been staring at when I came home was a sofa cushion, the foam stuffing of which was scattered across the basement floor.
The latest addition to Wylie’s collection of names is therefore a recognizable classic: “Dammit Wylie!“
Category Archives: Stories
Stain Removal
I bought my house a little more than nine years ago. There’s a lot of pressure involved in buying a home. Everyone talks about mortgage rates, how it’s your single biggest investment, and so on. That’s what gets all the attention, but that’s just small potatoes. The real pressure comes from the first pizza stain.
When a guy moves into a place (and this applies to apartments too), you can’t say you’ve really moved in until you’ve stained the carpet by dropping a slice of pizza. And you can’t do it on purpose either. If you intentionally drop pizza on the carpet, then you’re just a slob.
When moving day arrived, a half-dozen friends and family members assisted me in moving furniture, books, and boxes upon boxes, many of which were clearly labeled as containing “Stuff.” (Several of these boxes are still sitting in the basement, unopened, but contain vitally important stuff that I can’t possibly live without.) Among my helpers were none other than Marauder and his lovely wife Natasha.
After two or three trips between the apartment and the house with cars and trucks brimming with boxes of stuff, we decided to take a break and order lunch. Because it’s the easiest way to feed a group of people on a budget (and also because nobody knew which box had the kitchen stuff), we ordered pizza.
Everyone had already been making jokes about the problem of the pizza stains and then about two thirds of the way through lunch, Marauder dropped a slice of pizza! I don’t know whether he was just naturally clumsy, or if he was just being a slob (he and Natasha will likely have differing answers on that one) but suddenly all the pressure was gone and I was free to enjoy my new home.
We cleaned up that stain in short order and today I can only tell you that it was somewhere in the general living room/dining room area. But nine years of foot traffic, plus Terry and Wylie, have taken their toll on those formerly light-colored carpets. Even the steam machine from the supermarket has only a limited effect. It’s time to do something about them. Preferably, something that will be easier to maintain.
Today I officially selected a company to install hardwood floors. Marauder has until May 28th to complete any additional pizza-dropping activities he may be considering. After that, I’ll be keeping him away from the area rugs.
Interesting Afternoon
Today was quite “interesting.” The Gaithersburg/Germantown Jaycees were running a booth at a festival at Bohrer Park down in Gaithersburg this afternoon and I went to help out. Around 1:30 a police dog that happened to be at the event “alerted” on me and turned up a small bag of marijuana in my left pocket.
No, I’m not joking, there really was marijuana in my pocket. I should know, I put it there after all. I would say that it wasn’t mine, but then, that’s what they all say, right?
No doubt you’re wondering what the heck was going on. How did I end up with marijuana in my pocket?
There’s a simple explanation: The cop gave it to me.
The event was Gaithersburg’s annual all-dog “Bark in the Park” festival and the Jaycees had arranged for officers from the Maryland Division of Corrections to put on a demonstration. I was one of the volunteers for the demonstration of how the dogs help to screen people for drugs.
Girls Love the Fuzzy Guy
I’ve been reminded a few times in the past several days that Wylie is a rock star.
Oh sure, it’s hardly news that he was lead vocalist for the legendary rock group, Wylie and the Coyotes. And who could ever forget the sweet melody of their number one hit, “Chasing Cars” from the multi-platinum album of the same name? But when you get to know a dog on a day-to-day basis, it’s easy to forget the legend and just think of him as the good-natured, lovable guy he is.
And then you have days like this past Friday and Saturday when you realize you’re in the presence of a living legend. Both days while we were out for our afternoon walk Wylie found himself surrounded by adoring girls. For example, on Saturday afternoon as we were walking through the park, the girl up the street and one of her friends saw us coming. As soon as they saw us, they stopped what they were doing and immediately ran toward us, screaming “Wylieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!” and when they reached us, they immediately threw their arms around Wylie and spent the next several minutes stroking his back, skritching him behind the ears and telling him how much they’d missed him.
I don’t mind that Wylie has so much starpower. Attracting girls is part of his job after all. I just wish he’d attract a few who were perhaps 25-30 years older.
Old Computers
Technology is one of those things where for the most part, things don’t improve with age. The main exception to this rule seems to be the old-fashioned division by hand versus trusting certain bits of silicon. (Thus leading to the expression/warning, “Don’t Divide, Intel Inside.”)
A couple years ago, an acquaintance gave me a notebook PC. It was in working condition, it just didn’t have a hard drive. (The original drive had failed and he’d decided to replace the entire thing with an Apple Power Book.) I tried to get a new drive from Dell, but eventually discovered they were no longer available. So the computer sat in my guest room, just gathering dust.
I think the correct term here might be “pack rat.”
A friend gave me a talking-to the other day and I resolved to do a bit more follow-through on my plans to Disenclutter™ the place.
So this morning I sat down and typed up a description of the notebook computer, making it clear that there was no hard drive.
This is an older (6 years?) Dell Inspiron 3000 notebook.
The specs are:
- 233MHz Pentium MMX
- 143 MB RAM
- Swappable CD and Floppy drives (plus a cable allowing whichever isn’t plugged in to be connected to the parallel port)
- PCMCIA Network and modem cards
- Power supply
There is one catch: This computer has no hard drive. The original drive (3.2 GB, 2.5″ form factor) is no longer available from Dell and I haven’t had the time/energy/need to track one down elsewhere. The computer is otherwise in working order; you probably won’t be running Vista on it, but it should be fine for most word-processing or email tasks.
I then posted that description to the local Freecycle group.
The item was posted at 8:03 AM. Given the age of the computer, I didn’t expect there would be too many takers. In fact, I was a little worried some might accuse of me using the list as a means of getting rid of trash.
How’s that saying go? “One person’s trash is another’s treasure”? By 8:13 AM there were already seven people asking for the computer. Thinking that perhaps some had seen the word “computer” without reading the part about “no hard drive” I wrote back to the first one (for this stuff I figure it’s first come, first served) to make sure she understood that part. Yep, she’d understood that all along.
Evidently that computer still has some life ahead of it.
Beware the Kangaroos
I first heard the story of the “heavily armed” Kangaroos back in 1999 and although it sounds somewhat apocryphal, it’s still quite entertaining. Going through some old emails last night, I ran across it again:
The reuse of some object-oriented code had caused tactical headaches for Australia’s armed forces. As virtual reality simulators assume larger roles in helicopter combat training, programmers have gone to great lengths to increase the realism of their scenarios, including detailed landscapes and — in the case of the Northern Territory’s Operation Phoenix — herds of kangaroos (since disturbed animals might well give away a helicopter’s position).
The head of the Defence Science & Technology Organization’s Land Operations/Simulation division reportedly instructed developers to model the local marsupials’ movements and reactions to helicopters. Being efficient programmers, they just re-appropriated some code originally used to model infantry detachment reactions under the same stimuli, changed the mapped icon from a soldier to a kangaroo, and increased the figures’ speed of movement.
Eager to demonstrate their flying skills for some visiting American pilots, the hotshot Aussies “buzzed” the virtual kangaroos in low flight during a simulation. The kangaroos scattered, as predicted, and the visiting Americans nodded appreciatively….then did a double-take as the kangaroos reappeared from behind a hill and launched a barrage of Stinger missiles at the helpless helicopter. (Apparently the programmers had forgotten to remove THAT part of the infantry coding.)
The lesson? Objects are defined with certain attributes, and any new object defined in terms of an old one inherits all the attributes. The embarrassed programmers had learned to be careful when reusing object-oriented code, and the Yanks left with a newfound respect for Australian wildlife.
Simulator supervisors report that pilots from that point onward have strictly avoided kangaroos, just as they were meant to.
Over time, I’ve learned more often than not, any story you find online which sounds that good is more than likely bogus. The story about the guy who attached solid rocket boosters to his Chevy Impala is one such example. It’s a fantastic story, but it’s complete bunk.
So after coming across the Kangaroo story again last night, I decided to check whether it was real. By the time I first ran across it, many of the details had been greatly exaggerated. But to my surprise, it turns out that the underlying story is true!
Doing some more digging, I found a first hand version of the story. Even without the embellishments, it’s still a good laugh.
And the official word from Australia is that (as of eight years ago anyhow) the Kangaroos are no longer armed.
If Pigs had Wings…
When I brought in the mail on Tuesday, I found a largish envelope with the name Squish on the return address. So right away I knew something interesting was afoot.
Squish is one of the many colorful characters populating my world. Lots of people refer to her by her nickname of “Amy,” but I’ve long found the sobriquet “Squish” to fit her well.
When we first met, Squish’s job title was GUI Engineer which meant she worked on (among other things) creating web pages. In the unique language of computer geeks, the acronym GUI (short for “Graphical User Interface”) is usually pronounced “Gooey.” Naturally (and somewhat inevitably), this eventually led us to a deep philosophical exchange on the topic of what the requirements might be for becoming a Squishy Engineer. For example, could you qualify by walking through a puddle while wearing sneakers?
So when Squish unexpectedly sends me a package, it’s immediately clear that something silly is about to happen.
I wasn’t disappointed. When I opened it, the package contained a Pig Catapult and a New Mexico UFO operating license.
Now the UFO operating license makes all sorts of sense. The authorities tend to take a very dim view of unlicensed pilots, so it’s good to have that legality taken care of.
But the pig catapult took me off guard. Why is it that a pig catapult would make Squish think of me?
When I asked her, Squish replied, “Who ELSE do you know who might ever use a pig launcher??”
She has a point. And as a bonus, I’m now prepared for the next time someone tells me something will happen, “…when pigs fly!”
State of Crisis
Over the holiday weekend, I found myself driving through New Jersey a couple times.
Going North across the Delaware Memorial Bridge, I found myself wondering, “‘Memorial Bridge’? Did something happen to Delaware? Isn’t the state there anymore? And if it’s not, what did I just drive through?” This train of thought didn’t last very long though since as soon as I came off the bridge, I found myself entering New Jersey.
I’m certain New Jersey is a wonderful place to live. But between medical waste washing up on the shore and the road department attempting to pave every square inch of the state, it’s easy to see where some of the negative images come from. The sign I saw didn’t help things either.
On the New Jersey side of the bridge, there was a programmable sign spanning the road, flashing a pair of messages:
Welcome to New Jersey
If you’re in crisis, call… and the number for a crisis center.
Somehow I doubt the department of tourism was involved in programming that message.
The Southbound sign a few days later wasn’t much better.
Traffic Delay ahead
If you’re in crisis, call… and the same number.
All I could think was that if I’d bought a soda at the rest stop an hour earlier, I really would have been in crisis. But how could an 800 number could solve that?
Interesting Day at the Office
Monday was the last day for one of the higher ups at my office and the event was marked with a lunch time going-away party. Midway through the party, the fire alarm started going off. There had been signs posted by the elevators that morning to announce fire alarm tests, so we stayed put and listened to several short speeches. After the alarms had been going off for nearly 15 minutes, someone came into the room and announced that the building really was being evacuated.
As we walked out of the building, we saw a group of firefighters walking in, all wearing their heavy fire jackets, several carrying fire extinguishers, dragging hoses, and one or two lugging breathing apparatus. MC heard one of them saying the fire was in the building’s basement.
They let us back into the building a half-hour later. As we were walking up the stairs, several of us noticed the smell of smoke. Either there really was a fire, or else it was one heck of a realistic fire drill.
Rumor has it that the fire started when someone threw a cigar into the landscaping and the mulch caught fire. Evidently it was right in front of the intake for the building’s ventilation system. That’s how we came to have smoke in the building.
Regardless of what really happened, this is the only party I’ve ever attended that really did end with the fire department arriving.
The Legend of Bunny Foo Foo
Back in February of 2002, AJ lost a bet. A few weeks later, she found herself standing in a crowded restaurant, wearing bunny ears, and singing “Little Bunny Foo Foo.” Two months later, in May, she wound up doing a repeat performance, this time in front of the entire Maryland Jaycees. When AJ loses a best, she doesn’t mess around!
The result of all this singing is that over the past few years, AJ has become known throughout the Jaycees as “Little Bunny Foo Foo,” a role she’s come to wholeheartedly embrace.
In April of this year, AJ was diagnosed with non-Hodgkin Lymphoma, a form of cancer. Adding insult to injury, within a few weeks of starting the chemotherapy, she ended up losing her hair. So when her husband, Mike, said that “anything to make her laugh” would be good, her friends jumped at the opportunity.
Because of the chemotherapy’s impact on her immune system, AJ was unable to attend the Jaycees’ quarterly convention in May. So to cheer her up, more than 70 people posed for photos to be put in an album for her. In the photos, everyone held signs bearing personalized messages, and everyone wore bunny ears.
This past weekend, I had the privilege of escorting AJ to the formal dinner at the November Jaycees convention. We paused at the door, waiting to be announced. As people throughout the room grabbed their cameras, the emcee, momentarily speechless, turned away from the microphone. Turning back, she softly said, “I never thought I’d be happy to see those again.”
As the flashes subsided, we were introduced and stepped forward grinning. Perched atop AJ’s head, topping six weeks worth of new hair, was a pair of bunny ears.
As we crossed the room, the emcee softly added in a tone equally laughing and wistful, “Welcome back Bunny Foo Foo.”
