Love Story

This is a real love story.  An American classic of boy meets girl.  It has a fantastic beginning and like many love stories, a painful end. Yet, in this case, the end hasn’t come yet, but it is on its way, which makes it even worse. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves here.

Our story starts with a crazy woman, I mean a REALLY crazy woman. She is so insane; she has leashed a beautiful, black and white border collie to her dryer door to keep her away from her drug addict son’s child. The son has decided drugs are more important to him than being a Dad, so he has come to roost at the place where he can be enabled best, his Mom’s tiny apartment. His Mom, eager to prove her mental instability knows no bounds, allows the prodigal son to invade her home where she is also raising a teenaged girl.  It is this young lady’s prized pet that now gets relegated to being leashed in the laundry room to make room for her brother, the drug addict, a valuable lesson for any child to learn, tough love indeed.

Now here comes some serious irony, mixed with some delicious serendipity, which changes lives forever and from which our love story is born. Crazy Mom continues to show her eggs are scrambled beyond repair. When her landlord announces he is coming to inspect her apartment, she thinks not of harboring a drug addict under her roof, but that the dog tied to the dryer door, is not allowed according to her lease. Uh oh.

She must have thought, “I’m not concerned about the heroin addict, but I have to hide the dog”.

Innocently enough, My roommate says in passing, “Hey, a friend of mine needs to hide her dog from her landlord and asked me to see if you’d allow her here for the night”.

I have two dogs living in my home at the time, a dominant female, Siberian husky named Kolky and a black lab/great Dane mix called Clyde, who is smart enough to give Kolky her space.

I ask, “the dog a female?”

“Yes”, he replies.

“Well, keep her away from Kolky and it’ll be ok for one night”.

When I returned later, Boo was already in the house. She greeted me with loud, incessant barking. She was smaller than my two dogs (about 30 lbs), but barked more in the first ten minutes I met her than my dogs had in the past 2 years. As I crouched down to greet her, she ran away and barked more, then stopped and faced me with another round of barking.  My roommate, perhaps sensing this wasn’t working out too well took Boo upstairs to his room, closed the door, and it was there she spent her night, free from the dryer door.

The next morning, as per my normal routine, I was preparing to take Clyde and Kolky to some nearby trails for a run, when I asked my roommate when Crazy Mom was coming for Boo. He was unsure. So as I loaded my two into my Explorer, I invited Boo along.

She barked at me, several times, backed away, barked some more and then ran forward and leaped into the truck, avoiding any contact with Kolky, finding the nearest open window, sticking out her head and barking. Bark after annoying sharp bark for a ten-minute ride up the mountain. I’m thinking one night is plenty with this crazy bitch as I open the door to three bounding dogs spilling out.

Maybe it was the feel of Mother Earth under her feet.  Or maybe it was the sensation of moving more than 5 feet without her collar jerking her back to the dryer. Or maybe it was the pack instinct found inside every canine.  I was there and I call it a miracle, because Boo stopped barking. In addition, as I began to jog up the trailhead, with Kolky taking the lead and Clyde just in front of me, Boo fell into line just behind me. In fact, she kept so close, that I often clipped her jaw with my heel as I took a stride. She kept that position for the entire run, jumped back in the truck at the end and barked all the way home.

We never heard from Boo’s owner that night and she had another 24 hours dryer-free and had another run at the “Tubs”. She stood by me as Clyde and Kolky swam in the pools of the creek, barking the whole time. One day, led to another, and she began to run in front of me and chase whatever the other two chased and barked less with each ride home. Instead, she paced and panted, panted and paced, while the other two laid and wondered if she’d ever clam down.

One week turned to a month and I discovered if I went upstairs, so did Boo. I turned left, Boo turned left. I stopped. Boo stopped and sat and look at me, eyes riveted. If I made eye contact with her, her tail wagged, no barking. I sat down; she jumped in my lap and as I pet her, moaned with such delight that I was sure it was her soul singing. Unbeknownst to her, or so I thought, she had temporarily won the doggie lottery without even buying a ticket.

Since crazy tends to be consistent, months went by without even a whisper from Boo’s jailer. Then, a message delivered by my roommate that it is probably better for Boo to remain where dryer doors are only for keeping tumbling clothes in place and here is where the love story begins in earnest.

Boo has her inevitable run-in with Kolky, where I attempt to intervene, only to have Kolky remind me that a dogfight is no place for a human hand.  She becomes buddies with Clyde, but never really playmates. She finds her place in the pack and decides upon the role for which she is best suited, adoring me with all her heart and all her soul. Let Clyde play with the rope and Kolky rule the roost, Boo is here to make sure I know that she loves me and her new life and she does so every second I am near in every one of her waking moments for the last 6 years.

I wish this story had a happy ending, I really do. I mean with every fiber in my body, much like Boo has loved me, I wish I were beginning to tell you the happiest ending in the history of happy endings. But I cannot and will not, because Boo and I are somewhere in the beginning of the end of our love story in this life.

It began with excessive drinking from her water bowl and urinating in places she never did before which has led her doctors to discover a massive tumor on her right side, involving her adrenal glands, liver, kidneys and aorta as well as ten nodules on her lungs. Other than the drinking and urinating she appears normal, eating well and running down new trails. Surgery is far too risky given the size of the mass and its over-lapping of vital areas.  Medicinal options will be discussed tomorrow to attempt to arrest the growth of the mass and help her body to continue to function normally. It is hard to determine when she will begin to fail, but that day is closer than farther away.

I recently attended a workshop on mindfulness, somewhat an introduction to meditation, but mostly exercises designed to keep us present in life.  One tip was to use a STOP sign as the following acronym. S for actually coming to a complete stop. T for take a full breath. O for observing your surroundings and finally, P for proceeding after taking in the first three steps. Try it sometime. I highly recommend it.

For me though, I now have a daily reminder of staying present. She is my undying love story even as she dies. Six years later, and with a massive cancer stealing room in her little frame as I look from my computer now, she is there. I call her name and she wags her tail. I make eye contact and the tail wags quicken, she rises, with a look of great anticipation. I pet her belly and she moans with such delight that I know it is her soul singing.

In her eyes I see this: “we only have today, and really, we only have this moment. I have loved you since I was dropped into your life and I love you still. I believe in you and I believe in us, always have and always will”.

This is a love story. An American classic of boy meets girl. It has a fantastic beginning and like any real love story, it never ends.

(Boo currently is the leader of the pack , where Clyde and Sarge (3 year old, male Golden) tumble and play while she referees. She was born black and white for a reason.)

Happy Valentine's Day

Since Valentine’s day is approaching fast, it occurred to me that Manti Te’o should consider sending Lance Armstrong a token of his cyber love; flowers, candy, human growth hormone, actually nothing says “I love you” more in the virtual world than an e-card that pulsates through your firewall. After all, the long tall Texan took some of the heat off the All-American cyber dater by having his made for TV confessional during the same week that Te’o’s story broke. In case you missed Lance’s mea culpa to the big (again) O, it went something like this:

LA: forgive me Oprah for I have sinned (but not really, cause everybody else was sinning too).

O: Forget it my son, you are still rich as hell, read 3 of my book club selections, and I’ll forgive you.

LA: But I lost $75 million in sponsorship money in one day.

O: I’ll loan you the books.

LA: Speaking of books, I looked up the definition of cheat in the dictionary one day and it said “to gain an unfair advantage” and I don’t think I did that….but, I did break up with Cheryl Crow after she was diagnosed with breast cancer…and that was while I was still allowed to be associated with my LIVESTRONG cancer foundation… that’s not cheating, but it is kind of shitty…Do I have to apologize to her too?

O: Maybe if you start jumping up and down like Tom Cruise did on my show once to profess his love for Katie Holmes, she’ll forgive you…

LA: Not a good idea. I don’t want people to think I’m an idiot.

(cue: What a feelin…tonights gonna be a good night..commerical break)

I have an idea Lance. Instead of telling us how tough it is to be you right now and how sorry (sort of) you are, why not show us instead.

In 2003, while still being paid large sums of money by the bike manufacturer, TREK, the Lance Armstrong, limited edition bicycle was unveiled. Only 500 were produced (or at least that’s what you and TREK told us), to commemorate your record setting 5^th consecutive Tour De Farce victory.  The bike was a yellow Madone frame with red and blue decals, Dura-Ace components and Bontragger wheels.   Without the LA commemorative, limited edition factors, this bike might sell between $2-3,000. The LA bike went for $6,999, because Lance was special, his accomplishments were special and TREK was shutting down production after number 500 rolled off the line. 

But wait, there’s more.

Lance also sent you a 3 ft x 4 ft limited edition lithograph, signed by the greatest American cyclist ever. (Truthfully, it was signed by Lance, Greg Lemond refused to be a part of this scam). Along with your certificate of authenticity (can there be a greater irony here?), you received a jersey matching the frame decals on the bike.

Don’t look at it as buying a bike, but investing in a piece of history.

Uh oh.

Now, I’m not sure how a class-action lawsuit works, but here is where Lance and TREK can beat them to the courthouse.

I’m sure most folks will take $6,000 for their troubles.  That’s a meager $3,000,000 to actually prove to people how sorry you are, you know, for almost cheating and ruining the lives of anyone that tried to prove otherwise, along with scamming 500 of your fans out of $6,999. (I really can’t believe you haven’t thought of this yet, since you are so sorry and all). I don’t think I even heard you mention it with the big O. Perhaps it was edited.

I know you can do it, Lance. I was on the slopes of Alpe D’Huez and saw that look of determination on your face. I even snapped a classic photograph as you steamed by me on your way to victory. The Lance I saw that day, has the balls, I mean ball, to pony up and make things right for at least 500 of the folks that he has conned all these years.

So, come on, Lance, make this a Valentine’s Day to remember. We need something to cheer us up. It was sad enough that some college kid’s cyber dating habits helped deflect the attention from you and vice versa. Sadder still, was how Notre Dame wasted no time leaping to publically defend their middle linebacker in, horrors of horrors, an online dating hoax. (Poor kid. We could tell he could be easily duped by the way he flailed helplessly at the Alabama running backs running by him in the BCS title game).

See, Manti and your fans have something in common. They both have been victims of a terrible hoax. Where Manti was lured in by some hot pics and a man’s voice pretending to be a woman, (who wouldn’t fall for that?), you, along with TREK, dangled the promise to be a part of history to steal money from your greatest supporters.  So let’s get that checkbook out and prove it’s not about the bike, and while you’re at it, send Manti something too, just make sure he knows it’s from you.

Ode to Wilkes-Barre

The city of Wilkes Barre, in northeastern PA, has an interesting motto, “pattern after us”. Now, I’m not sure when they adopted the motto, but I’m guessing it was sometime in the 18th century when the city was a hub of industry centering around the booming anthracite coal business, happy days indeed. Unless, of course, you were one of the families involved in the infamous Twin Shaft Disaster (1896) or the Knox Mine Disaster (1959).

In the Twin Shaft case, 58 men and boys died when signs of potential trouble were not addressed with the safety of the miners as a top priority. Also, maps of potential escape routes were not available, as they should have been, hindering a potential rescue. None of the bodies were recovered.

In the Knox Mine Disaster, miners were ordered to dig (illegally), under the mighty Susquehanna River that flows through the heart of the city. It seems they came too close (about 6ft) from its bed and the water caved in the tunnel. An estimated 10 billion gallons of water eventually filled the mines, 12 miners were killed and 69 escaped. Several people were indicted included the President of the District 1 Miner’s Union who also happened to be a secret owner.

Ok, so maybe the “pattern after us” motto came later; say in the 1960’s. It seems in the 1960 presidential election, Wilkes Barre was often cited for its unusually high poverty levels. The 1970’s brought hurricane Agnes and the ’72 flood that caused so much damage that some folks feel the city has yet to recover. (I see a pattern of some serious bad karma developing here).

The motto definitely couldn’t have come from this century where the city has had national recognition for its’ political corruption, most notably the “Kids for Cash” scandal. In this case, senior judge Conahan and president judge Ciavarella, of the Luzerne County Court of Common Pleas, were accused of receiving kickbacks for sentencing kids, in many cases to much harsher sentences, and assigning them to facilities they had invested in. Their stool pigeon was another judge being investigated by the FBI for widespread county corruption that brought charges against 30 people.

Take a deeper look into the Kids for Cash scandal if you think Jerry Sandusky is the only monster from the Keystone State. The two judges plead guilty, and then accept a plea bargain, then have the plea bargain removed by a Federal judge dissatisfied with their post-plea behavior. (I am not making this up). Then plead guilty again for racketeering and tax evasion, among other things. The two are behind bars, but not for permanently damaging the lives of children. (One noted case was a young girl who was a repeat offender in her neighborhood. Her crime was continuing to write in colored chalk on the sidewalk in front of her elderly neighbors home. She ended up sentenced to one of the facilities that would keep the cash flowing, where she was sexually abused).
I had an experience with the local courts while living in Wilkes Barre. I took my Ford Explorer to a fast oil change place on Pierce Street for state inspection. I was told I needed tires, and lucky for me they were having a special. I purchased four new Bridgestone tires and within weeks one was completely bald. I drove in, showed the owner and he tried to sell me new tires. I’m no car guy, but something didn’t seem right.

I went home and called Bridgestone and they told me those tires should not have been recommended for my vehicle. I brought that information to the owner who said; “I’m not even sure that you bought those tires here”. So, off to the local magistrate I went, conveniently located a few blocks from his shop. Here’s how it went.

I provided a list of the tires Bridgestone suggests for my vehicle, in which the tires sold to me, do not appear. George says, “I’m not sure he bought those from me”.
I produce a quote sheet from his shop and bank statement documenting the sale. I also tell the judge of bringing the defected tire in to show George and he denies ever seeing me.
George says, “If he would have brought them in, I could have done something”.
I say, “ Well good, because I have the defective tires outside in my truck which is now happily riding on the appropriate tires purchased from a tire store.”
The learned judge asks if we could please try to work this out and George agrees to take a look.
“If you can’t, then Ill make a decision”, the judge declares.

As we walk outside together, George makes a beeline for his Mercedes.
“George, my truck is over here”, I say.
George walks away.
“The tires are in the back of my truck, right here”, and again, he ignores me.

I show up on our next date and tell the judge I want him to make a decision telling him how George refused to even acknowledge me, much less take a look at my tires. George claims I am a chronic malcontent, never to be satisfied. The judge says he shall decide and inform us promptly. Several weeks go by, then a month. I call the court.

The clerk asks the judge about the pending judgment and returns with this response, “ the judge thought you two were going to resolve this on your own”.
“No ma'am, please remind his honor that I couldn’t even get this snake to acknowledge my existence and that he lied under oath, that’s why on the second appearance we left the decision to be made by his most honorable”.

“Hold, please”.

“The judge said he’ll make a decision and you’ll be contacted by mail”.
Two days later, I found out the judge decided in favor of local, slimy, George.
Pattern after us?

Well maybe it’s meant for one of the local morning drive DJ who also moonlights as a realtor for Century 21. She has the same surname as one of the city’s namesakes, and looks old enough to be a sister to Isaac Barre who died in 1802.
She assured me as I signed a yearlong contract that I would be a priority and “open houses on the weekends are my trademark”. (zero open houses with my place, 1 showing in 10 months.)

After my home was burglarized two times in three months, the second time with the lock box being smashed off the front door to gain access, I called the DJ and left a voicemail. One week later she returned my call and advised taking down the For Sale sign and putting the lock box in the back. She said she’d send someone over to retrieve the sign. It is still there 10 months later. But wait, it gets better.

I call her in March, 5 months into the contract, to see how things are going and discuss possible strategies. March is my busiest month and it quickly becomes April and I haven’t heard back from my DJ/realtor. I call again. Two weeks later I get a return call. In July, I get a text message telling me her cell number is changed. I call that number and leave a message, again, no return call.

Now, I know it must be tiring for an old woman to host a 6am radio show five days a week and sell houses on the side, but with the new medications out there…a phone call can’t be that difficult. So I call her boss (at Century 21), to ask him to please have the DJ call me and that I am completely dissatisfied with the level of service. (He returns my call that night).

I also send a text to the DJ that says, “any chance for a return call from you this year?” To which she replies immediately, “no action on house”. I call her immediately and get her voicemail, then another text, “at Guggenheim, can’t talk now”. I text back, “ Please call ASAP, if you don’t get me, leave a VM, Ill get back to you right away’”. (I resist adding, “ it’s a new concept many businesses are trying)”.

An hour or so later, the DJ calls launching into a myriad of reasons my house has not sold. I tell her I really don’t care to talk about that, I want to talk about how unhappy I am with her lack of communication for 10 months and her not returning calls from me.
“Well, there wasn’t anything to report”, she says.
“So, you mean you never return anyone’s calls when there is no news to report?” I ask.
“Oh, no, I return calls….”
“So, then you just don’t return my calls?”, (a logical assumption by me, based on her response.)
“Jesus Christ, Kevin.” She says with a harsh tone.

“Excuse me, what did you just say?”, I ask, with my blood heading towards boil.
“I finally get you to call me after weeks and months of unreturned calls and I get Jesus Christ, Kevin?”.
I tell her I’m going to file a complaint with the local realtor association and her boss and she says I don’t have to because she just heard my complaint. I ask her to give me the name of the local association where I can file the complaint and she does.
I tell her I will reach out to them tomorrow and she laughs and hangs up.

Pattern after us?

The DJ texts me that she will honor my request to terminate the contract and I ask her again to have the sign removed from my property. She then texts that she is sorry she made me mad and she should have communicated better. I talk to her boss the next day and he tells me she is one of his best, he wishes they could have sold my house and lack of returned phone calls are his most frequent complaint.

Now, there are some fine things associated with the city of Wilkes Barre. In 1926, Babe Ruth hit what was measured to be a 650 ft home run in an exhibition game held at Artillery Park. An Italian immigrant founded Planter’s Peanuts in Wilkes Barre. The owner used to have the Mr. Peanut mascot hand out free samples at the square. Currently, it is the home of House of Bricks, one of the leaders in the production of fine pate’. The Scranton-Wilkes Barre Penguins of the American Hockey League is a shared source of pride. But the beautiful Luzerne County Courthouse that is the centerpiece of many photographs of Wilkes Barre is all theirs. (Although, that is where the aforementioned monsters hanged their robes.)

But, pattern after us?

It might be time to reconsider the city motto. The community leaders behind bars might have the time to come up with one, but that’s in bad taste. (If the Paterno statue had to come down, what’s to become of the beautiful courthouse?) No one knows the heartbeat of the city better than a local business owner that provides “fast” service. But we need a truthful, honest motto. If we are not in a hurry, I know a local DJ who can do a rewrite (they can be creative folks). I’ll call her and leave a message.