LB: Live! From Paradise #229 – “Tracking the Ghost Dog”

(The Intro above is from this column's previous web incarnation)

by Larry Brody

I had almost zero sleep last night, thanks to the noise.

It started at about eleven o’clock. The sound of Decker the Giant-Hearted barking ferociously from the front porch.

A sound that drove Ditsy Dixie, who was sleeping at our feet, Emmy the Bold, who was sleeping on the floor in front of us, Belle the Wary, who was curled up on the couch downstairs, and Decker the Giant-Hearted, who was sprawled in front of Sir Elvis, our ancient suit of armor, insane.

All four dogs bolted to their feet, barking and howling so loudly that they sounded like a fleet of cement mixers grinding along our gravel road. The dogs jumped at the front door, eager to join their buddy—

In an impossible situation that I’m still trying to figure out.

Picture it.

Outside: Decker barking in a fury.

Inside: Emmy, Dixie, Belle, and Decker barking and clawing to get outside.

That’s right. All of us in the house heard Decker outside, all too loud and clear.

Including the very same Decker, who was inside as well.

I grabbed my headlamp from the nightstand and turned on its beam. Hurried downstairs. I pushed my way through the dogs, opened the door.
And four dogs joined a fifth, racing together from the porch around to the recently fenced-in back of the clearing.

“Gwen…?!” I called upstairs.

Gwen responded with a sleepy half-shout. “What…?”

“There’s two Deckers out here, honey,” I said.

“I don’t think so, honey,” said Gwen. Her voice was a little less sleepy. And more irritated.

I went outside and down the side steps—just in time to whirl like a falling leaf as the dogs came running back. Still barking, of course.

Four dogs, not five. Only one Decker.

“Sure sounded like you who started the ruckus, Deck,” I said.

In the headlamp’s light Decker’s eyes shone mischievously. “Ya think?” Decker said.

Over the past few weeks, Dixie has been working on a new trick no one’s wanted her to learn. She used this time to demonstrate it, jumping up on the front door, and pressing her paw down on the handle at the same time she pushed forward. The door swung open, and she slipped inside. The other dogs and I followed.

With a sigh, I went back upstairs, and just as I got into bed, there it was again.

Decker barking. From outside.

Down I went once again, finding out why it’s not such a good idea for a man my age to take the the steps two at a time. I looked over at the front door from where I was sprawled at the foot of the stairway.

Four dogs barked at the front porch.

From the front porch one dog barked at the night.

I pulled myself to my feet, grateful that my legs, knees, and hips still worked. Did the whole pushing through the dogs and going outside with them thing I’d done once already.

Then I ran after the pack as it scrambled into the backyard.

My headlamp picked out four large, semi-hysterical canine bodies.

A fifth one barked behind me.

I turned and saw Decker standing with his tongue lolling out.

“When did you become the Ghost Dog?” I said.

“Just now,” Decker said. “A special gift, I think. For tonight.”

“What’d you do to earn this gift?” I said.

“Maybe I sat for the right spirit at the right time. Or rolled over for the Wind of Mystery.” Decker said. “How should I know? I’m a dog.”

With a series of half-howling barks, he ran to join the others. For an instant I saw five forms in the darkness. Then the two Deckers blended into one.

I went back inside, leaving the dogs behind. I called up the stairs once more.

“Gwen? Honey—”

“I don’t want to hear it, honey,” came the very awake, very irritated response.

I sat down at my desk, waiting for the dogs to come back. I don’t know which is more marvelous. Decker being in two places at once, or Dixie being able to open the front door.

I wonder what other “rewards” Decker and the other dogs will earn.

And if Dixie can learn how to open the door from the inside as well. So she can let everyone out in addition to bringing them in and Gwen and I can get some sleep.

It certainly would fit into our life better than a doggy door.

LB: Live! From Paradise #227 – “The Doobie Brothers”

(The Intro above is from this column's previous web incarnation)

by Larry Brody

T.S. Eliot famously wrote that “April is the cruelest month,” but out Paradise way the honors for Most Sadistic Time of Year go to September.

Like most people who grew up in the Northern Hemisphere, I associate the month of September with Fall, expecting it to be a time of falling temperatures, with chilly nights and crisp, sparkling days.

Ha!

Here in the Ozarks, September is narcissistic Lucy to my naïve Charlie Brown. Only instead of yanking away the football, September sends temperatures soaring up into the 100s, with humidity to match. Want to get outside work done in September? No problem…as long as you get out there at sunup and collapse back inside by 10 a.m.

All in all, September in Paradise is a profound illustration of the most fiery Hell any angry preacher has tried to describe. Drops of sweat swipe down from your scalp to burn your eyes like the most powerful brimstone. And there’s no escape.

None.

Except—

No, not repentance (I’ve tried that and failed, again and again), but—

Air conditioning.

All praise the Benign-and-Mighty Universe for good ole A.C.!

And its equally Benign-and-Mighty Prophets:

The Doobie Brothers Heating and Air.

Sometimes I think that these fine boys, operating out of a little hole in the wall not too far from the Town Square, are all that stand between civilization and barbarism. Without the Doobsters, this space would be blank today instead of filled with these very words.

Because instead of sitting at the computer and writing I’d be lying in the E.R. of the closest hospital, waiting, waiting, waiting (you can tell I’ve had some Emergency Room experience) for treatment for heatstroke.

The trouble began when Gwen the Beautiful and I returned from a month-long sojourn to the Northwest, where we hung with Youngest Daughter Amber and her significant other, The Mighty Jeremiah.

They live in Seattle, where almost no one has air conditioning because no one needs it. Summer temperatures average 20 degrees cooler than those here at home in early Fall.

Bill Morningstar had done a fine job of watching over Cloud Creek Ranch while we were gone, and he’d done as we’d asked and kept the A.C. off. So the first thing Gwen did when we got inside the hot, stuffy house was go to our new, computerized thermostat and turn it on.

We waited for the humming of the compressor and the breeze of cold air from the registers in the walls and floors.

And waited.

And waited some more.

“Oh no….” Gwen’s voice was a wail. “I can hardly breathe in here. What’re we going to do?”

“Well, we could go into the Annex and see if the window units work, which they probably don’t because they’re really old,” I said. “Or we can call in certain angels of mercy—

“The Doobies!” Gwen said and raced for the phone.

It was Friday evening, and she got the machine. Left a quick description of our plight.

Clicked off the phone….

And an hour later, Mighty King Doobie himself was at our door.

Now, Mighty King Doobie is no ordinary mortal. No, sir. He’s a Marine vet who’s fought in Iraq and is easily recognizable here in Paradise because he’s got arms bigger than Arnold Schwarzenegger. That’s right, bigger than the whole governor, not just Arnold’s arms.

Mighty King Doobie stood flexing in our doorway. Put a finger to his lips as though to say, “Hush. Everything’s all right now. I promise.”

With a wink, he vanished and reappeared at the side of the house, where he knelt down. Reached out. Touched a coil.

And vanished again, returning with a big pump. “Mechanism froze up. You’re two pounds of hydrofluorocarbons down. But not for long.”

(Actually, he said “Freon,” but of course he was speaking generically because everyone knows Mighty King Doobie never would use anything that could harm our planet.)

Eight minutes later, MKD was gone, and cold, healing air was blowing throughout the main house. Gwen and I stood in the great room and hugged each other and smiled.

“Hooray for Mighty King Doobie!” I yelled.

“My hero!” Gwen cried.

“What?!” I said to her.

“Only for the moment. You’re my more permanent hero. I promise,” she said with a wink of her own.

“Whew.”

All hail MKD and the Doobie Brothers.

Vanquishers of Sweat.

Champions of Cold.

Slayers of September!

Oh, and the inventors of Freon and its greener substitutes have my eternal gratitude as well.