Category: POEMS (Page 22 of 30)

Rhymes of all kinds

Retirement is not without Hassles: Ski Birthday #426

February 9, 2018 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

No bumps, no bruises, no breaks, and only a few errors would aptly sum up my ski experience these past three days. It’s 44 degrees today so getting off the slopes a bit early was a good idea, as the snow melts and becomes sluggish. Tonight, we’re doing a birthday bash for our friend and financial adviser, Kit, who is celebrating her Medicare birthday today. She’s more than a year behind me in age and is a much better skier. Since I traditionally do a poem every time we get together, it seemed apropos that I deliver this at her party. It’s admittedly silly to match our childish behavior when we all get together, so I decided to have some fun with words that rhyme with Kit. You probably had to have “been there” to understand all the royalty references and other “inside” information, but I’ll share it anyway.

Lots of words,
Rhyme with Kit.
Before I start.
I should “quit”

How many of them?
Can I work into this?
Some are vulgar,
And will require finesse.

Closing your ears,
Might be better.
When we talk about things,
Under a sweater.

What next to mind,
When you think Kit?
Classy and sexy,
Or full of “wit?”

Behind those glasses,
A woman of steel.
Charmed with smarts,
And friendly appeal.

And what else,
About our friend Kit?
She’s full of energy,
And physically “fit.”

I know what you’re thinking,
I really do.
When will I mention,
The words do-do?

The really good “sh*t,”
I’m saving for last.
As we celebrate Kit,
And sixty-five passed.

And who cares?
More than we?
Medicare does,
We’d all agree.

The bubbly is open,
The candles “lit.”
We’ll open gifts,
In just a “bit.”

We want to proclaim,
Before we all split.
Thanks for your friendship,
We Love you, Kit.

And yes you’re looking,
Young for your age.
Mother of Prescott,
Parker and Sage.

And Peter P******,
Made a huge hit.
When he found,
And married you, Kit.

My wife and I,
Plus, Carol and Barry.
Along with dinner guests.
Hope your day is merry.

That’s Mary Catherine,
Queen of Wall Street.
Thanks to Dora,
For this dining treat.

“Zit” and “spit,”
Didn’t “fit” for “shit.”
Nor “mitt” and “pit.”
And you don’t “knit.”

But there’s a phrase,
That came from Kit.
And it’s now time,
To unveil “it.”.

On the throne,
She likes to “sit.”
If she had two balls,
She’d be King Kit.

It’s “Good to be King,”
Robe and all.
So take no “sh*t,” Kit.
And have a ball.

Old Sport Shorts: February Sadness #421

February 4, 2018 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

In another short month,

it will be March Madness.

While I suffer through,

More February Sadness.

March is usually a month I look forward to, as college basketball teams vie for those 68 precious slots on the NCAA Tournament bracket. It used to be only 64, but the “Big Dance” is always expanding to accommodate less disappointment. For those teams that don’t make the field there is also that NIT (Not in Tournament) option. Unless, you’re an Indiana University fan, in which case your only option may be to sit home and watch.

I’ve tried very hard to remain loyal to the program, after all those years of success, but I’m now beyond just disappointed. I cannot believe that a college team can shoot a dismal 18% in the first half of a BIG Ten game. Granted, it was a great defensive team, Michigan State, who may very well go on to win it all. However, grade school kids shoot better, even I could shoot better than 18%. These are scholarship players, receiving a free education, who practice every day, and have been doing this all their lives. How is this possible?

The team can play outstanding defense, and it was this reason only that they stayed in the game through the first half. I will give Coach Archie Miller credit for bringing that basic fundamental back to I.U. Basketball. It’s been missing for years, and the one thing in basketball that you can control on the floor. We all know that teams can have a bad shooting night, but you can still be competitive if you don’t allow your opponent to score either. Ultimately, they only lost this game by 3 points to a Top Five team, while finishing at 28.8% from the floor and 21.1% from three point range (4-19). Michigan State was 48.9% from the field and 50% from beyond the arc. Somehow, the Hoosiers managed to hit 72% from the free throw line, despite being one of the worst teams in the country at this basketball fundamental. Unfortunately, they couldn’t hit their free throws when the game was on the line, as has been all too common this season.

To make matters worse, Indiana’s biggest rival, Purdue, is now 12-0 and ranked third in the nation. This is like salt in the wound to any devout Hoosier fan. Also, Michigan State‘s success this year is the result of recruiting in Indiana’s own back yard. Jaren Jackson Jr. is from Carmel, Indiana and went to school at La Lumiere in LaPorte, Indiana. I’m convinced that most any kid from Indiana, where hoops is king, can shoot better than 18%. Zach McRoberts is the only native Hoosier in the I.U. starting line-up, and up until this year he’s been sitting on the bench. He is also a walk-on, known primarily for his hustling defense and rebounding ability. I.U. Basketball has definitely lost its way!

The Hoosier record stands at 12-12 and 5-7 in the BIG after 4 consecutive losses, giving up the only victory for Illinois in the conference to date. Two of those losses were to #3 Purdue and #5 Michigan State, where the same disturbing patterns emerged in both close games. The shooting was abysmal, the turnovers untimely, and poor defense against the three-point shot costly. The threes and free throws wouldn’t fall, sloppy shots went in for the opponent, and their three pointers with the shot clock about to expire were all too frequent. The I.U. offense missed open layups, clutch free throws, and threw the ball away with consistency.

In 2008-09, after the dismissal of Coach Kelvin Sampson and the resulting NCAA probation, I.U. experienced some bad years under the direction of Tom Crean. They went 6-25, 10-21, and 12-20 respectively. With one more win, Archie Miller will have won more games than each of those “Crean & Crimson” teams, so we haven’t taken as big of a step back with this coaching change. Crean favored a run-and-gun approach that put little emphasis on defense. I like the fundamentals he’s brought to Bloomington, but Miller needs some shooters to give his team balance. Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou? (See Post #369).

There’s little hope for the remainder of this year, as I expect nothing but February Sadness from the Hoosiers. Only Purdue gives the state of Indiana some potential madness. They have the longest winning streak in Division 1 basketball, but I do not expect them to go undefeated in the BIG Conference. I’m just glad that I have some association with the university, so that I have someone to cheer for in March and early April. In the meantime, I’m throwing in the white flag, with expectations of more bad basketball these next two months. Please, don’t let it extend into next year – put some Madness back in my life.!

Retirement is not without Hassles: Clouds of Doubt #412

January 28, 2018 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

While I was still working and needed to fill time, I would clear my mind of thoughts and jot them down in my OneNote app. I might write a few lines. or make a note on something that I saw or heard. In some cases, even years later, I would finish what I started and transfer the final product to my growing collection of poems. This morning I completed one of these “unfinished symphonies.” The first half doesn’t necessarily match my current state of mind, since it tends to be a bit darker than the ending.

Clouds of Doubt

Plenty of clouds,

A whole lot of rain.

Sometimes I think,

I might go insane.

.

I’m far from famous,

No worth to my name.

More moments of peace,

Than flashes of fame.

.

The older you get,

The better you were.

And the more misfortune,

You’ve had to endure.

.

What we accomplish,

Defines who we are.

Whether the President,

Or behind the bar.

.

If I weren’t what I am,

What would I be?

And If I were blind,

What would I see?

.

Is the grass greener,

On the other side?

Have you been successful,

Or haven’t yet tried?

.

Are games your life,

Or your life but a game?

Is it full of glory,

Or filled with shame?

.

Is all that you’re after,

Those material things?

Or is life more than,

Collecting brass rings?

What is it,

That you’re missing?

Whose derriere,

Needs kissing?

Lots of questions,

Clouds of doubt.

What is good living,

Really all about?

Should you think less,

Or is there more?

What does the future,

Have in store?

.

Will there be rainbows,

And a pot of gold?

Will there be happiness,

When you get old?

.

Will the clouds part,

And blue skies appear?

Or will you have to wait,

Until next year?

.

Who has the answers,

And what do they cost?

Will there be solutions,

Or will all be lost?

Life is a mystery,

With no guarantees.

It can lift you up,

Or take out your knees.

.

It’s all up to you,

Sunshine or rain?

Why are you smiling,

With others in pain?

.

Try to find balance,

Learn to give back,

Share what you have,

Don’t step on a crack.

.

What’s the message?

How does this end?

Don’t take more love,

Than you can send.

Copyright 2018 johnstonwrites.com

Diary of an Adoptee: Adoptee Diary #411

January 27, 2018 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

I was having a conversation with a friend today about the potential of finding my birth mother. It’s inspired several posts that I’ve now decided to relabel as “Diary of an Adoptee” rather than “Retirement is not without Hassles.” I’ve also decided to go back through my posts from this past year of retirement and start this new category. I have already used the category of “Creature Features” to write about my love of pets and other animals. Out of that category of posts have generated a humorous children’s book idea about our Schnauzer Tinker. I will call it “The Poopingest Pup on the Planet,” among the 400 plus articles that I’ve written. Tinker is also an adoptee, as is our other schnauzer, Tally.

For any of you that know me personally, I’m not typically a serious writer, as I’m much more comfortable being silly and/or humorous. A majority of the poems that I’ve posted are supposed to be funny. However, sometimes my emotions get the better of me, as I use my writing of this blog to express my inner feelings rather than paying for a therapist. I’ve already had that experience several times in my life, and as the subjects turned serious, the flight mechanism of humor would automatically kick in. I also try to express my passion for sports through the category of “Old Sport Shorts,” that you will also find scattered throughout this blog.

The adoption issues in my life are very emotional, particularly since my adoptive parents died a few years ago. Suddenly, there have been developments that have resulted in the whereabouts of my birth mother. Unfortunately, she may not know about my discovery as yet. I’m waiting for a response from a certified letter that I sent, and this subject weighs heavily on my mind. It’s not funny, so please bear with me, and if you’re not interested in the adoption aspects of my life, then you can confine your reading to my other categories. I wrote this poem today to express some of these feelings, some of which are embarrassing:

Adoptee Diary

I was a child,

With no Family Tree.

Because I was born,

An adoptee.

My father unknown,

Suspected Marine.

The scared mother,

Still a young teen.

.

I’m given the name,

Of Jerry Lee.

And didn’t know who,

My parents might be?

.

The next thing I knew,

A couple agreed.

They’d give me love,

And what else I might need.

.

I was soon in their home,

With the court to decide.

If they were worthy,

To remain at my side.

.

I was named Mike,

As they both agreed.

And I soon began,

To grow like a weed.

.

They raised me as if,

I was their own.

And cared for me,

Until fully grown.

.

With love and support,

I was never alone.

Showed me the skills,

To live on my own.

.

I added a branch,

Through birth of a son.

My family tree,

Had just begun.

.

Grand kids were added,

But my parents passed on.

In the back of my mind,

Not all was gone.

.

I had a name of the girl,

That gave me life.

And the love of another,

My precious wife.

.

It must have been fate,

To find my birth mother.

After all these years,

I also had a brother.

.

With cautious hope,

I wrote to him.

A chance for reunion?

Predictably thin.

.

And as I await,

For a reply.

I’m glad I at least,

Decided to try.

.

As I’m sixty-six.

She’d be eighty-four.

If she’s still able,

I’d be hard to ignore.

.

But is she alive?

And my facts correct?

Could our lives,

Once again intersect?

.

Until I have the answer,

Of a new Family Tree.

I’ve started to write,

The Adoptee Diary.

copyright 2018 johnstonwrites.com

Retirement is not without Hassles: Sorry, Missed Exit #408

January 26, 2018 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

It’s always an adventure when I get behind the wheel of a car. The near-sighted cartoon character Mr. Magoo, voiced by Jim Backus, comes to mind. Especially at night on these dark Portland roads when it’s raining, it really gets interesting. My wife is not shy about giving me driving instructions, so this only adds to the tension, as Siri tries to guide us to a Chinese restaurant. Often in Portland the route takes you out of the way to avoid traffic congestion, and there always seems to be disagreement on the best way there. The environmentalist influence in this area keeps street lights to a minimum, so the lethal combination of old age, darkness, twisting roads, a wet windshield, and cautious commuters makes any drive extremely stressful. Both driver and passenger were relieved to finally arrive at the restaurant safely.

I often joke about my wife striking the Heisman pose as I drive, one hand pressed against the dashboard in a protective stance. I’d probably do the same thing if both hands weren’t on the steering wheel. I’m also extremely bad with directions, so I try to welcome her back-eat driving. When she’s not with me, I end up in the strangest predicaments and often lost. However, trying to follow both Siri and her instructions at the same time can be additionally frustrating. In retirement, I only venture out there a few times each week now, so the lack of regularity only adds to my lack of confidence. I recently purchased a 1957 Saturday Night Post magazine on Ebay, specifically interested in a baseball article on one of my childhood favorites. (See Post # 406).

In trying to find a little more value in my purchase, I began to peruse some of the ads and took particular interest in the cover. We’re all certainly familiar with Norman Rockwell and his contributions through the years, but there was another illustrator that designed 115 Post covers between 1948-1962. His name is George Hughes and his signature is on the cover of this particular issue. As co-workers, he and Norman Rockwell both settled in the same Vermont neighborhood area, taking advantage of the beautiful scenery to provide creative energy. This particular cover considered one of his best was titled, “Mixed Exit,” as Post editors poked fun at misplaced signage on highways that were difficult to navigate. As they noted in reference to this common complaint: “high-speed turnpikes are wonderful inventions…except for a few bugs that need to be ironed out, such as exit signs moving by too fast.” The illustration features a blue convertible with a couple engaged in an obvious argument after missing their turn onto Highway M-20. She’s leaning out of the car pointing a finger at the exit sign behind them, while he ponders what to do next, while surrounded by unhelpful warnings like “No Stopping,” No U-Turn,” and “Next Exit 52 miles.” I could see my wife and I in this very situation. She would be right and I would be both wrong and sorry, as this little poem wisely advocates:

I’m Sorry, You’re Right, I’m Wrong

I was wisely advised,

A long time ago.

Of nine little words,

I needed to know.

.

I’m sorry,

You’re right,

I’m wrong.

.

In patching a friendship,

Keeping peace with a spouse.

Words that will keep you,

From the dog house.

.

You’re right,

I’m sorry,

I’m wrong.

.

Use these nine magic words,

The order is up to you.

Say them with meaning,

Any combination will do.

.

I’m wrong,

You’re right,

I’m sorry.

.

It’s what to say,

When you’re a jerk.

Healing words,

That really work.

.

I’m wrong.

I’m sorry.

You’re right.

.

A lesson to learn,

In the game of life.

Words of wisdom,

Between husband and wife.

.

I’m sorry,

I’m wrong.

You’re right,

.

Say them with meaning,

And often repeat.

I promise these words,

Will lower the heat.

.

You’re right,

I’m wrong.

I’m sorry,

.

Six combinations,

Nine words any way.

Old fashioned math,

Keeps trouble at bay.

.

You’re right,

I’m sorry,

I’m wrong.

.

Always wrong or sorry,

When you have a fight.

Just remember,

You’re never right.

.

I’m sorry,

You’re right,

I’m wrong.

.

johnstonwrites.com

Copyright April 2009

.

These “words of wisdom” are credited to a former boss of mine, and have become an important part of my philosophy with any partnership. I can safely say that I’m usually wrong when it comes to directions, so driving is always a challenge. I have missed so many exits and made so many wrong turns that I no longer have any confidence in getting from Point A to Point B. For some inexplicable reason, I still try to argue, but ultimately I resort to these “9 little words” that always end in “sorry.”

Diary of an Adoptee: Adoption #391

January 12, 2018 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

I always have viewed a trip to the mailbox like a treasure hunt. You never know what you’re going to find there – good or bad, including an unexpected check, a package you ordered, a surprise bill, a letter from the I.R.S., a note from an old friend, and three pieces of junk mail for every keeper. My first stop after the mailbox is usually the recycling bin. Yesterday I found one of the biggest surprises ever in my mailbox, but let me give you some background first and express my feelings through a poem. The rest of the story follows.

I was adopted as a baby (See Post #104) by the couple that I will always fondly remember as my parents. In the back of my mind, however, was admittedly some curiosity about the couple that gave me life. Who were they and why did we never become a family? I’ve always felt strongly that my birth mother made the right choice in giving me up for adoption, and that I was fortunate to end up in a loving home. In fact, I wrote this poem many years ago to thank her:

Thank You

Some women aren’t ready,
To serve Mother’s role.
Raising a child,
Is not yet their goal.
.
A selfish moment,
Of love and lust.
But nothing like this,
Was ever discussed.
.
Two at the time,
Now left up to one.
He may have not known,
Or decided to run.
.
There’s feelings of shame,
Maybe left all alone.
But worst of all,
Your future unknown.
.
Financial hardship,
Not quite mature.
Is it fair to the child?
If the parent’s not sure.
.
If you’re not prepared,
There is an option.
If you’re not able,
Consider adoption.
.
If you’re not excited
About motherhood.
If you’re not happy,
Someone else would.
.
There are loving couples,
Who can’t conceive.
It’s the right thing to do,
You have to believe.
.
Can’t give up a baby,
So helpless and small?
It’s time to consider,
What’s best for all.

There may be guilt,
Or thoughts of regret.
But you can’t match,
The love they will get.
.
Please don’t abort,
A gift so great.
A life’s in your hands,
Don’t hesitate.
.
If you’re undecided,
Just ask me.
If not for someone like you,
I simply wouldn’t be.
.
If you need forgiveness,
For letting me go.
You did me a favor,
I want you to know.
.
Among the many things,
That I’m grateful for.
It wasn’t just my life,
I’ve added three more.
.
Not that I wouldn’t have,
Had a great life with you.
You wanted more for me,
And I know that’s true.

Thank you for me,
Sorry for the pain.
Though difficult to say,
Your loss was my gain.

johnstonwrites.com

I had done a DNA test through 23andMe a year ago, hoping to simply get some general background information on my ethnicity. In the process of discovering my Northern European roots, I was put in touch with a total stranger that shares .96% of my DNA analysis. He lives only about 4 hours away and has been researching his family tree for several years, having only recently discovered that the man that raised him was actually not his biological father, and began a search for his identity. In the process, he found a connection to me, since we are genetically related within three generations, that he suspects is on his mother’s side. Her name was Alta Constance Carpenter and she was born February 26, 1920 and died in April of 1995. She lived in Pendleton, Oregon, coincidentally only about three hours away from where I currently live. The song, “If I Were a Carpenter,” by Tim Harden immediately comes to mind. He performed it at Woodstock at 1969, and it was covered by Johnny Cash/June Carter, Bobby Darin, Joan Baez, The Four Tops, and Bob Seger, as I predictably drift away from the emotional subject at hand to take a humorous diversion.

As has been the case throughout my life, other people have done the searching for me, as I remained true to the only parents that I know. My allegiance was always with the couple that adopted me, and that somehow looking for my birth parents was a betrayal that I rarely pursued. When I mentioned to others that I was adopted, they always seemed to be more curious than I was. As a result, they did the work for me. A media friend in Indianapolis, for example, did an illegal search of sealed adoption records and gave me the name and address of my birth mother. The address turned out to be the home for unwed mothers were I was cared for after birth, but the location of Edna Faye Bannister has always eluded me. After that initial shove, I reluctantly took a few “baby steps” and contacted the adoption agency. They provided me with general background information on the mother and her family, but nothing specific that I could pursue. I did get a copy of my original hospital records and birth certificate that listed me only as “Infant Bannister,” confirming the Bannister name connection. The adoption paperwork also mentioned that my birth mother named me “Jerry Lee.” This was six years before Jerry Lee Lewis made the name famous by recording his 1957 hit “Whole Lotta Shakin’ Goin’ On.”

At that point, a had a dual identity (See Post #104), but search “angels” sent me on a wild goose chase to an Edna Bannister in the Rome, Georgia area. It was information in yesterday’s mail, sent to me by my 23andMe connection, that proved that theory wrong. Almost 30 years after I had been given the name, Edna Faye Bannister, I had a copy of her birth certificate and a 1940 Census that matches all her seven siblings to the general age information from the adoption agency report. I had found her, simply by opening the mail. Further investigation yesterday has led me to her son’s Facebook page with what I believe to be pictures of her along with my potential step brother.

I knew there was a reason that I’ve always been a fan of the movie, “Planes, Trains, and Automobiles.” In fact, I made a reference to it in my last post. One of my favorite scenes is at the rental car agency, with the “gobble, gooble” lady behind the counter. He real name is Edie McClurg, but also known as Mrs. Poole from the TV show “Valerie.” My birth mother’s married name is now Mrs. Poole, and she has a son three years younger than me named Jerry Lee (she must have really liked that name). I’m in the process of determining what my next step will be, but given all the information I’ve gathered, I feel very strongly that my birth mother is alive and soon to be 85 years old. She may be in for the next mailbox surprise. I will keep you all “posted.”

‘

Retirement is not without Hassles: The Gift of Time #388

January 9, 2018 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

Retirement means having more time to yourself, but no one ever gets more time. It’s simply a matter of how you prioritize that time, as full time work is no longer a factor. Any way you look at it, there’s no time like the present, but as a watch company campaign once noted, “there’s no present like time.” We can save time but can never stop the clock. What if we could?

The Gift of Time

No Time like the present,

To get it done.

No time to waste,

Before the setting sun.

Tomorrow’s too late,

And may not even come.

If you wait till then,

“Never” it becomes.

Putting things off,

Is not forth giving.

Procrastination means,

Postponing future living.

If you don’t do it now,

You never will.

Just another thing,

You’ll fail to fulfill.

If you had,

Unlimited hours.

All the time in the World,

Within your powers.

You’d never worry,

As Clocks would shatter.

Today could last forever,

And Tomorrow wouldn’t matter.

Or if Time in a bottle,

Was yours to store.

Sand through the hourglass,

Would always pour.

If you could find a way,

To put a bow on longer living.

There’s no present like time.

The gift that keeps on giving,

That’s a wrap!

Also, here’s a reprint of a poem from six years ago, with a connecting theme. (See Post #135)

Time

The older we get,
The faster time goes by.
We can’t slow things down,
No matter how we try.

The clock keeps on ticking,
You can’t make it stop.
The countdown of life,
Continues to drop.

We can spring forward,
Or even fall back.
Leap an extra day,
And be on a fast track.

Time can fly by,
Or wait seemingly forever.
So until it’s over,
Never say never.

You can have no time,
Or plenty it seems.
But whatever you do,
Make time for dreams.

We can take our time,
Even have it on our side.
Avoid running out of it,
Or those dreams have died.

You can start a timer,
Manage a time table.
But it can’t be bottled,
With a time sensitive label.

You can believe in Time Travel,
Or the way-back machine.
You just can’t go back,
To being a teen.

We can waste time,
Even try to kill it..
And watch it pass by,
But – still – it will never sit.

You can carry a time piece,
Glance at your wrist.
But any time wasted,
Is also time missed.
.

Creature Feature: I said “Sit” #374

December 21, 2017 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

I’ve spent the past few days organizing some poems and posts into a notebook for eventual publication. This will be my second attempt in life to write a book. I also hope to add some illustrations to accompany some of the humorous poems and stories that I have written these past few years. The title will be “I Said, Sit.” and it will be about our dog Tinker. I wrote this poem today to set the stage:

I Said, “Sit.”

She’s not a horse,
Just a little dog.
She eats like a pig,
And “goes” like a hog.
.
She finished her food,
And half of yours, too.
And now you know,
What she needs to do.
.
You take her outside,
She looks for a spot.
This may be it?
Or no, maybe not?
.
She circles and sniffs,
Scratches then stops.
Hoping it’s where,
The poop finally drops.
.
But something’s awry,
And she moves on.
Because up ahead,
Is a much greener lawn.
.
This might be it,
More time goes by.
It’s not even raining,
The ground is dry.
.
Now ready to squat,
The moment is near.
Move out of the way,
Time to stand clear.
.
Will the deposit she makes,
Form a big pile?
Or will we continue,
Waiting a while?

She finally goes here,
And AGAIN over there.
That’s just not possible,
We soon declare.
.
How can so much,
Come out of one dog?
That’s not a poop,
That’s the whole log.
.
What goes in,
Must come out.
In her case you can’t,
Turn off the spout.
.
Number two with her,
Always comes first.
Then the other pipe,
Is ready to burst.
.
I see a leak.
You got a pail?
Two holes hide,
Under that tail.
.
We call her “Tinker,”
The bottomless pit.
Maybe she misunderstood,
When I said, “sit.”
.
She’s “The Pooping-est,
Dog on the Planet.”
The title may stink,
But Tink’s full of it.

I Said, “Sit.”

I hope you’re not offended with toilet humor when it comes to dogs, because it’s one of Tinker’s endearing habits, as a result of her voracious appetite. I originally wanted to title the book, Tinker’s Tail, because of what frequently comes out from underneath her plume-like appendage. It reminds me of a Swifter Duster, ready to go to work on the furniture. Fortunately, unlike many dogs of the Schnauzer breed, her tail was not clipped and turns out to be one of her most distinctive features, along with her bearded snout. Schnauzer is the German word for “snout” and translates colloquially to “mustache” from what I have read. The name Tinker came from Walt Disney, since her furry older sister at the time of her adoption into our family was named Belle. At the time of this writing, Tinker is approaching 100 dog years, and this will commemorate her life as the “Pooping-est Pup on the Planet.” I also want to recognize our other Schnauzer pup, Tally, who when teamed up with Tinker, makes an explosive combination of T-N-T. These two have been together as part of our family for 7 years. I hope you enjoy this collection of humorous poems and stories about the dogs that have made our lives special.

Creature Features: The Dance (Part 3) #372

December 18, 2017 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

Tinker has been all the talk today, as “Her Girl” has come to visit. It’s remarkable that after so much time apart how quickly they reconnect. Tinker’s memory is a tribute to her intelligence – she never forgets! Right now, however, she is back at my feet, temporarily loyal to the hand that just fed her and took her outside. She and Tally are in waiting mode for mom to get home from the office, and the chance to reunite at the garage entrance to the condo. Who knows how long they think she’s been gone? By the way they react every night, you would think it was years! I will soon be forgotten as the whole family comes together as one – dogs, cat, parents, and daughters.

When I was growing up, my mom could tell when I needed to use the bathroom. I couldn’t keep my body still, moving about in a near spastic manner, legs shaking, and arms quaking that made everyone uncomfortable, yet I couldn’t find the time or make the effort to visit the bathroom without being asked. She called it the “Tinkle Dance.” Tinker does a little dance, almost as annoying as mine used to probably be, as she tries desperately to find the right spot. It is particularly frustrating in the rain as she slowly moves back-and-forth, forth-and-back, as I watch with little patience, waiting for “lift off.” As a girl she rarely raises her leg, and gives little indication of her need to pee, so I simply have to wait for what sometimes feels like decades. If I’m in a hurry to be someplace, it is particularly painful to watch as she circles, hops, tip-toes on the uncomfortable grass, and ultimately lets go. It’s less dramatic with a poop that is always followed with the bull-like kicking of the turf with her back feet, a habit she may have picked up from her first sister Belle. Nonetheless, there’s a “Tinker Dance” that accompanies each performance. It’s a gesture of accomplishment yearning for acknowledgment. I hope I didn’t anticipate the same praise after my mom urged me to seek the toilet.

Today’s posts have been filled with toilet humor, that seems almost endearing when it comes to pets. Five times a day I urge them to go, so I can get back inside and continue writing. It’s a pet owners ritual when you don’t have a convenient back yard. Unfortunately, it’s also like trying to watch the kettle boil. It never does! We all wish we could train our dogs to use the toilet and not to leave the seat up. A solution has been found for cats with the invention of the litter box. Are dogs just not smart enough to use one? The poodle in Tinker makes her smart, but she prefers just to eat the cat turds like a trip to the buffet. “Bone Wars” often extend to “Turd Wars,” as Tinker and Tally wait patiently for much anticipated cat action to satisfy their endless hunger. We have installed a Door Buddy strap to prevent the recycling of these feline leave-behinds. Ironically, the kitty uses the same rear kick of the bull, like Tinker, to attempt to bury these apparently tasty treasures. Similarly, Tinker turds occasionally still show up on the kitchen floor, but only in emergency situations. She tries to blame it on Tally, but we know better since she somehow consumes twice as much food and therefore has to poop twice as much. At least it’s never on the carpeting anymore, since we’ve now gone primarily to hardwood and tile floors.

Here’s one last poetic thought on Tinker:

Tinker’s Tail (Tale)

Eye goobers,
Itchy skin.
Crusty hair,
Under her chin.

Dark age spots,
Droopy Eyes.
Lack of energy,
But she still tries.

Joints that ache,
A few steps slow.
But don’t ask twice,
She wants to GO!

Good dogs like her,
Are hard to find.
Years of training,
Her amazing mind.

An appetite,
That’s never full.
Just offer her,
An extra bowl.

Bat-like ears,
Schnauzer beard.
A distinctive bark,
That can be feared.

Curly gray hair,
Coal black nose.
Our love for her,
Forever grows.

Fuzzy eyebrows,
Cheshire grin.
Adopting her,
We’d do again.

But growing old,
Can be cruel.
Her best hope’s,
A good gene pool.

A woo-like whimper,
When she’s glad.
Tail up – she’s happy,
Down means sad.

We hope to get.
A few more years.
When she’s gone,
There will be tears.

Like a Timex watch.
Tinker’s still ticking.
And her pink tongue,
Keeps busy licking.

Creature Features: Bone Wars (Part 1) #370

December 18, 2017 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

My wife’s youngest daughter came to visit last night for the week. The dogs got to meet her at the airport after a long flight from her home in Washington D.C. She once lived with us in Decatur, Illinois, finishing up some undergraduate courses to enroll in Medical school. It was there that she met Tinker, our rescue schnauzer, and a connection was instantly sparked. Tinker had been abandoned as a pup and survived on her own until we found her at the Macon County Animal Shelter. At that time, she was in a cage still caked with mud, and my wife thought she was brown in color. However, once she had a bath, we were both surprised that she was a lighter shade of gray, but it was the eyes that caused my wife to fall in love. That was nearly twelve years ago.

We named her Tinker because we already had a Chow-pherd named Belle, and together they were Disneyesque. Belle was the mature, good dog, while Tinker ruined most of the carpeting in our home and was untrustworthy off the leash. We lived on a lake and she would frequently escape, frantically chase the ducks, and return covered in the same coat of mud that we first saw her wear. As a schnauzer mixed with what we believe is poodle (schnoodle), she was not fond of water, high strung, and barked at everything, yet was very intelligent. She had a big vocabulary and even learned to spell, after we refrained from using words that she recognized and spelled them out instead. Tinker was always full of energy and kept Belle young at heart. It was about ten years ago that Belle passed away, leaving my wife and her two daughters without their best friend.

While the older daughter was getting her Masters, the younger one was befriending Tinker in Decatur. We also had two cats at that time, so I ranked at least sixth on my wife’s list of favorites. With the loss of Belle, I had temporarily moved up on her “living list,” and was still trying to gain favoritism by pretending to love animals. Belle had grown to tolerate me, but was still reluctant to go on walks without the company of her owner. My wife and I had also jointly purchased a Burmese cat named Frankie, so I was slowly involved in building a personal family of pets, and would eventually over time grow to love them all. In fact, as a recent retiree, I’ve taken on most of the pet responsibilities, and will even cook some rice later today to help feed our four-legged family. I do much of the walking, feeding, and litter-box duties, but still leave the nurturing to my wife.

While we lived in Decatur, my wife’s youngest took on most of the pet responsibilities. I rarely saw Tinker, who had gladly moved into “Her Girl’s” room, along with Frankie the cat. When Tinker’s girl was at work, I would occasionally have to take her out to do her business, if she didn’t just do it on the carpet. I remember what I called “Tinkerrhea” that left a permanent brown reminder on our white dining room carpet, and a similar incident in the car that left me covered in doggie doo-doo. I was driving and she suddenly leaped off my wife’s lap to sit on mine, so there was little I could do to protect myself. Fortunately, we were traveling, so I had a change of clothes handy. I’m sure you’re all familiar with Montezuma’s revenge – this was Tinker’s! I also fondly recall a window I had to replace at our lake home, as Tinker and her girl were playing fetch. I still don’t exactly know how the window got broken, but the two of them spent many hours playing ball in the hallway. They were inseparable for that special year. It was also good for my wife, who never liked living there, to have the two of them in the house together. I was there, too, I need to mention.

Tinker is getting old and has grown to be the mature leader to her younger sister Tally, that Belle once was to her. Tally is now the high strung schnauzer of the family that likes to chew the limbs off stuffed animals. At least, she’s learned to confine her biting to these disposable creatures rather than the shoes, clothing, and furniture that she used to destroy with her teeth. Tinker still has an incessant, annoying bark that she uses to greet us, or as a mournful reminder that we are leaving her behind. I refer to Tinker and Tally as T-N-T because they can get into explosive arguments over toys and bones. “Bone Wars” happen often, as each becomes extremely possessive about their treats, toys, ball, rawhide chews, and pork chomps. Tally also likes to growl at passers-by, while Tinker is currently barking because “Her Girl” who came to visit is suddenly missing again. Apparently, she missed the fact that my wife’s daughter left to go for a run and couldn’t be found anywhere in the house. Tinker spent last night cuddling with her in bed, but often has to be assisted in making the jump up and down. As she sadly discovered, the bed was now empty, but she had somehow gotten up to double-check and couldn’t get back down, frantically barking for help. Tinker will be so sad when her best buddy goes back home later this week, even though the older sister will replace her in that bed, while my wife and I head back to Indiana for Christmas.

We all saw Star Wars this past week, but ‘Bone Wars” is by far my favorite. Each pet fights for our attention and fights with each other, as siblings often do. We try to share our affection and food equally, but violent wars break out, even when we’re gone. The other night we came home to an expensive broken vase in pieces on the floor, assuming that Tally had chased Frankie, as often happens, and in an effort to avoid confrontation the vase got in the way. Tally just wants to play, but Frankie sees it as a threat, just as older sister’s kitties reacted to her aggressive presence. Tally is a playful seven year old that has taken on the energy that Tinker once had. She leads the way on our weekend walks, tugging on her leash to go faster, while Tinker often lags behind. The “Tally Monster” is always the first one in the door after an outing, hoping to take possession of both chewy bones. Tinker will “bark-bark-bark” in retaliation until we intercede to return her stolen property. If Tinker happens to get hold of Tally’s bone, she will quickly gobble it down so there’s no chance for recovery. Tinker will also shamelessly eat out of her sister’s bowl, who often waits to see if we’re cooking something better. Hesitation loses wars, and when it comes to food Tinker always gets her way.

I’m sure it’s very complicated for Tinker and Tally, and even Frankie, as people come and go from their lives. The older daughter moved in with us in Austin, Texas, where we adopted Tally. She was working on her doctorate and needed to save some money. Tally naturally has bonded more with her, while Tinker had already found her favorite sister. The older sister moved with us to Portland, but now lives in a separate apartment with her two kitties. Tally always seemed to frighten the kitties, while they lived with us, so her bond with the older sister is somewhat restrained by the meanness to her furry babies. However, she comes over often to visit and will stay here whenever possible as we travel. All the pets are excited to see her, but Tinker gets especially excited when the younger sister, her best pal, comes to town. That day is here!

Montezuma (Tinkerrhea)

.

We were in the car,

On the road.

Far away,

From our abode.

Our little dog,

On my wife’s lap.

Calmly taking,

A little nap.

All of a sudden,

“Tinker” had to go.

Signs of panic,

Began to show.

She jumped over,

On top of me.

I’m driving the car,

My hands weren’t free.

Before there was time,

To safely stop.

I quickly realized,

She was ready to pop.

It was Tinkerreah,

That came gushing out.

The smell soon left,

Little doubt.

Accidental?

Or revenge?

Like Montezuma,

I had to cringe.

She had the runs,

And ran to me.

Just how lucky,

Can a dog owner be?