IN THE PIPELINE

 

At my age, I was aware of what was happening. Maybe it was due to too many fatty foods; there was clearly a blockage. Mary Ellen said not to ignore the symptoms and call a professional.

“Hello, Rex Plumbing. Can I help you?”

“Hi, Pam, it’s Dick Wolfsie. Our disposal isn’t working. All I hear is a whirring sound and I can’t stop it.”

“We don’t stop things at Rex Plumbing,” she told me. “We un-stop things.”

Everyone’s a comedian.

About an hour later, Rex knocked—on time, as always.  I called out that the door was open. I was already in the kitchen. “Where are you, Dick?” Rex screamed.

“Here, Rex,” I said.

That brought back memories of my childhood, but I have no recollection of my German Shepherd charging a hundred bucks an hour. Rex walked over to the sink, accompanied by an apprentice, apparently there to learn the trade. That’s when I noticed it…

“You don’t have any tools, Rex. Where are your tools? All you have is a plunger.”

“That’s all I need.”

“Don’t say that. No monkey wrenches? No hammers? No hydraulic pumps?  If all you brought is a plunger to fix this, why do I need you? I have a plunger.”

“I don’t know, Dick. You have such a lovely set of matching steak knives on the counter, why call a surgeon?”

As Mark Twain once noted, there is nothing more annoying than a good example.

Rex approached the sink, flicked the disposal switch and confirmed my diagnosis.  Then, he deftly maneuvered his plunger into the sink’s drain, pressed his thumb into the rubber cup to create a vacuum and in one swift but decisive maneuver fixed the problem. “We’re done here,” said Rex as he handed me the bill.  I turned to his apprentice and asked if he had learned from his experience at my house. He said he had no regrets about not going to medical school.

The next day things were humming along in my kitchen, but now I had computer problems. I was trying to save some files so they could not be erased. Ironic, but now I wanted a backup.  I called Kevin with Nerds On Call. He also arrived in a timely fashion, but once again, no tools.

“I don’t know why this bothers me, Kevin, but you and the plumber are both a hundred bucks an hour. Somehow I’d feel better if I saw some gizmos, implements, devices, gadgets. Give me something.”

Kevin sat down at the computer to do his magic. I had several computer issues, and Kevin worked diligently, addressing every one. Sixty minutes later he was done. I paid him exactly the same amount I had paid Rex. As Kevin was leaving I told him he had done an excellent job, but that there was something he could learn from my plumber. “And what would that be?” he asked, just a bit miffed.

“How to make a hundred bucks in 60 seconds.”

That’s when he reminded me about the time he came over to the house to fix the printer and simply put the plug back in the socket. 

 

 

DEATH DOESN’T BECOME HIM

 

Over the past ten years, when people have inquired about my dog Toby, they’ve always make reference to my last beagle, Barney, who accompanied me on more than 2,600 TV shows between 1992 and 2004 on WISH-TV. “There will never be another Barney,” folks often say. Their comment was not intended to diminish the importance of my present canine companion, but to celebrate the memory of one of Indianapolis’ most famous TV personalities.

They are wrong. Toby is exactly like Barney, and could have easily assumed the role of media star in the shake of a beagle’s tail. But there is more to this story that deserves to be told. Toby never made it on the small screen.  As I explained in my 2009 book, Mornings with Barney, television changed after 9/11. The prevailing thinking in local broadcasting was that people wanted hard news—no fluff and less chit-chat. To me, that was counter-intuitive. If you ever needed a goofy guy on TV with a dog who stole food off the table, walked out on a high-dive board, chewed up a lady’s handbag or dug up a rose bush, was there a better time?

So, yes, the two beagles share identical behavior and appearance.  In fact, when people ask how old Toby is, I should say 28. That’s the way it seems. In a way, I’ve had the same beagle beside me almost three decades. Barney died in 2004. Rambunctious to the end, he spent his last day at the State Fair with adoring fans.  He died that night at home. He was 14. It was time.

I’m not sure Toby knows what time it is. More than a year ago, I rushed him to the animal hospital when he displayed the most troubling of symptoms for a beagle: he wasn’t eating.  The veterinarian was compassionate but direct, informing me that Toby had cancer on his kidney, then asking if I still wanted to take the aging 13-year-old dog home or make final arrangements there at the clinic. I wanted to spend a final day or so with him, so I put him in the car and off we went. Three days later, he was up and about, and knocking over trashcans. I was screaming at him to behave. This was a good sign.

But this past August, new signs of cancer had become evident, this time in his mouth and on his lymph nodes.  At 14, he is way too old for invasive surgery, so I was told “it wouldn’t be long.” That was 50 walks and 100 car rides ago. He has lost his hearing, so maybe he didn’t fully understand the diagnosis.

What I face now is the hardest decision a pet owner must make.  His tail is still wagging, he is eating like always, and he even wants to go for a walk every day. His energy is somewhat diminished, but that would be true of a 14-year-old hound in perfect health. Heck, that’s true of me at 67.

Because his neck and jaw are swollen by sizeable and disfiguring tumors, people I love and respect are telling me that I shouldn't put off the inevitable.

So far, no clear word from Toby.

 

SHIRT HAPPENS

 

Two weeks prior to leaving for a cruise vacation, I had to buy a dress shirt for one of the formal evenings on the ship. I don’t like to wear a white shirt, preferring one with a bit of color, but Mary Ellen was adamant that I go traditional. I also made an additional purchase for the more casual nights.

The first evening on board, I began dressing about an hour prior to dinner, knowing that I needed extra time to extricate the new shirt from its cellophane wrap and remove the dozen tiny pins which, by the way, I had no idea how to discard that was considered environmentally friendly. The garment clearly met the criterion my wife had established for appropriate attire, so I put it on.

 "You have a stain on your shirt," said Mary Ellen.

"That's impossible. I haven't even worn it yet."

"They must really know their customers at Macy's."

 "What do you mean?"

 "They pre-stained it for you."

Yes, right next to the third button were brown blotches, nothing I was familiar with despite my extensive experience with the tell-tale signs that are left by every group in the current food pyramid. "Well, I guess I can't wear that to dinner," I said, hoping to now be able to put on my alternative choice.

"Well, I don't know why not. It's gonna look like that anyway, right after you finish your appetizer."

I reached into the drawer and dug out the blue button-down, happy now that an unplanned turn of events had worked in my favor. Twelve pins later I was ready to head for a delicious dinner.

"You can't wear that shirt, either," said Mary Ellen.

 "Why not?"

“It has a smudge under the second button."

Sure enough, once again I had purchased a brand new piece of apparel that had somehow anticipated its unavoidable destiny and had saved me the embarrassment of being first to ruin it. "Wait a second, Mary Ellen, my tie will cover the problem."

"Super idea. Too bad that every tie you packed also has a stain on it."

"Okay, I'll be sure to button my sport coat. That will cover the mark on the tie."

Mary Ellen walked over to the closet and pulled out the one dinner jacket I had brought on the trip. She looked at it carefully and shook her head. "Not going to work. Did you bring a rain coat?"

As we walked to the dining room, Mary Ellen suggested it was more embarrassing for me to arrive at a formal meal with a soiled garment than to acquire the stain during the normal course of my being a slob. When I sat down, I ordered the shrimp cocktail and effortlessly completed my assignment, now revealing signs of a more recent mishap.

After we returned home from our vacation, I washed the shirts and successfully removed the original soiled areas, but what still remained was clear evidence of some fine Italian wine, a scrumptious Chicken Parmigiana dish and a to-die-for Bouillabaisse. Mary Ellen took more than 1,000 photos on our trip, which she claims will serve as the ideal way to remember our cruise. I believe my method to permanently preserve memories was, let's just say, spot o