If A Dog Whistle Doesn't Work, Try an Impression

What do you do when a neighbor goes away and the dog barks?

I had to train myself to train the dog is what happened.

Since houses in South Florida are really too close for comfort to each other, you end up knowing your neighbor's habits.  Even in my house in Philadelphia, I never heard neighbors.

We had bad windows there and I have to say that hasn't changed here.  At least the windows here all work.  I had windows painted shut and painted open in Philly and that was an annoyance that I kept until April 11, 2006 when I pointed my Jeep Wrangler South and never came back.

Too bad.  Great house, crappy windows.

Jalousie windows with four inch tall slats are built to let the air flow through.  Even when closed the house may have drafts.  In the storm a week back it even rained in the house.  I guess that's more of a measure of the storm than the windows.

But you do hear quite a lot through them.  As a coping mechanism I have music playing almost all the time at a low volume.   Trance music works incredibly well as an upbeat background music, plus I bloody like the stuff.

There are times when you want to go out and explore.  Generally for me that is when I take the dog with me and we do a lap of the Central Business District of Wilton Manors.  Other people don't have quite as settled a life.

My neighbor is one of those people.   Don't get me wrong, I like the guy.  He's been a good neighbor, and when he has a party he invites us over.

Helpful hint, if you ever have a party and expect it to get annoying, invite the neighbors and have plenty of goodies to eat and drink.  Jack knows how to do that well.

He's moving off in a couple weeks, so we'll have a new neighbor to break in.  But that does remind me of when he got his puppy Buster. 

Buster is a great dog.   A small to mid sized mixed breed, he looks like he has some German Shepard dog in him.  But like all puppies, they want to be with their pack constantly.  With confidence, that will wane.   Buster grew to be a real friendly neighbor too, and he quieted down.  I may have had something to do with it.

The first time Jack went off for a dinner at one of the restaurants here, Buster started to bark.  Repeatedly.

I wasn't quite sure what to do.   Since the houses are not that far apart, I walked out to the back window and talked to Buster.   He stopped barking then began to whine.   Poor lonely pup.

That didn't last long after I closed my windows up and went back to watching the mindless sit-com we had on the TV.

Bark.  Bark.  Barkbarkbark.

*sigh* Lets try that again.

Puppies.   It worked for a little bit.  

But not for long.

Being something of a serious geek, I grabbed the phone and started to search for a dog whistle program, and found it.   It wasn't all that effective.  At least with that dog and with the way I had my phone configured, the 23,000 Hz tone that it was broadcasting was ignored and Buster kept barking.

I forgot about the software and thought this through.

Jack is a big guy.  He's my size and build, so I put him at around 6'4" and probably a little heavier than my own 225 pounds.  He also has a deep voice, about an octave lower than my own.

So I walked out to the back window and said in my own voice "Buster! NO!".

Sort of worked.  Hmmm...

I wasn't out of the back bedroom before "Bark!".

Lets try that again.

This time I tripped over my old shoes I keep next to the weight machine in the bedroom.   But Buster barked.

I summoned my inner "Jack".   You guessed it, I did a terrible impression of Jack saying "Buster! NO!".

It worked.   I was able to go back to the front room and finish my sit-com.

Buster was still a kid at that point.  Barely out of being a puppy, he still wanted Dad, so I had to try this again.

"Buster! NO!" in that booming false-Jack tone.

Well, how about that.  Worked again!

I'm onto something.

Since then I found my voice dropped as low as I could manage, booming over the fence worked better than a piece of free software that stopped as soon as the screen went dark.

When I told Jack what was going on, he was surprised, but then he started laughing when I started talking back to him in this send up of his own booming voice.

I guess a Bass trumps a Treble in a Dog's life.

I do have to watch using that now.  Rack gets scared and can't figure out what to do.  He either will run off and hide or try to help by herding me out the door.

I don't herd well.  Moose generally don't herd well.  But that's ok, I'm the alpha in his eyes, and Rack will accept that.   My own being loud he doesn't accept as well so I use it sparingly.

Through the ensuing years, Buster has gone from being a baby to a teen, and on to being an adult.   His barks are much more purposeful and much less annoying.

He has taught me one thing.   I have to get better at impressions.  I could do so many voices and accents that I could easily do voice overs and voice acting, but speaking "Dog"?  That's a different language altogether.

Oh Scrapple, Why Do You Taunt Me?

They say that South Florida is the Sixth Borough of New York City.

I think that's a bit inaccurate.

A better title would be "Little New Jersey".

It's chock full of refugees from NYC, of course.  I can even find a good Brooklyn Bagel here, and I know of a decent Jewish Deli if I choose to drive a bit.

Lox, Bagels, and Cream Cheese... Yum!

But I can also find Philadelphians by the Septa Train Load, People from the "Pennsylvania Dutch" areas out by Lancaster and Reading, and folks from Connecticut by the Fishing Boat full.

We're all here.  I personally think Broward County is "Little Long Beach Island" because it's mixed pretty thoroughly of New Yorkers and Philadelphians.

That Philly Pretzel place nearby even has a Drexel University flag inside it.

So I wasn't completely shocked when I went to the Big Publix in downtown Fort Lauderdale and found some Habersett's Scrapple.  The one near me in Wilton Manors has packets of Taylor Ham, which was a treat too.

If you know either of those products, you are from an area that is roughly 150 miles from around the Liberty Bell in Center City Philadelphia, know someone from there, or just got curious when you saw them in a random shop.

Both of those are what are loosely called "Breakfast Meats".  Fry them up like you would bacon.  Serve with your eggs in the morning.

In this case, I served my Scrapple with a 2 egg onion omelette on top of a home made rye bagel with some extra sharp cheddar.  Not a light breakfast, but I finished it off with my coffee and that was it until lunch that day.

Scrapple is vaguely like sausage.  It's sold in a brick, frozen.  Like sausage you don't really want to know what's in the stuff.   Other than corn meal, spices, and perhaps some thickeners, it is a Pork Product.  Everything but the oink, as we say in Philly.

There are two schools of thought, either thick and creamy or thin and crispy.  You slice the stuff off the brick, toss it in a skillet, and fry it up.

Yum.

But in my case, I'm being taunted.

I prefer mine creamy in the middle, crisp on the outside. 

First things first, that slicing bit.

I remember my father on a weekend morning.  Only on the weekends.  Saturday or Sunday, and you will like it.  Get the picture?

He'd fry up the slab of Scrapple in the skillet, getting it good and crispy on the outside, hot and creamy inside.  Served just as I like it.  Yeah, Dad taught me how to eat the stuff, I'm sure your parents broke you like that too.

Except there's the rub.  That slicing of a slab.  Doesn't go so well.

I have a habit of making things in "prepared serving sizes" like they're listed on the package.  Two ounces of the stuff is one serving, 120 calories.  Not terrible.  Except that that is an eighth of a brick.

How do you slice an eighth of a brick of frozen sausagey-like goodness into a skillet? 

You don't.  You thaw it when you get it home from the Big Publix that you park on top of, or the Acme in Roxborough in Philly, or even the Shop Rite in Cherry Hill.   Put it in the refrigerator on Friday Morning.  Saturday Morning it will have thawed enough to be sliced.

Except.

Now you have a roughly 37 degree Fahrenheit, 2 degree Celsius block of grey gritty gooey block of Pork and Pork By Products with Spices.  Cut open that Red and White package.  Some undefinable liquid leaks out.  The package is briefly looked at and then you realize that the Quixotic desire to be thrifty is pointless and you reach under the counter for a plastic container to place the remnants in. 

Lay the Scrapple block lovingly on a "Cutting Plate".   You want an eighth of the block for your serving, right?  Go to the knife drawer and select the sharpest blade you have.  You will need it.  Walk over to the cupboard and grab a ceramic coffee mug and sharpen it on the bottom, or just use your sharpening stone.

No, really, you need deadly sharp here.  The dog will now be curious, this would not be a good time to step on his feet.  Be careful there.

Look at that block of Scrapple lenghtwise.  Lovingly draw your blade on the top to mark but not cut it in half.  Cut each half in half, then each in half again.  You have just approximated eight pieces.

Yeah you could just toss the damn thing in the skillet and make a monster scrapple but where's the fun in that?

Now look at your eight even pieces.  The outermost one needs to be cut off the block. 

As you draw back that deadly sharp knife through the slightly gelatinous gritty block of savory goodness, you realize this won't go well.   It begins to break apart like a meteor hitting the atmosphere.  Instead of getting a thick slab of grey goodness to toss in the skillet, you have three "large" pieces, and a pile of grit.

Cursing at your luck, you walk across the kitchen to the preheated skillet.   I can't heat it up too high because the skillet has a non stick surface and if you have a parrot, that will kill them if it scorches.  You had better have greased the thing up because if you hadn't you're going to make scrapple crumbles.  Even now, you have a pile of grit to toss to the flames.

Here's where I got creative. 

I had saved a couple ceramic tiles.  They're nothing special being from my old kitchen in Philadelphia.  Some day I will incorporate them into this house here.  For now, they're wrapped in aluminium foil and used to press things down to flatten them in my skillet.  They're my very own "Fryer Blocks".

I take my Scrapple crumbles, and edge them together.  Pressing down with the Fryer Block, I am able to roughly reshape the crumbles into a solid mass.

Now, patience is a virtue.  Cook them until the bottom crisps up.  I can't tell you how long that is.  I went out into the next room, found some wire and needle-nosed pliers for a project, made two copper loops, finished cleaning the counter, and started roasting a batch of coffee in the time it took to get that brown scrapple look that I wanted.  Five Minutes a side?  Six?  Ten?  I just don't know!

With a plastic spatula, I tease the scrapple up from the bottom of the skillet.   It wants to stick, but this stuff has a sheen of grease, a gift of the Pork goodness inside.  Flip it over and hope that it won't fall apart.

It did, push it back together, and use that Fryer Block to re-form the thing roughly back into a square.

Walk away.  More patience.  More time.

The dog is getting curious, the parrot is begging by saying "Hello!" and blowing kisses.   They both want some of your scrapple-y goodness.  But no, Dad was right.  This was a special thing.  This is Scrapple.

Not for dogs!
Not for parrots!

Has it been long enough?  Worry the edge up.  Did it stick?  No!  Tease the now thin Scrapple cookie up off the skillet.   Place on the cheese to warm and melt it into the bagel.

The egg you scrambled will get poured onto the onions that are now translucent with sweetness, your weekend breakfast commune with Dad will come soon.   Reaching through the years, you taste the savory goodness and smile.  I think of the Stoltzfus and Yoders in the Pennsylvania Dutch areas and thank them mentally for passing this recipe on through this day.

This was a good breakfast.  But it just doesn't stick together, no matter how tasty it is.  Not to worry, I'll try again tomorrow.  I have another slice to make.   Maybe I'll get Dad's old Cast Iron skillet out.  Really go Old School on this Scrapple thing.  Serve it with some pancakes and real Vermont Maple Syrup.

A slab of crumbly creamy crispy crusty heaven on a plate.

Training Rack to go Off Leash at 5AM

This isn't the kind of thing I'm going to do later in the day.   It is a special treat at this point.   I think it's going to go well, but we have some learning to do.

When I get up early, at Stupid O'Clock, that means that my dog does as well. 

This particular morning, the clock was glowing a teal blue "5:00 AM" from the window well across the room.   I growled at it and grabbed my socks to start the day.

We did manage to get out for a lap around town early.  Earlier than most.  There is always someone out and about here, it's one of the things about living in a semi-urban Wilton Manors.  You're never quite alone.

While there are some very set times people will walk their dogs, my own timing floats around depending on how late I had that last glass of water or whether dinner was to large or small.

I got Rack prepared for a wander and we left the door.  Soon we were at Wilton Drive.  He had watered a couple Yard Rocks, a palm tree or three, and some lizards that weren't quite fast enough to get out of his way. 

Silly wet lizard, I don't want you climbing me either.

Having actually done all of his business we walked into the parking lot and South on the Drive.  This is the part that Rack hates. 

I mean HATES.

You see, my fearful dog jumps out of his skin when he hears loud noises.  I broke him of snooping the trash can and climbing on furniture by leaving small metal bowls out.  Knock a small metal bowl off of a trash can in the kitchen and it hits the Ecru Colored Florida Tiles with a crash.   That's followed by the sound of four paws "ripping tire" as fast as they can trying to get a purchase in order to propel 45 pounds of Mc Nab Dog forward as quickly as humanly possible.

Or would that be "caninely possible"?

Either way, it's fast!

We hear the roar of a tricked out Japanese import firing up through the three gears with a wheeze and a fart.  Nothing like taking a $5,000 car and making it worth less by adding another $1,000 worth of useless crap to make it louder than the diesel roar that comes out of the E-16 Fire Truck that it just passed going too fast.

Rack didn't like that.  He flattened against the walkway until it left.   From that point on, my arm was stretched until we got off that Drive.

He has a similar reaction to the 50 Bus whether Northbound or Southbound, the Entenmann's truck heading downtown, Kirby's F250 Diesel, and just about any other loud noise.

I don't blame him about that Entenmann's truck, that bloody thing is LOUD.

Rounding the corner, we're off drive.  I'd had enough of being towed.  I'm 225 pounds of Moose that wants a leisurely stroll at Stupid O'clock :30 and not to be in the Southernmost Iditarod.

So what do I do?  I drop the leash.

He walks about 20 feet and stops.  Nobody is around.  If it weren't for the air conditioning compressors, we'd hear crickets.

"Rack."  I say at a normal conversational volume.

Rack turns around, smiles, wags his tail and trots back to me.  I'm glued to the side of a dog as he resumes normal walk position.  Reaching down, I get his purple leash, and we begin to walk.

I let him walk until he's got my arm pulled forward stiffly.  Then I drop the leash again.

We repeat the ritual.  After about 20 feet, I see a smiling face with nut brown eyes looking at me.  This time I didn't have to call him until after he stopped.

"Hey, I'm back here."

He trots back and glues himself to my calf.  I think he likes this, the goofy guy wandering off but not too far.

We go deeper into the neighborhood, still nobody is around us. 

Walking past the house with the two badly trained barky dogs, I am thinking it's time for another try.  He actually walks with me for a bit but slowly pulls ahead.   I'm not awake, haven't had breakfast or coffee, and not into running anyway.

"Hey."

Barky dogs start barking out of control.  I hear the woman inside yelling at the dogs.  It's still only Stupid O'clock :40.   I smile to myself as Rack glues himself to my right calf.

"Good boy!" as I pet his smiling face.  "Let's Go."

Online Maps Are Going To Get Better Detail

I admit it, I'm a map geek.  I guess, I'm just a geek and maps are another symptom.  I'd be that guy sitting around in a dark office with a big screen and big wide eyes, flying around surveillance cameras and satellite feeds looking at things from outer space.

I'm fascinated with things like borders.  That feeling of "Otherness" that exists because someone drew a line somewhere and said "This is mine, that is yours" always fascinated me.  Growing up in South Jersey, state borders were irrelevant except for car number tags.  TV, Radio, and Media came from Philadelphia, and "local" was Cherry Hill which was too small to ever hit the news when I was small.

The view from the 295 near the baseball fields near where I grew up.



Franklin Square in Center City Philadelphia.  You never really "went" there.  It's kind of cut off from the rest of the world in Philly but you can hover over the place.   I don't remember that fountain from when I was last there, probably in the 90s.



These days, I can endulge my inner Cartographer by playing with either Google Maps, Bing Maps, or perhaps one of the others.  One of the first things I do when I am trying to find a place is to go online, plot the address and zoom in as tight as possible.  In cities and towns in the US, I have found very few places on a street that I can't stand virtually on the ground and look at the building and spot in question.

Other places, not so much.

When you zoom in on certain areas outside of an Urban zone, the detail gets fuzzy.  After all, from a satellite, one tree pretty much looks like the next.  You can expect a minimum resolution of 15 meters or 50 feet as a default, roughly.  That means that one of the dots on your computer screen will represent an object or area of 50 feet by 50 feet or 15 meters on a side.

Roughly.

Pretty much anywhere I was thinking to look within anything as small as a small town at random had "useable" resolution.  If I wanted to see the downtown of a small midwest farm town, Stanton, Nebraska, it was easy enough to do.



In cities it can get better.   The Czech Republic can go as high as 1/10th of a meter on a side which is 3.9 inches.   That's pretty respectable resolution all things considered.   It gives you the excuse to explore Prague from the comfort of your own easy chair.  A beautiful city, well worth poking around.



The view of the Prague Castle in central Prague is the above view, and that is without dropping that little man on the street.

The thing is that these graphics are getting much better.   Barring some self-important fool having their property fuzzed out, for the most part you can see just about anywhere from the air to some detail.

Viewing street level things are a different story.  Germany recently said "nein" to street view, and I seem to remember that they turned it off in Google Earth and Maps.

On the other hand, now I'll have to dust off my older computer that I have Google Earth installed on.  There's an inherent creepiness about Google's software that I don't care for.   You have to basically tell them what you want to look at on the map.  Part of the game.  I'm just not completely sure that all that information is something I'd prefer to share with them. 

While the software and use are free, there is one thing to consider: 

You aren't the paying customer. 
If you aren't the customer, you are the product.

So if you are comfortable being a product, your map playground has just gotten a bit more interesting.   You can always do things like walk along the Quays in Port of Spain, Trinidad for no reason at all.

Now They Want Us To Stop Washing Chicken Since It Spreads Infection

You always did it.
Mom taught you to do it.
Dad taught you to do it.
Maybe Home-Ec or a professional cooking school taught you to do it.

You pull the chicken out of the fridge, wash it well, then prepare it for cooking, right?

Nope.  The Food Standards Agency in the UK has found that you shouldn't.

Here's the back story.

The places that chicken is prepared, a slaughterhouse, are a pretty nasty environment.

Chickens are raised in cramped quarters so that you can have that drumstick at $.89 a pound. 

Yes, I blame you.  If you wanted "clean food" you will need to have a farm, and I don't see a back to nature movement taking hold.  Plus farming is a difficult job, I certainly wouldn't want to do it.

The chickens are in cages, and they tend to do what chickens do. 

Eat.  Sleep.  Poo.  Lay eggs.

You know, like normal, right?

All that poo gets on their feathers and on everything in the environment.

Once the chicken is killed to make that roaster you had on Sunday Dinner, the transformation to "meat" begins.  They remove the insides and are drained of blood.

Pretty grisly right?

Some of that poo is bound to get out.  Even if you were in a perfect environment, they still have to get the feathers off the bird, remove the legs, prepare the neck for soup.

Mmm chicken soup!

All the "innards" are packed up.  What can be salvaged will be used.   The intestines and other organs will be discarded.

Hopefully they can do all that in a perfect environment, but you know they don't.

More poo on your chicken, even if it is invisible.

So you get it home to prepare it.

I know, let's wash it, I'm sure there are icky things all over it. 

Well, you're right there are, but what you just did was to contaminate your work surfaces.  There will be a mist of water that collected those nasties, the poo, and spray all over your counters.  How is your immune system anyway?  Got some good kitchen gloves?

What's the solution?

If you don't actually SEE anything on the bird, prepare it without washing.  You are apparently just wasting water anyway and you know nobody suggested you use soap and water to wash out food!

Make sure you cook it fully, 165F is the usual temperature.  Get an "instant read thermometer" and cook your roaster until the meat is at 165F in the thickest part of the bird, usually the breast. 

165F is the temperature that the USDA recommends.   It will kill "all" bacteria.  Even if you have a weakened immune system, you're not going to get sick from that "dirty bird".

Dirty bird served with stuffing, cranberry, mashed potato, and a slab of cake for dessert, I hope.

You could convince yourself that Vegetarian or Vegan foods are the answer, but this is not a very good reason for you to go Veg.  There are some other reasons and some are quite valid like lower cholesterol and so forth.  But cleanliness?  Nope.

After all, those "bad spots" Mom would cut out of that tomato that had been sitting there "too long" got bad because of, you guessed it, Bacteria.  How did that get on the tomato?  Handling or "fertilizer" from the chicken that went onto your neighbor's table.  While you are at it, how about those pesticides?

Mmmm Chemicals!

So cook your food well - whatever food you choose to eat.  165F is best.  Get a good instant read thermometer and learn how to use it.

That's your helpful hint for the day. 

Oh, and if you do have a roaster, a good set of kitchen shears will help you "portion pack" it in short order.  Just cut along the breast bone and the spine and it splits easily without using a dangerous knife.  Make sure when all is said and done, the counters get wiped down with a strong disinfectant. 

Clean that kitchen, folks, you don't know where that chicken has been!

Two Old Ladies Were Outside On a Bench Smoking

Two Old Ladies Are Outside On A Bench Smoking

...when it begins to rain. The first old woman flicks her cigarette away, knowing it's going to be put out.

The second of the old ladies reaches into her purse, pulls out a condom, cuts the tip off, and puts it over her cigarette.

The first woman asks "What on earth is that?"
"Oh, it's a condom, they're designed to protect your cigarette from the rain," the second replies.

Now the next day, the lady who tossed her cig went down to the drug store to pick up some condoms so she can smoke in the rain.

She asks the clerk "Can you please sell me some condoms?"

The clerk is confused as to why this old lady would need rubbers, but in the interest of customer satisfaction, he says "Sure, what kind would you like?"

To this the old woman responds,"Oh, I suppose it doesn't really matter. Just make sure it can fit a camel."

A Man Has An Interview at the Zoo

A Man Has An Interview At The Zoo

A man has a job interview at the zoo. The man conducting the interview looks over his resume and finds it impressive.

"You're just the sort of person we've been looking for and we would like to offer you the position," says the interviewer. "But the position itself is a bit...unorthodox."

"What is it?" the man asks.

"Well, our gorilla died this morning, and we haven't been able to procure another just yet. The ape exhibit is one of our biggest attractions, so it's important that our visitors get they moneys' worth," the interviewer explained.  "Your job is to dress in this gorilla costume and just hang out in the enclosure. You know, entertain the guests, beat your chest a little. Think you can do that?"

The man agrees, and soon he is ushered into the gorilla enclosure, fully suited and looking like a revelation.

He stands in the middle of the enclosure and notices that a small crowd is beginning to form.

Remembering what he was told in the interview, he begins to lope around on his knuckles and beat his chest.

To his surprise, the crowd starts to grow, and soon the spectators are oohing and pointing and clapping.

Feeling confident, he grabs onto a vine hanging from a tree branch and begins to swing back and forth.

The crowd begins to cheer, so he keeps it up. Higher and higher he swings, until finally the rope snaps and sends him flying over the fence into the next enclosure.

Dazed, he sits up...and sees a pride of lions stalking towards him, looking at him hungrily.

"Help!" he screams, and begins waving his arms. "Help! Somebody get me out of here! I'm not really a gorilla! Don't let them eat me!"

Suddenly, one of the lions pounces on the man, opens its jaws and says, "Shut up, man! Are you trying to ruin this gig for all of us!?"

Even Weeds Have Flowers In Florida

After the storm comes the calm.

Apparently I slept through a whopper so I needed to go out and do a "perimeter search" of the yard.

Not a problem.  Things here are built to take it.  Evolution is an effective master.  A Flood of Rain with Heavy Winds and nothing fell out of the trees, no pieces of the house ended up in the neighbor's yard, and nothing was knocked over where it shouldn't be.

That's not exactly perfect.  I have a Bottle Brush tree in the front yard that I am hoping dies completely soon.  I'll be able to take it out on bulk trash day and let the palm tree I planted in front of it take over.   It's there just to tell the Bottle Brush Tree to grow or get lost.

So far, the palm is winning.  I have to walk out to the front yard from time to time, clear out the screw palm leaves that are there from a clump I planted under the Bottle Brush.   When I am there, I grab the palm tree and pull it roughly North to free it from the Bottle Brush's grasp.  The Palm grows fast, the Bottle Brush grows slowly if at all, and the Dog Barks At The Moon.

World War II Resistance Fighter Code Word Doggerel not withstanding.

All this went through my mind as I was bent double in the front yard pulling weeds.   Tuberous roots held fast so the plant will recover, but those little white daisy looking things are a nuisance. 

Even the bird's nest from the Northern Mockingbird is still intact.  The birds have left the nest and it is falling apart, but it has served its purpose.

I was wondering why the house was quiet yesterday.  Now I know.  Roofers are at a pause and the birds have fledged.

I'm once again an Empty Nester.

Off in the distance I hear a conversation float over the fence.

I love you.  I love you.

(oh this is interesting, do go on)

I love you, you know I love you, I love you.

I feel ugly now, no, I feel ugly now.

I don't care, I love you.

(Shaddap, it doesn't matter if you're ugly, he loves you!  Accept it!)

I feel ugly now.  (this was repeated about 20 times in order to shut down the conversation)

(I smiled at Rack, he seemed to hear it and on some level he enjoyed it.  Rack smiled back)

I left when I heard something about "Shut up, I'm going to tie you up, I feel ugly now".

Love does take some strange twists and turns when you are outside of the relationship.  But, I guess, Love Never Has to Say I'm Sorry.

However Love should use a soft rope.  Rope burns are a bear.

Come on Rack, lets go inside.  I don't think we're going to help and I need a glass of Iced Tea.

A Lone Biscuit

What's That?

Breakfast.

You're going to be hungry, I know you too well.

Yes, I know.  I'll add something to it.

Got More?

Yep.  Made 10 just like usual.

You are going to take a picture of them aren't you?

Sure, may as well, they're perfect this morning.

Not much of a conversation, but it went on like that.  Throwaway remarks on a half awake sleepy morning before things got thrown into cruising gear and life took its own rhythm.

I had to get the dog fed, myself fed, and do it all before construction started.  That wasn't too difficult, I was up at Stupid O'Clock again and I had plenty of time.

May as well make biscuits.  Biscuits and Gravy, Yogurt and Cranberry, and an Egg Salad Sandwich on Sourdough.

I got attitude from the dog, he didn't want anything until the yogurt came out.

The noise hadn't started so I had a fighting chance of getting Rack's food into him before it was too late.  Besides, I wanted my own.  Two tablespoons of yogurt on top of dry dog food doesn't look appetizing but when a ladder hit the ground from the top of a Ford F250 Supercab Pickup truck and Rack didn't do anything other than eat faster, I won.

Biscuits are a bit of Breakfast OCD with me anyway.  If I don't have them today, I may make them tomorrow.   If I don't, there will be some in the freezer ready for a 30 second radiation blast in the microwave, then coat with some sausage gravy and nuke again.

Not exactly the most healthy breakfast, but it's not all I'm going to have.

RACK!  Hungry?

Only got about 1/2 of a bowl into him.  Amazing, a dog who won't eat unless bribed.  The washer must have made a rumble since the storms haven't set up this morning.   Wet Season, Wash Day, and Construction, it is all destined to wrinkle your morning along with the washer.

The rituals of an early morning wrap around you like a warm blanket on a cold night.  Just a little bit of comfort in the shape of a round salty biscuit, smothered in pre-fab sausage gravy.  Sticks to your ribs, good for what ails you.

Are We Ready Yet, Or How Timing Counts With Feeding The Dog

Getting up early, at Stupid O'Clock, gives you the opportunity to stretch out and not have to rush.

Before the world wakes up, the city is at your feet.

Literally and figuratively I can go out and walk through the central business district here and see nobody from time to time.  It isn't quite a post-apocalyptic scene, there are always a few feathered creatures around to honk at me or an air conditioning compressor humming in the background, but it can be pretty quiet.

Even in February, those A/C units can be running, this is South Florida after all.

There are wrinkles to that solitude.  Plans do change.

About a month ago we had a real "gully washer" of a storm.  Now for someone in the placid Northeast where they don't get hurricanes, but now they really do, that would be a thunderstorm.   Now multiply that by another order of magnitude and that was what we had.

In the middle of that my neighbor learned the value of cleaning downspouts when the roof to the Lanai collapsed.   It wasn't a pretty sight, but we did get to see what shortcuts were done to that roof. 

Roofers in Florida.  There are honest one.  Then there are all the others.  At least that is the reputation here.

This is how you find out whether you got the honest one.  In a thunderstorm, microburst, or "weak" tornado, your roof will remain intact.  Or your Lanai roof could fold up and end in your pool and you could be staring through the gloom at your roof joists and be told by an inspector that "When you had it done, it was done wrong".

In this case that was about 10 years ago and four owners ago and now we have construction on the block again because that was probably "fixed" in the "Post Wilma" days.

At least my new one looks good!  I watched them build that thing, you could park a Jeep on that roof.  You could but you would break the tiles, so don't.

But for my neighbor, not so good.  He's patching it back up with the help of a swarm of white trucks that have the word "ROOFER" screaming on the sides.  It all starts around 8 AM.  About three hours after I got up this morning by my hazy count.

My fearful Mr Dog, Rack, doesn't like that noise.  Which is to say that trees are normally green, and water is normally wet.

In three letters, Duh.

Day number "zero", we had the microburst/T-Storm that moved people's furniture into the next yard, knocked over a tree into a car, and did all sorts of mischief.

Day number one, he hid.

Day number two, he hid more effectively.

We're in Day Number Three.   I have begun closing off hiding spaces.   On Day number two he hid so effectively that he was missing from start to plus two hours after they finished.    I know I have a dog in the house because every so often there is a muted jingle from the dog tags or the boxes stuffed behind the recliners in the living room move.

Why are there boxes behind the living room recliners?  So the dog doesn't go back there and hide and end up with legs under the chair.  If you visit, look behind the recliners.  That's where the boxes hide.  I really should just embrace that and put spare things back there like hurricane supplies since the dog has learned not to bother with them, but I am not that well thought out.

Yet.

After all, we just got this year's hurricane supplies last night at the warehouse club.   Mac and Cheese anyone?  Just stop by in December!

Knowing that things will start at around 8AM means I have to prepare.

Dog walk is early, and the bowl was filled before we left.  He was dancing from foot to foot and doing that high weak reedy whine that dogs will do when they want out NOW! so getting him walked was a priority.

When we got back, if he didn't eat quickly, I would have to dose the food with dog biscuits or yogurt to make sure the fussy eater finished before the construction began.

Then let him back out in the yard.  He will sniff and water the coleus before things get going.

I settle in and make coffee and breakfast before it gets too late.  The dog will chase the morning opossum or raccoon out of the yard by simply being there.  The neighbor's cat knows not to be here either. 

Rack will do a perimeter search watering his way around the ruellia and podocarpus, then end up back on the deck.  This is when he stares at me.  Through the window.  He knows.  I am cheating on him.

I have yogurt.

Yes, I do, and I am getting attitude from a dog.

Just as I get to the door, I hear the ladders arrive from the top of their trucks.

Rack sniffs the yogurt, eats all of the white goo, leaves three strawberry chunks in the bowl and finds the corner.

Everyone's a critic.

It will be a quiet day.  Just the growling from the air tools and workers.  I may as well turn the music up on the radio, it will be a long one as well.