Poop in the street

Even in the early stages of our team-up, Claren was always a big fan of toileting. If she had any waste in her body and she was given a chance to "hurry," she did.

Fame seems to dig privacy, familiarity and a full bladder or colon. If she doesn't really have to go, it is tough to entice her. And if she is in view/hearing/smelling of something more interesting -- meaning anything -- forget it.

I could get her to pee during training, but to get her to poop I had to walk her around to the front of the building away from the other dogs, the other people, everything. This became our thing (or Mom's) and fed into her appreciation of familiarity to do anything. She will now, after a month and a half, pee on  walks, but she still won't poop. Usually.

Once or twice, though, she had to go. She still doesn't do it in the grass where I take her. She poops in the street.

Which is what happened tonight. What happened after really has me torn. Mom, of course, wasnt with me to pick up the poop, so  I got a bag and started picking it up, when a couple walked past without a word. No offer to help, nothing.

On the one hand, fine. I can pick up poop, although it is easier if it is in a pile rather than four separate spots on the street. On the other, who walks past someone in a wheelchair picking up poop in the middle of  the street?

Empty promises

At Easter mass, we affirm our baptismal vows, so this morning I rejected Satan and his empty promises and believed in God the father, son and Holy Spirit. Nothing too controversial there ... at least not until I thought about it. Then  I opened up a whole can of worms.

How is "Ask and it shall be given" not an empty promise?

I mean I have been asking for ages, and not for toys but for something significant: a cure. And not just for me. My cure would benefit Mom, my sister's family, and yes, me.

But I struggle out of bed these days not just slightly dizzy from my concussion but also with all the bad things FA brings.

Tough enough?

My head is improving, but it is not all better yet: I can tell you how frustrating it is.  I mean it has  been six and a half weeks.

Mostly what I think of is football players. No one misses six weeks with a concussion. Am I not as tough as an NFLer?

Oh no, Robert Parker

As my concussion lingers, I am listening to books on tape, and it is having a bad effect: I am losing a little respect for Spenser author Robert Parker. Just a little, I mean he still created one of the most awesome characters around.

But his dialogue, while great, follows one pattern. In a conversation, sentences alternate between two endings -- "I said" and "[Susan/Hawk/Someone] said."

Even Joe Mantegna's dulcet narration can't fix it; it is jarring and laughable.

I recognized it when reading, but it's easy to gloss over the saids.

No glossing from Joe. And as a result, Robert Parker falls a notch or two. Luckily, I still have Ace Atkins, who took over the series after Parker's death.

Damaged goods

I am a wise, and wise-cracking, pterodactyl, in a dinosaur-themed Easter story my niece wrote, but I'm not feeling so awesome.

I went to my actual doctor this past week because my head issues remain. She said I could work but recommended telework for a month.

Telework is more relaxing, to be sure, I can wear sweats and shorts, and get up later. But no one is here  to keep me from thinking bad thoughts. Plus, the longer I am gone the easier it is for guys to use the wheelchair stall with impunity. Not that my presence stops them.

So I am alive, just damaged. I'd rather be cracking wise.