Tag: Django

Saturdayish

Anyone need 80 8"x3"by3" boxes?
Anyone need 80 8″x3″x3″ boxes?

Dave is talking to himself as he practices. “Oh, Dave.” Then he plays some more, then “No…no.” It sounds strangely detached, like he’s not surprised, just disappointed.

Django is in her bed. Her new portrait is on the mantel. We picked it up at the memorial service for Fern today, because the artist drove in from Indy for it, and she’d also finished the painting.

It’s lovely, especially around the muzzle. The body looks a little too brawny, like the woodcarving. But it’s a far cry from Marmaduke. And the eyes are very, very Django.

At the service, one of Fern’s neighbors told a story about how her dog had swatted a baby bunny in the back yard, and the woman called Fern crying, “What should I do?” Fern came right over, and held the bunny in her hands as it died. She talked to it quietly, saying “It’s all right.” The woman said Fern had the most beautiful hands, and I could see them as she spoke, just holding the bunny very calmly, like everything was happening just as it should.

Another neighbor said they had a feral cat and Fern was the only one who could get near it. Once she sat for an hour, combing it.

Dave seems a bit happier with his playing. He just said, “Hm.”

Buspocalypse

buspocalypse
Exactly like the fingers of God, reaching down to tap you on the shoulder, if you were a tree and the fingers of God were branches. Just exactly like that.

Django and I were walking back from River Park. We’d crossed Lawrence just east of the river, and were walking west over the bridge. There, just west of Manor, I saw a familiar vision: The Lawrence bus trundling east and a would-be rider stood at the corner, attempting to flag it down. Technically it’s not a bus stop, but it is a corner, while for some reason the official stop is on the middle of the bridge. Not a great place to stand, especially when the wind is blowing like crazy and you’re freezing.

The woman waved her arms frantically, but the bus didn’t stop. I swear the driver inside was the same guy who passed me by at this exact same spot the other night when I tried to flag it down to get to Brasserie 54. He maneuvered his vehicle with the exact same air of Je nais se give a fuck.

With an air of defeat, the woman started walking toward me, heading east. I called, “That bus did the exact same thing to me the other night!”

“Really?” She said when she realized I was talking to her.

“I couldn’t believe it,” I continued, “Why wouldn’t he just stop?”

“It makes no sense,” said the woman. She reached me and paused for just a second. “You gotta write this shit down,” she said.

“I know,” I said. So I did.

Business as usual

trick or treaters
Out of candy, except for 6 fun-size Almond Joys in the sideboard.

“This street is dead,” I heard some boy shout last night, when we’d turned off the porch light and shut the shades and hung a sign saying, “Out of Candy.” I’d contemplated writing, “Sorry, Out of Candy,” but reasoned that we’d bought plenty and I didn’t owe anyone an apology. But also I didn’t want to get egged. I settled for adding an exclamation mark, like we too were stunned. “Out of Candy!”

I probably wouldn’t have heard the kid, our windows were fastened tight, but I was out with Django. She was both fascinated and terrified by the walking hordes of costumed marauders with their lit-up candy bags, unzipped backpacks, cavernous pillowcases, and crinkly grocery bags. Or was that me. Mostly older kids now, in the dark, trolling for houses that still had candy to hand out. The guy on the next block who’d set up with a laundry bin full of candy AND bloody Mary fixings for the grownups, was cleaned out and cleaning up. “No matter how much you buy, it’s never enough.” He wasn’t nearly as cheerful as he’d been on our early walk, and I learned he’d just seen two kids peeing on the side of his house.

“I told them, have a little respect for the neighborhood,” he said. But they shouted back something nasty and went the other way.

“How old were they?” I asked.

“Maybe early 20s.”

Django and I crossed the street to avoid an oncoming horde. “A doggie!” I heard a witch yell. We walked past the one house still open for business. “How do you still have candy,” I asked the couple standing at a table set up on their front walk.

“Starlight mints,” said the woman.

We came home through the back gate. Instead of running up the stairs, Django sniffed and listened to the night. I was glad Tashi and I changed our rehearsal to tomorrow, so she wouldn’t be walking to the train on All Hallows Eve. I need her safe for opening night. So instead, she’d called earlier and told me the whole show like a radio play, while Dave manned the candy station. I think in every show I ever work on, I want to do one rehearsal like that, audio only. It was strange and wonderful.

“This street is dead,” I heard the kid yell out front, and I decided it was time to get inside.

Capture the pee

The instructions are really quite simple.

“The real problem is that the glove is too small,” said Dave. It was his third attempt to capture pee from the foster dog we are calling Fredo. It was 11:30 pm. We were on a late night walk and Django was on full bunny alert. Meanwhile, Fredo was peeing on various things but never quite long enough or in the right direction.

I wanted to say, “Just let me do it,” but Dave was the one wearing the plastic glove provided in the pee sample kit. You catch the pee with the tray provided, using the plastic glove provided, then you suck up the pee with the dropper provided, then you screw the dropper into the jar provided, then you seal the jar in the bag provided, then you put the bag in the fridge until you can get it to the vet. Easy.

But the first time Fredo peed, Dave hesitated. He said he didn’t but I saw him. I saw the pee coming out and I saw Dave wearing his glove and holding the tray and half-stooping down to try and catch it but hovering. Fredo was lifting his leg on a tree, away from Dave. “I couldn’t see exactly where to put the tray.”

“Under him,” I did not retort.

“It’s hard when they lift their leg,” he added. “Squatting is easier.”

“True,” I said, remembering when I used to have to catch dog pee in any old Tupperware, bare-handed. One time I made the mistake of using an old yogurt container that wasn’t as clean as I thought. The vet thought my dog had a mysterious strain of pink bacteria until we realized it was low-fat strawberry.

The next time, Fredo peed on a bush. “Get in there,” I hissed. Dave got in, but too far back. The stream arched over the tray and into the bush. When Dave pulled out the tray, one lone drop had been captured. “The glove makes the tray hard to manipulate,” he said.

“I don’t think that will be enough,” I replied curtly. I was already annoyed that we were up late again after not sleeping for two nights because of Fredo’s persistent cough and repeated attempts to get up on the bed and adorable but maddening way of sticking his face into yours when you were lying on your side, too close to the edge of the bed. We could have crated him, but he broke out the first time we tried, so it seemed pointless.

We gave up on the pee and walked toward home. Then, like a miracle, Fredo lifted his leg again. Like a champ, Dave swooped in and slid the tray into the perfect location. The sound of pee hitting the tray was joyous, constant, substantial. Success!
Then Fredo finished and set his back paw down, knocking the tray sideways, spilling all the pee.

The real problem,” said Dave, “is that the glove is too small.”