I Have Found A New Level of SUCK

"The measure of a man's real character is what he would do if he knew he would never be found out." -- Thomas Babington Macaulay

I propose a corollary: Workmanship is how something is built, in an area no-one will ever look.

Along that line, I was putting up trim around the inside of the closet door in the baby's room earlier, and putting baseboards around the inside of the bottom of the closet. And that's where I found the New Level of Suck.

SUCK is when trying to put up trim, using a finish nailer, Estwing hammer, and Craftsman nailset, and having to swing the hammer left-handed, because that's the only way to reach the damn tiny-assed nails.

But it's done now, and it would take one PICKY sumbitch to find the few flaws... and that level of picky, inside a closet, just needs its ass kicked, unless it's from the guy who did the work in the first place.

Altogether, I'm satisfied with it, but I still don't like using a hammer for finish work left-handed.

We, the Fortunate Ones

Kim and Og have posted about the utterly dreadful concept of having to go back into the dating scene.

Once again, older and wiser men have said it much more eloquently than I could.

Kim:

The Mrs. thinks that I protect her in all things because I’m some kind of chivalric Knight In Shining Armor. I’m not. I’m actually a querulous, timorous coward who can’t face the prospect of life without her.

Compared to getting back into the dating scene, taking a bullet for her would be a doddle.

And Og:

Lets face it: If I got what I deserved, I’d be married to a crack whore with no teeth and bad odors emanating from every orifice, who takes potshots at me every once in a while with my own guns, and regularly stabs me in my sleep.

Instead I managed, like Kim, to attract a woman who is an absolute doll; a woman who still gives me serious wood to see her naked, a good mother and wife, a joy to go to sleep next to, and wake up next to.

I wish I was as good at getting the thoughts out of my head and into the written word as these two guys.

Durned Old Dogs

Tomorrow will be a week since saying goodbye to Lucky.

I'm still not used to only making dinner for 3 dogs instead of 4.

Dammit.

Back to CarBlogging

Wednesday, while I was waiting to get a call back from the vet about Lucky, a stranger drove up the driveway. Guy about Dad's age.

Said he wanted to build a late 60s - early 70s car for one of his kids, and wanted to know if I was interested in selling any of the old steel I've got.

I showed him around the parking lot, and he gravitated toward the '66 Chrysler Newport. YAY!!! That's the car that I'd like to see something interesting done with, I just don't have the interest to do that particular car myself.

For some reason, I was thinking the V8 in that car was in the 283 cubic inch category. Couldn't find any ID badges on it anywhere, so I left a message for Granddaddy - I believe he was the car's first owner.

Granddaddy set me straight - that V8 is a *383*, with a 2-barrel carb. Much more interesting :)

Probably not interesting enough for me to do something with it, still... I have too many other projects that I really WANT to do, and don't know if I'll EVER have enough time and money for them... but it being a 383 should make the Chrysler a more interesting project for someone else.

I don't know how serious this guy is; I need to give him a call back. Anybody else find this car intriguing?

3 Dogs tonight

I buried Lucky today.

Lucky is the Dalmatian that Dad took in in 1997. She was a stray who showed up (probably) after being dumped, when some dumbass parents with a spoiled-ass child bought a dalmatian puppy after seeing "101 Dalmatians" - and then learning that Dalmatian puppies grow up to be Dalmatian dogs, which the asshats weren't ready to deal with. So they take the dog out into the country, and dump her in a ditch somewhere.

Anyway, she spotted the pawprint on Dad's gate that said "Dogs welcome here", and paid enough attention to Dad that he thought she was worth something.

I remember him telling me about her. I was living in Virginia at the time, and he told me about this Dalmatian who paid SUCH close attention - always watching what he was doing, following him around, etc... enough that he paid to have her heartworms treated. Yeah, the asshat previous owners hadn't given her anti-heartworm meds either.

Vet estimated she was about 2 years old then. She was Daddy's dog for eight years, and then mine for nearly two.

But, being born is a death sentence, sooner or later... and Lucky has been steadily losing strength and coordination for a while now. Today I took her to the vet, to see if there was anything wrong that could be treatable, or if it was just a terminal case of old age... turns out it was the latter.

I took her back to Daddy's this morning, and let her walk around and sniff stuff, and pee on everything that needed peeing on. She seemed very happy. If you don't know what a dog smile looks like, well, this isn't for you.

She got to be a four-footed spotty hobbit also - I took a can of Alpo with me, and she greatly enjoyed her "second breakfast". Walked all over together, enjoying the place where she lived eight great years. Then we went to the vet, and they asked me to leave her there, since I didn't have an appointment and they weren't sure when the vet could see her, but they assured me the vet would call me when he could see her.

He called late this afternoon. We talked, and he said there wasn't anything wrong that could be treated - it was just plain old age. So... there we go. It was time.

I took one of Dad's old sheets to the vet's office with me, and my good friend Tommy went with me also. Good thing; we wrapped Lucky up in the sheet, and Tommy drove back to Dad's. I might could have, but it probably wouldn't have been smart.

Then Tommy and I dug Lucky's grave (I'd been putting that off, in case the vet found something wrong that could be treated). We re-wrapped her in Daddy's bedsheet, and buried her not far from Daddy's house. Bud helped with that part, and thanks go to him as well.

Buster, Buddy, and Edgar don't seem to notice her missing yet... I'm guessing that will change shortly, around dinnertime. I don't know what will happen then.

To quote my Uncle Alex: "Durned old dogs" He's buried a few also... and it doesn't seem to get easier.

Lucky lived a good long time longer than she would have, had Daddy not taken her in... the heartworms would have killed her pretty soon. So I guess that's good. Doesn't make it easier to say goodbye, though.

Goodnight, Lucky... Tell Daddy, Furrball, and Taylor "Hi" for me. Then have fun playing with them.