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Show TAKE IT OR LEAVE IT... By Jim Stiles OBLIGATORY ANNUAL EXPLANATION This is the Second Annual Lame Alien Swimsuit Issue. Why? I'll try to provide an abbreviated version of the stoiy. I hate to put readers to sleep by the second page. We used to get this publication out every four weeks and by the end of the year, the 'staff was pretty fried. Concerned that the quality of the Work might suffer, it seemed easier to declare the issue lame than try to work harder to improve it. In the previous couple of years, the Zephyr had also thrilled its readership with special Swimsuit k Alien issues, both critically acclaimed by Zephyr devotees too dumb, drunk or deranged to know any better. When the paper went to a schedule, it became apparent that three of the six yearly issues could not regularly be designated the Lame, Alien and Swimsuit Issues. So I combined all three into one big Lame Alien Swimsuit Issue (LA.S.S.I.). And got it all over with at once. To make matters worse, this issue is printed before Christmas, well before its distribution date in late January, so one could make the argument that it should be proclaimed the Stale Issue as well Don't expect anything too topical here (There are some notable exceptions). Or anything too informative. But I expect, or at least hope, that you'll be entertained. And again, much of the credit (or blame) for this edition goes to Leavenworth, Washington's Favorite Son Dan O'Connor. The man is sick and I'm grateful to him for that. in fust-sprin- g when the world is mud-luscio-us the little lame halloonman whistles far and wee --.when puddle-wonderf- the world is ul ex. cummiogs 4 ni& SECOND THOUGHT ON DOGS. ALTERNATIVE PETS. MY CAT IS A BIGAMIST. I've always said that you can't go wrong with a dog (except for those damn Pekinese, because when they get upset, their eyes pop out), but my beloved gpddog Black Bean, aka Beanie Boy gave me pause this year. Beanie first arrived on the scene last spring as a stray at three o'clock in the morning. He was just a little fur ball at the time; he had crawled through the cat door on my front porch and then , couldn't figure how to get back out. I was in no position to own a dog I had all these damn cats around here Luckily, my neighbors Ken Davcy k Julie Fox, and Cisco laid claim to the little feller. By August, Bean wasn't too little anymore. He was huge. On his way to about 115 pounds. I'm not even sure he's a dog anymore. Beanie is more like a Tasmanian Devil with a hormone problem. The big boy spent a lot of time on the front porch at Eclectics last summer and a dog that enormous needs to bum up more calories than Bean could possibly hope to expend by mauling and jumping on every customer that came up the wallc Which is what he did. As designated godfather, I decided to do a good deed and take Bean along on one of my San Juan County trips. He was thrilled to join me and leaped into the cab of my truck without a moment's hesitation. The Bean couldn't have been happier. Everything went swimmingly for the first 20 miles. But around La Sal Junction, I glanced at Beanie Boy and noticed a subdued look in his eyes that I'd never seen before. He looked green. (Much later I was to hear Julie say, "Oh...didn't we tell you about his carsickness problem?") Traffic was heavy along this stretch of road; I'd been passing motorhomes and big trucks like a wild man and I was determined to keep them behind me. I looked at Bean. He looked at me. He started to dry heave. "NO BEAN! NOT HERE!" I screamed. Beanie kept convulsing. I would swear he was aiming at me. I looked ahead for a pull out, someplace to get off the road. There was nothing. Traffic was bearing down on me from behind and I tried to push Bean toward the other side of the cab. I hit the shoulder briefly as I struggled to maintain control and my truck spewed gravel and rock at the poor folks behind me. The motorhome people I just passed. But it was too late. Bean emptied his breakfast on my lap. Then he performed a couple of those ritualistic dog circles that all dogs perform on what was left of my front seat, and went to mmeemm ViTS sleep. There was nothing to do but drive on. It was a warm and squishy ride to Monticello where I remembered there was an outside faucet at the Texaco station. But the faucet was only eighteen inches or so above the ground, and in order to get myself cleaned off, I practically had to lie on the graveL To the casual observer, one might have thought I was doing the water limbo. For the next two days Black Bean shadowed me from dawn to dusk. No matter where I went. Beanie was on my heels. I couldn't decide if he was insecure or just waiting for an opportunity to puke on me again. Once I took a few minutes to il a loose plank on the shed; I reared back with my hammer and hit Bean square between the eyes. He wobbled for a moment and shook his massive head from side to side, spraying me with excess spittle (He was drooling with joy). The hammer had no long term effect. But then, who could possibly tell the difference? re-na- With the memory of my Excellent Adventure With Bean still fresh in my mind, I headed north to visit some friends in Jackson, Wyoming. For several years, I have heard stories about Karilyn and John Brodell's devotion to alternative pets and now seemed like a good time to make some comparisons. The Brodells own a turtle named Arnold. What could be more low maintenance than a turtle, I figured the Brodells are on to something. I started to envision Turtles of the Month in the Z. To hell with these vomiting dogs. But I was wrong. I wasn't completely wrong. Turtles are low maintenance creatures, but the Brodells refuse to face reality. They pamper their turtle in ways I didn't dream possible. The Brodells invited me to stay over at their place one night and Karilyn gave me a key she and John were working late and wouldn't be home until sue. So I was there to watch the whole mushy scene. If I recall here is the sequence of events as they unfolded: John came home first He said hello and I thanked him for the use of the shower, but he was already distracted. "Uh...have you seen Arnold?" As a matter of fact, I had. He had just crawled inside a large shoe. John's face brightened. "Arnold! Are you ready for your bath?" As I sat dumbstruck on the couch, John went to the kitchen, filled a shallow bowl with cool water and returned to the living room. He spread a few newspapers on the floor beneath Arnold's little tub and then tenderly lifted the turtle and placed him in the water. Arnold stayed submerged for a while and at first I thought he was drowning (I could see little bubbles escaping from Arnold's mouth) but John assured me the turtle was having a fine time. Arnold came up for air, swam a few strokes, and went back under again. Several minutes passed and John said, Td better get some paper towels." By the time he returned, almost on cue; Arnold had deposited a string of little turtle turds in the water and John dutifully fished them out with the towels. Father Brodell had just said, "Ok Arnold, I got all your little turtle poops," when Karilyn walked in. "Hi Stiles, she said absently, "Where's Arnold?" She couldn't see her two boys on the floor behind the couch. "They're down here, Karilyn...it's bath time." Karilyn tossed her jacket on a chair and dropped to the floor .with John and Arnold. "Did he poop yet?" Karilyn asked. John assured her that he had. The three of them sat together for a while the proud beaming parents and Arnold. I've never seen a more content and turtle in my life, basking in their love and affection. If only other American families could find such happiness. well-balanc- ed rinauy, wnue l am on the subject of animals, I'd like to u the power and prestige of this publication to solve a mystery. I'1 mentioned these damn cats that hang around here. I had thrt killed a ywas by dog last year, and the oldest, a cat th -- |
