It was cold out this morning. The kind of cold that makes you want to burrow farther under the blankets and forget there is such a thing as 'work'. But no, I had to get up and go outside and shower in the cold morning air. Not too bad, really. Not like I am showering in cold water.
As I was showering this morning I heard the neighbors dog moan in misery. It's really not much more than a year old; it's big but still pretty much a pup. They have it locked in a cage with a little concrete block hut. I do not know if there are any blankets or anything in there. I doubt it. But I bet it was pretty darn cold last night. So I listened to this dog moan loud doggie cries of misery. I bet that dog is so batshit by now that the first time it gets loose it's going to run around the neighborhood mauling little kids left and right, thumping it's tail the entire time because it's so batshit it thinks its playing and is happy because the blood is warm. Finally they will have to call in a sharp-shooting sheriff who wears a pair of mirror lens sunglasses. He will shoot down the dog and the next day the papers will scream 'How could this have happened?'.
It's been a rather blah week, and I am going to top it off by going into hermit mode this weekend. No partying, no roadtrips, just skulking about the house with a bathrobe and half a bottle of cheap whiskey to keep me warm. Oh, and my hot tub. I refilled the hot tub last night so it would be nice and warm for when it drops down to 40 tonight. I kept going out to check it as it was refilling, thinking that it was taking a rather long time. After a while I realized I had forgotten to turn off the bottom valve used for emptying the water. Duh.
My dirt-cheap lunch: Albertson's 'poor boy' sandwich and a generic diet soda. Total price: $1.75
The Albertson's poor boy sandwich is made out of those little nubs of cheese and meat-ends in the deli department just before it expires. These are diligently stuffed into half a sub roll, presumably the ones from the bakery the day before that did not sell. That is it, no mustard or mayo or any sort of green. The entire thing is wrapped up tightly with some industrial saran wrap. They cost a buck fifty and are only border line worth it. The secret to making them tasty is putting them in a toaster oven until the bread toasts up and the cheese melts. Then it becomes a rather tasty treat. But I was impatient today and just chewed on the heavy lump as I sat in the Albertson's parking lot and stared into space: I had forgotten to bring a book to lunch today.
It has been a rather bleak week. I am not the only one who thinks this; it seems to be a general conscientious. Thankfully it is just about over.
2026 Update
Setting the dial to January 26, 2007: a leaking hot tub, a suffering dog, and a $1.75 lump of sandwich await.
Nineteen years on, and I’m amazed the species survived its own lunch meat. That $1.75 poor boy would now be a $9.99 'artisanal provisions box' with a QR code, and half the fun is gone. We live in an era where the neighbor's dog gets a heated igloo, a camera with two-way audio, and an anxious Instagram account — nobody lets a pup moan in a concrete hut without a GoFundMe appearing. The hot tub has Wi-Fi now, so you can check its levels from the toilet, which removes the thrill of going outside in your bathrobe to watch water pour through a valve you forgot. And your parking-lot book? Ancient custom. Now you'd sit there scrolling, interrogated by your phone. The general 'bleak conscientious' hasn't improved, Ed, but the technology by which we ignore it is magnificent.
“2007 Ed, when you heard that dog crying in the frozen morning, did you truly believe the only options were to write a screenplay about it mauling kids, or was there maybe a blanket within walking distance?” — Beelzebubba the Third
2007 Ed: Well, Beelzebubba, you've got me there. I was standing in the shower, listening to that poor pup moan, and my brain didn't go 'grab a blanket,' it went straight to the movie version—mirror sunglasses, sheriff, headlines. That's just how I cope, I guess. The neighbors' yard is maybe fifty feet from my driveway, and I own at least three ratty old towels that would've made a difference. But no, I stood there shivering and wrote a whole tragedy in my head instead. That's the kind of hermit I am: I'll dramatize a dog's misery before I'll knock on a door. I did think about it, though. Then I remembered the hot tub valve I left open, and figured I wasn't exactly the neighborhood handyman. So the dog got a screenplay and I got a blah week. Maybe next time I'll be a better neighbor. Or at least a warmer one.
