Bad Blood

Editors Note: This blog has nothing to do with living life in Colorado or Mississippi. If either of those topics are essential to your reading this blog, then save your time on this one. On a positive note, this posting isn’t a bitter rant, nor should it dissuade anyone from vacationing in any particular locale.........

BAD BLOOD

An internet-alert friend of mine made me aware of the following, long-overdue technological advancement in the field of consumer product packaging. Surely you’ve all learned of this by now, but in case you haven’t:

http://fastfood.freedomblogging.com/2010/02/06/heinz-testing-new-dip-squeeze-ketchup-at-fast-food-chains/50795/


My friends interest in this story centered on the fact that previous ketchup packaging – those little foil thingies – have been used by Heinz for the past 50-years without any change or advancement. In that 50-year span, technology in all areas has grown at warp-speed, and you’d have thought someone in the packaging department at Heinz might’ve stumbled across some sort of package improvement in the past 50 years. Damn, you might think they’d have stumbled on some new ideas from screwing around and perusing the internet during their work day, in lieu of actually spending time developing new packaging products! Anyway, 50 years later, Heinz has delivered us an improved ketchup package.

Why, you might now be asking yourself, would I take yours and my time to carry this discussion any further? Well I’ll tell you why – the old Heinz ketchup single use package has a very special place in my heart; it ties in to one of my early life memories so solidly that every time I see one of these packets of sugary, red goo, I’m drawn back to a hot summer day in July of 1967. In retrospect, I thought it was much earlier – and when you discover what a senseless thing I did on that fateful day, you’ll be astonished that I was 11 years old, and not 4 years old – but I dated it with the release of the album ‘The Doors’, which I remembered listening to ad nauseam that summer. And in subsequent summers.

When we were kids, and we weren’t privy to the economic struggles that adults encounter trying to house, educate, feed and clothe kids – 5 kids, no less – we thought my Dad was a bit of a tightwad. (I now wonder and marvel at, how on one salary, he did what he did, and made us feel like we were rich – I’m certain if you’re in my age group you wonder the same thing about your parents.) Tightwad or not, my Dad did Christmas and vacations right. Regardless of how often he reminded us throughout the year that “we can’t afford that!” or “you eat that cereal like you’re getting paid for it!”, he never disappointed us come Christmas and vacation time. Again, I don’t know how my parents did it.

However, our summer vacation of 1967 was substandard compared to all of the others; I know now because my parents were in the process of building our final family house – the five bedroom one with central air and all of the 1967 bells and whistles. Instead of a week at the beach or a northern lakeshore, we went to visit family in St. Louis for a few days, then on to Chicago to visit the Museum of Science & Industry – an absolute requisite for a WWII-era engineer with three sons.

Chicago was awesome, but it’s St. Louis where my ketchup connection occurred. I was born in St. Louis, but moved to Kansas City at the age of three – I’ve got peripheral memories of St. Louis at best - but my older brother and sister had some solid memories of St. Louis, and some of their fondest memories involved the St. Louis Zoo. All kids love the zoo, and my 11-year old standard for a zoo was the Kansas City Zoo – damned fine by my estimation, but then it was all that I knew, and I was informed by my older siblings that the KC Zoo was bupkis compared to the St. Louis Zoo. So needless to say, being a normal, zoo-loving kid, I was unconcerned about our truncated vacation and jacked about a visit to what had been described to me, by reliable sources, as the Mecca of all zoos.

The St. Louis Zoo was all that was promised, and far superior to KC – an entire building dedicated to reptiles, a massive big cat house, Phil, the poop-slinging gorilla, a walrus pool – that’s right, a freakin’ walrus pool.

I was in heaven, but I was hungry; time for lunch at one of the crowded concession stands. Hot summer day at the zoo, lots of people at the concession stand, waiting in line, hungry for lunch; lots of kids, lots of dads – lots of hot hungry kids, lots of hot, hungry, cranky dads. No matter to me, as I told my Dad what I wanted to eat, he got in line, and I moseyed around taking in the sights. There were perhaps twenty or thirty people huddled around the concession stand counter – it wasn’t organized in an airport security checkpoint back-and-forth fashion; it was kind of a mob at a counter – one of those situations where the loudest guy got waited on. People were hot, people were hungry, and people were cranky. No worry for me, as I was waltzing around in zoo la-la land, waiting patiently for my father to fight that crowd and bring me a burger with fries.

“Oh, what’s this?”, I asked myself, “an empty counter to lean against, with lots of napkins, plastic eating utensils and mustard and ketchup packages.” So lean I did, and I can’t say that what transpired next involved an orderly, rational discussion with myself. Perhaps it was the mid-day summer heat, or the hunger, or the lingering euphoria of experiencing the walrus pool – I honestly can’t say what drove me, in an unconscionable instant, to grab about a dozen of those ketchup packages, put them on the ground, and stomp upon them with all of my might.

You golfers know what it feels like to connect with the ‘sweet spot’ on a drive. It’s a feeling so clean and so pure that the second it happens you know you’ve hit pay dirt. My Size 6 sneaker absolutely experienced that sweet spot feeling as it laid into those 12 grounded ketchup packets; really bad timing for that ‘sweet spot’ thing. That hot, hungry, cranky crowd that was huddled, begging, growling and fighting for food at the concession counter was, in an instant, taken away from their heat and hunger pangs, and left to concentrate on a blistering Heinz ketchup assault from their unprotected rear flank.

I knew immediately that I had made a mistake. It was much like jabbing a rutting lion in the ass with a hot poker, having it turn to see what poked it, and standing there to face that angry beast – naked and unarmed. My action didn’t kill anyone, or cause any actual physical harm, but the crowd looked as if lots of them were dying. The masterful distribution of the 12 ketchup packs – it wasn’t a linear distribution, it was exponential – made it seem as if I’d spurted 50 gallons of ketchup at that crowd with a sophisticated piece of spray equipment; the kind of spray equipment that firemen would lust after. There were big gobs on this guy, fine spray on that guy, ribbons on the next one. And in 1967 fashion, all of the dads had on white shirts, and all of the kids had crew cuts. I still have this vivid image of a dad on his knees, his white shirt splattered with ketchup, him furiously wiping ketchup from the side of his 5-year old crew-cutted son’s head. He was cussing; he was not remotely jolly about his clean-up effort.

As I was surveying the carnage that I had wrought, my Dad was on me in an instant. He grabbed me by the shoulders and started shaking me, saying “What in the hell were you thinking??? What made you do a stupid thing like that??” I think I still remember a lot of the other dads saying “You’d better kill that little SOB, or we sure as hell will!” I clearly remember that no one laughed it off. These guys were going to have to walk around for the rest of a 100 degree day at the St. Louis Zoo with ketchup sprayed and splattered all over their clothes, crusted in their hair and the sweet, sickly smell of Heinz’s finest permeating their nostrils into the late afternoon hours.

The great thing about this, and the great thing about my Dad, was that there was no serious aftermath to this incident. He probably thought it was funnier than anything he’d seen in a while, and he knew his little display in front of the angry mob was all he needed to teach and all I needed to learn regarding the negative consequences of a once in a lifetime opportunity to plaster a crowd of people with ketchup packages.

I have one little experiment yet to conduct. What would happen if I were to take these new-aged, high tech ketchup packs and stomp on them? If you nailed them as I did the old-fangled packets, just right, would they wreak the havoc that was wreaked on that sunny St. Louis day in 1967? What if I could hit that sweet spot again?

It’s a comfort to know that if the new ones don’t work so well, I’ve got a trusty, proven, low-tech 50-year old back up.

Just when is the next Hot Sulphur Springs town meeting?

The First Amendment

I received an email the other morning from a good friend in Grand County; one who’s opinion I value as much as their friendship. She was concerned that this blog is painting a negative light not only on me, my family and the Riverside, but on the town and all of Grand County as well. She asked that I either write more positive blog entries or none at all. She was basing her opinion on the following email that she received from another Grand Countian.

Subject: article about Riverside Hotel

I was reading your Winter 09/10 issue today, was inspired by the articles about the Hotel Riverside and the Grand Lake Touring Center. Plans for trips started formulating in my head.

I went to the Hotel Riverside website for more info, and noticed the invitation to " Visit our Blog to learn more about the Riverside Experience."

Hoping to find more information about the accommodations, I went to the blog, but instead found posting after posting of bitter commentary from the owner about the hotel, the guests, the town, and his family's personal struggles. YUCK!!! There went my plans for a Grand County vacation, as well as my trust in the stories in your magazine and his website.

Before you waste paper and ink promoting a local business, I'd suggest doing a bit more research on what they're really selling.

And you might mention to the owners that linking to a nasty blog from their website is probably not good for business.


Signed.......Unsigned


Wow! Someone actually decided not to visit one of the most spectacular places on earth, and certainly in the Continental US, because of a blog? A potential tourist, who was considering drinking in the vistas from Trail Ridge Road, considering wetting a line in a pristine section of gold medal trout water on the majestic Colorado River, considering hiking to the verdant glen beyond Grand Lake’s Angel Falls and being overwhelmed by the spectacle of some of Rocky Mountain National Parks most prominent peaks, then deciding to spend their time and money elsewhere because of a blog.


Because of my blog???


Do I actually have that sort of power?


My inflated ego only wishes it were so, but I think not. And oh, if it were only so; I’d blog about the need for world peace, brotherly love and the end to unfair taxation and government oppression. My negative blog thoughts drove someone from a Colorado vacation; maybe positive blog thoughts could help end a war, or pass an important bond issue, or save a life.

The truth be known, I don’t know who reads this blog or why. I know why I write it – for my fun, entertainment and self gratification. I love to write, and this blog is a free, unedited forum for me to express myself. Most of what I try to write involves a satirical and (hopefully) humorous rendering of my life and my family’s unique situation as we live life in the Colorado Mountains. I’ve also chronicled the knee-buckling, heart-rending moments of people and events that humble me in my stewardship of this fantastic building.


The aforementioned email mentions “bitter commentary from the owner” – I call super-huge BS on this. They’ve not read a single story on this blog, as I continually laud this beautiful county, our magnificent river and this wonderful historical property we’ve been entrusted with. Our blog drove this person away from Grand County? I can’t tell you how many people have been drawn to our legendary property and renegade lifestyle because of the blog.


I believe that the author of this email is not a legitimate “tourist” who happened to stumble upon a Grand County Living Magazine article and found our blog so offensive that it changed their vacation plans. But if that is the case, Grand County can thank me. These people will be happier vacationing in a remote part of Iowa. Survival in this world in general, and Grand County, CO in particular, requires its successful inhabitants to possess, at the bare minimum, a sense of humor. The really successful will have an appreciation for and understanding of satire as well. Those of you that don’t get it; you can go to Dubuque.


Sorry my dear friend, but the blog lives on…..

Living Life Lakeside..........Part III

As I’m starting to ‘kind of’ get acclimated to living in Mississippi – heavy emphasis on ‘kind of’, thus the quotation marks, for effect – I think it time to get into the nuts and bolts of what constitutes “Living Life Lakeside"; and living life lakeside is all about exclusive keyed entry into 2945 Layfair Drive, Apartment # 1122, at the beautiful Reflection Pointe apartment complex, a literal stones’ throw from the Ergon HQ’s at Mirror Lake Plaza.

The Reflection Pointe Apartment complex, (the ‘e’ at the end of the traditional spelling of ‘Point’ indicating an air of elegance; this isn’t your normal old point, no, this point is dripping with…well, something special that warrants it an ‘e’ on the end) is a 100+ unit development that was built in, I would guess, the early 1970’s. They haven’t done much to the infrastructure since then, save for repairing what breaks, as it breaks, in the individual units. My heater/air conditioner sounds a lot like a 1954 Ford truck with bad wheel bearings flying out of control down a gravel road; the few times that it’s kicked on in the middle of the night had me fast awake and scrambling for cover. They are at the point where they’re replacing carpet when the units turn; my unit had fresh paint and new carpet when I moved in, but that still didn’t mask the smell of how many months/years of cigarette smoke infused into the walls by the previous occupants. It was so bad, that even when wearing clean, newly washed clothes that had hung in the closet for a few days, I still smelled of rank, old cigarette smoke when I went out of the apartment.

The 40+ year-old vinyl siding, and all of the interior and exterior wood trim, which is rife with rot, is in desperate need of replacement. My 5’x10’ balcony – quite an accoutrement to this bachelor’s dream pad – is shaky to the point that I hold my breath when I step out upon it, fearing that the extra weight and motion involved in my inhaling and exhaling a belly full of air might pull the deck from its supports, tumbling me headlong into the Mississippi flora and fauna that, year-round, flourishes 10’ below.

I don’t spend a lot of time at Reflection Pointe, as I mostly travel during the week on business. But the weekends alone at Reflection Pointe are special, spent mostly doing laundry at the Reflection Pointe laundry center, located about 150 yards from my apartment. I save my quarters all week, and plod across the green space, around the pool, and into the laundry room, with my basket of dirty clothes in tow. I’m quick to get my stuff in and out, as young neighbors who might venture into the laundry room while I sort and fold my whitey-tighties might look at me and ask themselves, “Wow, what sort of a retro-throwback thing lives amongst us and actually wears, well, what are those elasticized little white things he’s folding?”

I’m gonna come clean here and admit that I am, by far, the oldest dude that I’ve seen living at Reflection Pointe. The complex is inhabited by 20-30 year-olds who work at the nearby medical facilities, National Guard and USAF bases, and/or kids or newlyweds just out of college who inhabit this place as a short stop-off until they age enough or wage enough to buy themselves a house and get the hell on with their lives. Those that notice me have to ask themselves, “What has this poor bastard done to end up here at this point in his life, toting his laundry basket across the green space at Reflection Pointe? Geez, how can I avoid that happening to me? Maybe I should go talk to him. Nah, I’d rather not know. And he's a little scary.”

Part of me wants to go door to door and explain myself, “No, I’m not a newly paroled sex-offender, divorcée, AA-member; I’ve got a good job, a wife and family, and I’m a minority owner (Lucy being the majority owner) of a 13,000 square-foot hotel, bar & restaurant on the Colorado River!” My guess is, the truth would scare them even more, as upon hearing that truth, it would only confirm their pre-supposed suspicions of me not only being a newly paroled sex-offender, divorcée, AA-member, but a crazy, delusional, lying SOB as well. A grey-haired, not quite so good looking John Edwards comes to mind.

I’ll further come clean and tell you that I hate living at Reflection Pointe, alone, in a place that I would have turned my nose up at shortly out of college and gainfully employed. And the key word here is ‘alone’. Julie and I are getting ready to celebrate our 30th wedding anniversary this June. That isn’t an accident; we love each other and have enjoyed living together for 30 years. Living without her, whether it is in Reflection Pointe or the Taj Mahal, sucks!

“Oh woe is me, and woe is my situation!” I've spent a lot of my Reflection Pointe weekend time having this self-pity party. And now, I’ll stumble all over trite and obvious territory and tell it like it is.

Haiti happened, right smack dab in the middle of my 'woe is me' party.

I live in a warm, comfortable one bedroom apartment with running water, a shower and flush toilet, a full kitchen and cable TV. HDTV to boot! I have a sketchy wooden deck with a Weber Little Smoky that I cook on most nights, enjoying the 50+degree Mississippi winter evenings.

The King of Haiti would kill for what I have.

When I look at how the rest of the world lives, what they daily have to deal with, and what constitutes pain and suffering to them, I now understand and appreciate the ‘e’ at the end of my pointe. It is a special place, and I'm fortunate to be able to live at the Pointe. I just wish my wife was here.

Lucy.......The Conclusion (To this Lucy story, at least)

So I’ve strung you along for a few weeks waiting to find out about dog poop. I apologize for this cheap literary device, as I use the ‘To be continued...’ thing as a means to juggle jobs, responsibilities to family and friends and personal time used to watch sports (it’s NFL playoff and college B-ball season, dammit!), which doesn’t leave much time to devote to the blog.
And you, you’ve allowed yourself to be strung along to find out about dog poop; there’s maybe something interesting to that as well, but I’ll leave it lie.

The day after Christmas brought not only more guests, but more dogs: four more dogs, to be exact - four BIG dogs, all in one room. Now Lucy has developed a bit of a reputation when it comes to picking fights with small dogs, and she may have a bit of a violent streak, kind of like Amy Winehouse has a little thing for drugs and tats; but unlike Amy Winehouse, Lucy’s no idiot, and can quickly distinguish between whom to bully and from whom to back down. There were two Labs, one German shepherd mix, and a sled dog/husky sort of thing; they were a united front, and would have drawn and quartered Lucy in short order. Their owners were good about following the Lucy rules, i.e.no dogs in the common area, and we really didn’t even know they were staying with us. We didn’t, but Lucy sure as hell did. The dogs weren’t even up the stairs and in their room before Lucy began planning her post pooch-departure statement. I contend that she didn’t poop for two days, in an effort to make the event really special.

The next two days passed without any significant events; we were busy as hell at the hotel, with all of the rooms being full, and Lucy quietly passed the time making every waking second of Busters’ life a living hell.

“Sure thing Buster, I’m cool with you being here, so long as you’re cool with me biting any and every square inch of your body whenever I feel like it, which is ALL THE TIME, but I promise you I’ll take an occasional break from biting you to flip you over and sit on your throat. So sure, I’m OK with you living here, you little son-of-a-bitch!”

December 28th arrived, and all of the guests eventually departed. We didn’t have anything too pressing going on the next two days except…...except for showing the hotel to two potential buyers!! As you probably know, the Riverside is for sale, what with me living in Jackson, MS away from my wife and all, and we had interested parties coming up at noon on the 28th of December and the next on the morning of the 29th. So we basically had about two hours to bust hump and get 12 rooms turned, the bathrooms cleaned, the downstairs tidied up, etc; we had to flat rock to get the place up to speed, and rock we did. All was going well, until it hit me that I never really nailed down a time for our “lunchtime” visitors, and no sooner did I consider this than, lo and behold, at 11:00 AM, there they stood, waiting for their tour.

All was well downstairs, and I knew Julie was wrapping things up upstairs, so no big deal. I even bought a little more time by getting them coffee and excusing myself to change from my work clothes. I sent word to Julie that the guests were here, and Julie sent word back to “show them the downstairs, and stall!!” So stall I did, lingering in the dining room, stretching out my stories on the past history, taking every opportunity I could to let them examine while I explained. Inevitably, we headed upstairs; first to the “East Wing”, which houses the main hall with the chandeliers, the bathrooms and the bookshelves. Again I stalled, asking them a lot of questions, many a ploy to forestall what, I wasn’t sure, as we headed to the “West Wing” of the hotel, where I believed Julie was still cleaning, as I’d yet to see a sign of her.

“Yes, these books are for all of our guests to read. We’d keep them here if you’d like. Look through them all and see if there’s any you’ve read before. If you see something you haven’t read but would like to read, by all means, have a seat and get started on it! I’d suggest Moby Dick if you’ve never had a go at that one!”


No interest in reading, but continued interest in seeing the rest of the hotel, so off we headed into the unknown. We walked past the bathrooms into the short west hall, (the hall where the ghost was standing that parallels the long west hall) viewed the rooms, and headed into the sitting room in the Tootie suite. Suitably impressed with this room, as it is the largest with the best view, we headed down the long west hall towards the Lennon room. About halfway down the hall, I encountered a sensation that was something akin to getting smashed in the face with a fungo bat; the smell took my breath, and all but buckled my knees. I continued to prattle on, acting like I didn’t notice anything; I’m certain the first question that entered the guest's minds was “Is there a violently churning raw sewage plant that we didn’t notice located immediately next to the hotel?”

We entered the Lennon room, and I hastily pointed to the plaque on the wall detailing his Riverside stay, laughing nervously as I said, “yep, heh..heh..he stayed here, all right..heh..heh”, the guests thinking, "Stayed here? He obviously died here, and we're certain he’s still under the bed!”

I simply couldn't hide it any longer; I had to mention what was as obvious as the pea-green pallor of my complexion.

“Hmmm. Smells a little like dogs in here. We had guests stay here that had four dogs, and wow, that smell’s a little overwhelming; my apologies. We probably shouldn’t allow dogs.” (I’m thinking, yah, the dogs stayed here, but I didn’t know they pooped in here for the last two days and piled it all under the bed, ‘cause that’s what it smells like!!)

The guests were quick to say, “Oh no, this is Colorado, you’ve got to allow dogs!”

Downstairs we go, tour all but complete, and there stands Julie, looking lovely, calm and collected. After introductions, she pulls me aside to tell me the raw truth. No, it wasn’t the four guest pooches that fouled our attempt at selling the Riverside; rather, it was our own little hoyden that did potentially permanent damage to not only our relocation efforts, but to our olfactory systems as well. And this time she didn’t do it outside the door, as is her usual modus operandi for saying goodbye to our big-dog guests, nor even did Lucy have the good grace to simply do it on the room’s floor; nope, she laid it right smack in the middle of the bed, on the comforter that Julie had replaced two minutes prior. This was the ultimate “up yours!!”- a two-day, fine-wine-aged poop, planted deliberately and skillfully, with love and obvious pride of ownership. When Julie discovered Lucy’s contribution to our efforts to sell the hotel, her first thought was to throw the comforter out the window, but she heard us below on the west deck, and thought better of it, as a flying, poop-filled comforter might have been a little tough to explain. Even in Grand County!

The interested party laughed when they heard the story (good that they have the necessary sense of humor to take on a venture like The Riverside), as we had to explain the source of the smell. I’m certain they were relieved to learn that it wasn’t the result of a hotel full of shared bathrooms. It was in fact, another little, and not quite so subtle, reminder to us all, of who really owns The Riverside Hotel; per her exceptional breeding, as she’s just doing her job.

Lucy..........Part III

As I hadn’t seen Julie, Rachel or Scott since

Turkey Day, the 2009 Christmas season was much anticipated, especially after spending three weeks alone in Jackson, MS - at my job during the day and my Reflection Pointe bachelor pad evenings and weekends. While I desperately missed my wife and kids, I could at least interact with them on the phone. I missed my pooch as much as the others, but knew I could only get my Lucy fix in the flesh, as my numerous attempts to communicate with her over the phone fell on very pointy deaf ears. As smart as Lucy is, she’s yet to master the phone; emphasis on ‘yet’.

Home in Hot Sulphur on the 23rd, and on Christmas Eve the 24th, our nuclear family was enjoying a wonderful Christmas meal, including our shameless little pooch, her oversized schnozz nestled between my knees below the dinner table, begging scraps with a look that could thaw a Grand County winter. After the meal, it was time for gifts, and what came next for Rachel was indeed the ultimate definition of ‘the gift that keeps on giving.’
No, not a ‘jelly of the month’, not a library card, not even the promise of hope and change; nope, this eternal little reminder of Christmas 2009 was named ‘Buster’. That’s right; not only did my new dog-friendly lifestyle have to embrace Lucy, but I now had to deal with TWO DOGS – 24/7, it was now The Lucy & Buster Show, starring, of course, Lucy!!

This wasn’t a surprise to me, as Julie had been discussing this for the past month. During those conversations, had I a nickel for every time I said “that’s a horrible idea”, my cash shortfall would be non-existent. “But Lucy needs a friend!” was the rationale which Julie offered; “like Mr. Clean needs a haircut”, I countered, “that dog would kick the butcher’s sorry ass if she thought he was trying to supplant her as Queen Bitch of The Riverside!”

Despite my attempts to enlighten Julie regarding the downside of having two pooches in a hotel (one of them being Lucy, to boot!), Julie rescued Buster – an Australian Shepherd/Corgi/Dachshund mix – from the Dumb Friends League in Denver. Buster is cute like the ocean is deep, like Everest is tall, like politicians are crooked – you get the picture; all puppies are cute, but Buster would for certain win some contests.

But Lucy thinks Buster sucks!

Lucy’s thinking “What is this uninvited little koala-bear looking thing, with an adorable personality and an overbite to match, DOING IN MY HOTEL??? I barked, I growled, I notified the bosses of this things’ intrusion, and they’re obviously deaf to my protestations. Whoa, what’s this??? They seem to actually like this intruder, and possibly at my expense! Oh, damn this little thing! I’ll bite its ears, I’ll bite its neck, its legs and its back; I’ll show this little mutt where it lives, and let it know who the landlord is!”

The Christmas Season is principally about peace on earth, and good will towards your fellow man (or pooch); I can now, after having experienced sharing space with two dogs (again, Lucy being one of them), that you can throw that notion right out the Riverside window into the Colorado River. The next few days were nothing but every waking hour being an endless display of a non-stop, doggie rough-housing, one-up-man-shipping, ear-biting, butt-sniffing, ass-in-your-face, who’s-in-charge-here domination contest. Lucy’s normal routine is to awaken at 7-ish for a quick trip outside to do her business, then it’s back to bed – sometimes until 10-11 AM. No more; after that 7 AM nature call, she’s sitting outside of Buster’s door – “Hey Buster, you want a piece of this? You ready for me to Jesse Ventura your ass? Whoa, wait a minute, what’s that I smell? Poop? Damn straight that’s what you smell, cause I just pooped outside your door, you little half-breed!”

And so begins another day at The Riverside. It ends like this too.

But back to the December 28th "In Your Face" poop that may have been the loaf smelled 'round the world; or certainly our world.

....................To be concluded.

Lucy...........Part II

We picked Lucy up from a rescue shelter in Denver, and all we knew of her lineage was “Border collie mix.” As are most puppies, Lucy was so cute and cuddly that I actually felt good about throwing the easy part of my dog-less life away and signing up for a 14 year hitch in the Canine Corps. Not only was this black & white little fur ball adorable, but she had personality out the pooch wazoo; you could instantly tell that she was sassy beyond repair. She expressed herself to us and a constant stream of admiring hotel guests through the deliberate and continual use of her razor sharp little bicuspids: “Oh, look at this little darling, she is soooo cute, OUCH. Oh, that’s ok, she’s just a little puppy and she’ll outgrow OUCH!”

While everyone around me was smitten with Lucy to the point of having to wear drool catchers, I kept my focus and concentrated on the job of getting this little hellion potty-trained, as the notion of tiling a 12,000 square foot hotel was absolutely out of the question. Within a short matter of time, she got it; I supposed we trained each other. After a few weeks of intensive training, Lucy would essentially walk up to me, look me in the eye, and ‘bark’ with a purpose, saying “I’ve got to go outside and do business. NOW!”

Poor old Lucky never got that “I’ve got to go to the bathroom, now!” concept down; Lucy had it nailed in a matter of weeks. Lucky was sweet, but dumb; Lucy is smart, and efficient, but sweet doesn't enter into the picture. As the formative weeks went by, our Border collie-mix didn’t get tall like a Border collie; rather, Lucy grew long. Her front paws splayed outward as she sat and challenged us at our every demand. Her Border collie ears didn’t droop like a Border collie, but spiked straight skyward like, well, like a Corgi. Long body, splayed paws, spiked ears – without doubt, we had ourselves a ‘Borgi’. Lucy is a combination of smart, quick, independent, outspoken, multi-leveled herding dogs, with bloodlines that date back centuries; part of her wants to organize and round people up into groups, and the other part wants to punish and nip the heels of those who won’t comply.

Lucy, not aware of her mixed heritage, carries herself as a royal beauty; unique and unusual looking to the point of people asking “what a beautiful dog, but what is she?” Her head is way too big for her body, her plumed tail a natural and fitting accoutrement to her regal demeanor. Within a very short period of time, this sassy little bitch had full and total control our hearts; people would ask, “Are you the owner of the hotel?”, and my clever answer was always “yes, me and the bank”. But I couldn’t look them in the eye and give them that answer any longer; Lucy now owns this place - just ask her!

All Border collies need a job. As they were bred and used in the old country, their job was to herd sheep and cattle. Lucy’s job is to guard The Riverside. No one comes in or out, nor do they drive by, without her scrutiny and approval. She sits in the front window of the hotel and acknowledges all passersby’s with a low growl, a quiet ‘woof’ or an emphatic ‘bark!’ If Lucy doesn’t acknowledge you when you pass The Riverside, you don’t exist. If you happen to be a dog, she lets absolutely nothing back as she talks the worst sort of inappropriate foul-mouthed smack at you as you walk by that window; and God help your worthless canine ass if you would attempt to enter her hotel.

As The Riverside is a pet friendly hotel, the rules of guests bringing in pets had to be modified a bit with the addition of Lucy. No dogs in the common areas – bring them in quickly and get them in your room, and damn sure don’t have them off of a leash or out of your control. The attached link will send you to Tripadvisor, (http://www.tripadvisor.com/ShowUserReviews-g33479-d1153219-r45506009-The_Riverside_Hotel-Hot_Sulphur_Springs_Colorado.html) a site where guests can share their experiences of your hostelry; some of the shared information is actually factual, but not so much with this particular story. If you’re a regular reader of this blog, suffice to say that the authors of this Tripadvisor review fall into the category of “2%-ers.” Enough said.

Lucy has developed another peculiar habit regarding the intrusion of canine guests into her sanctuary. After she calms down and acquiesces to the presence of these intruders into her territory, she quietly lays in wait until the offending visitors have departed The Riverside. She will then surreptitiously slink up the stairs, never to be seen by us, locate the room where the gate crasher stayed, and poop outside the door. When I said earlier that she was potty trained, I meant it; this act has nothing to do with having an ‘accident.’
This is an intentional, malicious, wanton act of revenge, an “I spit on your grave!” sort of thing. She’s done this four or five times, but never has her “Eat S**T and Die!” pronouncement been as profound as it was on December 28th, 2009.

To be continued..........

Lucy

When all is said and done and we look back on our adventure in Colorado, no matter how many difficulties we’ve suffered or victories we’ve celebrated, there has been one shining light that blinds the memory of all of the good or bad: we found Lucy.

Those of you who know me well, know that my love and devotion to this dog is more than just a bit out of character for me. I’ll be honest and admit that I’ve never been one that you would classify as a ‘dog person’. Lucky, our family pooch of the previous 15 years, was thrust upon me after the fact of her acquisition. Julie and the kids were in Nevada, MO visiting her parents, while I remained in Kansas City for a rare, weekend business meeting. The year was 1991; Rachel was 6 years old, Scott 4 years old and Julie and I young enough to add to our family. After the aforementioned business meeting, I called Julie to check in and she opened the phone conversation with an excited:

“Guess What!!?”

“You’re pregnant??” I guessed, holding not only my breath, but my wallet, my heart, and had I a third hand, you can guess what else I would have held and tried to disable.

“No, we found a dog!” she replied.

“I’d rather you were pregnant.” I said. And I meant it, at the time.

Lucky, a misfit mutt found in the Nevada city park, was the best dog a family could have; sweet, docile, loving, good with children, etc. She never did get the potty trained thing down; her favorite bathroom area was our living room, in which I eventually ended up taking up the carpet and putting down tile. My Dad said “what are you gonna do, tile the whole house? She’ll find another place to go!” In fact we did end up tileing and hardwood-flooring the whole downstairs, but ever resourceful, Lucky found carpet upstairs to pee upon.

After spending her last few years as the neighborhood snack whore – she was all but a furry keg with legs – Lucky gave up the ghost on Thanksgiving Day, 2006. She had a stroke the day before Thanksgiving, and was in obvious pain and disarray as Turkey Day unfolded. Scott and I took her to be put down, brave Scott at her side during her last minutes on earth. I couldn’t do it; after filling out the paperwork and paying for things, I went back to the car and bawled. It was a quiet, teary-eyed, father-and-son ride home, back to family and the impending feast.

It might have been the morning after Lucky died, or perhaps the afternoon, when Julie began the slow, steady, deliberate, resolute chant of “we need to get a dog, we need to get a dog, and we need to get a dog.” “Good grief!” I said, “let’s give it some time.” For unlike true ‘dog people’, I had the good sense to examine the realities and know the consequences of getting a dog; there’s way more to it than the wonderful feeling you get when you acquire your cute, fuzzy little bundle of puppy love. Hell, I’ve seen the worst of it, where you eventually have to rip up pee-stained carpet that you paid good money for and bust your ass tileing the living room.

My anti-pooch ass-holiness won out for the better part of two years – no pooch, no problems; then fast-forward to January, 2009, living life Riverside. Before I knew and had a chance to react, Julie pulled a fast one and arranged to have a rescue pooch adopted for us by her sister in Denver. I was busy doing…I don’t know what I was busy doing, when Julie told me, “we’ve got a pooch. We’re picking it up in a few days.” “Oh crap”, I thought, “my days have changed, my nights have changed and my life has changed.”

The morning that we were to leave to pick up the dog, I was visited by our friend, Rick, who manages the hot springs. Rick is a transplanted pig farmer from Iowa, who made his nut and decided he wanted to live in the mountains. He’s an absolute breath of fresh air in these Colorado Rockies, the kind of person who you’d refer to as ‘real people’; a guy’s guy, a straight shooter and happy as if he had good sense. When I told Rick, in a rueful voice, that we were going to Denver to pick up a dog, Rick noticed my obvious distressful/regretful tone and mood and asked “What are you bitching about?? What kind of an asshole doesn’t like a dog??”

My glib, clever, not a dog person-ass didn’t have a quick answer for that one. In fact, Rick shamed me to the core; with his ‘from the hip’ challenge, in the form of a question, he made me question what I was really all about. And I didn't like the answer.



Enter Lucy……………..to be continued.