Some Newspaper Columns by Beth (and the dogs, of course!) That You Might Remember...

Me and the Bird and Barking and Breakfast and …

By Tom Quinn, a dog

You might be wondering why I – me, a dog – am writing in this newspaper today, which – have I told you? – I like it. Me and Huckleberry both like it. 

I licked a newspaper once and it tasted a little like Jeanette the Mail Carrier, who smells like paper and also like strawberries. Could be her shampoo, I wouldn’t know. 

I’m writing this today – maybe not actually writing it, maybe just kind of thinking it, really – because Beth Quinn is washing the windows. I licked a window once  – did I mention that? – to see if I could taste through it just like I can see through it but it didn’t work out. 

Oh, wait a minute. 

Phew. Where was I? Me and Huckleberry were just barking our heads off at something. I don’t know what it was, really. That happens sometimes. All of a sudden I’m barking. Don’t know what I was thinking.

So Beth Quinn said I could just tell you about my day, which has been pretty interesting so far to me. Don’t know how you’ll feel about it.

My day started at the crack of dawn – whatever that means but I heard Beth say, “It’s the crack of dawn for cryin’ out loud!” – when that stupid bird in the back yard began the terrible aaack noise over and over, waking me up just when I was having that great dream about digging up a dead cow leg. That’s my favorite dream, but I also like the one about catching a tennis ball just as I’m leaping into the pond. I forget where the pond is although I can almost remember. Sometimes when I get into the car I think we’re going there. 

But the bird. Don’t get me started on birds.

So now that I was awake I noticed I should probably go out the dog door and take care of business before I embarrassed myself like the time … am I getting off track here? So I went outside and lifted my leg on the purple dinosaur out in the yard near the swing set. At least I heard it’s purple. I don’t know what that means, exactly. Maybe big, maybe slippery. 

Also, while I was out there, I barked at the bird. Then the bird aaacked at me. Then I barked. Then it aaacked. Then I barked. Then we were barking and aaacking at the same time.

“Tom!” 

I don’t know why it was my fault. Why didn’t Beth yell at the bird?

So now it was still the crack of dawn – this is turning into a pretty long story so far, isn’t it? Wait ’til I tell you about breakfast! And snack time! And supper!

Where was I? 

Huckleberry – did I mention her yet? She is also a dog who lives with us and sometimes barks with me. One of our best barking times is when Diesel and Daisy Nelson across the street also do some barking. 

Now, here is where my day gets interesting because it’s completely unpredictable. After Beth has coffee, she might give me breakfast. Same thing every day, not so interesting really, but that’s not the good part. If she doesn’t give me breakfast right away, it means she might open the garage door and take four tennis balls outside to throw to me and Huckleberry!

Sometimes the bird watches and aaacks at us, but I don’t even care! These are tennis balls we’re talking about! One time – and this might have happened today, not sure – the bird was on the lawn and I saw it and dropped the two tennis balls that were already in my mouth and …

“Tom!”

It would be so helpful if Huckleberry would just once in a while do something questionable, too, but she always stays focused on the game. Not sure what that means, but it seems to be an admirable quality.

Sometimes the tennis ball goes straight into my mouth when Beth throws it and I gag a little – almost puke, really – but who cares? This is tennis! The best! I never actually swallowed a ball, I don’t think. At least I only swallowed a ball in parts after I chewed a chunk off  it.

After the game, me and Huckleberry have to turn in the balls, which is almost the best part because Beth trades us a treat for a ball. The good treats. The chicken jerky kind. Sometimes – should I confess to this? – maybe not, but I’m no good at keeping things to myself – sometimes I keep a ball hidden under ground so I can bring it to Beth later and then she gives me another treat for it. Me and Huckleberry both do this, actually.

Okay, so where was I? By now it’s not still the crack of dawn but it’s kind of the crack of dawn plus an  hour. Not sure what that is.

And so next thing that happens is … 

Oh. 

No room for more words? But I was supposed to tell about my day and I barely got to breakfast – did I mention it’s the same thing every day? – and then me and Huckleberry got barking  …?

The Adventures of Tom and Huck

Grandchildren and Twisted Lips

By Beth Quinn

With the arrival of grandchildren, one tumbling into life after another now, the dogs in our family have had to trade in their erstwhile peaceful existence for one fraught with excitement and some danger.

None of the children actually means to cause a dog any harm, with the possible exception of our 2-year-old granddaughter Devon, whom I recently caught standing face to face with Tom, our yellow Lab. She had his lips gripped firmly in her little hands, and she was twisting them backwards, causing Tom to have a most peculiar and unnatural smile on his face. 

Tom rolled his eyes toward me in a mute plea for help. He dared not move a muscle lest she tighten her lip grip. I saved him from the enfant terrible, and he will forever love me for my intervention – and for the time-out Devon had to serve in hopes that she will reform. 

(She claimed she was “thorry” and they kissed and made up, but I suspect she will have to serve a few more time-outs before she fully embraces the notion that she’s never allowed to hurt a dog.) 

That Tom, he’s a good dog. All the Labs in our extended family are – Tom and Huckleberry, Gus and Little Mac. Not one of them would harm a child no matter what body part that child poked or prodded or twisted. Soon after the lip-gripping incident, I watched the care Tom took with Devon when she climbed onto his back to play horsey. Tom slowly lowered himself to the floor, then gently rolled over onto his side to unseat her.

She had to serve time for that infraction, too. No riding the dogs, I told her. Again, she was “thorry” although she stuck out her lower lip to pout for the duration of her sentence this time. I sensed she thought my rules were “thupid.”

But the dogs also manage to inflict punishments of their own, though I’m certain they don’t mean to. Huck’s tail, after all, is just the height of a toddler’s eyes, and there’s no managing the thing once it’s revved up to full wag speed. Devon has developed a defensive blink when she’s in the same room with a dog. Her older cousin Sam did, too, during his own toddlerhood.

Now Sam has twin baby brothers, and the wagging Lab tails have created a problem of a different sort. The babies were premature, weighing in at 1 pound and change, each barely bigger than an ear of corn. They had to finish cooking at the hospital, and when they were finally sent home a couple of months ago, they arrived with oxygen tanks and monitors and tubes and wires.

My son’s house looks like a nearby hospital exploded and rained durable medical supplies into their living room.

The Labs went into nanny mode when the babies got home. There isn’t a Lab on this earth who doesn’t get involved when a baby is in the house. Sit down with a twin and a bottle, and there’s Gus on the couch next to you, resting his chin on your shoulder to supervise the meal. I’m sure Gus would remind me to burp a baby if I forgot to.

And Little Mac. Well, the very prospect of a lickable baby in the house – two lickable babies! – brings out the whirling dervish in him and sets his tail wagging faster than you can see it moving. It practically hums.

Therein lies the problem, of course, when there are wires all over the place connecting two babies to oxygen and monitors. After Little Mac has been through the room, it’s not uncommon to discover a wire just dangling there, just hanging from a twin, unmoored from an oxygen tank by the swipe of a dog tail.

Oh my, we say when someone discovers an unattached wire. Who’s not getting oxygen? Is there a twin turning blue in here?

Fortunately, neither Austin nor Bryce has ever turned blue and, really, they don’t seem to need the oxygen all that much. Still, Little Mac gets a time-out of his own whenever this happens, banished to the yard to wear out his exuberance by chasing a squirrel or two.

And while a Lab never pouts while serving his time, I’m certain that, on some level, he’s “thorry” too.

Memo to the Self-Righteous: Shut Up

By Beth Quinn

I was going to leave the gay marriage issue alone just to save myself some grief.

But then I thought, what fun would that be? Somebody’s got to irritate the self-righteous folks who tell the rest of us how to live, and it might as well be me. You know who you are, so get your Bibles ready because you’ll want to damn me to hell by the time we’re done here.

For me, there is one central question in the whole gay marriage controversy: What do you care?

What difference does it make in your own life if two gays or lesbians get married? It simply mystifies me that you feel threatened by this. What possible harm could it do in your personal, little life whether the two guys living at the end of your block say “I do”?

I keep hearing the same pat answer from your prophets of doom – that allowing homosexuals to marry will “destroy the institution of marriage.”

Well I gotta’ tell you, a lot of gays and lesbians have been getting married in San Francisco lately, and so far my own institution of marriage is doing just fine. I checked. When I heard they were lining up for licenses, I asked my husband if he felt our marriage was going downhill on account of it. He just ignored the question and wanted to know what kind of perennials I thought we should put in this spring.

I took that as a good sign. Perennials are an investment in the future, so I figure he’s sticking around despite what those homosexuals are doing.

So, self-righteous folks, I guess I’m wondering what's wrong with your own marriages that you feel so threatened by another couple’s happiness. Are you unable to sustain a good sexual relationship knowing that two gay guys are sleeping together in wedded bliss? Are you unable to have an intimate conversation with your spouse because you’re distracted by the notion of two women going off on a honeymoon?

Because if your marriage is that unstable, you should stop worrying about what others are doing and tend to your own problems before your divorce contributes to the decline of the institution of marriage.

I’ve given this a lot of thought, and I’ve completely failed to come up with ways that gay marriage will have an impact on your life. It won’t raise your taxes. It won’t cause the kid who shovels your driveway to quit. It won’t make your laundry dingy. It won’t alter the weather. It won’t cause your dog to start passing gas. It won’t affect your relationship with God. It won’t cause you to develop a tumor on your head.

Those of you who would talk about grand concepts like society and institutions and pillars and guideposts and moral fibers and whatnot, I say this is just your excuse for meddling. And history has shown us that nothing good ever comes of meddling in other people’s affairs. Every time Christians showed up to mess with heathens, for example, we just ended up with a lot of unhappy heathens with syphilis and smallpox.

Those of you who would point out that the dictionary definition of the word “marriage” involves a man and a woman, let me point out that the dictionary is a living, breathing document that changes as word usage changes. If you doubt it, look up the word “dot” in a current edition.

We the people get to decide what’s in the dictionary. The dictionary doesn’t get to dictate our societal conventions. Your hair isn’t going to catch on fire if the definition of marriage is eventually changed to read, “two consenting adults” instead of “man and woman.”

As for the Bible, which is always the last refuge for those of you who want to impose your will on us savages, we’re not all reading out of the same book.

More fundamentally, the Bible is not a legal document. If it were, those who fail to love one another would be rounded up and thrown in jail. The prison budget would go through the roof what with all the new cells we’d be needing for the neighbor haters.

I have only this advice to offer those of you who oppose gay marriage: Don’t marry a homosexual.

If you’re a man and you don’t want to marry another man, for crying out loud, stick to your guns! That would be a terrible idea. You’d be miserable! Same for women. Marry someone of the opposite sex if that’s your personal preference.

After all, no one’s got the right to meddle in your private affairs.

Life’s Lesson Taught From The Pitcher’s Mound

By Beth Quinn

My father was always permanent pitcher in our backyard baseball games when I was growing up.

He got this special honor in part because no one else could pitch well enough to get the ball over home plate. If we had any hope of moving a game along at a fair pace, we needed him to do the pitching.

But he also pitched because, with one wooden leg courtesy of Adolf Hitler, he didn’t do too well in the field. Running after a fly ball that got hit into the cornfield out back of our Washingtonville home just wasn't his strong suit.

And so he stood under the hot sun throwing endless numbers of pitches to my sister, brother and me, while we took our turns at bat and in the field.

I never questioned the rightness of it. “Fathers pitch” was a fact of life I’d internalized without giving it any real thought. When I’d play ball in other children’s back yards, it always seemed odd to me that their fathers played the outfield and ran the bases. It was somehow childish, the way fathers were sprinting around out there.

Fathers pitched.

He ran our games with the authority of a Yankees team manager. He was boss of the field, and there were requirements if we wanted to play. We had to chatter in the outfield. I must have said, “Nobatternobatternobatternobatter,” 5,000 times growing up.

We had to stand properly, too, both in the field and at bat. And we always had to try to outrun the ball, no matter how futile it might seem. This was baseball, by God, and there was only one way to play it. The way the Yankees played it.

Going up to bat against my father was not exactly like playing T-ball. None of this self-esteem stuff for him, trying to make kids feel good about hitting a ball that’s standing still. It was perfectly fine with him if he struck me out, and he did it all the time. He never felt sorry about it at all.

“Do you want to play ball, or don't you?” he’d ask, if I began whining about his fast pitches.

I wanted to. And when I’d finally connect with one of his pitches – oh man – I knew I deserved the hit. I could tell by the feel of it. And I’d be grinning all the way down the first-base line. Then I’d turn around to look at my father standing on the pitcher’s mound. I’d watch as he took off his glove and tucked it under his arm. And then he’d clap for me. To my ears, it sounded like a standing ovation at Yankee Stadium.

Years later, my boy was to learn those same rules about baseball from my father.

“Grandfathers pitch,” was Sean’s understanding. By then, though, his grandfather was pitching from a wheelchair. Due to a surgery gone bad, my father had lost his other leg sometime between my childhood and my son’s.

But nothing else had changed. My boy was required to chatter from the outfield. He had to stand properly at bat and in the field. He had to try outrunning the ball, no matter how futile it might seem. And when he whined that the ball was coming at him too fast – my father could still get steam behind it, even sitting in a wheelchair – he got the ultimatum: “Do you want to play ball or don't you?”

He did.

Sean was 9 years old the spring before his grandfather died. They played a lot of ball that season, and there was the usual litany of complaints about my father pitching too hard.

“Just keep your eye on the ball!” my father would holler at him.

Finally, at one at-bat, he did. He swung the bat around and connected with the ball dead center. Then the ball headed back out where it had come from, straight down the middle. Straight and hard at my father. He reached for it, but it got past him. And in the process, his wheelchair tilted backward. In ever such slow motion, we watched him and his chair topple until he came down on his back with a thud.

In horror, my boy stood stock still halfway to first.

“You run!” my father roared at him from the ground. “That ball's still in play! You don't ever stop running!”

And when my boy stood safe at first base, he turned to look at my father lying on his back on the pitcher’s mound. He saw him take off his glove and tuck it under his arm.

And then he heard his grandfather clap for him.