Sunday is Father’s Day. Father’s Day has never meant too much to me. Both my parents died when I was young so I never really got to know either of them and I have never been a father. I never really dwell on either. One I had no control, the other was a mutual decision. Seeing a young girl dressed like a hooker or a young boy wearing skinny jeans with a man bun has made me wonder what kind of Dad I may have been and just imagining if they were the demon like I was as a kid really gave me pause on the whole child thing. Having a crazy dog has shed many of insights on my parenting skills. I have learned that I more than likely would have sucked and my life had been spared jail time for murdering a boyfriend.
There is a downside of not being a dad and that is I have no one to take care of me when I’m old and I have no one to leave my vast fortune too. Problematic. Especially for a gasbag like me.
I see father’s that I would aspire to immolate. Sheriff Andy Taylor comes to mind. He had all the attributes of being a great father. Compassion, humor, morality, ethics, humility, discipline, stability, wisdom, respect, priorities and he new how to love. Some of those qualities I now have but back in the day I owned not many of those. Closer to home I see my nephew Justin being a great dad to his two children, I see my pastor being a wonderful dad to his boys. It helps that he is called Matt Daddy.
The U.S. Open golf tournament has always been on Father’s Day weekend. It has always been a special time for me as a golf fan because it takes me back to my favorite golfer of all time, the late Payne Stewart. Back in ’99 he defeated Phil Mickelson who had yet to win a U.S. Open and whose wife was expecting at any time. Payne drained a 15 foot putt to win the Open. Phil extended his hand in congratulation that day, but Stewart brushed that aside. Stewart cradled Mickelson’s face in his hands, drew it close and blurted a consolation speech right from the heart.
“You’re going to be a father!” Stewart said. Then proceeded to tell how great of a dad he would be.
Mickelson’s wife gave birth the next day to a girl.
In closing let me remind the Father’s out there that anyone can be a father but not everyone can be a Dad. Enjoy the day. Breakfast at Another Broken Egg, the final round of the US Open will be on the tube, there is plenty of Blue Bell in the house, my favorite 15 year old Scotch will be cracked open, a recliner will be napped in and I will act like a Father on Father’s Day. Cheers
They say writing is therapeutic. I think it is true. I guess the whole reason for this blog is therapy. I’m not writing to see how many people read this jumbled up rambling thoughts of a aging gasbag but it is therapeutic to bang on a keyboard to release my thoughts as an aging gasbag.
I haven’t posted anything since March. I know, I know people…….calm down. I am asked almost daily when my next blog post will come out. People eagerly waiting in anticipation for just a hint of when the next brilliant, thought provoking post will grace the interweb. People begging me to just give them a morsel of my thoughts on what the next post topic will be. No seriously, they have…….really. Actually no one has asked when my next blog will come out but I digress but there are reasons why I haven’t posted.
In December of 2018 I found out that I had cancer. The dreaded word that we hope never to hear, I heard. Could not believe it. Tried not to believe it, I felt too good to believe it. Denial as they say is a river in Egypt and my denial was deep and wide.
Next was the anger. I hear people get angry with God over tragic life changing events. Not once has that been the case with me. I believe sometimes God gets too much blame for causing bad things in our lives. He gave us free will and sometimes we do stupid things and yes I think sometimes he gets too much credit for things in life that he knows we can do on our own without him. Seriously I don’t think God gives a rats ass who wins a football game or giving him the glory when someone pulls out of a parking spot on Main Street Downtown Greenville. My anger was with myself. Looking back at warning signs I may have missed. I have always been one to go to the doctor regularly but there was a period of a year and a half when my doctor moved and I struggled to find one that I was comfortable with. Pretty pissed at me.
Depression runs in my family. I always thought I was spared of of that dreaded illness and for the most part and have been. At least that is what I have always thought. Uh, no. I have experienced emotions, feelings, no feelings, what the hell am I feeling, strange feelings. Since I have never felt these kind of feelings, I can only assume that it is depression. Chuck Swindoll is a Christian pastor and author and he speaks about “Attitudes”. Mainly our attitudes and how they can affect our daily lives. I have always lived by this and reading this has been a part of my life for many years. Times like this, having a good attitude is critical.
Acceptance is something that slowly has come around. At first I hid this diagnoses from my family and friends and pretty much had crawled into a hole. I am slowly crawling out of it and although I am still not comfortable talking about it, this is a big step. I hate it, I hate the word but “it is what it is”, as the saying goes. So I except the fact that I have cancer, hopefully had cancer. The prognosis is good. I have been operated on and results are positive. This is all I can ask for, that and maybe God will give cancer, cancer. Life is good so enjoy it. Don’t let the Trumpster or the Democrats, Republicans ruin it for you. It’s all good, man.
Homegrown tomatoes home grown tomatoes Wha’d life be without homegrown tomatoes Only two things money can’t buy That’s true love and homegrown tomatoes
Every year around this time, I go to Spotify and I crank up Guy Clark’s “Homegrown Tomatoes” because it is that time of year boys and girls. Cherokee Purples, Brandywine, Big Boy, Better Boy, Celebrity, Rutgers. Get you cages wired together and cut your stakes because when you get them planted this weekend in a couple of months you will be like a kid in a candy store anticipating that first one. Staring from your back porch, daring those little bastard black birds to come anywhere near that one tomato that for whatever reason seems to ripen days before the other ones. You have your bread already on the saucer and that would be white “loaf bread”. Sunbeam, Merita, Bunny or Bost but it has to be white. Cut the sandwich in half preferably diagonally, it just seems to taste better. You have your salt and pepper shakers on tap but lastly the glue that holds it all together, the straw that stirs the drink, the Gin to my Tonic and that would be Duke’s Mayonnaise. Not Hellmann’s, (Hell man, really?) Not Bama or Kraft or Lord help us, Miracle Whip. Give me that soybean oil, eggs, water, distilled and cider vinegar, salt, oleoresin paprika, natural flavors, calcium disodium EDTA added to protect flavor. That is Duke’s Mayonnaise. It has to be Duke’s which by the way this is the only time I say anything positive about anything call Duke.
Ain’t nothin’ in the world that I like better Than bacon & lettuce & home grown tomatoes Up in the mornin’ out in the garden Get you a ripe one don’t get a hard one Plant ’em in the spring eat ’em in the summer All winter without ’em’s a culinary bummer I forget all about the sweatin’ & diggin’ Everytime I go out and pick me a big one
The fruit that is a tomato. Why do we Southern’s love them so. Reason number 1 is the tomato sandwich. I can’t tell you with 100-percent certainty that the tomato sandwich originated in the South or that it’s a purely Southern phenomenon but I think it is a “southern thing” because there is no Duke’s Mayo up north. What I can tell you is that the Southern tomato sandwich, simple as it is, elicits a “Christmas-morning” excitement from most below the Mason-Dixon line (especially that first tomato sandwich each summer). And with one bite, it will do the same for you.
I’ve been out to eat and that’s for sure But it’s nothin’ a homegrown tomato won’t cure Put ’em in a salad put ’em in a stew You can make your very own tomato juice Eat ’em with eggs eat ’em with gravy Eat ’em with beans pinto or navy Put ’em on the side put ’em in the middle Put a home grown tomato on a hotcake griddle
Another reason we Southerns love tomatoes is Fried Green Tomatoes. We love our tomatoes so much, we can’t even wait for them to ripen before we pick ’em, batter ’em, give them a bath in hot fat and consume them. We were eating them before it became a chick flick. Southerners now make them best (and probably most often). Our region’s finest chefs from NOLA to Asheville to Greenville to Charleston. A second debate surrounds what kind of crust covers a true Southern fried green tomato. Some think the slices in egg wash, then a flour and cornmeal mix. Others opt for a quick dunk in buttermilk and then a dusting of straight cornmeal. Either one is good just don’t use breadcrumbs. Southern Culture here in Greenville has excellent Fried Green Tomatoes.
Example Number 3, Chow Chow. A tangy, spicy condiment made most often from green tomatoes (but sometimes red ones too). They’re combined and pickled with peppers, onion and vinegar resulting in a relish that adds its sweet-hot punch to slow-cooked veggies like collard greens, pinto beans and field peas. They tell me there is evidence that chow chow originated in South Carolina, but a few food scholars tie it to Chinese rail workers in California. I don’t know where Chow Chow was invented but I can tell you the best Chow Chow was made in Indian Land/ Fort Mill SC by my great aunt Alta Howie. She was my grandmother’s sister. She had the “Midas Touch” when it came to Chow Chow. She would make batches filling up Mason jars full of the nectar from the tomato Gods and at Christmas I would find my jars awaiting me. I never did tell her or maybe I did but that was number 1 on my alltime Christmas presents and is to this day.
If I’s to change this life that I lead I’d be Johnny tomato seed Cause I know what this country needs Homegrown tomatoes in every yard you see When I die don’t bury me In a box in a cemetery Out in the garden would be much better I could be pushin’ up homegrown tomatoes
Lastly why we southerner’s love tomatoes is Tomato Pie. Yes, you read it A PIE. This is my region’s savory claim to tomato fame, and it is, without a doubt, born and bred down here, baking several of our beloved culinary traditions into one handy-dandy package. Tomatoes picked at their peak are mounded with cheese, garden-fresh herbs and maybe a little crumbled bacon, and then it’s all glued together with mayo inside a homemade crust. Some recipes include hot sauce’s kick, and slivers of Vidalia onion find their way into to versions, too. My sister in law, Linda makes a bad ass pie with jalapenos on hers. Also the Hungry Drover in Travelers Rest SC adds slabs of bacon to theirs which is also excellent. It has Bacon. Duh.
I could go on with tomatoes. I love fresh tomatoes, cucumbers, red onion and vinegar or a Caprese Salad with mozzarella and a Balsamic reduction. Doesn’t get any better. I have a lot to be thankful for in my life and a biggy is my grandmother teaching me things as a child that I never forgot even something as simple as growing tomatoes. I am forever grateful.
One of the greatest phrases in the English language to me is, “Pitchers and catchers will be reporting in two weeks.” Number One, it tells me that spring is just around the corner, and it also tells me the Bravos are getting ready for camp and that in a matter of months my heart will be broken like it always has been except that one magical year in 1995 when the Chief Noc a homa led Bravos defeated the Chief Wahoo Indians 4 games to 2 in what now would would surely be dabbed the politically incorrect World Series by the media, that would be met with all sorts of protest. I digress. This gasbagging is not about any of that. Although I have wondered why all the Vikings that are still around don’t protest their name being disrespected and look at Buffalo disrespecting all the Bill’s that are in this country. No outcry. Don’t even get me started on the Twins that stepped on every baseball season and the disrespect they are shown by Minnesota’s politically incorrect nickname. Life is so unfair but hey, it’s all good…….. it’s baseball season.
I have always been a baseball guy. Some of my best memories of my dad was he and I watching the “Baseball Game of the Week.” It was really the Yankee game of the week and that was back when “The Mick” played along with Roger Maris, South Carolina’s own, Bobby Richardson, Tom Tresh and my favorite, Whitey Ford. I wonder what he would have to change his name to if he pitched today? never mind…. I was a Yankee fan in my early years. Thank God that changed. I’m not a big fan of the Yankees now but I am a big fan of being overpaid to underperform. Pretty much the story of my life.
Back in the seventies the Pittsburgh Pirates were the the bomb. They had the first all-minority lineup in MLB history when they took the field on September 1, 1971. In 1977 they came out with uniforms that sparked a uni revolution. Yes boys and girls, buttonless shirts with beltless pants. For the next 20 years that would be the rage in baseball fashion not to mention black, gold, and pinstripes that could be used in all sorts of combinations.
One of the reasons we love baseball is the characters it has given us over the years and there is none greater than Dock Freaking Ellis of the Pittsburgh Pirates. Why is he heralded as one of the greatest characters in baseball lore you might ask? Here’s why. On June 12, 1970, Pirates pitcher Dock Ellis did something that, by all rights, should be completely impossible: He went and threw a no-hitter despite being high as a kite on lysergic acid diethylamide, otherwise known as LSD. Facing the San Diego Padres in San Diego, Ellis took the mound having dropped acid earlier that day and blanked the Padres walking eight batters and hitting another. It was the first and only no-hitter of Ellis’ career, and almost certainly the lone MLB no-hitter pitched under the influence of LSD. Okay, in life there are certain things that border on impossible. I have seen Neil Armstrong walk on the moon, I watched the Berlin Wall come down, The Masked Singer is still on TV and Keith Richard is still breathing. Impossible you would say. This my friends would be one of those things. I have never been one to shy away from my drug laden past and I can tell you when you see Popeye run across the road with Olive Oyl chasing him with a frying pan or watching 747 jets taking off and landing in your apartment or looking at the mirror and you see Bozo the clown looking back at you the last thing you could do would be throwing a strike much less a no hitter. For Dock Ellis to be able to throw a no hitter while tripping his ass off is one of the greatest feats in all of human history much less baseball history.
This is Don Mossi. I always felt bad for him because this baseball card was voted the ugliest of all time. I don’t know why the card was voted ugliest, it looks like a….. you know…..a card. He was a pretty good pitcher. 101 wins, 80 losses. He wasn’t necessarily a character of the game, he was just known for you know….the baseball card.
Oscar Charles Gamble played baseball for 17 years for 7 different teams. He never made the Hall of Fame, never was a All Star. He hit 30 homers once. Why do I have a picture of him on my gasbagging blog? What makes him so special? Just look. In all his glory, there’s his Afro: fluffed to perfection on either side of his face, though a baseball cap squishes it down, restricting the vertical heights the hairdo was capable of reaching. No player in Major League Baseball history has had a head of hair quite like Gamble’s. This is one of the top baseball card of all time and this is also another reason the Yankees suck. The Yankees even to this day have a policy of no long hair or facial hair on their team. Oscar had signed a deal with Afro Sheen but had to get the give up the deal with the haircut that lost him thousands. I hate the Yankees. Besides the hair, Oscar Charles Gamble is also known for one of the greatest quotes that we still use today. History will back that up. Here is that famous quote. “They don’t think it be like it is, but it do”. Yes, that quote came from none other than Oscar Gamble. Wow. Not only is this this a gasbagging blog but it’s also a learning experience.
I leave you with his, Tommy Lasorda, once the manager of the Dodgers, who also happen to suck. He said that his wife (who was from Greenville SC) told him one day that he loved baseball more than her, to which he replied,” That may be true but I do love you more than football and hockey.” Sorry Rebecca, its baseball season.
If you want to see the animated version of the LSD induced no hitter by Dock Ellis, click on this You Tube video.
My love affair with Borden’s Eagle Brand Condensed Milk started when I was a mere child. My mother used to make some sort of cherry pie with this sweet, milky, creamy, heavenly concoction. She would always give me the lid and I would lick the remaining milk and then go digging in the trash can to see if I could find the can. I did a little historical check on this luscious, gooey gift from God and found out that it came on the United States market in 1856, the brainchild of Gail Borden, a chronic culinary inventor. Mr. Borden began experimenting with sterilized milk after a series of “swill milk” scandals that revealed the true contents of much of the milk then for sale in American cities: chalk powder, molasses and vermin. His process — a combination of vacuum pressure, heat and added sugar — produced a dairy product that is nearly indestructible, with a shelf life of years. Mr. Borden made his fortune supplying condensed milk to the Union Army in the Civil War. It was airlifted into Berlin in the 1940s, and more recently has opened up Asia as a major market for American milk. I thank God for this man.
My road to diabetes started early. I am a abnormal creature because when I was a kid, I would buy a can and a lemon. I would then squeeze the lemon into the milk, stir and freeze it. I know it was a sugary overload but at that age, who cared. Who needed Butterfinger, 5th Avenues or PayDay’s. I was in sugar coma heaven.
As I got older, I weaned myself of the can. I wasn’t to crazy about developing diabetes. I needed no rehab just cold turkey with the occasional slip up. Many years ago Rebecca and I were at a restaurant here in Greenville and we split a Caramel Pie for desert. I took one bite and I was like a junkie looking for his next fix. The Eagle had landed on me once again. I went crazy. I asked the waiter for the recipe. He came back and told me that the chef wouldn’t give it to him. I tried blackmail, extortion, payola. I even offered up Rebecca. You name it, I tried it. I was heartbroken. There is a happy ending, however. A friend of mine knew someone at the restaurant and got me the recipe for a small price. Little did I know that condensed milk was caramel in a can or in my case, crack cocaine in a can.
So here I am now, pretty much a reformed Eagle Brand addict. It has been tough, I will admit. Like any addict there are good days and bad. Thank God they came out with Pumpkin Spice Eagle Brand. I have found that is the best defense with my addiction. It is Methadone to a heroin addict. Pumpkin Spice anything is God awful. I do slip up and will make the occasional Caramel Pie on Christmas or sometimes at the soup kitchen they might be preparing a desert with the drug. I’ve been known to confiscate the lid and run off somewhere and lick it clean hoping that I’m not found out and pray that I haven’t started down to that road of perdition.
So there it is. I admit it. I have a problem but I am a overcomer. Just in case you would like to be an addict, here is the recipe.
In a large pot, place the can of sweetened condensed milk with the label taken off, in the pot and cover with water. Cook on high until water comes to a boil, then turn on medium/high for 4 hours, only adding water to keep the can covered.
Carefully open can and pour into pie shell. Cool pie in refrigerator. When completely cooled, top with frozen whipped topping. Serve.
Come gather ’round people Wherever you roam And admit that the waters Around you have grown And accept it that soon You’ll be drenched to the bone. If your time to you Is worth savin’ Then you better start swimmin’ Or you’ll sink like a stone For the times they are a-changin’.
So I was watching TV the other day and some commercial featuring Bob Dylan’s iconic “Times They Are A Changin” appeared. I never was a huge Dylan fan when it came to his singing however as a writer there aren’t many better and this song was just one of his many classics. Dylan recorded it in 1963 and released it in January of 1964 during the heydey of Vietnam and also during the Civil Rights movement. I think he even said the reason he wrote it was to create an anthem of change. Less than a month after Dylan recorded the song, President John F Kennedy was assassinated in Dallas on November 22, 1963. The next night, Dylan opened a concert with “The Times They Are a-Changin'”; he told biographer Anthony Scaduto “I thought, ‘Wow, how can I open with that song? I’ll get rocks thrown at me.’ But I had to sing it, my whole concert takes off from there. I know I had no understanding of anything. Something had just gone haywire in the country and they were applauding the song. And I couldn’t understand why they were clapping, or why I wrote the song. I couldn’t understand anything. For me, it was just insane.” It became one of many protest songs of the 60’s and 70’s and is a go to protest song even to this day.
Come writers and critics Who prophesize with your pen And keep your eyes wide The chance won’t come again And don’t speak too soon For the wheel’s still in spin And there’s no tellin’ who That it’s namin’. For the loser now Will be later to win For the times they are a-changin
I’m always amazed when I listen to protest songs from that era and you see we are still protesting the same issues today that we were protesting then, only with a few new twists. Or to put it in song title terms, “The Song Remains The Same”, as Led Zeppelin recorded. The song has remained the same for the last 55 years and will probably remain the same the next 55 years but that is another gasbagging rant for another day. We have our stand-bys like civil rights, cops are still pigs. War will always be protested, Right To Life, Women’s Rights, gun control. Now we protest any and everything. The names may have changed but yes the song is remaining the same. Instead of Nixon, it’s Trump. There is hardly anything we don’t protest these days. At a recent protest of something, President Trump said that the protesting should not allowed. Sorry Donald, nothing is more American than protesting even if they are ridiculous as UC San Diego’s “Free the Nipple”or the time when the California Polytechnic University Students held a “Shit-In” Yes, you read that right. Cal Poly students held a three-day “shit-in” to protest the lack of access to gender neutral bathrooms. Students were encouraged to sign a mock toilet during the protest, on which messages such as “poop equality”. I guess my favorite is when a group of Amherst College students, known as “Amherst Uprising,” issued demands to their university, “to address the legacy of oppression on campus.” One target of their demand protest was a group of students who placed posters on the campus to promote free speech. “Amherst Uprising” called for the free speech fans to be disciplined and “be required to attend extensive training for racial and cultural competency.” What all of these campus protests have in common beside most being in California is that they demonstrate just how out-of-touch college students are with how the world works beyond the college bubble. You really have to wonder how today’s coddled undergraduates will adjust to the real world. I have my doubts.
Come senators, congressmen Please heed the call Don’t stand in the doorway Don’t block up the hall For he that gets hurt Will be he who has stalled There’s a battle outside And it is ragin’. It’ll soon shake your windows And rattle your walls For the times they are a-changin’.
Times truly are-a-changin’. As we get older we will see changes in our life as well. I find myself slowing down. I never have been a ball of fire but I am becoming more of a flicker of fire. Attitudes change. As I was getting older I was finding myself becoming more of a curmudgeon or worse more like the Michael Douglas character, William Foster in “Falling Down”, then 6 years ago I swore off Fox News, MSNBC, CNN, Rush and my life is for the better. Sure I get tore up on occasions when my inner William Foster returns after I see something culturally crazy. Seriously in the grand scheme of things does it really matter? I think Mahatma Gandhi said it beautifully when he said, “There is more to life than increasing its speed”. I try to hit the brakes more as I age. I just spend my time now on the internet doing Buzzfeed quizzes. Plus my wife says I am much easier to be around.
Come mothers and fathers Throughout the land And don’t criticize What you can’t understand Your sons and your daughters Are beyond your command Your old road is Rapidly agin’. Please get out of the new one If you can’t lend your hand For the times they are a-changin’
For those who want to increase your speed we look at 2019. Possibly there will be much to protest. Another Supreme Court Judge? That should get your heart rate pumping. That will be the mother of all protest. Climate change? Better hurry on that one, we don’t have but 12 years. We have more Confederate statues in the South that needs to be protested. Go to Clemson, John C. Calhoun is on the chopping block. Everyone who runs for office now can be protested when they find something in their past from when they were 12. Colin Kaepernick and the NFL are still around and of course anything Trump. So there is a buffet of protesting to choose from. The fields are ripe for protest. There many ways to increase your life’s speed if you choose to but hopefully you will slow your life speed down and look at all the beautiful things that this life has to offer. As for myself, I will sit back and just watch the stupidity and gasbag about all of it. That’s what I do.
The line it is drawn The curse it is cast The slow one now Will later be fast As the present now Will later be past The order is Rapidly fadin’. And the first one now Will later be last For the times they are a-changin’.
I have always had pets of some kind. Mostly dogs but I’ve had cats as well at some point in my life. Alphonso, a black cat, with one good eye and three teeth lived to be 21 years old. They didn’t get much better than Al. Years later my wife Rebecca said there was a pup that wondered to a workmate house and would not leave and wanted to know if anyone was interested in it. I took off to Greenville to see this Golden Retriever mix and took him home with me. Tucker had arrived. Tucker was a bull headed, peanut butter, loving dog who after one week managed to chew through the satellite dish cable that ran to the house. I came home one day and looked outside and Tucker was rolling my gas grill tire in the yard with his nose after he demolished my gas grill. He finally calmed down and we had a normal pet to human existence. A couple of years later at a plant site we were working, I met another future pet. This dog had clearly been abused, teats dagging the ground, very shy but after a week of feeding her I finally gained her trust and gave Tucker a roommate. Tucker meet Belle. If there was ever a angel with paws, it was Belle. We had to put them both down, within 3 months of each other about a year and a half ago after 13 and 15 years respectively and that was truly the hardest thing I had ever been through in my life. They left a paw print in my heart forever. They were family. They were life’s apology to a crappy day. I realized more and more every day that Dogs are your friends and humans are assholes. I have never seen a dog shoot 54 people at a country music concert in Las Vegas so I stand by my statement.
All this changed sometime this past July when a former friend, as he is now called me up and said a dog had wondered up in his yard. He knew that we had talked of getting a dog and said he was really cute and loveable. Rebecca said we should look at him so I took off to Townville a couple of days later to meet who would later become Arlo. Arlo was a scrawny 14 lbs when I took him to the vet to get “things taken care of.” Looking back maybe he never forgave me for taking that trip to the vet. Anyway he definitely had not eaten like he should have. “Poor guy”, I thought. Little did I know that the “Spawn of Satan” had infiltrated my household. Everything was good at first, the vet said he was still a pup, one to two years old. Rebecca was happy. She hadn’t been too crazy about the idea of another dog at first because she was grieving still over Belle and Tucker but especially Tucker who was her favorite but little did I know she was soon to be possessed by Arlo. The love for this mongrel would soon be just a distant memory.
The destruction of my life would soon begin. A little chew here , a little nip there. Here a chew, there a chew, everywhere a chew, chew. Then a small hole would pop up in a sheet, then a comforter, a blanket. We noticed the holes were getting bigger and more of them and then it happened……Arlo had shown us fully his demolition, knocking down, pulling down, tearing down, levelling, razing (to the ground), felling, dismantling, breaking up, wrecking, ruination, smashing, shattering, power that he possesses. Example of the evil that is Arlo in the above picture.
Well months have passes, hundreds of dollars have been spent. Arlo has pigged out to 33 lbs. I never knew that linen, chew toys, rugs, foam rubber and cardboard were that fattening. He purposely holds his farts in until he gets beside me just to see the horrified look on my face. He has the prostate of a 200 year old. Arlo has found new ways to spread his evil. He now moved on to other things such as my backyard for instance. It now looks like a World War II battlefield in France where mortar shells have bombarded endlessly days on end. How long will this madness go on? Has Arlo come back as a old girlfriend that has died that I am unaware of? Whoever I wronged in the past, I am truly sorry.