In the spirit of giving thanks, you should count your blessings if you have an ordinary name. Based on 41 years experience, I can say that having a name that, according to the Social Security Administration, is not in the top 1000 male names for any year of recorded births is more a burden than an asset. Clearly there are times when a unique name has its benefits, like when people google you they don't get millions of hits (mine yields 774) and Facebook searches usually don't result in over 400 possible friends. My name, then, makes me easy to find. Those benefits, however, are out numbered by the hassle that comes with not being a Steve, Mark, David, John or Bill.
For instance, I have never known the pleasure of finding my name on any merchandise. I challenge you to find (and document) a "Thad" key chain or license plate. If I want my name on something, it has to be custom made. People also seem to have difficulty pronouncing my name. My 10th grade biology teacher called me "Tad" the entire school year. I tried to correct her in the beginning, but eventually gave up. I mean, it's not that difficult a name to pronounce: TH + AD = Thad. Phonics, people, phonics. Non-native English speakers are exempt from my annoyance since "TH" is not always pronounced "TH" in their native tongue. I also have to deal with the apparent difficulty of spelling my name correctly. The following are real-life variations I've experienced:
Phat
Phad
Shad
That
Pat
Matt
Tsat
Thaderic
Chad
It's as though no one wants to believe that you spell my name, T-H-A-D, so somehow P-H-A-T makes more sense to them. As a result, it has long since become habit for me to immediately spell my name upon uttering it, even when meeting people in person: "Hi, I'm Thad, T-H-A-D." To save restaurant hosts and hostesses the trouble, I often give them a different name and hope that I remember that I am now "George." I also always wonder about those who ask about my name, "Is it short for Thaddeus?" Sigh. I wonder if those same people ask, "Oh, is 'John' short for 'Johnathon'?" I once started a new job at a restaurant where a cook was disappointed that I was white. THAD, he explained, is "a brother's name" and I think he was tired of working with a bunch of white guys.
It's not like THAD is that unusual of a name. A few more notable THAD's than myself include:
Coast Guard Adm. Thad Allen (think BP oil spill)
Sen. Thad Cochran
Thad Jones (jazz musician)
Thaddeus Stevens
THAAD (Terminal High Altitude Area Defense)
Thads (a missionary group)
I don't begrudge my parents for naming me as they did; in truth, I've come to like my name quite a bit, despite the hassles. Once it sinks in to their brains, most people remember my name even if they don't remember me, and I'll be eternally thankful they didn't name me, SUE.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Back on the Chain Gang
Sometimes when I take Boo to the park there's a prison work crew picking up trash, blowing leaves, emptying trash cans and doing various other jobs to keep the place clean. It's a sight I like to see, and I think it's too bad prison work crews aren't used more often. In fact, I don't understand why I don't see one every day.
Prisoners are a dime a dozen. According to the Dept. of Justice, there were over 1,613,656 prisoners at the end of 2009. That's more than the populations of some our mid-major cities. Clearly there's no lack of orange jumpsuits behind bars, so why don't we put them to work doing those jobs us non-felons won't do?
Liberals argue that prison work crews are dehumanizing, a form of cruel and unusual punishment. I, on the other hand, contend that they represent one of the better rehabilitation methods. Work builds character and the harder the work, the stronger the character. If you're in prison you're probably lacking in character and could use a little boost, so a little hard work might do some good. More work crews would also give more prisoners something better to do with their time than sit around and stew and fight and kill each other. Military leaders of old knew the value of keeping a standing army busy by building walls, digging trenches, cutting downs trees and so forth because the work helped to maintain discipline. Working out in the open in full view of the public and cleaning up after said public also brings with it a certain amount of humility that any good felon could use. People who have committed crimes for which they are imprisoned should feel a sense of shame, and they don't get that hanging with the peeps in Cell Block C. Besides, work crews could be a good deterrent of juvenile crime - no adolescent I know wants to be seen picking up trash on the side of the road. The law is not for breaking and if you break it, you pay for it.
Always eager to show how tough they are on crime, conservatives argue against work crews because they think letting criminals out for any reason is being soft and somehow jeopardizes pubic safety ("Will someone please think of the children?!"). I argue that given the amount of money tax payers invest in corrections, you would think conservatives would be more willing to get something out of it, like clean roadsides and parks and new hiking trails and roads. Many of those services conservatives like to cut funding for can easily be taken care of by prisoners that tax payers are paying for anyway. Have drug offenders and other non-violent criminals do city jobs while those more inclined to violence can work the swamps, mountains and deserts. And if an offender escapes while fixing a trail in the Catskills? Most criminals are not survivalists and would succumb to Mother Nature.
I'm not advocating that we abuse or exploit our prison population by forcing them to work in unsafe conditions. Even the most loathsome of criminals has inherent rights and they must be respected. Still, that doesn't mean that they can't help the society they wronged by doing it some good.
Prisoners are a dime a dozen. According to the Dept. of Justice, there were over 1,613,656 prisoners at the end of 2009. That's more than the populations of some our mid-major cities. Clearly there's no lack of orange jumpsuits behind bars, so why don't we put them to work doing those jobs us non-felons won't do?
Liberals argue that prison work crews are dehumanizing, a form of cruel and unusual punishment. I, on the other hand, contend that they represent one of the better rehabilitation methods. Work builds character and the harder the work, the stronger the character. If you're in prison you're probably lacking in character and could use a little boost, so a little hard work might do some good. More work crews would also give more prisoners something better to do with their time than sit around and stew and fight and kill each other. Military leaders of old knew the value of keeping a standing army busy by building walls, digging trenches, cutting downs trees and so forth because the work helped to maintain discipline. Working out in the open in full view of the public and cleaning up after said public also brings with it a certain amount of humility that any good felon could use. People who have committed crimes for which they are imprisoned should feel a sense of shame, and they don't get that hanging with the peeps in Cell Block C. Besides, work crews could be a good deterrent of juvenile crime - no adolescent I know wants to be seen picking up trash on the side of the road. The law is not for breaking and if you break it, you pay for it.
Always eager to show how tough they are on crime, conservatives argue against work crews because they think letting criminals out for any reason is being soft and somehow jeopardizes pubic safety ("Will someone please think of the children?!"). I argue that given the amount of money tax payers invest in corrections, you would think conservatives would be more willing to get something out of it, like clean roadsides and parks and new hiking trails and roads. Many of those services conservatives like to cut funding for can easily be taken care of by prisoners that tax payers are paying for anyway. Have drug offenders and other non-violent criminals do city jobs while those more inclined to violence can work the swamps, mountains and deserts. And if an offender escapes while fixing a trail in the Catskills? Most criminals are not survivalists and would succumb to Mother Nature.
I'm not advocating that we abuse or exploit our prison population by forcing them to work in unsafe conditions. Even the most loathsome of criminals has inherent rights and they must be respected. Still, that doesn't mean that they can't help the society they wronged by doing it some good.
Monday, November 8, 2010
To Read or Not to Read
Here's another stereotypical librarian characteristic that doesn't suit me: I don't love to read. I'm not the person you want to ask to recommend a good book or a favorite author, and if you ask me, "Have you ever read...," the answer will most likely be in the negative. It's not that I don't read or that I haven't read. I mean, I do have a degree in English Literature and you can't really get one of those without reading a lot of books and poems and plays. I'm not big into articles either. I used to read The Economist from cover to cover, but I partially did that out of obligation: I didn't want the paper the articles are printed on to go to waste. So now I subscribe to the online version and occasionally read it when I remember how much I'm paying for it.
Reading takes time and I don't have a lot of free time. There's always something that needs to be done, whether it's scooping litter boxes, battling the lawn, walking the dog, spying on neighbors, cleaning up hairballs or vacuuming. Reading is a luxury, and it's just not in my nature to sit idly by and read when stuff needs to be done. Reading is not for the industrious at heart. Yes, the implication here is that reading is for the lazy. There's an old saying in food service: "Got time to lean, you got time to clean." If you've got time to read, you've got time to be more productive. Chop, chop!
Also, I read non-fiction almost exclusively and that takes time and mental effort. With fiction, you don't have to think very much and can just breeze through a book. I recently broke and read "The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo," finishing it in about two weeks time, which is good for me. Non-fiction, however, demands your attention, requires you to don a thinking cap. I've been making my way through a biography on Elizabeth I since January or so. Fascinating stuff, really, but the chapters are long, the text dense, and the pictures are too few in number. I love the challenge of non-fiction, but I generally only finish two or three a year. Next on my list: The First World War. Thrilling, eh?
My reading also requires a monastery-like quiet. Since the books I read require me to think, I need to concentrate and music or conversations impede on my ability to do just that. I can't go to Borders or even a library because my mind will hone in on that one voice or song on the other side of the building and it will eat at my brain, like that worm in the Wrath of Khan. Ironically, screaming children don't bother me when I'm reading. I tune them out quite well, perhaps because 1) they aren't mine, and thus not my responsibility, and 2) I don't understand what they are screaming. To me, it's all one long but loud stream of gibberish. Apparently, I can deal with gibberish. But not fiction.
So ends this entry, because, like reading, if you have time to write about yourself, you have time to take the dog for a walk. Oh, and here's my Amazon wish list if you want to get me something this holiday season. Granted, I won't finish it until 2015, but don't let that stop you.
Reading takes time and I don't have a lot of free time. There's always something that needs to be done, whether it's scooping litter boxes, battling the lawn, walking the dog, spying on neighbors, cleaning up hairballs or vacuuming. Reading is a luxury, and it's just not in my nature to sit idly by and read when stuff needs to be done. Reading is not for the industrious at heart. Yes, the implication here is that reading is for the lazy. There's an old saying in food service: "Got time to lean, you got time to clean." If you've got time to read, you've got time to be more productive. Chop, chop!
Also, I read non-fiction almost exclusively and that takes time and mental effort. With fiction, you don't have to think very much and can just breeze through a book. I recently broke and read "The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo," finishing it in about two weeks time, which is good for me. Non-fiction, however, demands your attention, requires you to don a thinking cap. I've been making my way through a biography on Elizabeth I since January or so. Fascinating stuff, really, but the chapters are long, the text dense, and the pictures are too few in number. I love the challenge of non-fiction, but I generally only finish two or three a year. Next on my list: The First World War. Thrilling, eh?
My reading also requires a monastery-like quiet. Since the books I read require me to think, I need to concentrate and music or conversations impede on my ability to do just that. I can't go to Borders or even a library because my mind will hone in on that one voice or song on the other side of the building and it will eat at my brain, like that worm in the Wrath of Khan. Ironically, screaming children don't bother me when I'm reading. I tune them out quite well, perhaps because 1) they aren't mine, and thus not my responsibility, and 2) I don't understand what they are screaming. To me, it's all one long but loud stream of gibberish. Apparently, I can deal with gibberish. But not fiction.
So ends this entry, because, like reading, if you have time to write about yourself, you have time to take the dog for a walk. Oh, and here's my Amazon wish list if you want to get me something this holiday season. Granted, I won't finish it until 2015, but don't let that stop you.
Monday, October 11, 2010
The Sounds of Silence
If there's a stereotypical librarian characteristic that I possess, it would be a predilection for quietness. Despite my best efforts, noise in all it's insidious forms is unavoidable, and so for people like me moments of silence are rare and to be savored. Imagine, then, my surprise at my own unease when for the first time in almost two years the quiet of morning was not broken by a barking dog.
I think Chico had bionic hearing because he heard everything. You literally couldn't open a window, empty the dishwasher or step on a leaf without eliciting a loud series of barks from the other side of the fence. The barking was tolerable but annoying, especially in the morning when the world is supposed to be quiet and calm. Morning is my time, and Chico's booming barks caused a disturbance in my Force. That first post-Chico morning was unsettling, though, because the barking, I came to realize, had become part of the morning, and then suddenly it was gone. I had come to expect it, and I miss it.
I miss the neighbor kids, too. Where once there was high-pitched Spanglish echoing off the trees there is now silence. Their front yard is destitute of bikes, candy wrappers, and empty juice boxes. The house is empty and impersonal. Honestly, I didn't think I would miss Louis and Uriel (everyone calls him Pollo or Chicken). Many times their physical presence and the noise they made intruded upon me. Who knows how many episodes of "PTI" I missed so that they could play our Wii! Still, I miss hearing one or more kids yell, "Mr. Thad, can we play?" as I pull into the driveway. Granted, I usually said "No" or told them to wait and ask Ida, but I miss it just the same.
Those left behind usually have it harder than those who leave. Those who leave have some sort of adventure to look forward to, whether it be new house, job or life, while those left behind are stuck with the same house, job and life, minus you. I've done my share of leaving. Since 1994, I've lived in five different states, with 4.5 years being the longest I stayed put in one place. February 2011 will mark about five years in Atlanta, my longest tenure anywhere since graduating from high school. So, I'm not used to being the one who is left behind. It kind of sucks.
It sucked for Chico, too. He was abandoned without food or water. He never did get much attention, but suddenly no one was there for him at all. We fed him, gave him water, and called Animal Control, who in turn posted notices on a door no one was going to be opening soon. Word got out and one night the neighbors returned with a small bag of snacks for Chico, and then they left again. A week after he was abandoned, Chico was gone, supposedly taken by our former neighbors to Animal Control. I haven't seen him on their list of available dogs and suspect I never will.
We don't know who will be our new neighbors, and there is a certain amount of dread lingering over that unknown. What if they have a dog that barks just as much, if not more than, Chico? Maybe they'll be renters who don't look after the property or perhaps they'll be young folk who blare their music well into the night. Or worse, graduate students. Then again, maybe they'll be nice people. It's been two weeks since the family left and one week since Chico disappeared, and I'm getting used to the silence, although I imagine it won't last for long. It never does.
I think Chico had bionic hearing because he heard everything. You literally couldn't open a window, empty the dishwasher or step on a leaf without eliciting a loud series of barks from the other side of the fence. The barking was tolerable but annoying, especially in the morning when the world is supposed to be quiet and calm. Morning is my time, and Chico's booming barks caused a disturbance in my Force. That first post-Chico morning was unsettling, though, because the barking, I came to realize, had become part of the morning, and then suddenly it was gone. I had come to expect it, and I miss it.
I miss the neighbor kids, too. Where once there was high-pitched Spanglish echoing off the trees there is now silence. Their front yard is destitute of bikes, candy wrappers, and empty juice boxes. The house is empty and impersonal. Honestly, I didn't think I would miss Louis and Uriel (everyone calls him Pollo or Chicken). Many times their physical presence and the noise they made intruded upon me. Who knows how many episodes of "PTI" I missed so that they could play our Wii! Still, I miss hearing one or more kids yell, "Mr. Thad, can we play?" as I pull into the driveway. Granted, I usually said "No" or told them to wait and ask Ida, but I miss it just the same.
Those left behind usually have it harder than those who leave. Those who leave have some sort of adventure to look forward to, whether it be new house, job or life, while those left behind are stuck with the same house, job and life, minus you. I've done my share of leaving. Since 1994, I've lived in five different states, with 4.5 years being the longest I stayed put in one place. February 2011 will mark about five years in Atlanta, my longest tenure anywhere since graduating from high school. So, I'm not used to being the one who is left behind. It kind of sucks.
It sucked for Chico, too. He was abandoned without food or water. He never did get much attention, but suddenly no one was there for him at all. We fed him, gave him water, and called Animal Control, who in turn posted notices on a door no one was going to be opening soon. Word got out and one night the neighbors returned with a small bag of snacks for Chico, and then they left again. A week after he was abandoned, Chico was gone, supposedly taken by our former neighbors to Animal Control. I haven't seen him on their list of available dogs and suspect I never will.
We don't know who will be our new neighbors, and there is a certain amount of dread lingering over that unknown. What if they have a dog that barks just as much, if not more than, Chico? Maybe they'll be renters who don't look after the property or perhaps they'll be young folk who blare their music well into the night. Or worse, graduate students. Then again, maybe they'll be nice people. It's been two weeks since the family left and one week since Chico disappeared, and I'm getting used to the silence, although I imagine it won't last for long. It never does.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Happy Anniversary?
I haven't had a drink in three years.
There were no emotional ultimatums, no medical or court orders, no religious conversions, no stupidities of excess that prompted me to set aside my 20-year old way of life. I'm sure a hangover had some say in the matter, but that particular teetotaling influence rarely lasts longer than the weekend, so it wouldn't have counted for much. No, I basically woke up and decided to quit.
I once went three months without drinking but a Kentucky Derby party isn't any fun without whiskey, several mint juleps, and a hat, and so ended that dry spell. I now watch the Derby quietly at home. This time, however, quitting took on a new life, thanks to a sleep disorder and a television show. I needed to see a doctor about my insomnia and I knew that I needed to be alcohol-free if anything good was to come it. A sleep test ultimately determined nothing wrong with me physiologically and a cognitive psychologist said I just needed to make more time for sleep. I quit seeing her. Well, then, back to drinking! Not so fast.
A&E's "Intervention" scared me straight. First of all, if I had a problem it wasn't nearly as bad as it is for the people profiled on that show, and I didn't want it to be. Second, the very idea of being surrounded by crying family and friends telling me how much they love me is one of the worst things I can imagine happening to me. If I can avoid emotional outpourings, I will, even if it costs me a beer.
Notice I said "If I had a problem." Family and friends alike were rather surprised when I began requesting Diet Coke instead of Coors Light. No one ever said, hinted or implied to me that, maybe, perhaps, I should stop drinking. Either they're all heavier drinkers than I was (which seems reasonable) or maybe what I thought was a problem really wasn't. The closest I've come to "relapsing" in three years is taking occasional sips of diluted champagne during toasts and a couple of Dixie-cup sized drinks of some Peachtree City concoction. We have two bottles of Vodka in the house that Ida sometimes breaks open when I'm out of town and a bottle of Jack Daniels next to the Craisins. The temptations are there but I remain steadfast. Is there a problem?
Every decision in life carries a set of pros and cons, gains and losses, and my decision to stop drinking was no exception. Among the gains are not worrying about the state of my liver; lower Applebee's checks; coherent thoughts followed by reasonable actions; playing Scrabble; the whites of my eyes are actually white; and, yes, no hangovers.
My losses are marked by the things I miss. Of course I miss the buzz, but I also miss things like the companionship and social nature of drinking; really enjoying "Cops"; popping open an ice-cold tall boy, or three; and drinking during the holidays. I miss cold beer, red wine, margaritas, Seagrams & Sprite, gin & tonics, spiked eggnog, and Bloody Mary's. I miss scotch!
I've said that if I make it to 45, I'll start drinking again, but that's four long years away. Seems kind of extreme, four more years. Then again, I kind of got a streak going here.
There were no emotional ultimatums, no medical or court orders, no religious conversions, no stupidities of excess that prompted me to set aside my 20-year old way of life. I'm sure a hangover had some say in the matter, but that particular teetotaling influence rarely lasts longer than the weekend, so it wouldn't have counted for much. No, I basically woke up and decided to quit.
I once went three months without drinking but a Kentucky Derby party isn't any fun without whiskey, several mint juleps, and a hat, and so ended that dry spell. I now watch the Derby quietly at home. This time, however, quitting took on a new life, thanks to a sleep disorder and a television show. I needed to see a doctor about my insomnia and I knew that I needed to be alcohol-free if anything good was to come it. A sleep test ultimately determined nothing wrong with me physiologically and a cognitive psychologist said I just needed to make more time for sleep. I quit seeing her. Well, then, back to drinking! Not so fast.
A&E's "Intervention" scared me straight. First of all, if I had a problem it wasn't nearly as bad as it is for the people profiled on that show, and I didn't want it to be. Second, the very idea of being surrounded by crying family and friends telling me how much they love me is one of the worst things I can imagine happening to me. If I can avoid emotional outpourings, I will, even if it costs me a beer.
Notice I said "If I had a problem." Family and friends alike were rather surprised when I began requesting Diet Coke instead of Coors Light. No one ever said, hinted or implied to me that, maybe, perhaps, I should stop drinking. Either they're all heavier drinkers than I was (which seems reasonable) or maybe what I thought was a problem really wasn't. The closest I've come to "relapsing" in three years is taking occasional sips of diluted champagne during toasts and a couple of Dixie-cup sized drinks of some Peachtree City concoction. We have two bottles of Vodka in the house that Ida sometimes breaks open when I'm out of town and a bottle of Jack Daniels next to the Craisins. The temptations are there but I remain steadfast. Is there a problem?
Every decision in life carries a set of pros and cons, gains and losses, and my decision to stop drinking was no exception. Among the gains are not worrying about the state of my liver; lower Applebee's checks; coherent thoughts followed by reasonable actions; playing Scrabble; the whites of my eyes are actually white; and, yes, no hangovers.
My losses are marked by the things I miss. Of course I miss the buzz, but I also miss things like the companionship and social nature of drinking; really enjoying "Cops"; popping open an ice-cold tall boy, or three; and drinking during the holidays. I miss cold beer, red wine, margaritas, Seagrams & Sprite, gin & tonics, spiked eggnog, and Bloody Mary's. I miss scotch!
I've said that if I make it to 45, I'll start drinking again, but that's four long years away. Seems kind of extreme, four more years. Then again, I kind of got a streak going here.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Wabbitt Season! Duck Season!
Hunting season is in the air and it seems there's no shortage of enthusiasm for it. Despite supporting such anti-hunting organizations as Defenders of Wildlife, Natural Resources Defense Council, National Wildlife Federation, Humane Society of the United States, and American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, I actually don't oppose hunting.
Hunting is a necessary evil. Because humans like to kill off all the predators, many animal populations, especially those of the deer variety, have exploded, and so without hunting many more deer would starve, get hit by cars, die by disease, and end up where a deer shouldn't be, like in a convenience store. When we lived in Ithaca, NY, I often heard locals say that if you lived there long enough, you'd hit a deer. Fortunately that never came to pass, but we did see one get hit before our eyes and we came upon another one right after it'd been smashed by a minivan. The minivan drove off, but I got out of our car and pulled the deer's warm body from the road. Death by a hunter's bullet is far more humane and respectful.
Let me be perfectly clear: I do not hunt nor do I support all hunting. I oppose all "hunting" that involves 4x4 vehicles, GPS, private game parks, packs of dogs, baiting, the Internet or any other method or that device gives the human an undue advantage over the animal. I oppose bow hunting because of the suffering the animal endures as it often labors hundreds of yards before dying.
Hunting should be about the thrill of the hunt, not the thrill of the kill. People who feel the need to kill another animal are trying to compensate for their own inadequacies and probably shouldn't be allowed to own a gun. They are the idiots who drink to shoot, who "hunt" with sub-machine guns or handguns, who pay "guides" thousands of dollars to go to a ranch in Texas to shoot an animal that's native to Africa. They don't hunt; they kill. They are this woman.
A real hunter, as any moderate conservationist will tell you, cares about the land and the animals. They hunt to be outdoors, hoping to "bag" something but just as satisfied if they don't. They don't trespass and they don't exceed quotas. They respect the animal they hunt. They are old school, and I sense that there are fewer and fewer of them.
I don't buy into all the propaganda that's spewed to justify hunting. It is not a family event. BBQs, picnics, birthday parties, wedding, funerals, and holidays are family events; not tracking down and shooting dead an animal. Nor can you convince me that more than a handful of hunters are out there trying to feed their family. That's a sketchy way to get by and the family would be better off if someone just got a job. Hunting is no more a sport than poker or chess, and despite what the State of Georgia wants me to believe, hunting is not a God-given right.
Some day I'd like to don the bright orange of hunting season, carry a rifle and track down a deer or elk or even a bear. I'd raise the gun to my shoulder, set that animal in my sights, and pull the trigger. There wouldn't be any bullets in the gun, of course, because I don't have a hunting license (or a passport, now that I think about it) and I don't kill for sport. It's just not something I do.
Hunting is a necessary evil. Because humans like to kill off all the predators, many animal populations, especially those of the deer variety, have exploded, and so without hunting many more deer would starve, get hit by cars, die by disease, and end up where a deer shouldn't be, like in a convenience store. When we lived in Ithaca, NY, I often heard locals say that if you lived there long enough, you'd hit a deer. Fortunately that never came to pass, but we did see one get hit before our eyes and we came upon another one right after it'd been smashed by a minivan. The minivan drove off, but I got out of our car and pulled the deer's warm body from the road. Death by a hunter's bullet is far more humane and respectful.
Let me be perfectly clear: I do not hunt nor do I support all hunting. I oppose all "hunting" that involves 4x4 vehicles, GPS, private game parks, packs of dogs, baiting, the Internet or any other method or that device gives the human an undue advantage over the animal. I oppose bow hunting because of the suffering the animal endures as it often labors hundreds of yards before dying.
Hunting should be about the thrill of the hunt, not the thrill of the kill. People who feel the need to kill another animal are trying to compensate for their own inadequacies and probably shouldn't be allowed to own a gun. They are the idiots who drink to shoot, who "hunt" with sub-machine guns or handguns, who pay "guides" thousands of dollars to go to a ranch in Texas to shoot an animal that's native to Africa. They don't hunt; they kill. They are this woman.
A real hunter, as any moderate conservationist will tell you, cares about the land and the animals. They hunt to be outdoors, hoping to "bag" something but just as satisfied if they don't. They don't trespass and they don't exceed quotas. They respect the animal they hunt. They are old school, and I sense that there are fewer and fewer of them.
I don't buy into all the propaganda that's spewed to justify hunting. It is not a family event. BBQs, picnics, birthday parties, wedding, funerals, and holidays are family events; not tracking down and shooting dead an animal. Nor can you convince me that more than a handful of hunters are out there trying to feed their family. That's a sketchy way to get by and the family would be better off if someone just got a job. Hunting is no more a sport than poker or chess, and despite what the State of Georgia wants me to believe, hunting is not a God-given right.
Some day I'd like to don the bright orange of hunting season, carry a rifle and track down a deer or elk or even a bear. I'd raise the gun to my shoulder, set that animal in my sights, and pull the trigger. There wouldn't be any bullets in the gun, of course, because I don't have a hunting license (or a passport, now that I think about it) and I don't kill for sport. It's just not something I do.
Monday, September 13, 2010
A Dog's Life
This weekend saw the passing of Otis, the canine companion to some friends of mine. I never met Otis, but I know how much he meant to them and one can't help but be heartbroken. He wasn't simply a pet, an animal, a legal piece of property; Otis was a companion of immense proportions. He was sincerely and deeply loved.
Unfortunately the same can't be said for Chico, our neighbor's dog. Chico is a big mutt with a booming bark. He's well-fed, has shelter from the heat and storms and he has a huge yard in which to run. But that's about all he has. Days pass before I see or hear him get any more human attention than what it takes to feed him and to tell him to be quiet. Our neighbors have three boys, and I'm convinced that when we got Boo, they, like children do, nagged and nagged until they, too, got a dog. For the first month or so, Chico went everywhere with those kids, even making visits to Boo. Chico got bigger, though, and lost that puppy appeal, and two years later, he lives alone in the backyard, 24/7. The boys don't play with him anymore and when guests come over he's tied to a tree with a 6 ft. lead, often for hours. Completely unsocialized, Chico is now a nuisance, barking at most every sound and charging the fence when I'm in our backyard.
I often marvel at how by sheer luck and through no effort of our own the quality of one's life can be vastly different than that of another. To simply be born in this country means your quality of life is manifestly greater than that of millions in other countries. The poorest American will have a better life than his equal in Nigeria or North Korea, not because he earned that better life but because he was lucky enough to have been born here. The lucky and the unlucky.
Otis was lucky, Chico is unlucky. Through no fault of his own, Chico is resigned to a solitary, loveless life. The kids say they are moving at the end of the month to a smaller house, and if that's true, I'm not sure what the future holds for Chico. He's not adoptable so if he goes to a shelter, he'll be euthanized. He'd make a good guard dog but the life of a guard dog is not much better than that he lives now. I fear he'll go to dog fighters. Untrained as he is, Chico would be a bait dog. Chico's fate appears uncertain, and I can't see it ending happily.
My brain understands why there are so many Chicos out there: culture, education, finances, the Bible, speciesism. My heart can't understand, though. All dogs, all companion animals, all animals, really, should live a life like Otis did, and if a person can't or is unwilling to provide that life, then they don't deserve such a companion.
I like to think that there are more dogs out in the world living a life like Otis did than there are those living Chico's life. It's estimated that Americans alone will spend nearly $47.7 billion this year on their animal companions and pet products is one of the few industries that actually grew during the recession. Clearly to many Americans our animal companions are family and are treated as such. It's just sad that's not the case for all of them.
Unfortunately the same can't be said for Chico, our neighbor's dog. Chico is a big mutt with a booming bark. He's well-fed, has shelter from the heat and storms and he has a huge yard in which to run. But that's about all he has. Days pass before I see or hear him get any more human attention than what it takes to feed him and to tell him to be quiet. Our neighbors have three boys, and I'm convinced that when we got Boo, they, like children do, nagged and nagged until they, too, got a dog. For the first month or so, Chico went everywhere with those kids, even making visits to Boo. Chico got bigger, though, and lost that puppy appeal, and two years later, he lives alone in the backyard, 24/7. The boys don't play with him anymore and when guests come over he's tied to a tree with a 6 ft. lead, often for hours. Completely unsocialized, Chico is now a nuisance, barking at most every sound and charging the fence when I'm in our backyard.
I often marvel at how by sheer luck and through no effort of our own the quality of one's life can be vastly different than that of another. To simply be born in this country means your quality of life is manifestly greater than that of millions in other countries. The poorest American will have a better life than his equal in Nigeria or North Korea, not because he earned that better life but because he was lucky enough to have been born here. The lucky and the unlucky.
Otis was lucky, Chico is unlucky. Through no fault of his own, Chico is resigned to a solitary, loveless life. The kids say they are moving at the end of the month to a smaller house, and if that's true, I'm not sure what the future holds for Chico. He's not adoptable so if he goes to a shelter, he'll be euthanized. He'd make a good guard dog but the life of a guard dog is not much better than that he lives now. I fear he'll go to dog fighters. Untrained as he is, Chico would be a bait dog. Chico's fate appears uncertain, and I can't see it ending happily.
My brain understands why there are so many Chicos out there: culture, education, finances, the Bible, speciesism. My heart can't understand, though. All dogs, all companion animals, all animals, really, should live a life like Otis did, and if a person can't or is unwilling to provide that life, then they don't deserve such a companion.
I like to think that there are more dogs out in the world living a life like Otis did than there are those living Chico's life. It's estimated that Americans alone will spend nearly $47.7 billion this year on their animal companions and pet products is one of the few industries that actually grew during the recession. Clearly to many Americans our animal companions are family and are treated as such. It's just sad that's not the case for all of them.
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