March 18: Spot, Cocker Spaniel, Nick

Billy's home was empty.  His daughter Barbara was about to get married, and she and his wife had gone downstairs to pick out patterns for her crystal and silverware.  There was a note saying so on the table.  There were no servants.  People just weren't interested in careers in domestic service anymore.  There wasn't a dog, either. 

There used to be a dog named Spot, but he died.  So it goes.  Billy had liked Spot a lot, and Spot had liked him.

I had a dog once, like Billy.  A crazy Cocker Spaniel named Nick.  He was my wife's dog before we got married, and we inherited him.  Nick was not a well-behaved dog.  Protective.  Aggressive with strangers.  He would steal pizza off your plate and chew up shoes. 


Now, I know all of those things weren't Nick's fault.  He wasn't trained properly as a puppy, and that carried over into his doghood.  Nick could also be very loving.  Loved to sit in laps.  When I came home from work, he would wag his tail so hard that I thought he would helicopter away.

My wife and I had to make a difficult decision when my daughter was born.  Nick was fine when she was an infant and not mobile.  However, when she began to crawl and toddle, Nick got really nervous.  When she came into the room, Nick always eyed her suspiciously. I started having these dreams of Nick attacking my daughter.

Eventually, my wife and I decided to find Nick a new home.  We brought him to the Humane Society.  Told them that he would be a great dog for an older person, without small children in the house.  I petted Nick one last time.  Let him lick my face.  Then, I left.

I cried for an entire week. 

Now, I don't know to this day if we did the right thing.  My wife and I eventually found out that our daughter has severe allergies to animal hair and dander, so we would have eventually had to find Nick another home anyway.  But, every now and then, I think about him.

I imagine some older man picking him as a companion.  That he would go for long walks with the old man.  That he got fat because the old man fed him table scraps all the time.  That he would sleep at the foot of the old man's bed, snoring like he always did at night.

Saint Marty is thankful that he had a dog he liked once.  And that dog liked him.

April 11: Spring Pig, a Little Despair, Tenured Fairy Tale

"He claims he's a spring pig," reported Charlotte, "and perhaps he is.  One thing is certain, he has a most unattractive personality.  He is too familiar, too noisy, and he cracks weak jokes.  Also, he's not anywhere near as clean as you are, nor as pleasant.  I, too, took quite a dislike to him in our brief interview.  He's going to be a hard pig to beat, though, Wilbur, on account of his size and weight.  But with me helping you, it can be done."

Charlotte is fairly confident through the whole book that she will be able to save Wilbur's life.  She never doubts herself.  She simply doesn't accept the fact that her friend will end up as Christmas ham.  Flying in the face of all evidence, this little spider knows, deep down in her heart, that Wilbur will live into old age.  She has faith.

I went to a committee meeting at the university this morning.  It had to do with the upcoming contract negotiations with the administration and the fact that adjunct/contingent faculty are the Cinderellas of the school.  We're alright to do the dirty work.  Sweep out the fireplace.  Muck out the cow shit from the stables.  Make breakfast, lunch, and dinner for our tenured stepmothers and sisters.  When it comes to being invited to the palace for a ball, however, we might as well stay in the attic and correct our stacks of freshmen compositions.  No fairy godmothers for us.

I hope you're catching the bitterness in the previous paragraph.  I guess I don't have the same strong faith that Charlotte has.  After teaching at the same college for close to 18 years, I find myself feeling a little despair that my situation hasn't really changed all that much from the beginning.  Yes, I'm teaching different classes.  Yes, I'm part of the union now and received a small salary bump with the last contract.  But, when I walk down the hall of the English Department, I still get the impression that I'm begging for table scraps from all of my colleagues with PhDs (most of whom have been teaching there less than half as long as I have).  I'm tired of being the red-headed bastard child.

Once upon a time, a red-headed bastard child named Rick lived on a beautiful estate with his stepmother and sisters.  Rick's father had died of a massive coronary when Rick was a toddler, so Rick grew up being the house butler, handyman, and cook.

One day, Rick was shoveling snow off the front steps of the house.  He leaned on his shovel and said, "I wish I could marry the princess and live in the palace."

In a puff of pink smoke, a short, rotund woman with a wand and wings appeared.

"Who are you?" Rick said, startled.

"I'm your fairy godmother, Melba," the woman said, waving her arms.  "I heard your wish, and I've come to help you."

"Really?" Rick said.  "You're going to help me marry the princess and live in the palace?":

Melba frowned.  "Did you say marry the princess and live in the palace?"

Rick nodded.

"Do you have a terminal degree?" Melba asked.

Rick shook his head.

"Do you have any publications?"

Rick shook his head again.

"Research grants?  Awards?  Conference presentations?"

Rick kept shaking his head.

Melba slipped her wand back into the sleeve of her dress.  "I'm sorry, honey," Melba said.  "All I can do is offer you a contingent wish, and you'll have to renew your contract every six months."

Rick sighed.  "Will I ever get a tenure-track wish?"

Melba laughed.  "You're a red-headed bastard child.  I can't perform miracles."

Moral of the story: Publish or you're fucked.

And Saint Marty lived happily ever after.

Bastards have to stick together