SITTIN' UP WITH THE DEAD

     "Dad, what kind of vehicle are you going to buy for me when I get my license?" Ryan asked, with wide eyes and large expectations.  I remembered the same conversation with my father when I was around the same age as my son.  My answer to Ryan was somewhat more hopeful than that of my dad.
    "Oh, I don't know.  We'll find something that I'm sure you'll like," I replied.
     Now we can turn the clock back to 1986 and I can quote my dad's words verbatim.  "Get you a vehicle?!  Damn, boy, I can barely afford to keep what I have on the road.  Much less buy YOU one!"  I don't recall the man even looking up from the newspaper he was reading.  "Maybe you need to get a job and buy one with your own money.  You'll appreciate it more that way," he continued.
     I moped out the back door and into the yard, sullen, sad and dejected.  Suddenly, I spotted a potential ride.  My dad's old wood cutting truck!  I knew many guys my age who drove similar vehicles which had been restored to sterling condition.  Dad's truck and sterling should never be used in the same sentence, but there was hope.  Squirrels and mice had mostly occupied the old 1970 Chevy for at least two years, and leaves from the previous autumn lined what was left of the bed.  The tires were dry rotted and rocker panels below the doors had rusted back to before the iron ore had become steel.  However, there was hope.  I burst back into the house. "Dad, what about the old truck? Can I have it to fix up?"  Slowly, he lowered the newspaper and spoke.  "Sure, but you still have to get a job.  The body is bad and the engine is nearly blown.  It's going to take some money, but you'll get there.  You'll appreciate it more if you pay for the work."  Growing up, I learned to appreciate a lot of things.
     Jobs in our little town were exceedingly rare.  There was a small grocery store, a bank, post office and the funeral home.  The grocery store was fully staffed, and there was zero chance of working at the bank or post office for that matter.  So, the funeral home it was.
     I drove to the front of the building and sat for a moment and stared.  The hearse was parked behind the director's home, which sat  mere feet from the actual mortuary.  A cold chill raced down my spine.  What would my friends say when they found out I was working at a funeral home?  Oh well, I needed money and my grass cutting business just wasn't paying enough to restore an old truck.  So, I slowly opened the car door and stepped onto the sidewalk.  Suddenly, the large wooden front door leading to the chapel swung open and Big Jim stepped out.  "Howdy boy!  What can I do for you?  You don't look dead yet, so I guess that's not it!" he said with a thunderous laugh. Big Jim owned the funeral home.  He was a massive man with a booming voice that carried across any room he occupied.
     "Uh, I need a job," I replied, intimidated.
     Big Jim had advanced to where I stood and towered over me, rubbing his chin.  "Well, what can you do?" he asked, still staring down at me.  "You know, this place isn't for the faint of heart."
     "Well, I was thinking I could do some odd jobs here.  You know, like mowing the lawn, cleaning, washing the vehicles.  Maybe I could help park cars at funerals.  I'm reliable and willing to work.  I'll do anything you ask," I answered, trying my best to make eye contact with him. "I'm trying to raise money for a truck."
     "Why don't you just ask Carl to buy you a truck?"
     I sighed.  "I did.  He said if I work for it I'd appreciate it more," I answered with a slightly dejected tone.
     Big Jim laughed and directed me into the funeral home.  I followed him through the chapel and into his office, which was located at the rear of the building.  During the short walk, I couldn't help but notice the mournful music and low lighting of the place.  If survivors of the deceased weren't grieving enough, this place would surely finish the job, I thought.  I was glad to exit the main part of the building.
     We sat for a brief interview, which consisted of answering questions about mowing grass, washing cars, and operating a vacuum cleaner.  Thankfully, there were no questions about what a funeral home is really about.
     "You're hired," Big Jim said.  He reached out with his massive hand to shake mine, and that was it.  I was a proud employee of our local funeral home.  Within a few minutes, I was mowing the front lawn.
     As time went on, my responsibilities grew.  I went from mowing the lawn and washing cars, to becoming involved with, ahem, the inner workings of the funeral business.  Those occasions arose mostly due to my being the lone employee and Big Jim needing some help with a few things that won't be disclosed in this story.  Thankfully for me and not so much for him, we hit a slow spell in which people simply weren't dying.  We went several months without a funeral.  I was afraid of being laid off, and unbeknownst to me, Big Jim was afraid I was going to quit due to lack of working hours. To rectify the situation, he offered me a salary position of seventy-five dollars a week whether I worked or not.  If I worked more than that, he paid me the difference.  I accepted.
     "How's the old savings account coming son?" my dad asked, while staring at the evening news.  Many of my memories involve my father either reading the newspaper or watching the news.
     I stared out of the kitchen window and a light snow blanketed my old truck which still sat idle at the edge of the woods.  Summer had turned to autumn, and autumn had turned to winter.  "Oh, ok I guess.  I'm not working much.  People around here live forever.  I've washed he hearse three times this week and taken the garbage out once, but I need more hours.  I'll never get the truck restored at this rate."
     Suddenly the phone rang.  My mom entered the kitchen and answered.  "Oh yes Jim, he's right here."  My mom whispered that Big Jim was on the phone.
     "Hi Jim, what's up?" I asked, sure that he wanted me to wash the hearse yet again.
     "Good news my boy, someone finally died!" he exclaimed.  My mother and father could easily hear his voice blast from the phone.  Mom looked mortified, while my dad peered over the newspaper he was then reading and shook his head.
     "That's great! I mean not great, but good.  You know what I mean.  Do you need me to come down?"
     "Yes, and bring some old clothes and boots."
     Old clothes and boots?  I thought.  "Did he say bring old clothes and boots?" mom asked.
     Before I could answer, my dad chimed in.  "Are you burying someone or are you digging one up?" he asked. giggling.  I didn't answer, and retrieved my boots and an old pair of blue jeans.
     I had occasionally made the trip with Jim to the hospital morgue to bring someone to the funeral home, and usually he would ask me to dress nicely because it would reflect well on the business.  Old clothes and boots were a first.
     I drove into the rear lot and strode anxiously to the office, where I could see Big Jim talking on the phone.  "We've got a unique situation on our hands.  An old man has died in a tiny cabin in the mountains.  I assume it's been a few days.  His closest neighbor found him and lets just hope you're in good shape.  It's a hike."
     I felt like I was in pretty good shape, but Jim?  Not so much.
     We drove as far up the tiny path as the funeral van would take us, and then we walked, and walked and walked.  Skeeter, the neighbor who had found the man, served as our guide.  As far as I knew, the authorities had already been there, and contacted Jim to retrieve the deceased.  Finally, we approached the tiny cabin and entered.  We placed the old man on the gurney and began our ascent back to the van.
    The drive back to the funeral home was uneventful and quiet.  Mostly quiet due to our being on the verge of having a heart attack from our climb up and down a small mountain.
     I helped Jim with all that I could and climbed into my car and drove home.
     The next day Jim called.  "Neil, there's not going to be a formal viewing or funeral.  He doesn't have any family that we know of and the state is picking up the cost.  So, tomorrow night, we'll place him in the chapel and if someone wants to pay their respects, they can.  I'll need you to be here from six till nine just in case. We'll be at a UVA basketball game."  What?!!!  He wanted me to sit around from six till nine in a creaky, old funeral home with, ah, well you know!  There was no way I was doing that little chore.  No Way!
     "Ok, I'll see you at six," I answered.
     I didn't sleep well that night, and felt an uneasy tension the next day.  I counted the time until I had to sit with the old man for three hours.  I peeked into my sister's bedroom and quietly asked her a question.  "Want to earn some money?"
     She looked and answered, "I am not going with you to sit in the funeral home tonight! No way!"
     Finally, the hour arrived.  I drove slowly toward my unsettling destination and parked.  Big Jim met me at the door.  "I don't expect anyone, but just in case, I need you here.  Be sure to lock up and turn off the lights.  Remember, it's the one's who are alive you need to worry about." With that, he disappeared into the night.
     Jim's sense of humor needed some work for sure.
     I plopped down at the front desk, because that's where I was supposed to sit, but mostly because it's proximity to the front door provided for quick egress in the event of my being scared out of my wits.  I could see the streetlight outside through the triangular windows and noticed snow beginning to fall once again.  I'd longed for some human interaction of the living kind, but with the snow, I was sure it was just me and the old man in the adjacent room for the night.  Great.
     I read a book for my English class, and called my sister at least ten times, and heard every creak and groan the old building made.  When one of the creaks lasted longer than I thought It should have, I rose to investigate.  Slowly, I made my way toward to doorway leading to the chapel, just to make sure that all was well.  I peeked around the door frame and sure enough, everything seemed to be in order and everyone was in their proper place, and then it happened. The front door opened!  I was unaware that two older ladies had entered the funeral home to pay their respects and left the door ajar.  I walked in a hurried pace to close the door, still unaware of the ladies presence.  I rounded the corner and nearly ran over Ethel Simpson and Cornealia Jackson!  They screamed!  I screamed!  I think the old man in the chapel screamed!  I gathered myself and looked at the ladies.  "What in the world are you doing out on a snowy night like this?  Did you know the man in there?" They scowled at me without answering, signed the guest book and promptly left. To them I was merely a whippersnapper with a smart mouth.  Apparently, they hadn't considered the superhuman bravery I had displayed that night.  I had forgotten that funerals and visitations for them were a source of socialization whether they knew the deceased or not.  They were the lone signers of the guest book.
     The snow began to fall faster and harder than ever.  I could barely make out the lone street light by then.  I looked at the grandfather clock across from the desk. Eight o'clock.  Good enough.  I scurried around locking doors and shutting off lights.  I raced past the old man and headed toward the door.  In one motion, I hopped into the car and started the engine.  Slipping and sliding, I finally made it home.
     "How'd it go son?" dad asked when I walked into the kitchen.  "Why are you sweating?'
     I shook my head and answered, "Oh, I guess sitting up with the dead can make for a pretty interesting night.  But honestly, it's the live one's you have to worry about."
    I finally raised enough money to restore my old truck.  My dad was right.  I appreciated that old truck because of all the work that was required to complete the task.  However, sitting up with the dead was no doubt something that is unique to me.  I moved on from the funeral business, but every once in a while I think about that snowy night and the two old ladies who nearly caused a young boy to need his own funeral services.
 

   

FIRST WORLD PROBLEMS

     The struggle is real.  We've got problems.  It's official, we have a diabetic dog.  I'm not sure that I've  ever heard of a diabetic dog, but sure enough, we own one.  So, I know they exist.
     I should preface this story by saying that Tippy (the dog) is thirteen-years-old. That makes her elderly in terms of dogs, but not that elderly compared to the lifespan of animals we had when I was a young boy.  I'll get to that later.  Lately, she exhibited some very strange behavior.
     "Mom, Tip peed on my bedroom floor!!!" Ryan bellowed from the far reaches of our home.
     "Well, wipe it up for heaven's sake!" came the equally firm bellow from another corner of our home.   Asking Ryan to wipe dog urine from his floor is like asking a skydiver to jump without a parachute.  It's not happening.  The boy simply doesn't do pee or poop, especially of the canine variety.
    "Oh alright! I'll get it!" Kristi barked as she stomped down the hall and into Ryan's bedroom.
     "Mom!  Tippy peed on the bathroom rug!" Sidney whined, while hiding behind the bathroom door, covered in a towel.
     Kristi appeared in the hallway, cloth in hand and smirked.  "How do you know it's dog pee?  It is a bathroom rug after all?"
     "Oh it's pee!  Don't worry about that!" Sidney exclaimed as Kristi brushed past her to retrieve the saturated rug.
     This behavior continued to happen for several more weeks.  Finally 'ol Tip seemed to gain a fondness for doing her business on the kitchen floor, in the same spot.  So, each night before bedtime, we placed several old towels in that spot for her peeing pleasure.
     We also noticed that she was guzzling water not unlike the way a camel would before a long desert journey.  "I've never seen such a small dog drink so much water!  Good grief, I think she's a hydroholic!" Ryan said, as the fuzzy shih tzu lapped away at her water bow.
    Kristi, who by that point was exceedingly worried about her pet, looked at me with sad eyes.  "Do you think she's dying?"
     "Nah, she's thirsty.  Probably all those bacon treats you,re giving her.  Bacon makes me thirsty too!" I said, trying hard to make light of the situation.
     "You haven't peed in the floor that I know of.  Actually, there was that one time... Well, nevermind."  Both of our children craned their necks to hear a story about dear old dad peeing on the floor.  Thankfully Kristi brought that little nugget to a screeching halt.  "She needs to go to the vet.  I mean, she has no appetite either."
     Kristi make the appointment and with much sadness, told the kids to prepare themselves for bad news just in case.  "Oh my gosh, I don't want Tip to die.  I've never known anything but Tip.  I mean, we're the same age!" Sidney whined, while stroking the little fuzz ball.
     "Oh, don't worry.  Maybe dad will have her mounted.  We can set her on the mantle.  Maybe the taxidermist can put her in  a pose that she'd never have pulled of while she was living, like one with her holding a pheasant in her mouth or something," Ryan said.  The kid never disappoints. I giggled, while the women gritted on the boy.
     The day of the vet appointment came, and I loaded the pitiful animal into my car and made the short drive to the animal hospital.  "What seems to be the problem?" the cheery young veterinarian asked.
     "Um, she's drinking lots of water and hardly eating at all.  Very lethargic, barely moves, except to pee on the floor," I answered with a hint of irritation while thinking of how many times I'd mopped up dog urine in the last month.  To be completely candid, I'm not an inside of the house pet kind of guy.  I feel like that if God wanted animals in the house, he would have given them the ability to build their own and stay out of mine.  But, I'm always overruled, so I've simply learned to live with what I can't control.
     The vet began feeling around the dog's abdomen, looked at her teeth and complimented me on how nice her teeth looked.  "Wow, I see you've had her teeth cleaned on a regular basis!"
    "Uh, no.  I guess she just has nice teeth."  I had no idea that dogs could have their teeth cleaned.
    "We'll need to run some tests, which require blood work, so sit tight and we'll be back in a few minutes."
    Directly, Kristi and the kids popped into the exam room.  "Where's Tip?!" Kristi asked, exasperatedly.
     "Back for blood work.  Did you know that there's pet dentists?"  I asked with a scrunched up forehead.
    "Of course, I thought about taking Tippy, but just never did."  I was glad she never did.  I'm old school and dog dentists are not people that real men take dogs to.  Dog dentists... Really?
     Suddenly, and without warning, the vet and our dog burst through the door.  "I have good news and bad news.  There's nothing wrong with her heart, liver, pancreas, kidneys or lungs.  She does however have diabetes.  I stared at my wife.  I pivoted my stare to the veterinarian. "Do you have questions Mr. Fix?"
     "Dog dentists, diabetes?  What's next hemorrhoids?" I quipped, without thinking.
     "Why don't you and Ryan head home, and I'll finish up here," Kristi interjected, sensing my displeasure with our incredibly weak, spoiled dog.  Ryan chuckled and shook his head.  We stood and exited the exam room and drove home.
     Soon, Kristi and Sidney along with our diabetic dog, strode through the kitchen door.  "Oh, I'm sooooo glad that she's just a diabetic.  I can't imagine life without her," my overjoyed wife exclaimed as she stroked the fur of Tippy.  "Now, we will have to give her insulin shots twice a day for the rest of her life.  We already gave her the first one, so I'll show you how tomorrow morning."
     "You know, back in my day, a dog made one trip to the doctor and that was to be spayed or neutered.  After that, it was outside city.  Our little beagle (which was named Tippy as well) lived to be sixteen-years-old and never spent one day in our house.  She had maybe five baths that I can remember and that was because dad threw her into the river.  She ate table scraps, chicken bones, ham bones, potato chips, and dead animals.  She drank from mud puddles, had fleas, and ticks nearly sucked her dry.  But, she always bounced back.  She was tough from living outside.  Dogs today are so spoiled that they can barely live ten years!  If they do live that long, there diabetics, and have all sorts of other ailments. A good drink from a mud puddle with a sheen of motor oil floating on it would do her some good! A dog dentist?  I've never heard of such nonsense!  Good grief!" I whined.
     Ryan stared at me with sympathetic eyes and spoke. "Um dad, mom's not in here now.  But, I hear you.  Tippy's a first world dog and first world dogs have real problems.  You know the U.S. has a weight problem when even the dogs are diabetic," the boy said as he exited the room laughing.
    So there  you have it.  We own a diabetic dog with clean teeth.  I still say that gnawing on a chicken bone and a swig of stagnant water could have prevented this.