Fish food for hounds

By DARREN HANDSCHUH
It was supposed to be a pleasant trip to a provincial park to watch the salmon run, but it morphed into a journey of horror and disgust.
Well, more disgust than horror.
The biggest salmon run in 100 years happened this fall, much to the surprise of 'experts' who never saw it coming.
How do you not see millions and millions of great, big fish? Sure it's a big ocean, but aren't these guys supposed to be the authorities on this type of thing?
The ability to keep an eye on the fish should be part of the skill set for a job where one of your main tasks is keeping an eye on the fish.
Anyway, millions of the gilled swimmers made their way up area waterways to spawn and continue the cycle of life. Reproducing for humans is quite easy in comparison. Some flowers, a few drinks, take the wife to dinner and viola procreation is well on its way.
These fish have to swim hundreds of miles - up stream the entire way - just to reproduce, but I bet if man was required to do the same thing, swimming would be a national obsession.
Anyway, we loaded up the van, and headed to a river that was literally overflowing with bright, red salmon.
It was an impressive sight and was fascinating to watch.
Because the area we were heading to was a wooded park, we decided to bring the family hound for a walk and give him the chance to pee on trees he had never peed on before.
We strolled along the banks of the river while the mutt pulled at his leash and tried to sniff and pee on just about everything he could reach.
Then he spotted dog Nirvana - a giant, rotting fish at the water's edge.
He immediately tried to roll in it. Why do dogs do that? A cat would never roll in something that smells that foul, nor would most people I know, but to a dog, a rotting carcass is too great a prize to ignore.
He almost made it too, but a quick tug of the leash saved us all from a nasty ride home.
That's not so disgusting you may be thinking. Wait for it, when it comes to a young, energetic dog and dead creatures there is no other option than a disgusting outcome.
We managed to keep the hound away from a few rotting fish, but somewhere along the line he managed to eat a small piece of said fish.
OK, now we are getting into the disgusting area I was mentioning earlier. Rolling in it is bad enough, but why in the name of all that is holy would you want to eat something like that?
Dogs truly have no barriers when it comes to their culinary cravings.
Nobody actually saw him eat the piece of fish. It wasn't until he barfed it out that we learned of the riverside snack. C'mon, you knew it was coming, and I did warn you it was rather disgusting.
Forever seared in my memory is the image of a foaming pile of dog upchuck the beast deposited smack in the middle of a busy trail.
With dozens of people watching, we tried to figure out what to do. I had a doggy bag, but there was no way it was going to work on the pile o' barf, and we knew we could not leave it there, so my wife stepped up, grabbed a stick and pushed it off to the side of the trail.
My wife has been an RN for more than 23 years and has seen some really gross stuff over those years, so she has built up an amazing immunity to stuff that makes me want to join the dog in a barf fest.
Often she will ask, "Do you want to know what I did at work today."
The answer is always, "NO, I do not."
While I did everything possible not to look, my lovely wife took care of the incident without so much as a change in facial expression.
Once the pile of goo was cleared out of the way, we headed back to the van with a story to tell of a river full of fish and yet another reason why I do not let dogs lick me - ever.

Just call me grandpappy

By DARREN HANDSCHUH
I had a brief look into the future the other day.
No, I was not staring at a crystal ball or paid the great 'psychic' Imafullanonesense to tell me what my life will be like when I am older, instead, this glimpse into what is to come was delivered through the school system.
And I have to admit, I rather enjoyed it.
Junior is in Grade 9 and the other day he was handed a baby (a plastic, computerized baby) to take care of for a day.
The baby would cry, be fussy, make noise and even need diaper changes and Junior had to look after the electronic bundle of joy for 18 whole hours, but by the end, I think he gained at least a slight idea of what caring for a little one is all about.
When I came home from work, Junior was sitting at the laptop trying to play Farmville with one hand while rocking the fussy baby with the other.
I could not stop smiling.
"So Junior, how is parenthood going? Having fun?"
"Not really, I can't get her to be quiet."
More smiling.
"The baby is a little fussy, hmmmmm, that sounds familiar. Oh well, let me know how it works out for you."
I then went about making supper, all the while keeping an eye on Junior as he tended to the baby.
Even more smiling.
Junior realized very quickly this squeaky little thing was a lot of work. He could not walk away for a second before the little one starting making noise.
My cheeks still hurt from fall that smiling.
As my kids get close to the end of high school, it will only be a matter of time before they head to college, get married and have little ones of their own.
It is kind of hard to picture myself as grandpa.
My dad's dad was a grandpa and he was old. My dad is a grandpa and he is old, so when I become a grandpa that must mean I am...
Well, I guess I can be a young(ish) grandpa, can't I? Why not? I am sure there are many young grandparents out there, no matter what their birth certificate says, and I plan on being one of them.
When my parents became grandparents I noticed a change in attitude, especially with my dad.
This was not the same man who raised me.
Where were all the rules? Where were all the do's and don'ts?
Who is this man and what did he do with my father?
Case in point.
When Junior was around three years old, he went to the store with grandpa who was getting the morning newspaper.
Upon their return, I noticed Junior was eating something.
"Dad, you did not give Junior chocolate for breakfast?"
"Um, no, well, sort of, but the chocolate has milk in it and there is peanut butter filling as well, so technically, I gave him milk and peanut butter, nothing wrong with that."
Like I said, this is not the same man who raised me.
By watching your parents you learn how to be a parent, and now watching them as grandparents I am getting some idea of the joys of grandparenting.
Basically, the little ones are done on grandpa and grandma's terms.
Junior made a stinky? No problem, call mom and/or dad and they will take of it. Once the changing is complete, grandpappy steps in and takes over.
Kids are fussy, messy, or having a fit? No problem, call mom and/or dad and when the problem is resolved, step in and resume the role of grandpa and/or grandma.
No wonder kids love their grandparents to much. They feed them chocolate for breakfast, all they do is want to do is have fun and they very rarely enforce any of the rules.
I can hardly wait.

The correct answer is...

By DARREN HANDSCHUH

Do you ever get the feeling you are never going to get it right?

No matter how hard you try, the answer will always be wrong. 

OK, I should correct that with 'almost' always.

The question, "Does this make me look fat?" is always, without exception, answered with "No, of course not" which is the correct (and life-saving) answer.
Do not ever - even jokingly - answer, _The jeans don't make you look fat, but your ass sure does."

No matter how many blankets and pillows you have, the couch is just not a comfortable place to sleep.

But my wife does not ask that question very often, and when she does, she knows the answer she will get. 

The correct way to answer that question is universally known and it is likely the only time a pastor would tell a 'little white lie' rather than risk getting a 'little black eye.'

There are other answers that are not so easy to provide.

For example, my wife has asked me if something were to happen to her, would I remarry.

The first time she asked this question I answered, "Depends, are there going to be any hot chicks at the funeral."
Sometimes having a sense of humour can be hazardous to your health.

After calming the situation - and dodging several items thrown at me with the velocity of a major league pitcher - I decided on a different tact.

"Of course not, Sweety, you are the only woman for me - forever."

"Good because, if you do remarry I will come back and haunt you."

Actually, the little woman insisted I find another Mrs. H ñ after an appropriate time of mourning of course, like 30 or 40 years.

When I asked her the same question, a slight smile came across her face and her eyes glazed over as if she was envisioning a wonderland in some distant Nirvana.

"Um, er, ah, of course not, Sweety, you are the only man for me - forever."

Let's move on, shall we.

Another common question, "What are you thinking?"
Well, based on the last set of questions and answers I am thinking it might not be a good idea to have such a large life-insurance policy. It is not easy to sleep with one eye open.

My wife has said she would never divorce me, but hey, accidents happen and people strangle themselves in their sleep all the time.

"I don't know what happened, officer. I woke up and he had somehow smothered himself with his own pillow. It is strange for sure. Say, I noticed you are not wearing a wedding ring..."

I kid of course, I have been married for 22 years and they have been the best 15 years of my life.

But here's a little tip for all you ladies out there, if you ask the 'thinking' question and your significant other says ìnothing,î he means it.

It is actually possible for men to think about nothing. This has been scientifically proven. Why do you think NASCAR is so popular?

A man can sit and watch and think of nothing for hours on end, while still taking in a sporting event.

The real danger comes when the little woman wants her man to tell her how he is feeling.

Gentlemen, we're are in some tricky territory here.

I have learned it is important to tell her how you are feeling, but it is even more important to make sure how you are feeling is how she wants you to feel.

This is a vital skill every man should learn - trust me on this one.

I hope these little tips will help the male brethren out there, now if you will excuse me, I have a lot of nothing to think about.

Classmates of old

BY DARREN HANDSCHUH
I recently took a trip down memory lane thanks to the wonders of modern technology.
I was checking out my Facebook account (at home, not at work or anything like that, because that would be against the rules and breaking the rules is wrong) and I noticed several friend requests from people I went to high school with.
Most of these people I have not even seen since the last century, so I decided not to add them to my list of friends.
I noticed one of my old classmates had close to 200 friends so, just for fun, I clicked on the little thingy that lets you see them all and I was transported back to the days of zits, cassettes and a head full of hair.
To be honest, I had forgotten most of these people even existed. As you may have guessed we were not real close in high school.
It was kind of interesting to see how everyone changed over the past couple of decades or so.
Like me, many have gained weight and lost hair - some have done more of each, some less.
One former classmate really caught my attention because back in 'the day' she was the hottest thing to ever walk down a hallway.
She was the girl all the guys talked about in our testosterone-fueled way of looking at life. Needless to say, very little of those conversations is fit to print in such a fine publication as this because, as has been proven by science, when teenage boys are not thinking about sex, it means they are dead.
That's one way to see if a 16-year-old, hormone-driven young man is alive - hold up a picture of a bikini-clad hottie and he will come out of a coma just to look at it.
Anyway, seeing a picture of the former lust of my life in her mid-40s seriously damaged my memories of her. She is now just slightly smaller than a VW Bug.
My, how things have changed.
There were people in there I had not thought of since graduation - some by choice, others because I just forgot about them.
Most of the jocks are now sporting spare tires large enough to fit a big rig and one of them even posted something along the lines of 'Hey do you remember the big football game when I...'
No, but I do remember a post-jock meathead who's glory days ended when he graduated high school and he is still talking about them more than 20 years later.
Some classmates still look really good - great shape, full head of hair, outstanding careers - I hate 'em.
But the vast majority have gone on to live regular type lives and simply blend in to society, but in high school they were the elite rulers - the best athletes, cutest girls or came from the richest families.
Back then it seemed so important to make the rep team in hockey, or the football or basketball team.
One guy who I hung around with for a while was a star hockey player. He lead the league in scoring several seasons and I must admit to some intimidation and jealousy towards him at the time.
The last time I saw him (which was about 10 years ago), he was a 300-pound, tub-of-goo booze hound trapped in a dead-end job with all the charm of a rectal polyp. All those goals he scored in minor hockey really did not mean a thing.
Many years ago, I realize it just is not that important to score a few goals, or get a touchdown.
But, back in high school, your entire life status was based on such silly standards. However, with age comes wisdom and the realization it really doesn't mean a damn thing in the grand scheme of life.
Too bad you have to be old to be wise.

Back to school rules

BY DARREN HANDSCHUH

The TV commercial sums it up perfectly.

You know the one ñ well you parents out there know the one. 

It's the back-to-school commercial using the classic Christmas carol that goes “It's the most wonderful time of the year...”

Parents know what I am talking about and you can tell who the parents are because they are the ones who have been looking at the calender and smiling uncontrollably for the last week.

It is that wonderful season where the leaves are turning colour, the air is crisp and, most importantly, the kids are returning to that place of learning that not only offers increased education, but gives parents a much needed break.

Can you give me an “Amen.”

Depending on what grade your sproggs are in, school can mean freedom from the little ones for up to seven hours.

The song Dancing in the Streets also comes to mind.

You load the little ones up with their lunch and send them off (smiling all the way), or if you have teens like I do, you drag them out of bed and force them out the door (smiling all the way).

Either way, they are out of the house and you can then do that dancing I was talking about.

I am not much of a drinker, but a small glass of celebratory champagne always seems in order somehow. You watch them trudge down the sidewalk along with hundreds of other kids, all thinking about the summer past and how it went so fast.

Parents also think about the summer past, how it went so fast and how much you appreciate the fact it went so fast and it is now time to shuffle the kids off to the hallowed hallways of higher learning.

Don't get me wrong, I love my kids and I enjoy spending time with them because I know they will soon outgrow their childhood home and move on. We had a good summer of family vacations, mini-road trips, camping and hitting the beach, but after two months of “family togetherness” a little “family separation” is a welcome break.

It is also needed. Separation makes the heart grow fonder, but how can I miss you if you don't go away.

The downside of back to school is the expense of getting all the kit they need these days.

As a youngster, my parents had to shell out their hard-earned cash for paper, pens, books and the usual trappings needed in the public school system.

Today, the request is not for more lined paper, but for a laptop powerful enough to operate the space shuttle. It also costs just slightly less than my first two cars ñ combined.

They “neeeed” the laptop. They cannot possibly attend school without it and they certainly cannot succeed with out it.

“What about the PC downstairs? That still works, doesn't it?”

“Barely. It is old, it is slow and I can't pack it around with me everywhere I go.”

“But, you can do your school work on it though, right?”

“Well, yes, but it is old and slow and I can't pack around with me every where I go. I neeeeed a laptop. You want me to do the best I can do, right, well, I neeeeed a laptop to do that.”

Good one kid, you are learning the art of parental manipulation and how to exploit the situation to best serve your wants. I guess they learn more than how to read and write in school.

Now if you will excuse me, I have to go shopping for a laptop because, it would seem Junior “neeeds” one or he will wind up flunking out of school and living under a bridge somewhere all because I did not get a new computer machine thingy.

But I guess in an age of technology, a slide ruler and a multi-colour pen just isn't going to cut it any more. 

Sorry for speeding, but....

The excuses started forming the instant I saw him.
The 'him' to which I refer was a cop sitting on a little pull out road at the side of the highway. I was the guy in the little red car going slightly faster than what some official type decided was good for the motoring public.
I was not breaking the sound barrier or anything, but my speedometer did nudge past the legal 90 km/h allowed by that official type guy.
I am not totally sure how it happened. I do drive a Toyota, so maybe I could plead mechanical woes and deny the heightened speed was my fault.
Darn those Toyota engineers and their wonky gas pedals.
Anyway, I noticed the keeper of the peace sitting in his car as I zoomed past and I knew I had been had - caught red handed, or in this case, lead footed.
"I am sorry I was speeding officer, but my water broke and..."
OK, that one isn't gonna work.
"I am sorry I was speeding officer, but I think speed limits suck."
OK, not the best way to try and talk your way out of a ticket.
"I am sorry I was speeding officer, but I am late for work and if I am late one more time my cruel and heartless boss will fire me and my children will end up begging in the street. Please, kind and wise constable, think of the children. I beg of you, think of the children."
OK, that one might be a little over the top.
"Say, um, Mr. Policeman, uh, how many boxes of donuts will it take to make this whole thing go away?"
Definitely not the right approach.
Realizing arguing with a traffic cop who has you dead to rights is like trying to outrun a dog - it just isn't going to happen - I then switched to resignation mode.
I resigned myself to the fact I was going to get a speeding ticket, my first in many years.
There was a time in my youth when I had amassed enough tickets to wallpaper by bedroom - and not just one wall, but the entire room.
Back in 'the day' I didn't just have a lead foot, my entire right leg was made of the stuff because I just could not stay off the gas and personal interaction with the local law-enforcement community was the result.
I was not a bad guy or anything. I didn't drink, I didn't do drugs, but I did have a tendency to drive in a manner that was in conflict with rules set out by that official type guy I was talking about earlier.
But with age comes maturity, and with maturity comes a realization that the three minutes I save by speeding are not worth the fines and hassles of getting a ticket.
But on this particular day, I simply was not paying attention to how fast I was going - until I saw the Kojak with the Kodak on the side of the road, then my speed became the most important thing I could think of.
I saw the cop car and immediately looked at the speedometer to find I was going almost 20 km/h over the limit. Oops.
Realizing my sin against traffic laws, I slowed down and watched the cop car for those pretty little lights to come on, but they never did.
In fact, the cop did not even pull out of his hiding spot.
Hallelujah, more proof God loves me.
After a few seconds I began to relax. I also decided to keep a closer eye on how fast I was going, which was a good thing because the second cop I saw a couple of klicks down the road may not have been so forgiving, and besides, I was all out of donuts.

Gimme a call

Well, it finally happened.
After years of resisting, I finally caved and joined 'The Dark Side.'
That's right, I could resist the temptress no longer and I got a cell phone.
I picked it up at the beginning of the summer family vacation and before I was even aware of its evil powers, the electro-crack had a grip on me.
The first couple of days it was a novelty. I added my wife and children's numbers to the contact list and then went about playing with all the different things it can do.
Goofy texts were sent to my family and we all chortled over dad's new toy, his extremely poor texting abilities and his continual asking of "How do I do this...How do I do that...How do I do this again..."
I am a multi-finger typer (kind of a job requirement actually), but I am a single-finger texter, and not the usual finger I use to relay a long-distance message with non-verbal communication.
I use the pointer finger, that's the one next to the driving finger.
I got one of those slide phones where the little screen slides up to reveal a very tiny keyboard. I know where all the letters are, but for some reason my Shrek-like thumbs keep hitting at least two or three keys at once, leading to a message something like, "Hji, wehjat r we jhabving for supopoer?"
By using just the pointer the mistakes are minimized. They are still there, but there are fewer of them.
Before letting the pocket-sized vixen into my life, I was determined to not let it rule my waking moments. Before I became a bona fide cellphone owner, I used to scoff at and mock people who could not go 30 seconds without looking at the contraption to see if they missed anything over the last half a minute.
When I decided it was time to get a phone, I swore I would be its master, and not a slave to the glowing box.
I soon realized just how quickly one gives up to the demands of the digital mistress.
I had the phone about a week and was in an area without coverage.
"No problem," said I when I realized I could not send or receive anything. "I have only had it a week, and I survived for years without one, how tough can it be to go a couple of hours without getting or sending a text?"
Besides, it was a family vacation and my family was hiking down the same trail I was.
I was fine, until we got back into range and when I noticed someone else using their phone I dug mine out and with an anticipation just slightly less than the morning of Dec. 25, I checked to see if I had any messages.
It took a whole week for me to become addicted to the stupid thing. I am hoping it will be a novelty and wear off, but I...excuse me for a second.
Sorry about that. I thought I heard the sound of my phone vibrating, turns out it was just a bug flying by. Anyway, like I was saying, the obsessive compulsive desire to constantly check the phone will surely pass and I will use the device on the rare occasion that I...oops, hold on one more second.
Stupid buzzing bugs.
Soon after I got the phone, another problem developed when I was struck by a case of contact envy.
You see, I only had three contacts in my list, while other people had dozens.
This would not do. How could people get a hold of me without my number, not that I really cared mind you because I am not obsessed with my phone, but still we better exchange numbers in case there is an emergency or something.
I now have almost a dozen names in my contact list, but that is not nearly enough, or at least it wouldn't be if I cared that is.
So, if there is anyone out there who would like to give me a call, or send me a text you can do so at 250-867-5309.
Talk to ya soon.