North of the Tension Line Series

Eli’s excellent adventure

/ J. F. Riordan / 31 Comments

Every morning for many years, our dogs went together into the woods for what we referred to as their morning ramble. Everyone went along: First Reggie and Pete; then Moses and Pete; then Moses, Auggie, and Pete; Then Auggie, Eli, and Pete. They would be gone—usually within sight—for ten or fifteen minutes, and then all return together on the run, jostling happily back into the kitchen smelling of fresh air, or sometimes of some foul thing they had all rolled in, and expecting their treats.

Then one day, it stopped. Why? Because, as we belatedly realized, the rambler was Pete. He was the hound dog, the one with the scenting nose and the wandering impulse. Pete was also the pack leader, even in his dotage. The Germans also seemed to have an instinct to protect him, following him like body guards. For whatever reason, it was a daily ritual. And their rambling was a very good thing. Everyone went off independently, but still together, to smell smells and stake territory, and make their own decisions. I very firmly believe that dogs who have this kind of independence develop a depth of understanding that builds capabilities and personality. Argue if you want.

Eli is a particularly unrambly dog. He likes to stay close to home, preferably on the bed or couch. He doesn’t like loud noises. He thinks airplanes are thunder, and runs to hide. He hears distant gunshots and runs to hide. He hears construction noises in the distance and runs to hide. He only shows his shepherd side when strange animals or people approach. Then he stands his ground quite terrifyingly.

So, this morning, after he had interrupted me four times to go out, and I had brought him to the door four times while he simply stood at the door step and looked out, I put on my shoes, walked out six feet, and when he followed me, I turned around and walked back in, leaving him to scratch plaintively at the door. I ignored him and went back to my work.

But from the library windows, I could see, to my surprise, Eli, alone, down in the woods, and moving purposefully away from the house. I stood up to watch and followed him from window to window, room to room, as he went deep into the brush, sniffing, looking, investigating logs and holes. I didn’t want to interrupt him, but I didn’t want to lose him, either.

But after ten minutes or so, he paused and put his nose into the air. And then, having made his decision (“‘I smell something,’ said the Poky Little Puppy.”1) he turned and galloped up the hill to the house. Not fearfully, just a happy-to-be-going-home gallop.

I have no idea what inspired this, but I am happy when he’s happy. Maybe he will find it was an experience worth repeating. I hope so.

  1. The Poky Little Puppy is a children’s book written by Janette Sebring Lowrey and illustrated by Gustaf Tenggren. It was one of the famous Golden Books series, and is still in print 82 years after its first publication. ↩︎

In which: I am annoyed

/ J. F. Riordan / 49 Comments

I believe I have mentioned here that we had a sort of appliance armageddon in November and December. Since not all of them were amenable to repair, we have some new ones. Aside from the fact that they do actually function, none of them are improvements.

The new dishwasher—which is the equivalent model to the old one— is missing some of the handy features of the other one. The racks are different and less adjustable, and the buttons have fewer choices. It also cost a lot more than the last one, and had to be specially rigged by the installers in order to fit in the same space.

The new microwave is also the latest and greatest version of the old one. But it doesn’t have a one minute button—which I used all the time—or the butter softening/melting feature that I loved so much. How many sticks? How soft? How melted? What are you defrosting? Press 1 for meat; 2 for chicken; 3 for fish. None of that. The machine, with its super fantastico intelligent programming decides. It’s usually wrong. The other day the turkey sausages came out like hockey pucks. Maybe it’s a bit too powerful. I’ll get used to it, I guess. But I don’t want to. I don’t want to spend my increasingly limited brain power thinking about appliances. I want my appliances to do my bidding, not their own. Adding insult to injury, it beeps five times instead of once, a particular pet peeve of mine. (See also: “Electronic Narcissism” in my book of essays But Still They Sing.)

Which brings me to the source for which I reserve most of my animus: the new television we so jauntily installed in the library. It’s a small television, but we thought it might be nice to be able to watch while all snuggled into our coziest room, with the bar cart nearby and the fire going. We were delighted when all we had to do was hold our phones up to the QR codes to install our streaming services. Very cool, we thought.

Lately, my husband has been getting up excessively early, frequently adjusting his bedtime to right after dinner. This leaves me a little bit at a loss. I’m usually too tired to read. Practicing piano would disturb him, and I don’t want to go to bed yet. A perfect time to sit in the library with large dogs and watch something on television.

I was settled in the other night watching a two hour program, when suddenly the television turned off. Nothing I did could turn it back on. Having twigged the eco-settings on the bedroom television, which automatically dims the picture, I had already turned all that off. I changed the batteries in the remote. I reset the wireless. Nothing. Finally I packed it in and went to bed. But my husband found it running in the middle of the night.

“You left the television on.”

“I sooooo did not.”

Last night, same scenario. I wasn’t watching anything I was particularly invested in, but I was beginning to think we would have to embark upon an endeavor that reflects what my husband calls “the asymmetry of power”. You know: when you have a problem with a product and have to contact the enormous monopolistic corporation that has eliminated service from its mission statement. My sister has spent the past three days engaged in such an exercise, which mostly consists of listening to repetitive and annoying hold music while someone on the other end files their nails for hours at a time. But I digress.

One of the most useful aspects of the internet, I find, is being able to look up problems and see whether you’re the only one experiencing it. So this morning I did this, and what did I find? “LG TV keeps turning itself off.”

Apparently, in their (asymmetrical) wisdom, the LG corporation has decided that after a certain period of time without interaction with the remote, the television should turn itself off. The settings say this happens after four hours. I can attest to its being much less than that. Nevertheless, I found the button and turned it off.

Happy Ending. Sort of. But I have questions. What makes electronics companies think we need someone else to turn our devices off? Isn’t that why we have a remote? With a timer we can set? What if I’m watching a David Lean movie? Or a Wagnerian opera? Maybe I don’t want to be interrupted. Why I can’t I turn it right back on? Why do they hide these settings so you have to dig around in the depths of the system like a turkey looking for bug? Why aren’t these “features” listed openly in the manual? Why does it seem we have become the servants rather than the other way around? I have a sneaking suspicion it’s because all these companies know they have us over a barrel, and we will choose to serve in order to have our conveniences. It’s a very strange turn around.

Capitalism isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.