BP Oil and Jed Clampett

I Just got done watching the news. I got this image in my head. It's the beginning of 'The Beverly Hillbillies.' Jed just discharged his shotgun into the swamp and strikes oil. They cut from the oil gusher to Jeds confused face, back to the oil, back to Jeds face . . .but now they don't pack up the truck or anything. . .......they just keep looping on the oil gusher and Jeds perplexed face. . . . .over and over. . .for months.

The Political Dog-ma of my House

I was sitting in my kitchen the other morning sipping coffee and gazing out the window. Our house sits on a street in a small quiet community. Many residents of this community walk their dogs in front of my house. There is a field across the street that seems to work well as a laxative for canines. I noticed this girl who lives up the street walking her dalmatian. She was walking at a fast pace with her dog on a very short leash. When the dog stopped to sniff she would just give a hard yank and continue. She seemed irritated by the delay. I looked down at my own dog who was curled up at my feet and realized people's interpretation of dogs are very different. After further thought I broke it down to four basic modes of belief.
MODE ONE: DOGS ARE ANIMALS. This mode is held by people that believe dogs are just animals. These people haven't any idea why anyone would have a dog in their household. They walk around dogs and consider them a moving piece of furniture or a potential threat. These people seem to come across dogs by accident.
My parent's neighbors had a beagle. The poor dog was always tied to a tree behind their house. They originally got the dog when they had their first child. The pre-arranged pet-child bonding didn't occur so the dog was put aside like an old box of lincoln logs. I used to feed him when they were away on vacation, and he was a total stranger to affection. This poor dog was on a short chain and had such a pitiful look. When I scratched his head he loved it, but at the same time didn't understand it or trust it. That beagle lived nineteen years just to spite them.
MODE TWO: DOGS ARE DOGS. These People tend to accept the popular notion that dogs are a part of society. They will awkwardly pat a dog on the head with their hands rigid and straight and say "oh what a nice doggy." Then they push the dog away so the humans can talk.
My cousin is a dog lover. His wife is a mode two thinker. Although she feeds the dog, she generally doesn't like it in the same room with her. She puts up with the dog only for her husband. She is forced to live in the same house with a dog. Therefore, the dog is "a dog," but nothing more.
MODE THREE: DOGS ARE PETS. This is probably the most responsible and popular mode of thinking. The dogs are placed into the hierarchy of the household. There is definitely a structured chain of command: Parents, kids, pets, then houseplants. Although pets possess more rights than the houseplants, pets have to conform to the rigid guidelines set for a member of the pet class. My sister is a mode three thinker. She and her husband have a husky. They love it dearly, but it must obey them. The husky is walked on a leash or tied on a run when its not in-doors. I believe Mode three thinkers provide a healthy structured life for a dog.
MODE FOUR: DOGS ARE HUMAN. Mode four thinkers are people who start out as mode three thinkers. Unfortunately, they get a dog that is smart enough to organize non-violent protests and petitions. Through these peaceful demonstrations they achieve equal rights. My wife and I are mode four thinkers. My dog has full voting rights in the democracy of my household. The dog will come into my den. She and I will have a discussion, and we'll decide a walk is the proper thing to do at that juncture. We will then proceed outside. The use of a leash was declared unconstitutional years ago, so it only hangs in the garage as a grim reminder of the dark past. The dog will walk right by my side and when we get to the end of the driveway she makes the decision which direction we will go. She is then free to sniff and go about her business as she pleases. If I lag behind she will stop and give me a disgusted impatient look and I will speed up. A lady once stopped her car and asked if I was a dog trainer. I answered "no, my dog's a human trainer." The dog and I chuckled as she drove off.
My wife and I learned the dog's language of expression. We know when she has to go out, when she's hungry, when she wants attention, and when she gets mad. One time she got mad was when I had let her out on our sundeck to get some air. I went back to typing on the computer. After a while I noticed it was pouring out and I had forgotten about the dog. When I opened the sliding glass door, she slipped in shivering and wet and flashed me a look which I translated to be "you idiot." I followed her into the kitchen and apologized repeatedly, but she would have nothing to do with me. This dog gave me the cold-shoulder for two days. Of course I apologized every time I saw her but she would avoid eye contact. We have since made up.
People are not proud of the fact that they're mode four thinkers. When guests come over, my wife and I try to pass ourselves off as mode three thinkers. Most of the time our dog will wink at us, and she'll obey our silly commands. When the guests leave, Democracy is restored to our household.
I guess there is no wrong or right mode of thought. It's just a combination of how you were raised and how you respond to dogs. But my dog seems like a generally happy dog, and I get a lot of joy out having her around. So I'll shove human pride aside and say in a loud, clear voice "I'm a mode four thinker." The dog curled up at my feet agrees with me. In a democracy that's a unanimous vote.

The Next Step

My father has always had a beautiful vegetable garden. It's larger then most vegetable gardens that people enjoy as a hobby. It spans 150 feet and is at least 30 feet wide. Around the garden is a wooden fence that is about six feet high and has a swinging gate at both ends. As a child, it was a wonderful place to play. My brother and I would chase each other through the corn that towered above our heads, and hide in the pole beans that formed leafy tents. In the garden there was an earthy smell, as the scent of manure and fresh vegetables mingled.

Some of the days we would play in the garden were Sundays, and my father would be Barbecuing a chuck steak with his secret "butter and parsley" basting sauce. This filled the air with a succulent aroma that intertwined with the summer breeze. That aroma would excel our hunger, and we would pull fresh tomatoes from the vine and bite into them, sending juice and seeds up both cheeks and ultimately dripping on our shirt fronts. There was a horseshoe court in front of the garden. Often the metallic clang of the horseshoes hitting the spike and the shouts that followed could be heard in the distance. There is a equilibrium there, almost a sense of wealth. The garden moved in a perpetual motion, repeating its cycles every year.

Autumn would come and the garden would be naked and barren, nothing remaining except the refuge of the harvest. Corn stalks would still stand, some leanining, their rich green leafs having turned to brown. The tomato vines would be withered and decaying. They would begin the process of returning to the same earth they sprouted from just a few short month before. The veil of winter would soon be cast over the garden. Then nothing but the fence would be exposed through the blanket of snow, standing like a monument to the great area it encloses. The garden would be left to sleep and regenerate its fertile soil.

Then spring would come and my father would gently awaken the noble patch of earth. The dirt would be kneaded and turned then smoothed and plowed. My father would sit at the table at night and draw little maps of his rectangle world. "The corn will go here, and I think I'll rotate the tomatoes to this area," he would say. Soon the seeds were carefully planted, fed, and watered. The tomatoes he had started and nurtured in his coldframe would be moved to their assigned locations. And the garden would begin to bloom again.

In later years, I never lost the awe as I walked down the garden's center path, and admire its rich bounty exploding from the ground year after year. I parallel The garden's cycles with my own life. And ultimately, I parallel it with the entire universe. Like the garden, there is no beginning or end; there is only the next step.