A year later and nothing's changed. (Well, that's not exactly true. They've gotten worse!)

Once in awhile, I go back in the Dada's Dally archives. Sometimes in search of something I wrote earlier I want to reread to refresh my mind. The archives attic is a place littered with all sorts of blogs. The one that follows is one I tripped over and, after reading it a year later, much of the same shit is going down.

The occasion that inspired that blog I titled, "Making a life in the shade of the wreck that is now America," was a visit to our vet with our very ill greyhound, Pony. Pony left us a few days later and now, nearly a year after her departure, I reflect on the state of the union and unlike Pony's condition, which is now better, the nation's continues to deteriorate.

So pardon my redundancy if I indulge a repeat from a year ago. I have one more I plan to also republish on these pages in a few days. It has to do with a Memorial Day from many, many years ago. But it's filled with pleasant reveries, unlike the one that follows.

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Making a life in the shade of the wreck that is now America

reprinted from May 2006

I'd love to take credit for the today's blog title but it's a paraphrase of Arundhati Roy's, "they fashion a childhood for themselves in the shade of the wreck that is their family." It's from her novel, "The God of Small Things."

But I couldn't help feel we're doing our best, all of us, making lives in the shade of this wreck as I glance around the veterinary clinic's waiting room. My wife remarks softly how there's nothing sadder than the sound of a sick cat. I nod. She says it so its owner can't hear her over kitty's mornful, human-like cries coming from inside a carrying cage.

Our greyhound Pony, depressingly ill for days at home, now stands as erect, alert and as far from us as the taut leash we've given her will allow. She's cured! Or so she would have us believe.

Of the four dogs we've had, Pony's the only one who loves coming to vet's. Despite knowing the pain and discomforts the vet is capable of dispensing.

It's moments like these that remind us why we picked ol Po' out of the herd the first time we saw her. Extremely amiable, aloof, quirky and very 'kick ass'. These were characteristics we detected she possessed--if she felt like it. And then there was the mysterious piece of missing ear she'd left somewhere in Arizona.

A small dog appears at the check-in counter and suddenly Pony is now a doberman. She's barking with ferocity. Back at the house, as a greyhound, Pony's a mute. She doesn't know how to bark. But here with a dog one fifth her size, Pony becomes 'kick-ass'. Moments later a tech appears and takes Po' back for X-rays.

As we wait, a young woman comes in and sits across from us. Her pup, an eager learner, already hates this place. He sits at her feet. I watch as he gets up, moves closer, and resits. He's leaning against her now. We remark something of his cuteness. She responds disinterested.

Not taking her hint, we ask what kind of dog he is. She says with less indifference he's an old English bulldog. We hate bulldogs, but without the horrific bulldog underbite, he's able to close his mouth without teeth showing. He even breathes without sounding like a dying asthmatic. His expressions are almost human. We like this little guy.

We learn he belongs to this woman's 11 year old daughter. She explains he's extra edgy, having missed his breakfast. Knowing that fasting is often a prelude to some kind of invasive procedure, we ask, and learn today he's getting fixed. I say something like, "When he awakens, he'll be missing more than his breakfast."

By now the woman has become quite affable. It seems like we've known her more than five minutes. Maybe more like ten or fifteen, when suddenly she sobers the three of us up with the news that later this summer her husband's going to Iraq. It'll be his second tour.

My wife says she is so sorry. The pretty young woman says she is too. And then she and her dog are gone, the dog to lose his testicles, the young woman to lose her husband. We hope the the latter returns.

Just another day in the shade of the wreck.