Prettige Kerstdagen!

Where in the world is Planet Bill? What does Prettige Kerstdagen mean? The questions will be (briefly) answered right away.
Prettige Kerstdagen means pleasant or merry Christmas in Dutch, and Planet Bill has temporarily relocated to Amsterdam. I have my trusty camera with me, but will have to wait until my return to the states before I post them for you.
I had a unplanned, unexpected opportunity to make a swell little visit to my friend, Suzanne, and took a flight to Amsterdam Monday. It's cold here! We arrived yesterday at mid-day, and spent the day relaxing at home, and this morning I am going with Suzanne to her shop in the Oud West section of the city.
I accompanied David, who is moving here with his two cats, Brenda & JJ. The cats traveled well, if reluctantly, and slept at our feet during the night flight. We all had to wait at Dulles for a few extra hours before departing for a replacement aircraft. Something about the original plane's toilets exploding or catching fire or somesuch. Once we got under way, the flight was quite pleasant, with minimum turbulence or squalling babies. The cats were models of composure, showing remarkable forbearance for spending over half a days time in travel carriers.
Stay tuned...more to follow!

Call of the Wild

I just had to show you this picture of Sheldon's cat, Sassy.
You know how some cats simply love people, greet visitors at the door, hang out with them and make them feel welcome? Well, that's not Sassy.

Cats, like dogs and people, have unique personalities. Sassy's clearly says "Feed me or go away." She will allow me to give her a couple of strokes, and then she moves a few feet closer to her food bowl. If I pet her too much, she starts breathing heavily - huffing, in other words - and this means that she's getting ready to break into a full-blown hiss.

I'm a frequent guest at Sheldon's place, so Sassy has grown to tolerate me. Sometimes, if she isn't napping, she will greet me at the door and let me pet her for a few moments. I think she actually likes me in her own peculiar way. Nana (Sheldon's mom) and I seem to be within Sassy's Periphery of Tolerable Things, but I suspect because we are both viewed as Possible Food Sources. I have taken care of Sassy when Sheldon's been out of town, and as soon as we've exchanged pleasantries and I've filled her food bowl, Sassy gives me that "Don't let the door hit you on your way out" look.

I asked Sheldon if, when the two of them are there alone, Sassy shows her tender side and curls up on his lap. Sheldon says that doesn't happen, but she will sometimes sit on the arm of his chair while he's watching television. She won't even curl up next to him in bed, although she will lay at his feet if there are enough sheets & blankets separating his bare skin from her fur. This makes me feel like less of a pariah.

Sassy has a flawed sense of spatial relationships. It's fun to watch her try to stuff her fat self into an empty cereal box. She's mad about empty cereal boxes and paper bags. She also likes the little catnip-filled pillow that she got for Christmas. Lately, when I've visited Sheldon, this catnip toy can be found somewhere on the dining room floor, soggy from a round of vigorous chewing. Sassy also got a fancy new food bowl for Christmas; stainless steel with fashionable orange bands around the perimeter.

Sheldon loves Sassy, and I have to admit that I do, too. She's true to her self.

That Darned Dog!

I got another amusing story in my mailbox from my cousin Shelley in Iowa. I'll include it below, but it made me think of a couple of dogs I used to share living space with in my younger days. Before I share my recollections of Ivy and Calpurnia, here's the story Shelley sent me.

Jasper and the Unbaked Yeast Rolls

We have a fox terrier by the name of Jasper. He came to us in the summer of 2001 from the fox terrier rescue program. For those of you, who are unfamiliar with this type of adoption, imagine taking in a 10 year old child about whom you know nothing and committing to doing your best to be a good parent.

Like a child, the dog came with his own idiosyncrasies. He will only sleep on the bed, on top of the covers, nuzzled as close to my face as he can get without actually performing a French kiss on me. Lest you think this is a bad case of 'no discipline,' I should tell you that Perry and I tried every means to break him of this habit including locking him in a separate bedroom for several nights. The new door cost over $200. But I digress.

Five weeks ago we began remodeling our house. Although the cost of the project is downright obnoxious, it was 20 years overdue AND it got me out of cooking Thanksgiving for family, extended family, and a lot of friends that I like more than family most of the time. I was assigned the task of preparing 124 of my famous yeast dinner rolls for the two Thanksgiving feasts we did attend. I am still cursing the electrician for getting the new oven hooked up so quickly. It was the only appliance in the whole darn house that worked, thus the assignment.

I made the decision to cook the rolls on Wed evening to reheat Thurs am. Since the kitchen was freshly painted, you can imagine the odor. Not wanting the rolls to smell like Sherwin Williams #586, I put the rolls on baking sheets and set them in the living room to rise for a few hours. Perry and I decided to go out to eat, returning in about an hour. The rolls were ready to go in the oven. It was 8:30 PM.

When I went to the living room to retrieve the pans, much to my shock one whole pan of 12 rolls was empty. I called out to Jasper and my worst nightmare became a reality. He literally wobbled over to me. He looked like a combination of the Pillsbury dough boy and the Michelin Tire man wrapped up in fur. He groaned when he walked. I swear even his cheeks were bloated.

I ran to the phone and called our vet. After a few seconds of uproarious laughter, he told me the dog would probably be OK, however, I needed to give him Pepto Bismol every 2 hours for the rest of the night. God only knows why I thought a dog would like Pepto Bismol any more than my kids did when they were sick. Suffice it to say that by the time we went to bed the dog was black, white and pink. He was so bloated we had to lift him onto the bed for the night.

We arose at 7:30 and as we always do first thing; put the dog out to relieve
himself. Well, the dog was as drunk as a sailor on his first leave. He was running into walls, falling flat on his butt and most of the time when he was walking his front half was going one direction and the other half was either dragging the grass or headed 90 degrees in another direction. He couldn't lift his leg to pee, so he would just walk and pee at the same time. When he ran down the small incline in our back yard he couldn't stop himself and nearly ended up running into the fence. His pupils were dilated and he was as dizzy as a loon.

I endured another few seconds of laughter from the vet (second call within 12 hours) before he explained that the yeast had fermented in his belly and that he was indeed drunk. He assured me that, not unlike most binges we humans go through, it would wear off after about 4 or 5 hours and to keep giving him Pepto Bismol. Afraid to leave him by himself in the house, Perry and I loaded him up and took him with us to my sister's house for the first Thanksgiving meal of the day.

My sister lives outside of Muskogee on a ranch, (10 to 15 minute drive). Rolls firmly secured in the trunk (124 less 12) and drunk dog leaning from the back seat onto the console of the car between Perry and I, we took off. Now I know you probably don't believe that dogs burp, but believe me when I say that after eating a tray of risen unbaked yeast rolls, DOGS WILL BURP. These burps were pure Old Charter. They would have matched or beat any smell in a drunk tank at the police station. But that's not the worst of it. Now he was beginning to fart and they smelled like baked rolls. God strike me dead if I am not telling the truth! We endured this for the entire trip to Karen's, thankful she didn't live any further away than she did.

Once Jasper was firmly placed in my sister's garage with the door locked, we finally sat down to enjoy our first Thanksgiving meal of the day. The dog was the topic of conversation all morning long and everyone made trips to the garage to witness my drunken dog, each returning with a tale of Jasper's latest endeavor to walk without running into something. Of course, as the old adage goes, 'what goes in must come out' and Jasper was no exception.

Granted if it had been me that had eaten 12 risen, unbaked yeast rolls, you might as well have put a concrete block up my behind, but alas a dog's digestive system is quite different from yours or mine. I discovered this was a
mixed blessing when we prepared to leave Karen's house.

Having discovered his 'packages' on the garage floor, we loaded him up in the car so we could hose down the floor. This was another naive decision on our part. The blast of water from the hose hit the poop on the floor and the poop on the floor withstood the blast from the hose. It was like Portland cement beginning to set up and cure. We finally tried to remove it with a shovel. I (obviously no one else was going to offer their
services) had to get on my hands and knees with a coarse brush to get the remnants off of the floor. And as if this wasn't degrading enough, the darn dog in his drunken state had walked through the poop and left paw prints all over the garage floor that had to be brushed too.

Well, by this time the dog was sobering up nicely so we took him home and dropped him off before we left for our second Thanksgiving dinner at Perry's sister's house. I am happy to report that as of today (Monday) the dog is back to normal both in size and temperament. He has had a bath and is no longer tricolor. None the worse for wear I presume. I am also happy to report that just this evening I found 2 risen unbaked yeast rolls hidden inside my closet door. It appears he must have come to his senses after eating 10 of them but decided hiding 2 of them for later would not be a bad idea. Now, I'm doing research on the computer as to: 'How to clean unbaked dough from the carpet.'

I had a dog when I was growing up, and Pebbles was a bright and cheerful companion. Other dogs I've encountered, though, rarely live up to the standards set by my dog, Lassie, or Old Yeller. Take Ivy or Calpurnia, for example.

When I lived with Virginia on Oregon Hill in the mid-80's, one of her friends brought her new puppy over and convinced Virginia to assume ownership. The pup was a little Black Lab, and I suggested the name Calpurnia (not Caesar's wife, but the no-nonsense maid in To Kill a Mockingbird). The sweet, little puppy soon grew into her huge paws, and indiscriminately ate everything she could.

When Christmas came, we decided to decorate a live tree, and I hauled out my collection of hand-blown glass ornaments from Germany. They were quite special, and they had cost a lot. Each one was unique, and they looked great on our tree. One morning I met up with Virginia in the kitchen. As a police officer, she worked some strange shifts, so we hadn't seen each other in a few days.

"So what do you think of our tree?" Virginia asked.
"I love it. I'm glad we put one up," I answered.

"Have you looked at it closely lately? No? Come here. Notice anything?" I honestly didn't see anything unusual. It was still standing; that was a plus in a house with two cats, and a dog who could clear the top of the coffee table with her tail. "Look carefully at the bottom branches. Do they seem to be missing anything?"

Why, yes, they did. Most of my glass ornaments and the tree lights, in fact. Calpurnia had been spending her days munching away at anything she could reach on the tree. She loved the taste and crunch of those ornaments and glass lightbulbs. And she never seemed any worse for the wear, either. The glass was no match for Cal's digestive system.

Just a few years earlier, I shared a house (hovel, actually) with three other guys on Ellwood Avenue. It was my first home away from home, other than the college dorm. My roommate Danny had a Springer Spaniel named Ivy who was as dumb as a box of rocks. Sweet, but stupid, bless his heart.

Another roommate, Clay, found some string trailing out of his bedroom one morning. He couldn't imagine why it was there, so he picked it up, winding it around his hand as he followed the trail. The string seemed dirty and used, and Clay wondered who'd left it strung all over the upstairs of the house.

He tried tugging on it to wind it in, but it was caught on something around a corner, so he kept walking and winding, only to discover when he turned the corner that the string disappeared into Ivy's butt.

Dogs will just eat any old thing. Cats are much more sensible when it comes to their diet.

Cats and Coons

I had an interesting telephone conversation with my buddy Sheldon this evening. Sheldon has lived in his house for about twenty years, and he takes an evening walk around his neighborhood when he isn't working. I've walked with him a few times, and most of the neighborhood cats dash out to greet him when they see him coming. Sheldon knows them by name, and he spends a couple of moments with each one catching up on current events.

Pete the Cat lives at one of the houses that Sheldon passes on his walk. Pete's house has a large tree in the yard, and there are two or three raccoons that live in the tree. Pete's owners put food for their cat out on the front porch, and they have told Sheldon that they've seen Pete and the raccoons sitting side by side eating from time to time.

During our phone conversation, Sheldon told me that as he was walking by, he saw a raccoon on the porch of this house near the food bowl. The raccoon picked up the bowl of cat food with its front paws, and walked upright off the porch and down the side of the house, carefully holding the bowl. The raccoon stopped about midway along the side of the house, set the bowl down and ate a couple of bites, and then picked the bowl back up and continued around the corner to the back of the house.

Sheldon said he wondered whether the homeowners came out the next day and thought "Now, how in the hell did Pete carry that bowl into the backyard?"

This story made me recall a couple of things. First, I thought of my pet raccoon, Jake, who lived in a raised hutch in our backyard. I used to love to watch him eat, because he was so dextrous with his little black hands (paws, I know). He would daintily pick up each bite of food and dip it in his water bowl before he put it in his mouth. His fur was very coarse, and he didn't like to be petted like a cat or a dog; he liked to be stroked from the back to the front.

I also thought about the documentary, Grey Gardens, specifically the scene where Little Edie takes plates of food up to the attic to feed the raccoons that come in through the holes in the roof. Grey Gardens concerns the lives and living conditions of Edith ("Big Edie") Bouvier Beale and her daughter, "Little Edie" Beale in their crumbling and squalid East Hampton mansion in the early 1970's. It's a bizarre film, especially since it's a true story. If you haven't experienced it, you must see it.

p.s. keep your pets away from wild animals!


more cat pictures

Fake Post

Okay, I'm going to cheat, and I'll be candid about it. Here's why: I need to leave soon for my regular Tuesday evening AA meeting, so I don't have time to craft a new, sparkling post. It also occurs to me that, although a few of you have been landing on Planet Bill for a long time, most of you have only recently started exploring my corner of the galaxy. Roaming through the archives can be hit-or-miss, so I'm going to pull out a few things for your convenience.

I've been feeling very good lately. This coming Monday will mark one year of sobriety for me. I know that, as long as I do what I have been doing for the past 350+ days, I will meet that mark. To get a little idea of what a difference these days, weeks, and months have meant to me, you can click here to zoom to my first Planet Bill post. When I read this post, I am extra-grateful to be where I am today on my journey. Also, here's a post that was printed in my area's AA newsletter.

Many of my posts have been about my childhood. I am thankful that I had such wonderful parents, and that my life was generally happy and carefree. If you are curious about how I ended up with a Po' White Trash version of a traditional treehouse, this will answer your questions. I spent many happy hours in and under my treehouse, usually in the company of my faithful dog, Pebbles. You can get to know her right here. Pebbles wasn't my only pet, but she did survive my stewardship the longest. There were quite a few others that passed through my careless little hands.

My childhood wasn't all fun and games. Life has its bumps, and during the past year I've come to understand that a couple of these changed my view of the world and how I relate to other people. Growing up in a nice neighborhood with loving parents doesn't preclude unpleasant experiences. If you click here and here, you can read about a couple of the rough spots. The good news is I'm okay today with everything.

I mention my family in my posts. I would be honored if you would read about my remarkable but humble father, my irrespressible grandmother, and my favorite aunt. They all had a lot to do with making me the man I am today, God bless them. My mother has her own companion blog of her daily diaries (the link is on the right column), and I thank her for my love of books and reading.

Oops, I'm running short on time, but I've given you more than enough to occupy some time - and, perhaps, put you gently to sleep. Blogging has turned out to be a fulfilling activity for me over the past months. Not only have I been able to make important discoveries about myself, I have found a network of talented, wonderful fellow bloggers. I always look forward to reading about you. When you are sad, I pray for you. When you are happy, it makes me smile. Thanks for sharing your world with me, and you have an open invitation to visit Planet Bill whenever you can.

Pebbles - Yabba Dabba Doo!

The Flintstones hit my parents' living room in September 1960, the first animated television show aired during primetime. Inspired by The Honeymooners, the Flintstone family was a step up economically from the Kramdens, owning their own home in the town of Bedrock. During the second season, Fred and Wilma welcomed a little prehistoric girl named Pebbles to their family. (side note: when Wilma became pregnant, Winston cigarettes stopped sponsoring the show...I guess it was okay to smoke, but not okay to have babies)

My parents added a beagle puppy to our family when I was four or five, and I named her Pebbles. Children's worlds are fairly small in scope at the age of five, so I named the pup after one of my favorite TV characters, just as I had named my first cat George after the neighbor who gave me the kitty. Pebbles grew into a stout, friendly dog who loved her Gainsburgers, and only barked when something alarmed her. She did not like to be watched when she ate, and would look at me reproachfully with expressive brown eyes if I hovered around her food bowl at mealtime. A polite, neighborly dog, she never jumped up on people or licked faces.

Pebbles lived outdoors, and my dad made her a doghouse by cutting a half-moon in the lid of a metal barrel which we lined with pine needles. Sometimes I would crawl inside her cozy home with her. Her house was placed near the garage door so Pebbles could monitor our comings and goings.

Pebbles was a wonderful companion, and we enjoyed exploring the neighborhood together and hanging out in my treehouse. When I graduated to riding a bicycle, Pebbles would run alongside me with her ears flapping. Wherever I went, she wanted to follow. On schooldays she would accompany me to the bus stop, and she would be there waiting for me when the bus brought me home. Not that she stayed there all day. She was a busy dog, and she had things to do. Her daily routine started well before mine did. While I was still slumbering, she made sure that our neighbor Mr. Paul made it to his carpool around the corner each morning, and she was there like clockwork at the end of his workday. She greeted my dad when he drove home from work, and the hours in between these arrivals and departures were spent guarding our home and hunting rabbits.

In the 60's the chain-link fence reined supreme and provided many a suburban homeowner a metal moat to protect his castle. The yards in our neighborhood were a minimum of one acre in size, and some folks were persnickety about their lawns. Fences kept dogs and neighborhood children on the outside looking in. Unless you were Pebbles. We could not figure out why Pebbles returned home from time to time with one of her front toenails yanked out. Another neighbor, Mr. Guthrie, solved the mystery for us when he told us about working in his fenced-in yard one day when Pebbles trotted up to say hello. We couldn't believe it at first, but this short, fat dog taught herself to climb fences. Occasionally a toenail would get caught in the fence. Fortunately, Pebbles had established herself as the neighborhood ambassador, so no one really minded her visits.

Although Pebbles rarely barked or made any fuss, there was one notable exception. One winter night, when my grandparents were visiting us from Iowa, my grandpa had a fatal heart attack in our living room. Pebbles was outside, with no apparent way of knowing the distress inside our home, yet she howled and howled. It was an eerie sound on that cold night. This is the only time she seemed perceptive of death; when our neighbor Mr. Paul died, Pebbles was bewildered and still showed up faithfully at his house each morning to walk him to his carpool.

Pebbles never overcame her fear of explosive noises or thunderstorms. Since my dad blew things up for the U.S. Navy, this made life hard for Pebbles. We always had firecrackers and M-80's handy for entertainment. New Year's Eve and the Fourth of July were trying times for my dog. We knew when a storm was brewing, because Pebbles would partially wedge her chubby body behind the washing machine in the garage. She was more accurate than the weatherman or a barometer.

This fear of storms would be her undoing. During the summer before I went away to college, my folks and I went on a three-week vacation. Pebbles had a gray muzzle by this time, and her ability to see and hear were diminished by old age. Our next-door neighbors took care of Pebbles and our house while we were gone, but they were away when an afternoon storm blew in the day before we got back from our trip. Pebbles could not get to her safe place behind the washing machine, and she tried to run to a friend's house in a nearby neighborhood. It was rush hour, and a four-lane highway separated Pebbles from safety. She was struck by a car. The driver did not stop, but a kind stranger did and took her to the vet. She lived long enough for me to say good-bye, and greeted me with a grateful whimper when we got to the vet's clinic. A part of my heart and my childhood tore away that moment.

Funny, I didn't expect my eyes to dampen when I wrote this. I can still picture Pebbles in the yard at my feet, grinning and looking up at me with those brown eyes, ready for our next adventure. She was everything we want in a friend: faithful, accepting, protective, comforting, funny, and - above all - loving.

Pebbles & me in our backyard in front of an apple tree. Our grape arbor is visible in the background.

All Creatures, Furry and Scaly

Like many kids growing up in the suburbs in the 60's, I had a collection of pets. My dog, Pebbles, was in for the long haul, and others had cameo appearances. Pebbles rolled her eyes at each new pet, and if it happened to be a kitten, she borrowed from Dorothy Parker and muttered "What fresh Hell is this?" under her doggy breath.


I was an EEO animal owner, and my parade of pets included a bird, various cats (George, Samantha, Sallie Egg, Zebulon, Alexander, and Mildred to name a few), five hamsters, a raccoon, a fish, a bunny rabbit, and countless snakes, toads, and turtles.


My dad was in the Navy, and was on the UDT/SEAL team. This gang of exuberant loons was located by design in a private fenced-off compound toward the edge of the base near some piney woods in case they got too frisky with their explosives. One day my dad came home from work and placed a container on the driveway. It looked like a very tall, fat, olive-green soup can, and had probably held a mortar shell before my dad put the snake in it. "Bill, this is a pine snake. It's not poisonous, but it's wild and it might bite you when you pick it up. Be very careful when you reach in this can, because the edges are really sharp." I looked up at my dad and blinked, then promptly walked over to the can and ran my thumb along the sharp edge. Sure enough, it sliced my thumb wide open. My dad just closed his eyes, shook his head, and went into the house for a cocktail.


I was too excited about my new snake to worry about a bloody thumb or a snake bite (it did), and I decided that such a beautiful, splendid snake needed a more handsome home than an old bomb can. I quickly rustled up a wooden box, and with all the passion of someone who would later consider becoming an interior decorator, proceeded to transform the splintery box into a home fit for a king snake. I placed strewn grass on the bottom of the box along with a couple of small toys, added a container of water, and artfully placed a small tree branch against the inner side of the box. Once I got the snake settled into his new digs, I scampered off to find some food for him. When I returned a few moments later, the snake was gone. I looked high and low, but finally had to admit to myself that this snake did not appreciate his lovely new home and would not be back. Dang, I didn't even have time to name him. I went inside to pout and whine about the snake and my thumb (which had suddenly decided to throb). When I complained bitterly about the ingratitude of snakes, my dad just grinned.


I really loved cats, but I treated them terribly when I was little. I wasn't being deliberately mean; I just wanted to be a cat, and I envied their ability to fit into places I couldn't. I would mash them behind the pump, into holes, and up thorny trees, waiting for them to come out and tell me what they saw back there, in there, or up there. It didn't take any of them long to learn to stay put wherever I had shoved them, and out-wait me. They knew I'd get bored soon enough and wander off, and it would be safe for them to emerge while I was elsewhere creating more havoc.


I'd like to say that pet ownership taught me responsibility, but I'd be lying. The novelty of feeding them wore off after a couple of days. My parents knew that unless they wanted our household pets to look like the soulful-eyed schlock-art paintings of alley kittens and trashcan puppies that were so popular at the time, they would have to take over administering food and water. I did learn that bites and scratches heal, and that pets love you and usually want to be around you, even when your friends don't.


Some pets were more memorable than others. I can't remember even one of the hamsters' names, but they just slept all the time anyway. My long-suffering beagle, Pebbles, deserves her own blog entry, so maybe I'll work on that soon. In the meantime, I think I'll go slice my thumb open on some raw tin for old times sake.