At the Meijer store in Oxford there is sometimes a man at the checkout register with no left arm. The first time I went through his checkout, I, of course, noticed the absence of said appendage, but said nothing.
Dave Kalmanir’s as quick a checker-outer as anyone, has a fine personality and obviously a hard worker.
The second time through his line a few days later, I think my seldom-used reporter instinct took over. I blurted, ‘Did you lose your arm, or is it a birth thing??
His response was immediate, ‘Oh, I know where it is!?
I watched his face, as it showed that ‘I gotcha!? look. He said it happened 13 years ago, adding, ‘You liked that one, eh??
I love being ‘got? like that. Later another employee told me something else that shows Dave’s sense of humor. He commented to a fellow worker when another one-armed man passed by, ‘Copycat!?
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There’s probably a million books on dogs, and I’ve read none of them. I’m going to write about ma’dog Shayna now, and you have the choice to do to this as I’ve done to other writers about dogs.
Shayna is a shepherd-husky mix, putting her into the too-big-to-sleep-in-a-small-hall-and-allow-human-passage category. My fault, of course, I put a dog-friendly, oval throw rug there.
She has one habit I like. She won’t kiss (lick) my lips. That’s especially welcome, when I think of how big her tongue is.
I should have paid more attention to her during her paid-for dog training. I think I would have noticed her dyslexia. When I call her, she sometimes hears it as ‘fetch.?
When I call her from her left side she turns her head to the right. ‘Sit? means ‘not here,? Lie down is only obeyed when she’s in my path, and ‘settle? makes her head for the door.
Though the Dalai Lama and Pope Benedict XVI had great messages, even for dogs, Shayna wouldn’t listen. She also won’t watch any sports, newscasts, reality shows or even the Westminster Dog Show. Heck, I won’t watch a reality show either.
These days, with the frost out of the ground, Shayna is especially busy either trying to find stuff she buried in the snow, or burying current bones. One of my flower plots is her favorite burial ground. I’m sure they are planted right where I’m planting a geranium.
One place where there is no dyslexia is when I’m eating. She sits by my side, watching every chew and serving, begging and hoping. She’s more attentive at this time than any of our three kids ever were, more interested, more concerned, ever anxious to volunteer to clean my plate.
She’ll clean a Caesar salad bowl, eat apple pie crusts, pickle bologna, cooked asparagus, baked potato peels and spaghetti, but sometimes leaves her dog food three days before eating it.
Generally she’ll circle a resting spot two or three times before lying down. But, when she joins me in the bathroom, one circle and she’s gone. I hope my next dog hasn’t got dyslexia and is more sensitive to my feelings.
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Recently I dialed my grandson, Dan, at Michigan State. A man answered. I said, ‘Hello, Dan?? The man asked, ‘Who are you calling?? ‘My grandson, Dan.?
The man said, ‘You’ve reached the Department of Corrections.? I responded, ‘Well, he could be there sometime,? and we both chuckled. Since then I’ve thought of a million better responses, like, ‘Yeah, well, put him on.?