November 10, 2010 @ 08:59
Today With Craig And Matt
Hockey Night In Peterborough
January 6, 2010 @ 08:38
Looking forward to last night's hockey game, I decided to seek some atmosphere so I wandered over to Champs Sports Bar in the trendy (for Peterborough) Charlotte Mews area.
I was joined by a couple of Wolf buddies, morning man TJ Connors and production wizard Ryan Lalonde.
We got a decent table not far from the large projection screen, but far enough to be separated by a table that featured a couple of Milfs. (They received this designation from TJ and Ryan)
Anyway, in order to watch the game I had to have this one particular woman in my sight lines and it was interesting to see her sobriety decline as the night went along. At first she appeared to be proper and polite, but as she continued to pound the ales she became louder and more animated with her body movements.
I think it was somewhere around the middle of the second period that she started to wave her arms and let out the odd "wahoo" while doing just about everything but watch the game.
At one point, without the assistance of music, she started to "sit dance". You know, when someone remains seated but dances in their chair from the waist up. I hate it, and I really hated her doing it, but eventually I cut her some slack because it turns out she had a broken foot.
She wore a cast.
At one point during one of her seat dancing sessions she leaned forward and I caught a glimpse of her thong. It wasn't one of those moments that takes your breath away, rather it was one of those moments that takes your virility away.
The thong was one of those really stringy things that rode up very high on her hips, and it was obvious the part that cupped her "va hoo hoo" was also rather slim.
The thong appeared to be old, and yellow in colour with black faces on it. The opposite of smiley faces. I don't know if there's a term for smiley faces with the smile turned upside down, but that's what she sported and I wasn't surprised because I'd have a scowl on my face too if I had to engage that ars.
As the game wore on, she became measurably more aggravating and during overtime, she stood up on her broken foot a couple of times and blocked the screen.
Now I ask you, do you think Freddie P. was happy at this point? Far fuckin' from it, and it didn't help that as she stood up her jeans were extremely low cut and the thong continued to ride high in a crooked and awkward fashion.
I was almost happy when Team USA scored in overtime to end this madness. Team Canada didn't deserve to win and I didn't deserve to be exposed to the sideshow in front of me.
But it got worse. Right after Team USA scored the winner a slender woman from the back of the room ran up to "thong lady" and lifted her shirt, sweater and bra and exposed her perky boobs with rather large areolas. This prompted thong woman to do the same, exposing her "better than I thought they'd be boobs" to the entire bar. And it wasn't a brief glimpse. She stood there and gyrated her hips in classic peeler fashion.
I shook my head in disbelief. A Tuesday night in a local down to earth sports bar, Team Canada had just lost the World Juniors and this was taking place in front of me.
But there's more.
After covering up, the two women in question, not six feet in front of me, started to have a conversation and while slight and perky stood there, thong woman reached out and started to rub her friend's reproductive area.
No kidding. As they talked, hop-along Sue was caressing the inside of the other women's thighs and then deliberately sliding her hand up and rubbing her love patch... and she spent quite a bit of time there.
Needless to say, a good portion of the fellas that were in the area enjoyed what they saw and started hootin' and hollerin' but I was quite different and it was at this point I realized that I must be getting old.
I like lesbo stuff just as much as the next guy, and there was a time that such a show, even with two-bit players would have revved my engine to some degree.
Not this time, I lost my patience, and screamed for them to sit down so I could watch Sportscentre.
You've gotta love Peterborough.
November 28, 2009 @ 01:49
What a drag. Most of the past 24 hours of my life have been spent dealing with a fishbone. Let me explain.
A couple of weeks back my good buddy Darren who's the promotion and marketing wizard at Q-107 invited me to see Steely Dan at Massey Hall.
We would see their presentation of "The Royal Scam" but before hand we'd go somewhere for dinner and catch up on a few things.
We ended up at a little Portuguese place on Elm Street called Adega and as we usually do, we got adventurous with menu and ended up sharing an entire grilled octopus and a European sea bass. We started with appetizers of grilled calamari.
Everything was great but the sea bass was boney as hell. It came as the complete fish, head and everything which meant the young waiter who served us had to de-bone the bastard.
Well, let me tell ya, when you order sea bass don't be fooled by the de-boning process because its still filled with lots of tiny slivers of bone and although I was very careful, one of them slipped through and went down my gullet.
It was one of those weird moments in your life. You're sitting there having a pleasant time and all of a sudden you know something is wrong. As the bone went down my throat my mind started to race. My eyes watered a bit while it scraped the sides of my esophagus and I immediately started to "will" it into my stomach.
In those few short seconds I imagined it getting caught in the wrong place and causing me to choke at the table. I would turn pink, then red and then blue while Darren dove across the table in a valiant attempt to save his doughy little friend.
Darren would scream for someone to call 911 while I slowly lost consciousness hoping that someone, anyone, maybe a doctor in the house would know the Heimlich maneuver and save my life.
So what if I expelled everything that I had consumed in the last half hour and ruined the dinners of all those around us, so what if there was beer, bones, bread and bile all over the floors and walls around us, I would live. My last moments of life wouldn't be spent with an octopus, a sea bass and a women at the next table who was showing way too much cleavage for her age.
Shit, I hadn't even seen the concert yet.
As turned out it wasn't that dramatic. It didn't feel the bone made it into my stomach, it seemed to stop somewhere near the bottom of my throat and although it felt uncomfortable it wasn't going to kill me, not yet anyway.
When the young waiter came back to the table I brought the situation to his attention and he really didn't have a solution but told me he'd ask the manager for any bone-in-throat remedies.
He came back with a big pile of mashed potatoes and told me to take big scoops and swallow them and the bone should go down.
I did, but it didn't. It was still rather uncomfortable while we sipped cappuccinos and cognacs and I was still pre-occupied with the sea bastard that was trying very hard to ruin my evening.
I kept swallowing hard while we walked down Yonge Street. I couldn't tell whether the bone was lodged in my throat or whether it had just scraped the walls on the way down. Either way, every time I swallowed, it felt like a large lump.
As we approached Eggspectations at Shuter St., Darren decided he had to have a dump, something he does like clock work after every meal. I thought I'd go in with him and have a leak but the washroom was small with only one toilet and one pisser.
Not wanting to listen to him bust a gut I decided to pass on the piss and I went back out into the hall, and that's when it happened. Something triggered my gag reflex so I turned around and for some reason went into the women's washroom rather than the men's.
Luckily there was nobody in there to witness by my heaving and gagging and subsequent load of discolored phlegm that was deposited into the garbage pail. My mind started to race again, I was afraid the octopus and sea bastard would try and come up, but not be able to get out because of the bone that might be lodged in my throat.
Perfect I thought, I'm going to die in the basement of Eggspectations. How classy is that? The only upside is that I'd die not far from some of the greatest moments of my life, near the Edge studios at 228 Yonge.
It didn't get that dramatic. After heaving a few times things settled down and I convinced myself that the bone was no longer in my throat, it was somewhere in the garbage pail. I sprinkled some water on my face, had a whiz in the women's toilet, washed my hands and proceeded to the concert.
The concert was great. Except for some big fat fuck with a bald head and pony tail dancing like an idiot in the aisles, it was everything I hoped for and more. Although it still hurt when I swallowed, the sea bastard did not ruin my Steely Dan experience.
It wasn't until I got home and lied down that things changed. I quickly convinced myself the bone was still there and that if I fell asleep it might go sideways and kill me. Although this scenario was a little more attractive, expiring in my own bed beside my wife, I still didn't want to die so I got up at two o'clock in the morning and drove myself to emergency where I underwent some inconclusive ex-rays.
The doctor told me he didn't think there was anything lodged in my throat but the only way to make sure was to come back in the morning for a cat-scan. I quickly reminded him that it was already morning, like five o'clock in the morning, so he apologized and recommended I come back "later" in the morning, which I did.
To make a long story short I went back at eleven o'clock and had a cat-scan at 11:30, but it was four o'clock in the afternoon before I finally got the results. For some reason it took that long for a doctor to have a look and tell me there was no obstruction in my throat.
I felt like leaving a few times during the wait, but again, I was worried that there might be something in there and I had to make a stop on the way home for some batteries and I didn't want to die in a Dollarama.
With a clean bill of health I left the hospital and to celebrate on the way home I bought a big order of jerk pork, no bones, and a case of beer.
But not before calling Darren to let him know everything that had transpired in the past several hours. He laughed his bag off and made a shrewd observation.
Thin Spicy Red Sauce
September 26, 2009 @ 19:25
There's a restaurant near my tin palace in the Kawarthas. It's called the Old Bridge Inn and it's a quaint little place with a great service and a superb menu.
My wife Delyse and I paid a visit recently and were directed to a small table for two that was up against a dry wall divider that had a table immediately on the other side. The divider was just the length of the tables so the gentleman next to me was in view, maybe two feet away.
I ordered the seafood linguini with red sauce and it was fabulous. Shrimp, scallops and salmon chunks in a thin spicy sauce served over pasta cooked just the way I like it.
Problem is, I'm the kind of eater what when I leave the table you know I've been there.
It doesn't matter what I eat I always leave my mark. My wife can eat the same thing and leave a table cloth spotless. I leave stains, spills and quite often saliva.
Anyway, on this particular night at the Old Bridge Inn I was quite famished so I dove into my seafood with the gusto of a starving sailor and it wasn't long before my wife made an observation.
The drywall divider was splattered quite generously with thin spicy red sauce from by seafood linguini. It was something to see. Splashes directly on the level of my mouth would have been easy to understand, but some of these splashes were a good two feet above my head. Boy oh boy, was I ever enjoying this meal.
The sauce was thin enough that while I was twirling the linguini on my fork sauce was flying off against the wall. Sometimes while I was lifting it to my mouth portions would fall back onto the plate explaining the higher splashes.
Needless to say I was embarrassed, not quite as embarrassed as Delyse of course, but embarrassed just the same, and embarrassed to the point that I quickly grabbed a napkin and started to scrub the wall.
Not only did this make Delyse more embarrassed but it created more of a mess than I started with.
Stop, said my sweet wife, don't worry about it. Just leave it alone, which I did.
At that point I plowed back into my meal but it wasn't long before I was horrified to see further results of my vigorous eating habits.
It was the guy next to me. I happened to glance over and the entire sleeve of his dress shirt was spotted with thin spicy red sauce. What hadn't been flung against the divider had leaped two feet and found his shirt.
My heart sunk. Assaulting the wall was one thing, but soiling another mans shirt was something I didn't want to deal with. What if he noticed? What if some thin spicy red sauce slapped the side of his face? How would he react?
To that moment it seemed to be OK. He was going about his business like nothing was wrong, so I was safe. I wanted to stop eating to prevent any further damage, but the linguini was too good. I dropped the fork and drank the sauce like soup while I kept looking over at buddy boy.
He noticed nothing. He smiled and chatted with his wife through dessert and cappuccinos and man oh man was I relieved when they got up and left.
It was quite the experience and if learned anything from this experience its this; restaurants shouldn't put tables so close together.
Figure it out!
Oprah's Full Of It
November 7, 2008 @ 15:46
I've been meaning to tell a story about something that happened during my trip to Michigan a couple of weeks ago, but with the American election and all, I never got around to it.
It deals with sandwiches.
There's a place in Ann Arbor and its called Zingerman's and it carries the reputation of having the best beef brisket sandwiches in America. This reputation was helped along by Oprah Winfrey who actually talked about the sandwiches on her show. My buddy Darren got the word from his lovely wife Laurie, so from the moment Darren got up on Saturday morning it was the focus of his day.
Just before noon we headed over to Zingerman's only to find a long line-up out the door and around the side of the building, but being guys who like to try new things, especially big piles of meat, we decided to stand in line and order up four sandwiches. Our other buddies Doug and Bruce waited in the car.
It took about 40 minutes to get to the front of the line where we met a young woman who took our order. At this point, it all seemed worth it, we were inside and the smell was glorious.
Admittedly, we were a little taken aback with the prices. $12.50 for a basic sandwich with a pickle. But hey, what the hell, this was Zingerman's and it must be worth it because Oprah said so.
We were was also taken aback when the young woman who took our order told us it would be another 20 minutes before we got our food.
"Pardon me?" I said.
"OK, I've got to be honest with you guys, we're really busy it'll probably be more like 25 or 30 minutes." She replied.
I was stunned. Also known as "Mr. Impatient" in my house, I had trouble gathering my thoughts as took my wallet out of my pocket and paid 25 dollars.
I should explain at this point that Darren and I split the bill for four sandwiches, but for some reason, we got separate bills for two and two. Don't ask me why, but ultimately it turned out to our benefit. Let me explain.
After paying, I started to do a slow burn. It bugged the shit out of me that they had let us line up for 40 minutes and then didn't tell us it would be another 30 minute wait after we paid.
I conveyed these thoughts to Darren who just shrugged. From there I went out to the car where Doug and Bruce were waiting and when I told them it would be another thirty minutes, they too became annoyed.
Then I got it in my head to ask for my money back, and Bruce and Doug agreed.
Well that's all I need to hear so I stormed back into the store and demanded my money back because I hadn't been sufficiently notified of the ridiculous process. With no hesitation, I was given 25 dollars back.
But there was a problem with this. Darren didn't ask for his money back and he wanted his sandwich and was quite annoyed that I would bust back into the store and get my money back without consulting him first.
"What has it accomplished? He asked. "It's a Saturday, there's a huge football game in town so I can understand a wait."
Not wanting to give an inch, which is my nature, I told him it wasn't the wait, it was the principle and if he wanted to wait for his sandwiches fine, but on principle I didn't want mine.
As it turned out the wait wasn't thirty minutes. Far from it. It was only about fifteen, so it appeared that I had invested an hour in Zimmerman's only to come away hungry.
But wait. There were two more twists to this story.
First of all, when I cancelled my half of the order the message didn't get back to the kitchen so when Darren got back to the car we discovered that there were four sandwiches in it. Bonus.
We briefly considered going back and telling the people at Zingerman's that they had made a mistake but I justified not going back by claiming they owed us at least that much for the 45 minute wait. We all agreed. Not only that, but who knows, we may have had to line up to give the sandwiches back.
At this point I went from a feeling of embarrassment to a feeling of accomplishment. Mr. Impatience had managed to get the boys half price sandwiches, but that leads to the other twist in this story.
The sandwiches were average at best. No better than you'd get at Shopsy's or Switzers or any other deli in Toronto.
Half price was definitely the correct price.
Bad Golf, Bad Ribs, Bad Eyes
February 8, 2008 @ 10:26
Indian Shores, FLA - Yesterday I wrote about a great little golf course and a superb restaurant, well today I have to do the opposite.
Hey, when you're scouting around on holidays it's often hit and miss and yesterday we missed on a couple of counts and we met Americans who can't see hockey pucks.
First of all, the golf course, it's called Mangrove Bay and it's not that far from the little gem I talked about yesterday called Cove Cay. I won't even bother to give you the directions or link it to this posting because it ain't worth it.
Mangrove Bay cost forty four bucks a round with a cart, but that's only five bucks cheaper than Cove Cay which is twice the golf course.
Mangrove Bay wasn't in the best of condition and it literally stunk on the front nine. It's in the middle of an industrial area and I swear one of the industries has to be a shit factory, or a some kind of a human waste facility.
There's a similar aroma near the Humber River when your heading along the Gardiner, although yesterday I don't know what stunk worse, the golf course or my short game.
At the best of time I can't control the distance of my pitching wedge or nine iron but yesterday I kept topping the ball and sending worm burners into the next county.
My putter let me down as well, no less than four times I had balls sit on the edge of the cup but they refused to go down. I must not live right.
And if that wasn't bad enough, on the fourth tee I went back to the cart to switch and club and fell off a little curb twisting my ankle. It wasn't too bad until I got back to the condo last night and it started to throb.
It's still sore this morning but it won't stop me from the playing final round of our trip at Dunedin Golf and Country Club, an old course that Babe Ruth once played at. It's been around since the 1820's. But don't be fooled by its glory when it comes to price, it's only fifty five bucks a round. Why else do you think we're playing it?
Last night we had a less than average meal. Me and my buddy Darren are like a couple of old bloodhounds when it comes to food.
We left Mangrove yesterday and headed for PJ's Oyster Bar. It was going to be a safe a classic dinner of Oysters and King Crab Legs. We were hungry and when you go to PJ's you know exactly what you're getting. No surprises, only good solid reasonably priced seafood.
Well wouldn't you know it, we're heading west on Hwy. 688 and it struck us at a stop light. The aroma of another oak fired barbeque pit. It was strong and unbelievably good.
We looked at each other and exclaimed how wonderful this little patch of the world had become and immediately started looking around to see if we could tell where it was coming from.
There was a stretch of family restaurants behind us, but one called Matchstick Grill and Bar stuck out and we determined that must be it, so we immediately got into a debate on whether we should turn left at the light and follow the smell.
Decisions don't come easy for us when it comes to food so our analysis of playing it safe at PJ's or trying a new place dragged on for some time, but that's OK because the bloody' traffic lights down here take forever.
Finally we decided to go for it. As Darren said "you can't expand your horizons if you don't try new stuff, so lets go check it out."
We wheeled around and found our way into the parking lot and maneuvered our way through countless cars and victims of obesity before arriving at Matchstick Grill and Bar.
Yes, this is where the aroma was coming from and yes it looked like you're typically family restaurant and yes we decided to eat there.
We had an appetizer of oak fired chicken wings and they were pretty good, but the for some reason, even though we knew the ribs weren't oak fired, we ordered them.
They were average at best, but the taste of the food was affected even further by the knowledge that we had made the wrong call and we could have been eating oysters and king crab at PJ's
Paying the sixty eight dollar bill was difficult and regrettable but a lesson well learned, when you're hungry, really hungry, don't screw around with a sure thing and don't let your hunger affect your reasoning to the point where you end up in a family restaurant with extremely large people eating extremely large portions.
And before I go I should back up a bit.
At the golf course yesterday, we were paired with a couple of nice fellas from Boston named Dan and David. I realize there is no text book on "gay" but if I had to guess I'd say these were a couple of middle aged gay guys who were down for a few days of golf.
I also realize you don't have to be gay to find so much pleasure in the little things in life because if I did think that way it would stereotyping - but man oh man did these guys ever find pleasure in the little things, and they expressed themselves in what I would call a "light in the loafers" kind of way.
Don't get me wrong, they were excellent golfers but their unending "glee" at basic shots filled my head with horrible thoughts of what might be going on at their condo later that night.
But none of that is why I mentioned them. This is why. During our various conversations over the day, we touched on sports a few times.
We ribbed the nice fellas about the Patriots and then paid respect to the Bruins and the new look Celtics, but when it came to hockey these guys were clueless, and do you want to know why?
Because they can't follow the puck on TV. I've heard this complaint from Americans before and it's why FOX Television added that blue streak to their coverage a few years back, but I had never been face to face with an Yank when they said it.
"You're kidding aren't you David" I said.
"No" he said, "hockey's a much better game live because you can follow the action."
Then Dan piped in. "David" he said, "I just got a new high definition television and hockey's much better on it, you can actually see the puck."
This got me to wondering, if these guys were lovers Dan would know that David had a new high definition television, so maybe they aren't gay. Or maybe they're in other relationships, much like Darren and me, only Darren and me are into women.
Anyway, it didn't matter at that point, I was more interested in why Americans apparently have worse eye sight than Canadians.
How can we have no problem seeing a hockey puck on television but it's a paramount challenge to people in the States?
Neither Dan nor David seemed interested in continuing the conversation, even after I made the point that a baseball is just as small as a puck and you can see that traveling at 90 miles an hour on TV.
They simply shrugged and then David shrieked as Dan dropped a three foot putt.
A Freddie P. Short Story - Mel's Birthday
September 24, 2007 @ 09:34
It was early January of 1982 that my wife Delyse complained about feeling like shit, especially in the morning. Oh Oh.
A couple of weeks before, on New Years Eve, part of our celebration was a love connection without protection.
Delyse decided that she better have a pregnancy test. But rather than do it at home she set it up with her doctor. She actually took a urine sample to the drug store. We wanted to make sure.
I came home from work the next afternoon, totally obsessed with what the result would be. I knew Delyse would probably phone for the result during her lunch hour, so I waited till after one o'clock. And then I waited till after two o'clock. I was afraid of the answer. When the clock struck three, I felt pretty good. Obviously, if she was pregnant, she would have phoned me and told me.
That had to be it. I decided to phone her and here it for myself. She wasn't pregnant.
"So" I said
"So what?" she replied.
"What's the word?"
"I don't know" she said.
"You don't know?"
"I haven't called yet."
"You haven't called yetâ€¦.. why?"
"I've been too busy?"
"Too busy?â€¦ Dol (that's her nickname) I've been sitting here all afternoon going nuts. I need to know what's going on."
"Well then you phone" she suggested.
"How can I call? They're not going to tell me!"
"They might and anyway I'm right in the middle of something and I need to concentrate so I'm not going to call until I can deal with the result."
"OK then." I said. "I'll call."
The lady at the drug store was bright and cheery. Like over the top.
"Hi, my name is Fred Patterson, and yesterday my wife brought in a urine sample for a pregnancy test. I was wondering if I could get the result."
"No problem Mr. Patterson, just give me a minute."
I thought what? She's actually going to give me the result even though it's not me who might be pregnant. At this point I wasn't sure whether I was happy about this.
When she came back on the phone she was even cheerier. "Mr. Patterson?"
"It's positive sir."
"What does that mean?" (this my sound like a stupid question, but to me, at that point, "positive" would mean Delyse wasn't pregnant.)
"It means your wife is going to have a baby."
I was stunned. This couldn't be true. I was going to be a father. Little Freddie Patterson from Scarborough who still thought of himself as a kid, it just couldn't be.
"Are you sure?" I said.
"Oh yea, these tests are 100 percent accurate."
After she hung up, I took the receiver of the phone and pounded it into the carpet. You see, by the time I got the result I was on my knees.
I started to shake. I didn't know what to do. So I did what any spineless weasel would do. I phoned Delyse even though I knew she was busy and this would throw a wrench into her day.
Of course she started to cry and told me she'd be home right away. When she got home we just fell onto the couch and both continued to cry.
We were scared. And what do two grown adults do when they've just found out they're pregnant and they can't stop crying? They run to mommy.
We jumped in the car and drove to Milton. For some reason I actually knocked on the door. I never usually did.
My mom answered the door and all she saw was the two of us balling our eyes out. She looked terrified.
"What's wrong?" she said, expecting the worst.
"Delyse is pregnant." I said.
"Delyse is pregnant."
"Well what the hell are you crying for you asshole, (you have to know my mother) you should be happy."
At this point I gushed with my concerns with responsibility and money being at the top of the list.
Junie sat us down and eased our fears. Yes, having a baby was scary but it would prove to be a wonderful thing and all the things we were worried about would mean nothing once the baby arrived and we fell in love with it.
And you know what. My mom was right.
On September 24, 1982 Melanie Nicole Patterson made the scene and she's done nothing but make us happy and proud for 25 wonderful years.
Happy Birthday Darlin'.
The Price of Love - A Freddie P. Short Story
June 8, 2007 @ 09:15
This year was going to be different.
My dog Billie turns twelve this December and from my perspective, there would be no reason to take her to the vet for shots this spring.
All she does in lay around all day and from some information I read on the internet, she had been so pumped full of rabies vaccine and heartworm medicine over the years there was enough in her system to last her till she croaks.
Considering her spring visit to the vet last year cost me $278.00 it was easy to get my head around the argument from several sources that there is no need for dogs to get shots every year and especially not necessary when they reach their senior years.
I simply wasn't going to get sucked in this year.
Nothing against the veterinarian, he's a nice man and he's got to make a living just like anyone else, but after a $278.00 bill I was going to stand firm this year, relieve Billie of the stress and save my self close to three hundred bucks.
Then my wife Delyse got involved. She saw the letter for the vet reminding us that Billie was due for her shots and it was highly recommended that she have a heartworm blood test this year.
The letter came in early May but I ignored it because I may look like a dummy, but I wasn't going to be one this year. Not to the tune of $278.00.
But Delyse argued that "you never know" and we go up north all the time and what if something bit Billie - anything from a mosquito to a racoon.
Delyse insisted that I call the vet because if anything ever did happen, I'd feel like shit and the kids would never forgive me.
So I caved in. But just a bit. I said I'd take the dog to the vet but I would set the ground rules.
There would be no blood tests, no stool samples, and no heartworm crap.
I'd take the dog to the vet and she'd have a quick check-up and maybe a rabies vaccine - Jesus Christ, when I was a kid you could take your dog to the pound and they'd give her a shot for five bucks and it was over. There was none of this high falootin' bullshit they have nowadays.
As I walked into the vets office he noticed that Billie had a bit of a limp and asked me about it. I said she was up north on the weekend and was chasing chipmunks and from time to time she limps.
He then explained the hip displacement problems labs can have, and although we don't necessarily know it, dogs can be experiencing arthritic pain just like humans.
I told him not to worry; I had read on the internet that you can give dogs aspirin and that's what I planned to do.
He said that was a good idea but told me to make sure I get the aspirin that's easy on their stomachs because it can cause internal bleeding if they're on it too long.
No problem I said.
Then the doctor recommended a medicine that is easy on the stomach, and works differently than aspirin. Aspirin doesn't go right to the problem area, but "Apo Meloxicam" does, and you only have to use it once a day and it works out to just slightly more the price of aspirin and the results will be quicker and more dramatic.
I bought some.
And then the doctor noticed Billie's gums. They appeared to be red and inflamed and aloud he wondered why.
I offered that maybe it was because she's twelve years old, which translates to about 72 human years and not too often you see old bastards with nice teeth unless they're fake.
He countered that maybe it was a bacteria build up somewhere else in her body and it was manifesting in her gums. This is common and could mean kidney or liver problems.
He recommended a geriatric blood screening. And I agreed.
At this point I was getting a little concerned about my beautiful girl. Bad hips and a bacteria build up didn't sound too good, but the vet made me feel better when he told me Billie wouldn't need a rabies vaccine because he had given her a two year jobbie in 2006.
"What about heartworm." I said
"I'll give you the medicine." He said.
"But is it really necessary?" I questioned.
"If you're going up north every weekend where there are lots of mosquitoes, I highly recommend it."
He went on to say that the incidences of heartworm were actually growing and not only did he recommend heartworm medicine, he thought I should use the new topical kind that you spray on their necks - it's slightly more expensive, but way more protective.
I told him to give me some.
At that point, the doctor told me he was finished. Billie's examination was over, and for the most part, she was doing pretty well for a twelve-year-old dog.
At that point, I felt pretty good about myself. I had come into the office adamant that I wasn't going to pay for both heartworm treatment and a rabies vaccine and as it turned out I didn't have to pay for the rabies vaccine.
I had won half the battle, so it was no problem paying the bill.
Another Freddie P. Short Story
April 18, 2007 @ 09:28
I did Neighbour John and his wife Allie a favour and drove four of their kids to school yesterday morning.
Amy goes to Heart Lake High in Brampton so the plan was drop her off first and then double back to Terry Fox to drop off the three boys.
As we drove down Conestoga Ave. it was Amy who noticed it first.
As we approached the school there was a huge poster near the sidewalk with a couple of people standing beside it.
The sign measured at least four by four and it was in bright living colour. The picture of an aborted fetus at ten weeks, and the two people standing beside it were handing out pamphlets.
I could tell it made Amy uncomfortable and luckily I don't think the boys saw it. But I've got to tell you, it really pissed me off.
I was dropping Amy off at a high school but it's connected to a public school and these anti-abortionists had decided they were going to make their point regardless of who walked by, and some of those walking by were kids who I'm sure don't know what intercourse is let alone an abortion.
But these whacked out bastards didn't care. They stood there in front of the poster handing out their pamphlets pushing their beliefs on anyone who walked by.
Needless to say Freddie P's blood started to boil and after dropping the boys off at their school I decided to go back and push my beliefs on the anti-abortionists.
But don't get me wrong, I didn't go back to tell them I believe in abortion, I went back to tell them I didn't thing they shouldn't be exposing kids to such graphic posters.
Personally, I'm pro choice. It's a woman's body, so she should be able to do with whatever she wants with it. But that wasn't the point here.
This was all about time and place. What gave these glassy-eyed freaks the right to push their beliefs onto other people's kids with a picture show to back it up? What gave them the right to blatantly show something like this to somebody else's kids without their permission?
And that's what I asked them as I stopped my car and rolled down the window.
The response predictable, I was told the murdering of children is everybody's business regardless of age.
When I asked them if they had permission to be in front the school they told me it was public property.
When I asked them if there point would be better made in an auditorium with an appropriate audience they disagreed. They don't reach enough people that way.
When I asked them if they'd take down the sign and go way they said no, they didn't have to.
And then I stopped asking and started telling - telling them what I thought of their little presentation, and what I thought of them as people, and what I'd like to do their glossy poster.
And then it hit me. Nobody else around me seemed to care. People were shuffling by with virtually no reaction. All ages, all genders including mothers with small children and nobody was saying a word.
All of a sudden this had become my cause and I wasn't getting any back-up so I did the responsible thing. I told them I was going into the school to speak with authorities and I'd have them removed even if it meant calling the police.
Then I rolled up my window, put the car in drive, turned into the school parking lot, waited till they weren't looking and then drove home.
Category: Short Stories