Chapter Two: The Rabies Chronicles

WARNING: THIS POST RATED "R" FOR STRONG VISUAL CONTENT



Animal Control calls and I am downstairs preparing to lift weights to a 45-minute DVD, my day off. I hear the machine pick up ( I am a true Giegerich and I do not answer the phone) and something tells me I need to take this call. The woman I talk to is named Jenny. She does not sound like a Jenny, more like a Sal or Madge. She is straight forward and on the ball and despite her bad news I think I like her. They did not find the dog, she says, they went to the address and there were no dogs. The owner of the animal, the mousy woman from Sunday evening didn't look smart enough to lie. I don't understand the concept of lying. Why deny the truth? That just complicates things. I am naive, I know that, and I tend to believe in the goodness and reliability of the human race. I made that comment to my bro Davie and he said, "you would think Auschwitz would have changed your mind on that one." I was raised by good and decent people who don't lie. I don't lie. I used to lie, but as I got older it didn't make any sense and now if I try to slide a quick little white one past Big Dave, it does not work. I am opaque and transparent. Oh, Davie Gie, note the little bat on this picture.


Jenny also said that the police did not forward the information to them until this day - three days later. The victim has a 72-hour window after the bite to begins the rabies shots. That left me just a few hours. Dave is not happy and he calls the police to get an explanation. We had a new dispatcher and she did not understand the communications process, was the reason. Still not satisfied he went down to the station and received a different excuse this time, and no, there was not a new dispatcher on duty that night. Every time I start to gain a measure of respect for the Dubuque police department an incident such as this happens that sets me back again. I cannot tolerate these Rambo personalities that do not accept responsibility for a botched job.


I am put in the worst category that I can imagine a human being inhabiting . . . VICTIM. I don't make a very good victim and I like that about myself.



I finish my exercise DVD - might as well get the stress release, shower, put on the good cologne and call my doctor. I am informed that doctor offices no longer do rabies shots. I maneuver through the Dubuque noon time traffic and I'm back at the Emergency Room. And as you can see, this is the SERIOUS exam room. I have an actual mattress with linen sheets. This is a lengthy procedure. I need a doctor's order for the medication and then the pharmacy needs to mix it up on the spot because it's the fresh stuff that works the best. A really perky, annoying clerk talks to me about payment procedures - I should not be paying this bill and she uses terms like "daddy's little girl" and "my honey" as she talks about her personal life and I finally say, whatever it takes to move things along.



I know, I know. This is how an arm looks after a rabies shot. Can you believe I took a picture of this? How far will I go to attract new readers to my blog? Hey, it distracted me, give me a break. I am disturbingly like my brother who takes his blog camera into the shower. And you know who you are. Even I'm getting sick looking at this.



The first two shots I receive - one in each hip - will cause my body to be truly interested in creating antibodies to fight this potential virus. There 's 3 millileters of the thick goopy stuff in each injection so therefore the arm is not a good retainer. The needles stay in awhile as the syrupy liquid takes time to slide downward.

I realize now that this strange little lady probably lied about everything . . . about her dogs being up to date on the shots. If they were truly from an abused home who would care about shots?
Cowboy Dave refuses to give up and he is on Carter Road, the alleged street of the liar, knocking on doors, grilling the neighborhood. It's the cowboy in him and he is reliving his posse days.
I feel the eternal innocent. Sad person, tonight. I really need to see a movie with a happy ending. Suggestions, anyone? I have four more shots scheduled to complete the series. And as if that was not enough, this little eight-year-old bugger beat me in Monopoly in sixty-eight minutes flat.
No mercy.

Chapter One: The Rabies Chronicles

Doing my walk on the flood wall the other night resulted in a most unpleasant incident. I was nearing the end of my exercise. I was winding down and moving slower for the cool-down. I see another pedestrian approaching with two lively dogs on leash. I nod my head and smile. Now I respect dogs. I pay them little attention and usually do not make eye contact. To do that interferes with the owner's ability to control their animal. Although there are times I would like to stop and make conservation with the little furry guys I cannot be sure what the relationship is between owner and pet. These dogs were coming at me in a frenzy, a whirling dervish, so to say, and I could tell the owner was having difficulty with the retractable leashes and instead of reeling them in they were coming at me at high speed. And they were barking. Not just yap,yap, yap but the kind of bark that involves growling and gnashing of teeth. A definite warning message of nastiness to come. They are circling me and all is chaos as I become tangled in the leashes. I am laughing nervously and the owner, a mousy little middle-aged lady does not

know how to rectify the situation. Then the miniature collie jumps at me and I feel teeth bite through my jeans and into my skin, behind the knee. I recoil and look at the owner unbelievably, your dog bit me! I am not understanding that this happened, not quite believing what happened. I am angry. "Your dog bit me! What is wrong with that dog? Your dog bit me! What if he goes after a child? Your dog bit me!" I keep repeating myself. The owner is flustered, "he's only bit one other person!" she says.

So let's wait until he bites - oh, say eight or nine people and then we'll talk. I can feel blood moving down my leg. She says the animals were abused in their last home and this is why he bites. Huh? I am thankful that kind folks take in formerly abused animals but this woman should not have done so. This dog needs a firm, consistent method and she is not capable of that kind of behavior. She is a milquetoast, irresponsible, excuse-making dolt who is clearly misguided. "You cannot control your animals and you shouldn't be walking them in public places," I tell her. She keeps coming toward me with the dogs and I back away trying to stay away from those crazy animals and those unreliable leashes. I can tell that this dog liked biting me. He is smiling wickedly and trying to leap at me for even more conflict. She wants to see my leg. She does not believe I was bit. I tell her she needs to stay back or I will kick the dog if he attacks me again. She looks at me alarmingly not understanding why I would hurt her baby. I gather my wits, get her identifying information and limp shakily to my car. She continues to walk her satanic hounds, looking for new victims. How did this happen? Back home I call the police and they will forward the information to Animal Control and pick up the animal for impoundment in the morning. I check myself into the ER - not how I wanted to spend my evening just back from vacation. "You haven't been here before," says the receptionist, "usually people that come to the ER have multiple admissions." I will try and not make this a routine. In the examining room the nurse chatters away. "Did you know that 90% of dog bites do not get infected and that 90% of cat bites do get infected?" Clearly cats are licking things they shouldn't be. Why is it that nobody can remember when they got their last tetanus shot? Back home with a sore arm and a bunch of paper work. Who needs a drink . . .

Three days later Animal Control calls, not good.

To be continued . . .

Feeding Sonny

Feeding Sonny is a trip, literally a trip, and more so on an actual trip. In the past when my parents vacationed with us they would come equipped with a large cooler (yes, even larger than the one Dad takes to work for his lunch!) and it was filled with several kinds of muffins, fresh fruit, cheese, sausage - more stuff than I have in my own fridge.

My mother's life's commitment was the care and feeding of my father. We siblings would sometimes scoff when she wasn't around and sometimes when she was around. What is the purpose of promoting dependence and helplessness in a full-grown person? Where does that get you? But German farmer housewives of the 50's did those things and man, I am so glad we stepped away from that although there are some residual traits still evident in my own housekeeping. Thank you, mother. As all social workers know, the fruit don't fall too far from the tree.

Dad has to eat at certain times of the day, or else he would be - uncomfortable - is the word he used. No one questioned this or asked him to explain. It had to do with his GI tract and he preferred to take care of that procedure in the morning following breakfast and if that did not occur, everyone was uncomfortable. My father also cannot use public

restrooms for that before mentioned procedure and that can make a car trip a daunting experience. We tried to accommodate as best we could. We only had one tricky episode and nobody really wants to hear about that. Want to get to know someone, really know someone? Take a three thousand mile vacation and share a small cabin for a few nights.

Surprisingly, Dad wasn't a stickler about meal schedules this time. Every time I would ask - do you want to eat now or later? - he said he did not care, he wasn't hungry. This was unusual for him. He had bought Raisin Bran and instant coffee and

blackberry jam at the mart in Creede and he dutifully ate his breakfast at 7:00 every morning. Dave was suffering from a hellish cough and I was doing nights on the couch in the cabin. Dave and Dad made countless trips to the commode every night - I dubbed this the Parade of Enlarged Prostates - your turn's coming, I said to Jason. Did I get much sleep? Probably not. Did I sleep in the car? Usually I don't, but I did this trip.

One thing Dad kept talking about was homemade pie, pie, pie, pie. That's all he wanted for supper - that and a cuppa you-know-what. Homemade pies are difficult to come by, I think, in the restaurant industry and even though a menu may boast such a item I question this as the edging on that crust looks all too perfect. We didn't find much pie except for items like apples with caramely butter sauce and Dad does not do sweet. On the way home, I asked him, what kind of pie do you want, Sonny? Raspberry Jello pie, he said, right away. "Your mother's been promising two years to make that pie." I imagine she was waiting for the price of raspberries to go down which never happens and I was surprised he wanted a pie with jell-o, but I can do this. Coincidence that the recipe was first under PIES in Mom's 500-card recipe box? Okay, the raspberries were $3.49 a box and I needed four boxes. Cowboy Dave does not read these posts so I can get away with my naughty purchases. Life is short. Buy the raspberries.

Cannibals and Frozen Dead Guys

This is a photo of a saloon in Lake City, Colorado, a town of about 250 people and as far as I can see, there is no lake. That is not Bret Favre in the #4 green jersey but a gentleman by the name of Alfred Packer. In February 1874 Al was commissioned to guide five men from Salt Lake City to an Indian agency. They were lost in a snowstorm and in mid-April our pal Al arrives alone at the destination with somebody else's hunting knife and rifle. Upon interrogation he claimed as each of the men died from exposure and starvation the others would eat his flesh. Al said he only killed one person and that was in self-defense. That summer the bodies were found at the site and each head had been crushed.

Al was arrested and convicted of murder and cannibalism and served jail time. He spent the rest of his life professing his innocence.

The saloon keeper made the comment when he heard of Al's interment, "You man-eating son of a -----! There was seven Democrats in Hinsdale county and you ate five of them."
Coloradoans like their quirky customs and Al was the inspiration for Lake City's Alfred Packer Jeep Tour and Barbecue and the University of Colorado-Boulder's Alfred Packer Grill.

Above the door of the Packer saloon is a plaque, "Like Alfred says, I never met a man I didn't like to eat."

Oh, yeah.

And you know, the People's Republic of Boulder - as the Boulder populace like to be known - are the only Democratic majority in the state. The rest of Colorado is Republican redneck cowboy. The kind that like to spit in the street and eat chicken-fried steak with a bottle of green chilies at their elbow.

Nederland is another owner of a wacky historical character celebration. Now Boulder has been heralded as the all-around hippie town, having discovered marijuana and the Grateful Dead in the 60's but things have changed as you walk through the city. Granted, the hippie influence is still apparent among some boomers and homeless guys but the city is pretty much the domain of young yuppies. You see mostly 30-somethings in their lambs' wool-lined suede vests with matching knee-high boots, fashionably bobbed hair, lattes and large dogs. After a few days you

may notice an absence of older citizens, and not too many children either and the percentage of African-Americans is in the low single digits. Plenty of Hispanic laborers as usual and they tend to reside in Denver. What you do have is a large concentration of domestic responsibility-free bikers and runners, hikers and boarders. They fill the outdoor cafes at night eating their sushi and pasta, swirling glasses of wine and laughing at their own secret jokes. Let have it, I say. So more importantly, where did the hippies go? To "Ned," a tiny little berg nestled in the hills seventeen miles west of Boulder, which means seventeen miles up winding mountain roads. On a frosty September morning there is a dusting of snow on all the cabins nestled up on the hillside and smoke from the wood-burning stoves is creating a marvelous smell. As Steve Knopper has observed, "the people who live here are taking a break from civilization, in a good way." Anyway,
every March the Ned folk celebrate Frozen Dead Guy Days. The dead guy was Bredo Morstoel and he suffered a fatal heart attack in Norway in 1989.

Bredo's nephew, Trygve (pronounce, please) Bauge lived in Boulder and is obsessed with frozen cryonic storage of dead bodies. Illegal in Norway Trygve has his grandfather shipped from Norway to a California cryonics facility and then to a freezer in a shack behind a local house in Nederland in 1993. That's when things got strange, Colorado strange. First the Ned town council decided they didn't want frozen dead guys around and passed a law banning such things on locals' property. But it was after the fact and Bredo was allowed to stay. All this created a lot of international buzz and he was eventually shipped back to Norway. What a great excuse for a festival, thus Frozen Dead Guy Days. There are coffin races, a plunge in an icy lake and Frozen Dead Guy ice cream: blue with gummy worms and crushed Oreo cookies.


And then there's Mike the Headless Chicken Days in Fruita, Colorado. A Wyandotte rooster named Mike was decapitated in 1945 and the story goes that it continued to live 18 months. The explanation was that the ax missed Mike's brain stem and a clot formed to stop the loss of blood. And there will be beer, chicken, drive in car shows and dance contests.

And don't forget Bolder Boulder: a 10K footrace x 3: the early one for elite runners around the world, the second race for the citizens (and many of them are quite fast) - and they dress up in goofy costumes like Father Time and Elvis Presley. The third is for wheelchairs.
Only in Colorado? Oh, yeah.

The Beauty That is Colorado

Hello, people of Dubuque! Get in your car, leave the Burger King parking lot , and follow me into the beauty that is Whole Foods. It is an explosion of healthy, organic, wholesome and overly expensive food that is meant to enhance the body and bring a glow to your internal organs. We don't have one in Dubuque and I am estimating its eventual arrival at about 2045 or whenever every last redneck, sexist, mulligan-sporting resident would leave the city or politely, expire. If Whole Foods or Trader John's were in Dubuque I would be very poor but I would be very healthy. We buy veggie whole wheat pita chips and sandwiches of turkey and robust cheddar on sourdough and thinly sliced beef that bleeds into the crunchy ciabacca roll with spinach and sprouts. Jason wants cabbage dumplings and bean salad.

I buy organic lemonade and mint mineral water and feel very superior about my food choices. We travel south and see the lovely yellow aspens, their leaves twirlng and shivering like gold coins on strings. They make a strong contrast against the deep green of the Ponderosa pines.

This southern gentleman from Kentucky was overly friendly and yet a most resourceful and creative guy. He took a 1977 Scamp, whatever that is, and turned it into a cute little trailer. There were cupboards, a sink,

a bed, and a laundry rack and clear plastic Rubbermaid bins holding related things. Sonny, an overly organized person himself, was interested.

"At least we know who slept in our bed last night," added the wife. I try not to think about that as I leaf through the AAA book looking for our next night's accommodation. Typical southern folks, they craved human contact and conversation. Y'all probably can't see this, but the wording on the back side above the window says "Think Big."

We are officially out west. The men wear plaid shirts covering t-shirts covering big bellies over huge belt buckles, have unshaven faces and drive big, rusty Ford pick-ups. The women have long grey hair, wear plaid shirts and dusty jeans, I can see their round tobacco tins in back pockets and drive big, rusty Ford pick-ups. They are a quiet, reclusive folk. No one looks like they want to make conversation and they keep their eyes straight ahead.

We are in a vast treeless plain surrounded by mountains and Jason tells us that if we looked at a three-dimensional topical map this area would look like a huge bowl scooped out of the earth.
How can I ever leave this place, I wonder, and return to only mediocre landscapes? Sorry, my lovely Iowa, only a fleeting thought, I am sure.

Herds of cattle rendered tiny by the huge backdrops cluster around fiercely-turning windmills. All this emptiness leaves me feeling somewhat small and not a little lonely. I am not accustomed to such vastness and I find comfort in the rolling hills of my native Dubuque. I dated a guy, a real cowboy from a tiny town in North Dakota right over the Canadian border, and he was always anxious in the unflat territory of the Dubuque Driftless Area. Guess he couldn't see the enemy coming. He did find a house in Dubuque and it was on a very flat, very high plain.

We eat our incredibly nutritious lunch at Buena Vista, another vast plain bordered by the Collegiate Range. They are eight mountains, all 13,000-14,000 feet high and named after universities: Harvard, Princeton, Yale and so on. Jason climbs "fourteeners" on his days off and he has about twenty of them scaled as of this reading.

We ride through the little mountain towns nestled in the high regions: Del Norte, Saguacha, La Gorita. They are self-sustaining and their inhabitants look to be a tough and rugged crew undaunted by rigors of Colorado winters. A pleasant surprise - there are restaurants serving tasty and classic menus, theatres sponsored with traveling acting troupes, art galleries filled with local works.

We ramble into Creede, a dusty little town of early mining fame and only 250 inhabitants. Nicholas Creede and his partner were mining

here in 1889 and Nick hit a silver lode. "Holy Moses," he said, being a rather quiet and not too overly emotional mountain guy. And of course, there is a shop in town with that very same name and menu selections also have this moniker as in the Holy Moses Burger. And one more time, our cabin at the Antlers Lodge also bears the same tired title. Our cabin is on the ancient Rio Grande and we will fall asleep that night to its song. We have a back porch and a swing and oh, this is good. I feel I am on a dude ranch and I swear I am developing a cowboy swagger as I saunter down the dusty road. Our cabin is designed in Mountain Magic motif and everything is green and brown and decorated with moose, bear and pines including the toilet paper rack. (Jason and I have issues with this.) Problem with cabins: they come with cute little kitchens with cute little pans and dishes and the nesting mama in me wants to fill the shelves in the cupboards and make scrambled eggs in the morning. But then

that kind of falls apart when you are at the sink up to your elbows in suds and everybody else is on the porch watching the river and drinking tea out of mugs with cutsie bears on them. Most of our cabin neighbors are from Texas with big hair and gaudy, gold chain wardrobes and martinis complete with olives in their hands.

Sonny is feeling his oats and plays a couple of games of pool and pitches a few horseshoes.

That night we dine outdoors with tiny white lights in the tree above us and baskets of very purple petunias and zinnias. Flowers do well in this cool mountain air.
Our restaurant serves a mean Cabernet and I enjoy grilled mahi-mahi with pineapple salsa and I choose not to think of Jason back in the cabin preparing his meatless meal of quinoa, beets, avocado and spinach.

Mountain Men Don't Bathe Too Often

Funny story. Some years ago we traveled to Boulder to visit Jason and we arrived early at his house in Lyons. He was still at Fatty J's but we were able to get inside the home as the landlord was there fixing the septic tank which couldn't seem to stay fixed. Jason comes home, landlord leaves and Jason has an idea. His roommate, Scott, also a Dubuque native, is back in Iowa visiting family so, hey, why don't you guys stay here? Hem haw, hem haw. Dave would miss his TV sports as Jason's TV is covered by a decorative blanket and nobody is sure whether it works or not. I would miss an evening of swimming but we agree, on one condition. I would need to wash the roommate's sheets. It is early spring and the boys have not put up the screens yet and the windows are propped open with sticks. I hear a scream coming down from the mountain and it sounds like a woman in a lot of distress. I am informed that it is a bobcat and he sounds hungry. There is a pile of catnip on the bedroom floor that the pet cat had knocked over and it had been there for awhile and I wondered if the bobcat would be attracted to this and could he get through the window? Keep busy. I take the sheets from the bed and I find a moth, a large caterpillar and the roommate's boxers. The sheets get washed, we go to bed, and I find it pleasant to listen to the wind high up in the mountain, the trees swaying, and the crickets,

very large crickets chirping.

Dave gets up sometime in the night and uses the toilet and he cannot flush it. In the morning Jason is scooping buckets of water out of the creek and pouring them down the useless toilet. It has not helped that Dave has left a substantial deposit in that toilet. Now what do we do, how do we go to the bathroom, Dave is anxious. Jason points to the front door and I thought Dave would faint. This does not bother me as I have dated guys that live like this, but Dave is traumatized. He cannot get past the moment. Later I take a shower and need to use a wrench to turn a handleless faucet. As I soap myself I can look out the window inside the shower stall and down the lane at Jason's neighbor's place. They have peacocks that sometimes jump on his roof and clamber around.

Jason has returned to the very same house with the very same roommate and Scott is now married. Jason has lived in California, Idaho, Wyoming and spent half a year in South America since he returned to this room. With a woman in the house the place doesn't feel so overly male as before. There is a lot of land attached to this property and Scott needs it for his extensive VW collection. Some of tthe bugs are scattered in the fields overgrown with weeds and if the city can't see them they won't complain. Good plan, Scott. He and Mary Ann raise sunflowers in an adjacent field and sell them for $1 a blossom - hey, made a couple of grand this season. There is also a table of homegrown produce for sale. Scott also collects blue glass, raises bees and occasionally paints something around the house.

Surveying the neighborhood with a cuppa tea in a Christmas mug

Collections. Scott also buys doilies at garage sales.

A cabin heated by pot bellies

Interested?

Bolder Boulder

Colorado has beautiful skies. These clouds are not serious about being clouds. They are wispy and frothy, they remind me of that cottony fake snow cloth we see at Christmas time. Colorado has been granted extra sky space compared to other regions, a great background for the stern and sturdy mountain ranges.

We are a happy group and we have a lot of questions about the menu. It is like nothing we Midwesterners have ever seen. All our restaurants revolve around meat and now we need to think outside that box, that beefy box.

Look at this smiley guy. He aggressively dislikes having his picture taken. He did not allow me to use my camera last time I visited him. I say pooh! to all this and snap away. He has three pens in his sleeve pocket.

I love Boulder. I could live here. The city's dedication to clean air, outdoor exercise, and environmental beauty becomes a heady thing for me. Billboards are not allowed as it interferes with the natural views. "BusBikeWalk - it's the Boulder Way to go" is the city's logo. And runners and cyclists and hikers are everywhere. Everywhere. There are biker lanes on every street and on the busiest streets those lanes are as wide as the car lanes. It is state law that motorists yield to pedestrians and cyclists at all times. Outdoor exercise is revered - it is an art form, a philosophy, a religion. Cyclists have a different attitude in this city. They know they are the sacred cows and they can go anywhere they want to. And the fact that the winter's average temps are in the 40's and 50's and that most snow melts in the winter sunshine which is plentiful is also a persuading factor for me. I have been here many times over the fifteen years Jason has lived here - well, off and on, mostly. And I still get shivers when I see the mountains appear above the highway.

We see the ugly smoke cloud churning dirty and brown hundreds of feet in the air above Loveland which has just been evacuated. A truck backed into a propane tank and Colorado is burning. All that dry Ponderosa pine is ideal fire food. We are a messy, smelly, destructive group of animals, we humans.

Jason is working, of course, at Leaf, the vegetarian restaurant. We drive down to the Pearl Street pedestrian mall with its many quaint and quirky shops. Leaf is a lovely place with cool blue and camel- flecked slabs of stone on the wall. There are abundant natural plants and the walls are in cool shades of turquoise and pale green. The lights are encased in huge balls of wrapped cord and there are rocks in the bottom of the sinks in the bathroom. Don't quite understand that one yet. Our waitress sports long braids and long ocean blue earrings tipped in orange. She glows with good health. At last Jason comes out. He is wearing a bright green chef's smock over his t-shirt and it looks like he performed surgery with all the stains. Plaid bermuda shorts, black clogs and socks with a reindeer pattern. Typical Boulder garb. We are presented with the menu and every entree has a paragraph of explanation, a long list of veggies - some recognizable, some not - and later Dad admitted to Jason that when he first saw the menu, he felt frightened, silly papa. I see many things that I would like and I toy with the idea of the vegetable alfredo. Jason later brings me a sample of the cheese sauce and it is marvelous, cashew based but tasting like Italy's finest. So I order the butternut squash -walnut soup with pumpkin seeds sprinkled atop, a good autumn selection. I always loved the squash/pumpkin-based soups in Jamaica and there is nutmeg in this one, always a good contribution. I have a salad: greens with avocado, tomatoes, egg, crumbly bleu cheese, cucumber, and tempah: a compressed smoky-flavored soybean bar that (barely) passes for bacon - there are so many ingredients in each dish. Dad tries a Vegetable Wellington - turns out to be a puff pastry filled with vegetables and a very meaty-tasting gravy which is actually made from mushrooms and red wine. Dave tries a palento stack surrounded by tomatoes, artichokes, oh, many other things and everything was wonderful. My father says this is the most unusual meal he has ever had and he deems it very, very good. He says a new world has been opened to him, this at age 86.

The wait staff comes out one by one and introduce themselves. They seem genuinely glad to make our acquaintances and they all love Jason. That is the word they use. Our waiter, a graduate student from the University of Massachusetts, says Jason will come out and take orders when things get overwhelming. He seems amazed by that. Well, you know that good old Midwestern work ethic. Jason comes out every few minutes and talks to us but then needs to hurry back to his kitchen. His name is at the bottom of the menu, Jason Connelly - Executive Chef. Dad is pleased with the linen napkins.

We make plans to meet at Jason's house in the morning and start our exploration of western Colorado. Did I mention our toilets have a half flush/full flush option? I say good night to Dad at our doors and I know that the night hours alone in the hotel room are difficult for him.