In Defense of the Speling Mistake

Hank:  So you see you can’t rewrite because to rewrite is to deceive and lie and to betray your own thoughts. To rethink a flow of the rhythm, a tumbling out of the words is a betrayal, and it is a sin, Martin.
Martin:  I don’t accept your catholic interpretation of my compulsive necessity to rewrite every word at least 1000 times.  Guilt is the key, not sin, guilt.  Re not writing the best that I can.  Re not considering everything from every possible angle, balancing everything.
Hank:  Well how about guilt, censoring your best thoughts.  Your most honest primitive real thoughts.  Because that is what your laborious rewriting amounts to.
Martin:  Is rewriting really censorship, Bill?  Because I’m completely fucked if it is.
Bill:  Exterminate rational thought.  That is the conclusion I have come to.  
Martin:  What is the man talking about, I’m being serious.
Hank:  So is he.

From Naked Lunch (the movie)

I was reading an online review of a self-published book recently.  It was on WordPress or something that allowed commentary not usually seen on Amazon.  Most of the reviews were very positive, but one from a purulent looking woman was caustic.  She did not complain about the story, but attacked what sounded like a relatively few grammar and punctuation inconsistencies.  She, frankly, sounded like my college English professor who stated within the first few classes that she wanted to help change the way commas are used in written English.  The author responded to the review, asking for specifics.  Two were given, one which as written seemed to follow The Chicago Manual of Style - not that I believe Chicaugou is definitively the ultimate authority of all linguists.

Contrast that review with a written eulogy in a magazine I read a couple years ago.  I do not remember the magazine, editor, or writer, but the editor wrote that on taking the editor position, he was initially frustrated by the now-deceased outdoor writer's poor use of grammar and especially punctuation.  But, after working at the magazine for some time, he found the writers stories so compelling, that correcting the grammar became more of a calling, not a frustration.  The writer, apparently, would occasionally end his written text with a series of punctuation marks; initially confused by this, the editor eventually decided this was an admonition by the writer that his writing wasn't always perfect, and it was the editors job to find the place for the trailing punctuation.

Some spelling, grammar, and syntax errors are a bit hard to understand as software like Microsoft Word and Google Chrome love to put squiggly lines under algorithmically identified errors.  I'm not sure that these actions along with auto-correct are not partially to blame for any apparent deterioration in spelling; the mechanization of intellect.
This is not to say that there are not places for purulent grammarists.  Our textbooks should be nearly perfect; my own experience is that they are often not.  It is wise for the New York Times to have well-paid and capable copy editors.
This can be taken too far.  At the risk of being overly cliche, the syntaxinista too often ignores the forest for the trees while ignoring the trees for the leaves.

The grammarist is too quick to send the classic car to the crusher due to a faulty window winding mechanism, rather than take a step back and enjoy the beauty of the car and the thrill of driving it on a perfect April day.  The spelling police will self-righteously chortle at a misuse of bear when bare is meant (but is the spelling police sure?).  The syntaxinista will quickly kill the newborn calf since the spots on the calf are not symmetrical between her left and right side, rather than enjoy the milk for years.

Tell me a story and keep me interested from the first word to the last.  Write a book which is so filled with non sequiturs that I can't tell what is going on, but refuse to put it down.  Make me late for work while I finish listening to a compelling story in parking lot.  I'll accept the flaws in the writing.  I'll ignore a tumbling of the words or the odd spelling mistake.
The human brain has the unbelievable ability to take a slightly garbled sentence and turn it into a completely comprehensible thought.  We should embrace that ability when called on.  I'll accept the sin of poor vocabulary if what is being said demands it.

Rather than anger or resentment, I feel pity for the purulent, caustic woman who was compelled to give a negative review on a book for a few spelling mistakes.  In addition to her perfect use of punctuation, I hope she has something worth saying.

80's Music and Coffee

I had a dental appointment recently.  For many years, I avoided the dentist - and I do mean many years.  Those years caught up with the reality of getting older so a couple years ago I went and have been faithfully going ever since. Eventually I'll have to succumb to the same pain in going to the doctor for an annual check-up .. maybe.  There is no shortage of articles questioning the necessity of an annual doctor visit.  I'm suspect that a few minutes with an overly-hurried doctor will actually do much that my boring lifestyle won't do.  About the only reason I can see to do an annual physical is to avoid a scramble to find a doctor when something does appear to be wrong.  That, however, is more of an indictment of the current state of the current medical system.

I like my dental hygienist and she is somewhat good-looking; she splits the line appropriately between talking while simultaneously prodding inside my mouth.  She is also a sadist.  I cringe when the ultrasonic screamer comes out to clean my teeth, and I feel like I need a bullet to bite on - I guess that would defeat the purpose of the dental visit in more ways than one.  The most recent visit was completed using a scraper, which sounds terrible and takes longer but is still preferable to the ultrasonic screamer.

Despite a fairly rigorous personal dental hygiene routine, the time my teeth-cleaning takes at my semi-annual dental visit is painfully long.  I'm sure my daily coffee is partly responsible for this, but I refuse to give up my morning pot of coffee.  When I say pot, I'm talking a small dorm-room size auto-drip pot that is almost antique in age.
I've moved on from the cheapest coffee to something slightly better that doesn't taste like drinking a grass hut.  For a while, I was trying coffees that were were quite expensive, but the reality is that, above a certain quality level, the returns on the increase in taste of coffee diminish very, very quickly with increasing price.  This is despite what the jack-wad coffee snobs expound.  There are no shortage of experts to tell us why were wrong, dumb or wasting our lives on ordinary bottled water.

I'm currently drinking Kroger's Private Selection Guatemalan Antiguan.

It is pretty good, and a lighter contrast to my usual Sumatran Mandheling, which is a much darker roast.

A few bags ago I bought the slightly more expensive Westrock Rwanda coffee.  I'm not sure if I believe Africa (or the world) will be saved by fair trade coffee, but I suppose it can't hurt.  The coffee ... tasted like coffee.

The current trend continues to be the single cup Keurig "pods" that now take up a fantastic amount of wall space at my local Kroger.  Not only are these amazingly expensive when making decent coffee is already fairly quick and easy, but the disposed plastic per cup seems heinously wasteful, aside from the added expense.  Even the Inventor of the K-cup regrets the idea and doesn't even own one.  Newer Keurig brewers are reported to "block" other pods or reusable baskets - an idea that shows the moronity of the entire pod concept.

The music playing at the dentist's office at my recent visit seemed to be some kind of mix from the 80's.  My hygienist said it was due to the office recently getting satellite radio as the broadcast radio was too repetitive.  I have a satellite radio on my Triumph Trophy motorcycle, but never got it to work.  I also never tried too hard.  I guess satellite radio might make sense in a dentist's office, but the cost model seems undefendable - $15 per month per radio - the K-Cup of music; it might be worth it if I could pay for it once but then use it on multiple radios, instead of just on the motorcycle.
Near the end of my dental visit, REO Speedwagon came over the satellite radio and I almost made a joke about junior high school make-out music before realizing how utterly creepy that could sound when someone is working in my mouth.  Had I not caught myself, I would have deserved the ultrasonic screamer.

Exquisite Fats

It is Good Friday.  But then again, any Friday that I don't have to work is a good Friday.  The company I work for is dropping Good Friday (Easter) holiday next year and replacing it with an extra personal day (religious sensitivity and political correctness, I suppose).  I guess this is a good thing since this really isn't often a usable day off for me.  It would be nice if this day was always a splendidly warm and sunny spring day, but that isn't often the case; weather this time of year is quite temperamental.  Today is cool with snotty rain; 2014 was tolerably nice, but the last really good year looks like it was 2010:  dry with a high in the mid-80s.
I believe I got my motorcycle back from the dealership after killing a deer with it on Good Friday, 2001 - which was also a Friday the 13th.  Regardless of the weather, that was a good day.  In some ways, I miss my Harley Davidson days...
It would not surprise me if within a few years the company I work for takes away that additional personal day that a future lack of Good Friday holiday is providing.  The narrative will go as follows:  We lose the Good Friday holiday and get an extra personal day.  At some near-future date, the company does a comparison of the number of personal holidays granted to its serfs and decides the number of personal days is not commensurate with other peer companies - it then takes action to remove that holiday at a future date.  I suppose that sounds a bit negatively bitter, and maybe even conspiracy oriented.

At least the extra day off gives a day this year to have another lazy morning with cornbread pecan waffles.  I added real butter to the batter today, although I'm unsure why I did this.  It made the waffles taste quite rich but won't help me meet any Easter's Resolutions.
I saw an article about avocado oil recently.  I don't remember the source, but it claimed that avocado oil has nearly magical health properties, "even better than olive or coconut oil."  I do not believe this.  There is no elixir of life that will mystically bring around better health, and less weight.  The whole idea that a fat will result in weight loss is quite preposterous, unless it induces vomiting.  Still, I couldn't help but look on Amazon this morning for avocado oil.  Maybe syrup of ipecac is a more honest thing to search, although it appears that ipecac is now more in quackery camp and is no longer available commercially, perhaps one day olive and avocado oil will join it.
The cornbread pecan waffles were followed by hot chocolate since I didn't feel like over-caffeinating with more coffee.  The hot chocolate had a sell-by date of November 19, 2012.  Oh the risks I take!

(belated edit*)
My original plan for Good Friday was to complete a list of things that have needed to be done for some time, but weren't getting done.  Instead, I bought Tim Kreider's book Refuse to Drown.  I don't usually buy books, but as a self-published book through CreateSpace, this book is not available in any Ohio library (apparently, many libraries are apprehensive about holding self-published books).  I started to read it, intending to finish over the three-day weekend, but I could not put it down - it was that good.
I originally found the book after reading a different Tim Kreider's book We Learn Nothing.  It was somewhat flippant, but still thought provoking and I was curious if he had written anything else similar.  It took quite some time to ensure that the two Tim Kreiders were not the same person - the books have as much in common as oranges and Concorde Jets.  Yet, the hook to read the second Tim's book had been set.

Good Friday's morning rain let up for a while but more appears to be imminent, with no way to stop it.  The day looks to be an idle one.  Perhaps that is something to embrace.  In closing on this non sequitur of a Good Friday, I'll quote from Tim Kreider's We Learn Nothing:
Idleness is not just a vacation, an indulgence or a vice; it is as indispensable to the brain as vitamin D is to the body, and deprived of it we suffer a mental affliction as disfiguring as rickets. The space and quiet that idleness provides is a necessary condition for standing back from life and seeing it whole, for making unexpected connections and waiting for the wild summer lightning strikes of inspiration -- it is, paradoxically, necessary to getting any work done.
*I rarely edit these things, even to correct a flaw in the words as I see blogs as a historical record.  Do not photoshop the ex-girlfriend out of the family picture!  As I reread what I had originally wrote, I realized it sounded more mean-spirited than I had intended.  That is not me; at least I hope it is not me.

I Wish That I Knew What I Know Now

Earlier in the week, I had a bit of inexpiable panic when I realized it has been (almost) 20 years since I graduated college.  Two decades ago right now, I was furiously sending out resumes and cover letters.  I was accepting "Screw You - Don't Call Us - We'll Call You" letters.  And, I was starting to interview for jobs.  I'm not sure what the reasons were for the panic in this thought; the math is easy and I knew my 20-year anniversary with the company I work for is coming up later this year.  Maybe it was another, "Oh Shit, I'm old" moment.  Or maybe it is the continuing realization that my life really is optimistically half over.
College was a pretty big milestone, even if I didn't walk in the graduation ceremony (it costs HOW MUCH?).  I think by now I was supposed to be a combination of Tom Selleck, Eric Clapton and Clive Cussler.  Instead, I'm just ... me.

I guess I learned a lot in college, although only some of that was in classes.  I wonder what it would be like to go back to that 20-something person and reveal ten things that are impossible to know then?  I'm not sure 20-something would not have understood, or listened.
Some of these are learned earlier than others, and some are probably more important than others.  The order sort of reflects this.

1. Everyone is faking it.  It was too easy to look around at other people that have the appearance of having it all together.  The mid-90's were pretty chaotic, and it looked like many people a few years into "real life" had figured most of it out.  I've seen life crumble around too many people and seen it come close in many other situations to know that nobody has it figured out and has it all together.  Those that maintain that facade are just better at hiding it, better at temporary repairs to cracks in life's walls.  There is a lot of messy plaster there.
2. Temporary things might not be.  Whether it is the winter coat bought just because something is needed quickly, the job that wasn't supposed to be permanent, or anything else tangible or intangible, I had no idea some of the things that still exist in life now would be here.  I've seen friendships that I thought would be permanent disappear, and others that I thought would vaporize remain to this day.  I still have the cheap, crappy coffee maker I bought in the early 1990's when I moved into my first apartment.  The corollary to this is that permanent things might not be either - see #1.
3. The lack of new "firsts" becomes painful.  Early school, high school, college, post-college ... there is something new around every corner - it is mandatory without even trying.  Even if those things are unpleasant, at least they are new.  Something eventually happens though - new things become more and more rare.  And when they do come, it is almost painful to realize that I'll never be able to do xx or go to yy for the first time again.  Experiencing "firsts" only come with conscious effort; they have to be created in order to be experienced.
4. Worry about money a little bit, but not too much.  Yeah, put money away for retirement and don't spend more than you make, but aside form those two guiding principles, money is pretty boring stuff.  With more stress and time in a job, more money will come.  Study after study has shown that once the basic needs are met, more money doesn't really make individuals more happy (or at least the relationship is very non-linear).  happiness (small h intended) is fleeting, Happiness (big H, aka contentment) doesn't really take a lot of money.  See #5.
5. Time is the most precious commodity.  Ever!  I'm not sure how long I'll live, but it is finite and fixed.  This one is impossible to learn at 20-something.  I'm not even sure I've really learned this yet.  This is why vacation becomes so important.  Time spent at work is pretty meaningless, and I feel sorry for people who's lives are their work.  Those few weeks a year that are completely mine are unbelievably valuable.  No, my work computer will not be going home with me on vacation.
6. There are smart people who make me feel dumb.  So it goes (thanks, Kurt Vonnegut).  This is fine.  Learn what you can from smart people.  If they look down on others from their temporary position of superiority, remember #1.  Keep those generous really smart people in life - they are probably really interesting too.
7. There are dumb people - some of whom are (or appear to be) successful.  Things usually have a way of catching up with people who lack common sense, who are mean, or don't know what they don't know.  Get rid of these people.  Life is quirky and some idiots will be successful; life is unfair that way.  Don't dwell on it.
8. Repetition will happen.  Repetition will happen.  I think part of the reason that I had that moment of terror at realizing 20 years had gone past since college, was the drive in to work felt exactly the same as countless other drives into work.  Some days and weeks go by with unbelievable monotony.  I guess if this didn't happen, I'd be in the rubber room by now.
9. Be content.  Excitement, elation, dizzying highs, crushing lows, the creamy middles - these things all risk coming with mandatory volatility.  Contentment is a gift.  Being satiated with the good is worth a lot.  Too often I feel the urge to sell everything of value, burn everything else and start over.  Media loves to celebrate the 2% of people who have discarded the mundane of daily life and traded it in to travel the world, finding wealth hidden in plain sight.  Media isn't quite as quick to be as honest with the 98% of people who try this and end up destitute, regretting the decision to follow a crazy dream only to have the world come crashing down on the inevitable results.
10. This list will change.  If I had written this ten years ago, 10-years after college, it would have some of the same things, but it would have been vastly different.  Thank goodness for that; if I still thought the same things now that I did a decade ago, it would demonstrate an absolute lack of growth.  This list of ten things are strongly interrelated and is seen through the lens of 20-years working with one company after college.  No doubt if a butterfly had flapped its wings in Sumatra and the resulting hurricane would have made things different, the view itself would be very different.

This entire exercise is actually quite dangerous.  I can't go back and talk to that 20-something and really wouldn't want to (maybe I'd mention a few things).  Perhaps that is where the uneasiness of the last 20 years is coming from - I have no idea where the next week, let alone the next 20 years is really headed.

I published a book. No one is going to buy it, but I don't care.

One of the things on my ever-growing, ever-changing bucket list was to write a book.
Check!
Before you laugh, please read on.

First, a bit of background.  I really wanted to go through the process of writing, self-editing, receiving copy and structural edits, and maybe publishing.  But, I'm not a writer and don't pretend to be.
Then, a few years ago, my young nephew took one of his school assignments, expanded it and published as a book.  It was simplistic, there were lots of errors, and the formatting was terrible.  But, I was reasonably impressed that self-publishing coupled with print on demand seemed like a viable alternative to not doing it, especially since the cost was almost trivial.  I'll never finish my bucket list, so this wouldn't have been terribly troubling.
After a few false starts on book ideas over the years, I had an idea around this time last year that came together in a much more real way.  Thinking about this allowed me to mentally write large sections of the book, before actually starting on it.
Finally, I decided I would try to write one or two of the chapters that were best formed in my head and see if this gelled.  This would be decided be rereading the chapters weeks later, after a vacation.  Success would be determined on if I thought they were tolerable - a low standard to be sure.  The idea of publishing was just that, an idea at that point; success was not going to be dependent on a book in actual physical form.  On completion of the first two chapters, I continued writing - and I thoroughly enjoyed it.  I chose to write it in Google Docs since this allowed me to write wherever I had a computer.  Additionally, as long as I had my phone with me, I could check, reread, and/or edit sections no matter where I was (read:  boring meetings at work where I really didn't need to be mentally present).

Near the end of 2014, I had finished most of the book and passed it on to my SO to read.  She gave some corrections and I implemented them, before being willing to park the project in Google Docs in perpetuity.  At this point, I had really decided against publishing, writing it was success enough.
Through some other twists of life events, I ended up passing the document on to a family member who happens to work in publishing as an editor.  His field is not even close to the subject matter of my book, and he can't publish anything for family members without jumping through hoops, but his copy editing and feedback as well as the feedback of his wife made the book significantly better.
I decided to walk tentatively further down the path toward self publishing.

I chose to work with CreateSpace.  This is a subsidiary of Amazon which I have some trust in (I buy a lot from them) and I'd seen enough final products from CreateSpace to suggest that their work looks quite good.  Lulu also looked like a good choice, but CreateSpace seemed easier, would probably be cheaper; if I had my mind set on a hard cover, Lulu would have been the only choice; I actually prefer soft covers.
The previous editing of the book had brought it from Google Docs to Microsoft Word, and using the templates provided by CreateSpace made getting the book in the right format very easy.
CreateSpace has good documentation and easy to follow instructions to get things formatted correctly.  Where I did have questions, a quick Google search that included the term "CreateSpace" made finding answers utterly trivial - usually the answers came from CreateSpace's online forum.
The change in formatting of the book, plus my first read through of a printed version (done on a normal printer using scrap paper) changed my perspective.  The read through of a hard copy made the book feel more real, less like a homework assignment on a computer screen.  The formatting in the CreateSpace format made it look like an actual book (if only on a screen at this point) and this bumped up the excitement factor.

I struggled with the cover quite a bit.  I read much about the theory of book covers and looked through good examples and bad examples.  I'll be honest that my first attempts would have recreated many of the things NOT to do.  In the end, I created a simple cover that demonstrated the ethos of the book, without being overly busy or loud.
Around this time I also started to read quite a bit about the self-publishing industry and craze.  The traditional publishers and their support look down on this phenomenon with disdain.  I'm convinced they will be proven wrong.  They are dinosaurs using typewriters with the first PCs and Macs already in use.  Some authors already proven successful by the "big 6" traditional publishers also look down on the likes of self-publishers.  I'm fine with that as I won't pretend to compete in the major leagues.
There are a lot of crap self-published books.  This can't be ignored.  There are also a lot of good ones.  This has to be recognized.
A lot of the online help, blogs and articles have to do with writing as a way to get rich, or at least get a lot of money.  I found this a little depressing.  Is money really the only reason to do something ... anything?
My reason to go down this road is different.  I did this for my own self.  I'm quite aware my book, like most self-published books, won't sell.  If I ever get a first payment from CreateSpace, I'll be surprised.  I don't care if I sell a few copies to 1- and 2-star reviews.  The point is, I did this.  I'm happy with it.  My life is more interesting having completed it.

If someone is tempted, as I was, to self-publish, I have three pieces of advice:

1. Have the work copy-edited by someone who really knows what they are doing, even if it isn't free.  This can't be done by one's self and it can't be done by just anyone.  The human brain is amazing in its ability to take a slightly scrambled sentence and reorganize it into a correct thought.  Copy editing is a skill, in my case it was invaluable.  Removing as many of those minor errors as possible makes a big difference in how a final document is received (but yes, Big-6 published books have errors as well).
2. Read all the online chatter about how terrible the self-publishing industry is.  Read how it devalues literature.  Read how embarrassing it is.  Read how people who self-publish shouldn't be called authors.  The experts are always right.  That is probably just what the few literate monks said when Gutenburg first used his printing press.
3. Do it!  Don't do it to get rich because you won't.  Don't do it to get famous because you won't.  But do it anyways.  Do it because writing is immortal; writing and rewriting allows the self to think about things from a different perspective.  Do it so you can reread it 10 years later and maybe even be a bit embarrassed - this only demonstrates growth.  Do it to know that you have completed something, even if no one knows or cares, because the things that make life interesting are almost always the unknown.

When I held the first physical proof copy, I felt like I was holding a child; I was almost afraid to read it and risk creasing the cover.  After (quickly) getting over that, I read it and had only minor edits before moving on with some trepidation.  Still, the thing that scared me the most was that someone, someday might actually read this...
A few subsequent rounds of minuscule edits were needed which was both maddening and exhilarating.  Maddening, since each edit, no matter how minor, needed a review by CreateSpace which can take up to 24 hours.  Exhilarating since I knew that each correction was making the final product better.
In final form, there are still a few formatting things I wish I would have done differently, but I think that would be the case no matter how many times I edited and resubmitted; that is as much a personality flaw as anything else.

As I look back on the last year, where the ab initio for this started, I realize that despite big "accomplishments" at work and elsewhere, my simpleton self-published book is one of the things that brought me the most personal fulfillment.  The money I earn in a few hours at work will dwarf what I will ever make from the book, despite spending untold, countless hours in it.  But that is not the point and it never was.  Does this mean I've missed my calling?  Likely not.  But I have no idea what my life's calling really was ... or is.

So go ahead and read my book or not.  Give me a 1-Star review and flame the author for a linear narrative, simple writing and leaving some strings loose at the end of the book (this was done on purpose).  I've learned more about myself through this excursion than I could have possibly imagined.  That is the best kind of success that even a successfully rich author might hope for.

Life Is Not a Choose Your Own Adventure Book

On Friday, I did something that is slightly discomforting.  I went grocery shopping on Friday night.
I'm sure there have been times I've grocery shopped on a Friday night in the past, but the entirety of the situation is where the discomfort lies.

The normal Saturday routine is up early, pay bills, buy food for the week.  During the day on Friday, the weather forecast was dynamic - changing from a little snow, rain, and sleet to several inches of snow and most falling overnight but lingering through Saturday.  Weather has rarely, if ever, interrupted the contentment of the Saturday routine.

Compared to the casual Saturday morning grocery shopping, Friday night was a cacophony of people, carts, milk-buying moms (pre-storm) and beer-buying college students (also pre-storm).  It probably doesn't need to be said that it was unpleasant.

Saturday, indeed, came with several inches of snow before dawn.  The radar suggested more snow was going to continue, but the bulk of it was past.

Maybe I should embrace the decision to avoid the 25 mile round trip to grocery shop on intemperate roads since the routine can sometimes be too comforting.  Yet last weekend, I made a 700 mile round trip to Michigan, enduring a much more serious snow storm in Michigan and a smaller, but still difficult one closer to home on the return.  The fact that this is really the first significant snow storm in the immediate locale shows how mild the winter has been.

It is hard to argue that the unspoiled Saturday morning snow scene looks amazing.  But, that postcard scene is easier to enjoy on December 23 than it is when our average high should be solidly rising and in the mid-40's; winter should be slowly relenting to spring.

Two people I've worked closely with for years are retiring next week.  I can only imagine their thoughts as they look ahead to a time in the very near future where the need to get up and traverse treacherous roads is replaced by less urgency.  Their retirement is creating a reduction in workforce, without a clear reduction in work.  That is not something to be contemplated on a Saturday morning though.

The decision to grocery shop on Friday presents an interesting life dilemma.  We almost never know if a decision we made results in eliminating a catastrophe.  Life is not a Choose Your Own Adventure book where one can make a decision and then look to see what an alternative choice would have resulted in.  A bad decision that results in a car crash or permanent injury can be easy to identify in hindsight.  It is impossible to look back and say that the decision to grocery shop on Friday to avoid bad roads on Saturday prevented something terrible from happening.  Chances are high that a grocery trip on Saturday would have meant a slower than average drive and safe return home.  But, maybe, just maybe, the decision to not leave the house on a snowy Saturday morning meant that a slide off the road, into a ditch and bouncing off of a tree was avoided.  It isn't likely or even probably; it is, however, possible.

The trivial trade-off of a minor weekend disruption with eliminating the improbable accident seems to be about contextually correct.

A Beagle Named Soda

"How old is she?"
That is what I almost always heard when people learned that Soda was 18.  Life expectancy of a beagle is on the order of 12 to 15 years.  To say Soda had a good dog's life at almost 19 would be an understatement.

I got Soda in April of 1999.  Mandy had recently died and that caused a hole that just needed to be filled.  I knew it was irrational, but I was hoping for the pyrite to be gold and the dog I got after Mandy would be just like her.
I was at one of the local Pet's Plus (or some other similar store) and a nearby county was holding a dog adoption event.  In the mix of dogs was a lanky female beagle.  She had a somewhat diminutive personality and was almost shy.  She went home along with a free bag of dog food.
I think she came with the name of Sprocket, but it was changed on the way home to Soda.  The origins of this name are from Seinfeld, where George Costanza suggested the name of Soda to another character on the show for her child.  It seemed to fit well for a dog (plus I really liked the show Seinfeld).
Soda was clearly in a state of stress.  She had very little fur, with a few nearly bald patches on her side and belly.  The fur she did have was very short and bristly.  It was obvious that things were not exactly sweetness for her.  She also had a funny pink spot on her nose.  Over her life her hair became soft and normal, but the pink nose remained as a testament to her early years.

Once at home, the shy diminutive dog evaporated and Soda became a bundle of unlimited energy.  This energy was not channeled in a good direction.  She was absolutely ballistic!
She would race around the back yard barking at nothing and everything.  While the yard was very large and fenced in, almost no fence could hold her.  She found every nook and and tiny break in the fence, managing to squeeze out of holes a fraction of her size.
When all the small holes were finally sealed, Soda learned that if she pushed hard enough, she was able to get under the fence.
When she did get out, she was impossible to catch.  She would run through icy creeks, bawling her fool head off.  She was completely oblivious to anything, sometimes running right past me at top speed, only caring about the mythical thing she was chasing, probably the long-gone scent of some small animal.

After the bottom of the fence was secured at significant expense with landscaping timbers, Soda learned to be able to jump over the fence.  She figured out that with just the right jump, she could get her "armpits" on the top of the fence, and then use her back legs to flop over.  I'm convinced that this had to hurt, but the pain was worth it to her to get to the "greener grass" on the other side.
Sometimes the other dogs would follow along on her criminal advetures.  Often, Sammy, Dixie and Lucky would just stand at the fence and watch her leave.  This was often a good signal to look for where Soda got out and the direction she had gone in.

Soda spent a lot of time inside the fenced in yard and tied up to a chain.  This was often the only way to keep her from running to some distant goal that was incredibly important to her.  She really did not like this though.

With Soda's maniacal focus on anything real or imagined, she was the only dog I had where I understood how somewhat got rid of her.  She shredded the bark on threes trying to climb them if she thought there were squirrels in them.  She dug countless holes trying to catch moles.  She tore down baby paw paw trees; I'm not sure why?
But, I'm not exactly sure why she did many of the things she did.  At times, I know I lost my temper with her.  This never seemed to phase her much though - perhaps that is a lesson for me.

Still, Soda did have her moments.  She was a beagle who absolutely loved being outdoors.  Rain, snow, sleet, heat - it didn't matter.  Soda liked being out in her back yard.  I guess in that way, we were a lot alike.
She was actually able to catch and kill a huge rabbit in the back yard once; the only one of my dogs where I've seen this.
Like all of my beagles, Soda was good at power-napping and could go from light-speed to sleep quickly.

As Soda got older, she did begin to mellow.  Sitting inside would become more than tolerable.  The back yard was interesting enough that only rarely did she feel the need to escape the fence or destroy a tree.

For the last few years at the old house and the first few in the current house, she really was a pretty good dog.

As an old, aloof beagle, Soda did have friends who adored her.  The vet loved her and the last time she was kenneled during a vacation, she was given free run of the place anytime the person cleaning the kennels was back there.

Like all of us, she did start to age.  She began to have small accidents in the house.  These would mostly happen while she was sleeping so we had to put a dog towel underneath her for a while, wherever she sat.  A prescription of Proin did wonders and stopped this for a while.  However, she was also diagnosed at the same time with the beginnings of kidney failure.

Soda was put on special food for her kidneys, since minimizing phosphorus and some proteins can help.  This made a difference for a while and I'm sure it prolonged her life, but she hated it.  Just about every renal dog food available was tried.  Soda would tolerate some longer than others.  Iams Renal Plus was the one that she hated the least.  Often, gravy, or canned renal dog food was needed to coax her to eat.

I'm not in favor of crating dogs, but eventually soda needed to be locked up when left alone in the house during work, etc.  The daily moppings and/or washing of the small boot rug by the door was too much.  A wire crate with a puppy pee pad became her daily resting spot.
What is amazing about most dogs and Soda in particular is how plastic they are.  I'm sure the crate was a big change for her and I know she didn't like it, but she very quickly accepted it as the new normal.  A few times she would even voluntarily walk into the cage.

At 17, I figured her days were numbered, but she soldiered on for another year.  At 18, I wondered if I should renew her dog tags, but I owed her at least that much.

A few weeks ago, it became obvious that the end was probably near.  Eating was becoming more intermittent and she was already very skinny.  She still loved being outside though.  I was really hoping she would go quietly and naturally, but that wasn't the case.  Coming home from work, she really couldn't even walk and it appeared she might be having small seizures.
I called the vet to make her last appointment, and had an incredibly hard time maintaining my composure on the phone.

The vet had a nice room set up to be able to say goodbye in a non-hospital like manner.  Soda's heart was so weak that an IV wasn't possible, but our vet helped her let go peacefully.  It was the second time I had to put one of my dogs down, and it was just as hard as the first time; it was also the right thing to do.

No, Soda wasn't my favorite dog, but that long, gangly, independent dog had been running around the house for nearly 17 years.  Even though there are still two beagles, the house didn't feel the same without her.
In a last act of Soda-ism, she died during a winter cold snap.  The vet offered to keep her until spring, but after buying a pick-ax and a stronger shovel I was able to chisel through half a foot of frozen ground and reach thawed earth to dig a spot for her burial.  This was not fun, but I was incredibly grateful that I could do this as I didn't want to open that raw wound and bury her in the spring.  Sometime around the anniversary of when I originally got Soda, a tree will be planted over her.
And I'm sure, given most of her life spent running after anything and everything, that tree will attract more squirrels than any other in the yard.