Tag Archives: trailer

Cynophobia

Cynophobia: (n) an irrational fear of dogs

Sometimes I am hesitant to tell you a story because I fear you will think I am pulling your leg (or tugging on your heart).

Just like all writers, I am guilty of some embellishment, but generally speaking, the plot line, characters and conclusions actually happened in some way, shape or form.

While traveling in Texas (which, by the way, could be the beginning of a dozen novels…)

Anyway, I found myself in a tiny community just south of Austin.

It was a place that was proud of being tiny, away from Austin and south.

Need I say more?

I came in with my music group to put on a series of concerts in the region—because apparently the person who did our scheduling hated us.

Our music was too hip, our clothes were too modern, my hair was too long and the girls had that look in their eyes—of equal rights.

The whole event was a struggle, which we were actually succeeding in overcoming. That is, until they told us where we would be staying.

A lady offered her mobile home as a place for us to stay.

She failed to explain to us that she bred pit bulls.

She explained that she would not be there to greet us, but that the trailer would be open, and to “just go on in.” It never crossed my mind to ask about dogs.

So, driving up in our van, suddenly seven of the little monsters came running to the fence, alternating their barking. Three on one side, four on the other, back to the three on the one.

It was like a hellish chorus from a Wagner opera.

The animals stared at us—an uncomfortable probing, as if they were sizing up how long it would take to get us to the ground for the final kill.

One of the girls—who believed “doggies were really sweet”—thought she would step up to the fence and greet them, to see if she could allay their fear of strangers. As she did, one of the beasts from the left-hand chorus leaped up, sank his teeth into her purse and would not let go. We were barely able to free her from the purse so that the dog would not drag her into the pit of death and terminate her singing career.

We stood at the fence, gazing at these creatures for ten minutes. Twenty minutes. We were silent because nobody had any good idea on how to get into the house without being partially consumed.

After about three-quarters of an hour, the owner arrived and asked us why we hadn’t “gone on in.”

Without saying a word, all three of us pointed to the gathered horde.

She ridiculed us—especially me. She said, “You claim to be a man and you’re afraid of these puppies? What a pussy! They won’t hurt you!”

She then tossed her hair and looked at the three of us, saying, “Come on. Follow me. They won’t bother you.”

She was wrong–the dogs knew we were spooked.

Every time we tried to follow her through the fence, they jumped into the air, ready to attack.

At this point, the young woman turned to us, astonished, and said, “I don’t know what’s going on. They’re never like this. Did you do anything to hurt them?” We shook our heads. She continued. “It’s like they know you’re dangerous or something. Do you have evil spirits?”

Well, this was too far for me.

I declared, “Well, actually, we have good spirits. And apparently, these demon mutts are out to swallow them.”

The lady did not like my response. She headed inside, saying, “When you get up the courage, come on in.”

Seeing her leave, the dogs gritted their teeth, content that they had us to themselves. The girls in the group were stymied but I wasn’t.

I was unashamedly experiencing cynophobia.

I had officially met dogs who were not puppies, but instead, possessed the Mark of The Beast.

We went to a Holiday Inn, which, by the way, did not allow pets.

funny wisdom on words that begin with a C

Click

Click: (n) a short, sharp sound as of a switch being operated

If the entirety of the stupid things I’ve done in my life could be written down, all the books in the world would not contain it. (Well, perhaps
a bit overstated.)

But I’ve never met a stupid idea I wasn’t willing to consider if I thought it advanced my cause or gave me a shortcut.

Many years ago, when my children were younger, we traveled the country as a family band. It was like the Partridge Family without the cuteness, obvious talent and painted bus. Instead we had a car, and found an old trailer, which had sat in a farmer’s field for two years–abandoned.

Not knowing anything at all about such matters, we liked the look of the trailer on the outside, so we bought it for $350.

It probably was not worth $3.50.

Not only had it been unused for two years, but it was also twenty-five years since its manufacturing. The wood was rotten, the tires completely dry-rotted, and all the wiring shot to hell.

But we hooked it up anyway.

Amazingly, much of the time it functioned–awkwardly. It looked horrible, but it carried things and limped along behind our car.

That is, until one night, in the mountains of California, the electrical system decided to have a nervous breakdown.

We did not know what to do. It was pitch black outside, there were coyotes everywhere and I had a fourteen-year-old son with me–the only one awake–to try to crawl back in the trailer and fix the lights.

After fiddling with the wiring, we got back into the car and they worked for about twenty minutes.

Then, all at once, we heard this clicking sound. Rapid. Almost like someone was sending Morse Code. And along with the clicking, the tail lights joined in, blinking.

We kept tinkering with it, trying to make it work. There was even one interlude when it stopped clicking for about thirty minutes. We were so relieved that my son actually went to sleep. To this day, he tells the story of nightmares of being chased by a “clicking monster,” and the horror of awakening once again to the same sound.

Mile by mile we held our breath–fearful of the dreaded click.

It wasn’t until the next day, when we reached a town and pulled into a repair shop, that we discovered there was nothing wrong with the trailer or the wiring. It was the switch on our car’s headlights, which decided to take this particularly bleak evening in the California hills to become temperamental.

Every once in a while I’ll hear a sound which ever-so-slightly resembles that clicking.

Losing control, I pee my pants a little.

 

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Beat-up

Beat-up: (adj) a thing worn out by overuse; in a state of disrepair.Dictionary B

I found myself sharing a message that didn’t match my lifestyle.

I was moved to proclaim the idea “Life With Style” while I, myself, was somewhat impoverished.

It introduced the possibility of hypocrisy.

In an attempt to advertise my slogan, “Life With Style,” I had purchased magnetic signs, which I placed on the side of my old, beat-up car, towing a trailer which short months earlier had been rotting in a corn field.

It was what I could legitimately afford, and I did my best to bolster it with repair and frequent cleanings, but to the average onlooker who saw my vehicle and trailer pass by, the advertisement, “Life With Style,” was an enigma, if not a farce.

I became convicted that I was misrepresenting my own cause with my beat-up situation, bannered by such a positive, exuberant concept.

Because let’s be honest–we’re human.We can’t envision a life with style without a decent paint job. Life doesn’t have style unless we are visually passable.

So I learned that you can call people hypocritical, judgmental or mean-spirited for the conclusions they draw upon eyeballing your circumstance, or you can realize that since they are susceptible to hypocrisy, judgmentalism and a mean-spirited nature, it might be a good idea to give them as little evidence as possible … for a case against you.

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Thank you for enjoying Words from Dic(tionary) —  J.R. Practix

 

 

 

Acrimonious

Words from Dic(tionary)

by J. R. Practix

dictionary with letter AAcrimonious: (adj.) typically in reference to speech or debate, angry and bitter: e.g. an acrimonious debate about wages.

About a mile-and-a-half outside our little town of fifteen hundred souls, there was a location set aside, commonly referred to as “the city dump.”

I’m not so sure those places exist anymore–whether small towns have them. I think we now use landfills, which are similar but much larger.

But about once every three or four months, our family would load up a small trailer and head out to the city dump to get rid of everything that had somehow become displeasing to us.

My mother was always concerned about taking us children out there because we might step on a nail, get lockjaw and die. But I always pleaded to go on the journey because it was a fascinating destination. There was always just a little bit of fire burning close by, with some of the dumped materials ablaze.

And it was remarkable how we could back up our trailer, disconnect it, tip it up, and dump our useless bullcrap into the pile, then re-hook the trailer and drive away with no fear or burden. The trip to the dump was always bumpy, and the car would pull, tugging the rejected items behind us. But the trip back was so much lighter.

That’s the way I feel about “acrimonious.”

Do we ever know if our discussions with one another are truly pure and on point? We may just have failed to go to the garbage heap before we began to discuss.

After all, there’s so much crap that builds up inside us in the process of one day:

  • So many disappointments covered up with a smile.
  • So many dreams we had that we now sidestep because they failed to bear evidence.
  • So much frustration about being told to wait, when patience seems so useless.

And therefore, the least little thing can set us off, and rather than dumping our trash where it belongs, we do it right in the middle of the town square–to the alarm and disdain of the citizens.

I’m not so sure that any Republican or Democrat really knows what they think on ANY issue. They are too busy being acrimonious over old battles.

So even though I was sometimes sad when we threw things away at the city dump because I had developed a fondness for them in their decaying state, I can’t tell you that I missed them or felt any absence whatsoever.

Sometimes we just need to dump before we come back and interact.

If we don’t, we end up scraping our garbage onto somebody else’s plate.