89. Don't tell them what I died of, okay?

[Content warning: Definitely not vegetarian]

Greetings, friends. This morning I woke up with irritated sinuses and a slight sniffle. The reason why will become apparent momentarily.

Besha and I went to Costco yesterday for $900 worth of staples, even though we are planning to move house in a few weeks, because I’m not entirely certain that the Trump regime won’t invoke the Insurrection Act of 1807 when the Department of Homeland Security releases its report on April 20th. While it may seem far fetched now that the Federal government would occupy Portland with military force, I will simply observe that neither good sense, decency, nor the rule of law has restrained the current regime so far. That, and the foolhardy trade tariffs, make it seem worth the trouble to lay in dried staples and canned goods, while they are readily available. If we haven’t used them by next spring, we will donate them to the local food bank, and buy more. I’m also pricing out dual-fuel portable generators.

The most expensive item on yesterday’s Costco receipt was a bag of frozen salmon fillets, which is what passes for culinary luxury in this house. The second most expensive item was a Costco-sized bag of bully sticks for the dog. These are not a luxury — they are utterly essential for distracting her when she gets rambunctious and annoying.

I have not said much about the dog, Whiskey, so named because her coat resembles the tawny hue of a fine whiskey, of which Besha has been known to consume her share.

Whiskey the dog is evidently part deer-head chihuahua and part Italian greyhound. In her, the traits of the breeds are not so much blended, as they are conjoined: Picture the head of a chihuahua stuck on the body of an Italian greyhound, give it light brown fur, and you have an excellent first approximation. She has bulging brow and eyes of her noble Mesoamerican forebears, but the aspect ratio of a gazelle. She is lightning fast on level ground. If she does not want to be caught, she will not be.

Whiskey also has the sweet, even temperament of both breeds. Which is to say, she is riddled with anxiety, terrified by moderate winds, and prone to bark at strangers and children.

Whiskey does not have the good-natured eagerness to please that is a feature of other canine breeds. She has the wits and the narcissism of a two-year-old human toddler, with the key difference that she will never outgrow either. On the flip side, she can be charming, and even adorable, when it suits her.

This dog has big main character energy. Her entire existence is bent on the satisfaction of her desires, which are simple — warmth, food, entertainment, and companionship, in roughly that order. Her will to wring the dopamine reward from her life is palpable.

In this, perhaps, Whiskey and I are not all that different.

So, while the bully sticks are expensive, they are not a luxury; they are a necessity. When Whiskey gets bored in the late afternoon, as she inevitably does, something is wanted to keep the dog from nosing one in the leg and generally tearing around the house causing trouble.

As we were unpacking the Costco haul, Besha said, “I wonder if you could take the bully sticks and saw them in half, or better yet, thirds.”

If you know what a bully stick actually is, you may be able to see where this is going. These dog chews, made from “grass-fed, free-range cattle”, come about a dozen to a bag. They are about a half inch in diameter, and tougher than a tree branch. The ones we get are each about a foot long. The dog is maybe only two feet long, so each one is a lot of bull stick for not very much dog.

“Why not use the pruning shears? It would probably be faster,” I said.

“Maybe. But my hands aren’t very strong, and that sounds like a lot of work. I thought using the saw would be more fun for you.”

I felt seen.

I also wasn’t convinced it would be less work than simply cutting them down by hand. On the other hand, I couldn’t really resist an opportunity to use my cordless reciprocating saw, so I took the bag into the shop. I extracted the bully sticks, found some adjustable cable ties, and bound them into a bundle about six inches wide. I put the bundle into the bench vise, cranked it tight, and then cranked it tighter for good measure. I found a battery for the reciprocating saw, and put a plastic bin under the vise to catch the sawed-off sticks. I thought about eye protection, but I wear eye glasses, which I figured would be good enough.

What I did not think about was breathing protection, which would have been a good idea. I started the saw, and, as soon as the blade bit into the bundle, a spray of fine dust billowed directly into my face. Rather than cutting cleanly as I imagined they would, the stick ends splintered and then fired off in all directions across the shop. I stopped to examine my handiwork.

The dog stuck her head hopefully in the doorway of the shop, her attraction to the overpowering aroma of the bully sticks having for the moment overwhelmed her terror of the sawing noise. I started sawing again, and her head disappeared, but reappeared with that same hopeful look the moment I stopped. I waved her off and closed the door.

If you haven’t worked it out already, a “bull stick” is quite literally sections of the dehydrated penis of a bull, or the “pizzle” as it is politely known in the pet food industry. Waste not, want not, I guess?

The word “pizzle” dates back to old English, maybe further. In Henry IV, Part I, Falstaff hurls the phrase “bull’s pizzle” as a personal insult. The word pizzled is a term of art used in heraldry to denote the depiction of genitalia on the animate charge of a coat of arms. The same organ, dried entire, can apparently be reinforced with a wooden or steel rod, and used as a walking stick, although I don’t know why anyone would want to do this.

Whiskey thinks they are delicious. I pulled the remainder of the bundle out of the vise, picked up the bin, and then stooped to collect the pizzle-pieces that had scattered across the shop floor. I put the sticks back in the plastic bag they had come out of, and opened the door. As soon as I stepped out, Whiskey furtively shot in behind me. When I went back into the shop to clean up, the floor under the vise was wet from where the dog had been licking it.

The plastic bin itself was full of shavings. I fetched the dog’s bowl, poured them in, and added a little water, then took it back out to the patio. Whiskey was beside herself with excitement. I sneezed. The things I do for my wife and her dog.

Besha was out there in the garden, working away at something.

“Darling,” I said loudly, while coughing slightly. “After I perish from lung cancer, please don’t tell the mourners at my funeral that it was brought on by inhaling aerosolized bull pizzle, okay?”

She smiled, but did not look up.

“I make no promises,” she called back.

If you’re reading this, I send you my love. The trivial and the silly things are easier to write about than the bigger and harder things. Thank you for reading anyway. I hope you have as exciting a day as Whiskey did yesterday. Ceterum censeo imperdiet vigilum cessandam est.