HOW RED IS MY NECK?

Michael LaRocca Smashwords Edition Copyright 2001 Michael LaRocca Smashwords Edition, License Notes Thank you for downloading this free ebook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for noncommercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form. If you enjoyed this book, please return to Smashwords.com and/or visit MichaelEdits.com to discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

I must dedicate this book to my wife, even though she asked me not to. For putting up with me; For bringing me joy; For helping me find my heart; It will always belong to you.

Prologue A long time ago, in a land far, far away, a high school English teacher told me, "write from your heart." I stared at him like he was an idiot. Why, I wondered, should I do that? My life is boring. No one wants to read it. (A coincidence. Many years earlier, this same teacher told Rod Serling the same thing.) The teacher was Harold Givens. He taught English 4AP at Chamberlain High School in Tampa, Florida, when I met him. If you've seen that episode of The Twilight Zone called "The Changing of the Guard," where the ghosts of his former students visit the retiring English professor, I just know that was about Mr. Givens. Most writers begin by writing their own life stories, then progress to the more imaginative realms. I took the opposite course. I wrote wild, imaginative stuff that lacked the human element. In the 80s, I fancied myself a writer of short stories. I churned them out, mailed them to publishers, and was rejected hundreds of times. In the nineties, I gave up. Better to chase money, a house, the "American Dream." In December 1999, I sold my house in North Carolina, divorced my wife of ten years, entrusted my lovely dogs to Daddy, and visited Hong Kong. Not long after, I quit my job of eight years via e-mail in order to stay in Hong Kong. Some time later, I married a lovely Australian lady. Until the wedding, it wasn't legal for me to work in Hong Kong. To those readers who slave away full-time at some unsatisfying job, and I presume that means most of you, this sounds ideal. At first, it was. But then came the boredom. I've always been a bit hyper. Oh, what to do during those long lonely hours? I cleaned the apartment, I fixed the appliances... But, what next? I revised all those short stories, wrote quite a few new ones, and whipped up an anthology called The Chronicles of a Lost Soul. My "slush pile" also contained two novels. I edited the mess out of them both. One wound up as a novella, which I added to The Chronicles of a Lost Soul. It belongs there. The other, Vigilante Justice, stands alone. The hero, quite simply, is my ideal of what my little brother (the cop) would have been like if he hadn't killed himself at age 20. Meanwhile, my wife-to-be was insisting that I write my own life story. Why did she fall in love with me? My beautiful stories, she said. After ten months, I finally listened -- I can be a bit thick -- and wrote about the first 26 years of my life. The resulting novel is the best thing I've ever written. It's called Rising From The Ashes, and it's about how Mom raised two sons alone. It was a 2004 EPPIE finalist. Mom's youngest, Barry, killed himself on her birthday. Four years later, she died of a burst aneurysm on her birthday. Leaving me, for all practical purposes, a man with no family.

Mom died in 1989. I wrote about her in 2001. This isn't a sequel. You don't need to read Rising to enjoy this, and you don't need to read this to see what happened after Rising. Both stand alone, two completely different works. This book begins after Barry's death, shortly before Mom's death. Mom's final dream, the only one that went unfulfilled, was to have grandchildren. Barry married first, so the pressure was on him. Shortly after his death, I married the only girl who'd ever consented to go out with me. Thus, the pressure was on me. But my ex-wife and I had agreed long in advance never to have children. Sorry, Mom. I'm not going to write about my first marriage. You've read it all before, perhaps even lived it, and reading about it really would bore you. Lisa and I should've just stayed buddies and never married. I'm just gonna tell you a little bit about me before Mom died, then drift into stories about dogs and cats, horses, pigs, and finally China. "A good chuckle is sometimes better than a belly laugh." That's what one reader claimed. I hope so. The most serious part is this right here, the prologue. Most of what remains is just silliness. So, just read and enjoy. Michael LaRocca August 1, 2008 Chiang Mai, Thailand

Chapter One After Barry's Death Metro Security sent me to Honeywell. I sat behind a desk inside its most secret area, guarding the sole project within Honeywell Tampa that produced a profit. It was called Vinson. I tended to write short stories on duty, but I had to stop writing when I was stationed in Vinson. About 200 people were allowed inside the Vinson area. My job was to check every badge against my list of authorized personnel. It didn't matter if I'd seen this person every day for three months; I still had to check him/her in my book because the list could change at any time. I was also to ensure that no one took anything from the Vinson area. I was supposed to look inside every handbag, every briefcase, every lunch bag, every pants pocket. I was supposed to enforce the rule preventing people from bringing food and drink into the Vinson area, as they could spill something. I was supposed to ensure nobody smoked in the Vinson area. I was supposed to ensure nobody brought any reading materials into the area, as they were supposed to be working, not reading. All this from my desk, where I couldn't see what they did when they turned the corner. The Vinson employees, meanwhile, bull-rushed past me like a herd of stampeding elephants. They moved so quickly that I couldn't read the names on their badges, much less inspect their handbags and such. Everyone drank; everyone smoked; everyone read. This was one of Metro's highest paying and most prestigious guard sites, the end result of years of working 80-hour weeks in an exemplary manner. It required a secret clearance with the U.S. Government to work at this site. While most guards made the minimum wage of $3.35 per hour, I was rewarded with almost $4 per hour. Vinson employees made at least four times that. I spent 12 hours a day at that desk, six days a week. Four hours into the shift, the "roving guard" gave me a ten-minute toilet break. Eight hours into the shift he gave me a 20-minute meal break. Otherwise I was always at my desk. In short, I was mad at the world. The ideal solution, I decided, was to vent my rage on those damn employees. I stopped people at my desk and made them wait. I took away their drinks and threw them in the trash. I reported violators to company security no matter how minor the infraction. Almost everyone who walked past my desk quickly grew to hate me. That didn't bother me, because I hated them too. Vinson employees regularly filed complaints against me with company security. Security responded to every complaint in the same manner. They gave me a new certificate of achievement to hang on the wall behind my desk. They told me, "If the employees don't hate the guard, then he's not

doing his job." The Vinson employees despised me with a passion. A fellow guard, the Corporal, took a week's paid vacation. The folks at Metro Security decided that, as the only other guard under 50, I should take his place. The Corporal's job was to drive a golf cart around the parking lot, ten hours a day, issuing parking tickets. It was summer in Florida, well over 100 degrees every day. The leading cause of death among security guards is heart attack, as so many are retirees. Well, there would be no heart attacks at Honeywell this week. The employees back in the Vinson area were happy to see me gone, and could only wish it were permanent. But I still found a way to make their lives hell. On a typical week, the Corporal wrote two tickets. On a typical day, I wrote over 50. Undoubtedly a large number landed on the windshields of those scofflaws in Vinson. Bill Johnson was in charge of security for Honeywell. One day his wife met him for lunch. She parked the car, walked to the desk, and had him paged. When he arrived at the desk, he asked, "Where did you park?" The lot was full as always. She replied, "In one of the visitor spots in front of the new Human Resources wing." Those spots were for job seekers only. Bill shouted, "No, you didn't!" and ran outside to move the car. But just that quickly, I'd already ticketed it. He called me into his office the following week to congratulate me on a job well done. In all honesty, those parking tickets meant nothing. A copy of every parking ticket went into the employee's permanent file. His boss was supposed to call him into the office to talk about it, and theoretically enough tickets could lead to dismissal. I never expected this to happen. I simply liked annoying people because the whole damn job annoyed me. Back at the Vinson desk, I started busting people for bringing Bibles into the Vinson area. No reading, remember. I nailed one woman for carrying Expect A Miracle by Oral Roberts. Many complaints were filed against me for that. Most of the employees were devout Southern Baptists, and I had dared to make them leave their religion at the door. In retaliation, they complained to Bill Johnson that I was drinking water at my desk. They couldn't drink, they complained, so why should I? They won that round, and I was banned from drinking water 12 hours a day, six days a week, except for two short breaks. I suppose that's one way to eliminate my need to visit the toilet. I talked to the folks at Metro about the situation, and they hired a new guard so that no one sat at the Vinson desk for more than eight hours. I retaliated by heavily enforcing the no-handbag rule, and the complaints flew fast and furious. Security compromised and allowed the employees small, see-through handbags. The next morning, a swarm of about 20 employees tried to bull-rush past me with clear plastic shopping bags. I roared at the closest person. "Stop!"

"What?" "Who said you could bring that in here?" "They said we could have clear bags." "They? Who's they?" "John McCray." "Okay. When John McCray comes in, I'll ask him. If he told you that, it's his ass. If not, it's yours." I didn't know it, but John McCray had said this. He was their boss' boss' boss. I suspect they were right around the corner, waiting to hear me lay into McCray. About 15 minutes later, John McCray innocently strolled past my desk. He was one of my few friends, actually. "Good morning, Michael." I snapped to my feet and looked up into his eyes. "John, what did you tell your people about bringing clear plastic bags in here?" Now he was concerned. "I told them it was okay with Security." "Any size bag?" "Um, uh, yes." "Who told you that?" "Oh, uh, Dick Balla." Dick Balla was pretty close to the top of the food chain. All Honeywell employees were afraid to offend Dick Balla. I wasn't a Honeywell employee. "I'll talk to him," I stated firmly. Dick Balla wasn't my boss, and I really wouldn't have cared if he were. I'd already given my boss a parking ticket, and if he hadn't liked it I'd have probably quit. I was a hostile young man, early 20s, with a six-year-old college degree gathering dust. People like me are always hostile. Maybe half an hour later, Dick Balla himself passed by my desk. I didn't like him. Nobody did. "Dick Balla!" I yelled. "Wh-what?" That fat little bald weasel was terrified. "Did you tell those girls they could bring any damn size clear bag in here they wanted?" "Y-yes. They told me it was okay in Security." "Dick, they're bringing big-ass damn grocery bags. There's no way in hell I can see all the shit in those bags. I'm pretty sure Security had a size limit in mind." "Oh, um, oh, well, if you clear it up with them I'll do whatever you say." "Okay." I called the Security department and had someone come to my desk. "I didn't tell Dick Balla any size. I meant something about like this." Teenna indicated with her hands. "No matter what we do they find a way to abuse it, don't they?"

"Yes." "I'll type a memo and put some measurements on it." "Thanks, Teenna." "Want another certificate for the wall?" A week later, Larry James showed up at my desk. He was a Vinson employee, in charge of the night shift, and he was one of my few other friends in the Vinson area. "How's it going, Michael? You still giving those bitches hell?" I grinned. "You know it." "Hey Michael, Chuck told me you have a degree in electronics. Is that true?" "Yeah." "What kind?" "An Associate Degree. Why?" "We need to hire some people back in Vinson, and all you need to apply is an electronics degree. Any degree. You don't even have to remember anything -- the computers do all the work. But it's in the government contract that all techs need a degree." "How do I apply?" "Let me go talk to John." Five minutes later, I was in John's office with John and Larry. "We can't pay you much," John explained, then quoted a figure about three times my current salary. "And you'd only be a temp, so you wouldn't get any benefits. What kind of benefits does Metro give you?" "You see the uniform I'm wearing? That's it. Oh, and a week's paid vacation a year." "We can't give you that." "I never took it anyway. I just got an extra paycheck once a year. A small one." "So are you interested?" "Absolutely." "If you work half as hard for us as you do at that guard desk, you'll be the best tech I've got." I put in my two weeks' notice with Metro. Suddenly, all the employees who hated me became my best friends in the world. Shaking my hand, congratulating me, hugging me and saying they'd always liked me. The truth, I knew, was it meant I wouldn't be at the guard desk anymore. As a Honeywell employee, I was free to go drink water and use the toilet as often as necessary. I was pretty adept at sneaking newspapers and cigarettes into the Vinson area. It was the night shift, after all, where we were just a bit more relaxed. As for the newspaper, there were dead times of two minutes here and five minutes there, waiting for the test equipment to finish running something or other. I figured, why not read? Chuck Ball, the guy who'd told Larry about my electronics degree,

trained me. He was hoping that, at some point, I'd replace him so he could quit. He loved describing his vasectomy in graphic detail. He used this as a pickup line in the bars, and I've seen it work. "Hey honey, wanna hear about my vasectomy?" I worked the night shift, 4 to 12, the shift I loved anyway. I was quickly in the upper echelon of Quality Control techs, as it was very easy to measure how many units a tech tested in an hour or a shift or whatever. This caused a little hostility with my lazier coworkers, but there were only a dozen of them. At the guard desk, I'd enjoyed the hostility of hundreds. Every Friday night after work, we went to a local bar called Kasey's Kove. Chuck didn't know it, but there was always a betting pool going about what time he'd be thrown out. Usually the person who chose the earliest time won. Larry always asked the musician to play something by Gene Autry, but the musician didn't know any songs by Gene Autry. But without fail, before Chuck was thrown out, he'd help Larry and me convince the musician to play our official lay-off theme song, "Don't Worry, Be Happy" by Bobby McFerrin. Three months later, I was temporarily laid off. Most of the employees drew unemployment during the layoff, but I believe that people who can work should work. I returned to Metro Security for a month. I was one of the few temps to return from the layoff. Vinson was a 15year-old project that was due to expire soon, so more layoffs and terminations were coming. We all knew that. John and Larry had both warned me that my initial hiring might only last three months, but I'd defied the odds and made it back to work. Meanwhile, Honeywell had terminated John. Someone wanted to give John's job to Larry, but Dick Balla had vetoed that and downgraded Larry to my equal. "We call him D.B.," Larry told me. "Do you know what that stands for?" "Dick Breath." "No, Dead Brain." D.B. came to stand for both names after that. We decided they both fit. Jeff Kato had been at least two notches above John before the terminations, and he was scheduled for termination as well. Instead, he took a voluntary demotion to John's old job. In theory, Larry was demoted. In practice, nothing changed. Jeff ran the day shift and Larry ran the night shift. All that changed was Larry's "official" job description and his pay rate. And Jeff's voluntary demotion, of course. But as Daddy says, it beats a kick in the butt with a frozen boot. His first day on the job, Jeff called me into his office. On his desk were a cigarette and a wooden match inside a glass case. The label, as you can probably guess, said "Break Glass In Case Of Emergency." An ex-smoker.

Meaning he'd start enforcing the no-smoking rule in Vinson. Jeff and Larry told me that Tom Fisher hadn't made it back from the layoffs. He was the only man who repaired and calibrated our test equipment. Jeff had looked over my numbers and spoken with Larry, and they'd decided I was entirely too good to get lost in the next layoff. Thus, he gave me Tom Fisher's old job, thereby giving me the "indispensable" tag. If I was the only one repairing and calibrating test equipment, Jeff thought, it just might work. It didn't work for Tom Fisher, but that's because he wasn't exactly competent. As the lone test equipment repair guru, I was no longer tied to a single shift. I was free to change my hours as they suited me. I preferred the second and third shifts, as the first had too many bosses. I don't mind being watched while I work, but when chiefs outnumber Indians it's hard to get any work done. Besides, I spent my days working for Mom's cleaning business. (The meanest chief of all?) Once in a while I'd work two doubleshifts at Honeywell, followed by a single shift, and take four days off to work for Mom. As long as it equaled 40 hours per week, nobody cared. Larry often found life as a Military Electronics Specialist (my job title as well) boring. When an article appeared in the newspaper about my formation of the local chapter of American Atheists, he promptly tacked it onto the bulletin board with my name highlighted, just to annoy the fundamentalist Christians among us. The same ones who were already annoyed because my productivity made them look bad, and because I'd banned them from bringing Bibles into the area when I was a security guard. Thanks, Larry. When the controversy died down, Larry dubbed me Reverend LaRocca. This was because, upon repairing some test equipment, I'd boom, "It's HEEE-ALED-uh!" After sufficient complaints from the fundamentalists, Jeff called me into his office and told me that I wasn't allowed to say It's healed anymore. He forgot to ban Larry from yelling, "Heal me, Reverend LaRocca, heal me!" But after all, we couldn't have Larry getting bored, now could we? Larry: See me... Accomplice: Feel me... Larry: Touch me... Both: HEAL me! We seemed to have two types back in Quality Control -- the fundamentalists and the insane. Larry and I were only mildly insane. Chuck was quite insane. Patrick Belaire was our weekend warrior, the most insane of all but also the most productive. He sang bizarre songs of his own composition while he worked, and in fact I was imitating the punch line of one of his jokes when I HEEE-ALED-uh! Ray Mize was also insane. One evening he and Larry went to Kasey's

Kove. Larry told Ray, "If you'll drink that whole bottle of Tabasco sauce, I'll buy you any drink you want." Ray promptly downed the bottle. Larry was worried, as he didn't have much money, so he began drinking a bottle. He thought that might get him off the hook. He was about halfway through when Ray stopped him. "I only want a cheap drink." Larry stopped, relieved, and bought Ray his cheap drink. He bought himself a beer to put out the fire in his mouth. Larry was happy and Ray was happy. But on "the morning after," Larry told me a few days later, he'd gone to the toilet and thought his asshole was on fire. Um...thanks for sharing? A few months down the road, the second round of layoffs hit. Half the crew for six weeks, the other half for the other six, all temps for the full 12. I filled the time working for Mom, going back to school for a free refresher course, working for Metro Security again (as a lieutenant) at a site that was closing down right before my layoff ended, and doing some computer programming and collections for my best friend's copier business. This is also when the rumors began that Fairchild would buy Honeywell and change its name to Farewell Honeychild. During my third and final tour of duty, I was still the repairman. However, I didn't have 40 hours' worth of repair to do, so I also returned to testing the Vinson products. This time around, Larry stressed to me, the numbers would be scrutinized more closely than ever. Vinson only had six months to live, and if somebody ran out of work, he was gone. Chuck had quit during the first layoff, but he attempted a return after the second. Unfortunately, there was no place for him because of my competence. Competence I learned from him. Sorry, Chuck, but nobody ever told you to quit in the first place. As the work began to run out, Larry sat down beside my test station and explained something to me. He'd had an idea for quite a while, one that he wanted to submit for Employee Suggestion Of The Month. However, he was still classified as management, so he wasn't eligible. He wanted me to submit the idea. It'd help Vinson, and building it would keep me busy. In the 15-plus year history of Vinson, the procedure was the same. One department soldered the circuit boards and slipped them into the chassis. My department ran the devices through a series of computercontrolled tests that anyone could do. If a device failed, it went to the troubleshooting department. They also followed a by-the-numbers computer program to tell them which circuit board was faulty. They replaced the faulty board(s) and sent the device back to us. Once in a blue moon, a device would fail again. Troubleshooting would replace the same board(s), and the device would fail a third time. They'd tag the device MD and put it to the side. Nobody remembered what MD stood for -- perhaps Multiple Defects -- but we dubbed them Mad Dogs. Larry had devised a way to isolate the problems in the Mad Dogs, one

that didn't involve using a schematic. We weren't allowed to see the schematics, as they were top secret. Larry's device involved isolating inputs and outputs between a known good unit and a Mad Dog. Given the incredible size of our pile of Mad Dogs -- over 15 years' worth -- I drew a schematic and started building Larry's device. We gave it some impressive-sounding name like Vinson Input/Output Test Equipment Isolator. The end result was an ugly blob of wires, switches and lights that worked like a dream. I submitted the device for Employee Suggestion Of The Month. Then Larry told me that the evaluators would want to see the device. I scrounged around for a way to hide its ugliness. Finally I found a plastic board-carrier and bolted my contraption to the lid. The "lid" of the box became the bottom of my contraption. I melted some holes in the plastic board-carrier with a soldering iron -- nothing stinks quite like melting plastic -- and put that over the thing. I ran four probes out the side, and a bank of switches and lights along the top. It wasn't pretty, but it was adequate. If I won, I'd receive $1000 and the best parking spot for the entire month. My suggestion came in second. First prize went to someone who said: "In Receiving, they throw away Styrofoam packing peanuts. In Shipping, they buy Styrofoam packing peanuts. We'd save a lot of money if Receiving gave Styrofoam packing peanuts to Shipping." If I'd entered against anyone else, I'd have surely won. I don't fault the winner. I'm only a little mad at myself for having noticed the same thing over a year ago, as a guard in Shipping and Receiving, and forgetting to tell someone at Honeywell. Yes, I'd told Metro, but their reaction was, "So what?" It wasn't a security issue, just a case of stupidity, and we had more of those than we knew what to do with. The previous month's winner, incidentally, won for writing a poem. "This advice we all must heed. Turn off lights when not in need." Jeff and Larry called me into Jeff's office. Jeff presented me with a burgundy windbreaker, emblazoned with the Honeywell logo. This was my consolation prize. But, they explained, I could never wear it on company property. We had a lot of employees, mainly those fundamentalists Larry had antagonized so much, who'd entered losing suggestions and not received a jacket. Thus, they'd be jealous, thus they couldn't know I had a jacket. Meanwhile, Mike Roche had confiscated the gizmo I'd built. We had an employee named Joe Roche, and he pronounced his last name "roach." Mike, on the other hand, pronounced his name "roh-shay." Elsewhere we also had a Jerry Roach, but never mind. We also had an employee named Ronald Colon. I only heard one person say his last name, and she insisted on pronouncing it Cologne.

Oh, and one of the most offended fundamentalists was named Michael Ball. No relation to Chuck Ball. Michael Ball named his new daughter Crystal. We thought he was joking, but nope. Crystal Ball. If you see her, tell her I said hello and ask her for my lotto numbers. I was a lowly tech, but Mike Roche was an engineer. Thus he was able to requisition some materials and build a gorgeous cover for my gizmo. It looked like what it was, a fine bit of test equipment. Inside the guts were all the same -- stuff I'd scrounged from assembly and rubbish bins -- but it was a work of art now. Mike was able to ride out the next layoff by using this gizmo to test and repair Mad Dogs. He successfully identified the problems with every one of them, generating much revenue for Honeywell and much work for himself. More revenue than Mr. Styrofoam, in fact. I'm glad it turned out that way, because I liked Mike. He was the guy who taught me how to repair the test equipment. During my third and final layoff, somebody realized that Honeywell now had a lot of Quality Control Technician departments, most consisting of two or three employees and a supervisor. They decided to let all those supervisors go except one, and merge the QC departments. The supervisor they kept was not Jeff Kato. That's when I knew I wasn't returning. I was working for Tom, my high-school buddy, as a full-time copier repairman when Jeff threw his going-away party at Kasey's Kove. I showed up late, in time to see Jeff totally drunk. He was challenging people to a hot wing-eating contest, pouring heaps of Tabasco sauce on his chicken wings, and sucking the meat off the bones like nothing I've ever seen. Jeff laughed, he hugged me, he asked me to HEEE-AL-uh him. Beneath the professional exterior, unknown to any of us, was a wild party animal. I guess that goes to show that, as I said before, we only had two types. The fundamentalists and the insane. Jeff was not a fundamentalist, so he finally showed us all that he was insane. I like that in a person. One day soon after, Honeywell sent registered letters to 60% of the workforce. They were copies of the Confidentiality Agreements we'd signed to get our jobs. I signed my copy of the note saying that yes, I understood that I could never divulge what happened there, and mailed it back. With that, I was terminated. If I hadn't signed the agreement, I'd have gone to a Federal penitentiary for treason against the U.S. government. Let's hope Homeland Security never reads this book. The events described here are mostly true. I still miss the place. After leaving Honeywell, I eventually became a copy machine repairman for Danka. I lifted a copy machine the wrong way and gave

myself an inguinal hernia. It looked like a third testicle. Prior to my surgery, the anesthesiologist explained his part of the procedure to me. I was trying to write a novel in my spare time, something I'd throw out but which would eventually become Vigilante Justice. So when the anesthesiologist was done, I asked him a question. "Do you guys still use succinylcholine?" He corrected my pronunciation, as I'd only read about it in a library book. "Yes, we do still use it." He chuckled. "Why, do you plan to paralyze somebody?" "No, I'm writing a book, and I wondered if someone could put a little in some crack cocaine and kill a drug user." The light bulb went on over his tall blonde head. I could see it in his bright blue eyes. "That would work. Wow... yeah, that would work." A few moments later, a second light bulb went on over his head. This one made him wonder if maybe I wasn't an author, but rather a psycho serial killer. I love doing that to people.

Chapter Two Mom's Death Mom died on her 52nd birthday. She owned a cleaning business. Her only regular employee was her fourth husband, Steve. They worked that morning and afternoon. I called her in the early evening because I knew she'd be home. I wished Mom a happy birthday, then told her that my wife, Lisa, and I were taking her on a half-day cruise off the coast on Saturday. "Oh, Michael, that's wonderful! Thank you!" "We'll see you Saturday morning, then." "Yes, yes." Her voice got faster as her excitement grew. "Call me tomorrow and tell me all about it. I've gotta get ready to go out with Steve tonight. He wants to get to bed early." "I bet," I said wickedly. Mom laughed. "Oh stop that! I'll talk to you later, okay?" "Okay. Happy birthday, Mom." Mom and Steve went out for dinner. She had a good time despite a mild headache. They returned home and went to bed. A few hours later, Mom went to her office to do some paperwork. This was normal for her. She probably had two or three drinks and four Marlboro Light 100 cigarettes. This was also normal, the only time of the day she allowed herself to drink or smoke. I don't doubt that Mom thought about Barry, her younger son, since we learned of his suicide on her 48th birthday. She remembered that tragic moment, but she also remembered all the good times that had preceded it. She was proud of him when he became a soldier, then a policeman. She had raised a fine son. That probably led to thoughts of Bill, her third husband, a man she truly loved, dead because of a drunk driver. Bill had given up drinking two months before the accident. Perhaps this led to thoughts of some of the other men she'd known, but only briefly. Bill was the one she thought about the most. Steve understood. For that, Mom had fond thoughts of him as well. Thoughts of Barry also led to thoughts of her other son, me. From the days that Gramma had first said "That boy just ain't right in the head" to my childhood as a hopeless dreamer and on to the present. Probably she always just assumed that Barry would be fine, the normal one. It was me that she worried about. Could her oldest function in society? Yes, he was smart, but what about his other tendencies? Was Gramma right all those years ago? No, she was not. I was always there when Mom needed me, assuming the mantle of "man of the house" and helping her through the worst times. My post-college years had been disastrous at first, but finally I'd managed to find a steady job and a wife. To Mom, grandchildren were still a possibility.

I'd be just fine. And so what if I was a dreamer? I was also a published author. I hope Mom also knew that if I encountered other obstacles -- perhaps I'd lose a few more jobs, or my marriage would fall apart the way most of hers had done -- I'd have the strength to move on because I'd learned from the best. Mom's dull headache suddenly turned into a sharp pain, and she moaned. Then she slumped over onto her desk, dead from a burst aneurysm. It was so deep in her brain that even if anyone had known about it, they couldn't have corrected it. No matter how she lived or what she did, Mom was going to die on the appointed day. But at least death came quickly, and when she died she was happy. Lisa and I met Steve at the hospital. He was upset but putting on a brave face for me. He was worried about me, because this was my mother. I was deeply saddened, but I knew I'd be fine. Likewise, I put on a brave face for him. Also, I was full of beer and codeine because of my recent hernia surgery. I was worried about Steve because he was alone again. I was glad I'd given him my dog. Later, when he remarried one of his ex-wives, I gave him my sincere blessing. "The doctors say your mom's brain dead," Steve explained. "She was dead before the ambulance ever got to the house. At least it was quick. They're keeping her body alive because they want to use her organs. It's my decision to make, but I wanted to ask you because I don't know what to do. She never signed an organ donor card and we never talked about it." "We did. She'd want to donate her organs." The next day, Mom's kidneys and her liver would save two lives. Someone else was able to see again through her nearsighted blue eyes. I would have liked it if, somewhere, there were another person with her heart. Steve breathed a sigh of relief. "Okay. Do you want to go look at her before...?" "Yeah. Let me look at her first." My daddy, Jim Drake, came to Florida for Mom's funeral. I hadn't seen him in several years. Not since Barry's funeral, in fact. Fathers always seem larger than life. Mine always has. He's 6'4" and probably weighs about 280 pounds. Yes, he has a beer belly, but he also has over 20 years of longshoreman's muscle. His chest is the largest I've ever seen, and his arms are bigger than my legs. To complete the contrast, I'm 5'10" and 170 pounds. As Mom was 5'2" and 100 pounds, I landed somewhere in the middle. Fortunately, I'm blessed with her metabolism, and only have a small beer belly.

Daddy's hairline has receded halfway across his scalp. Mine began receding at age 20, which is when I hit puberty. You could put Greg (Daddy's son from his first marriage) between us and our hairlines would look like a time line. Grandpa Drake, who was bald at 50, swore Hair and brains don't mix. However, I do have a bolder forehead, with lines like a sheet of notebook paper, a quality I've always been proud of. When I was a little boy, Daddy married Ruby. She personified every stereotype about a wicked stepmother. Their best friends were Bobby and Judy. I'd always known that Daddy and Judy should have been together. Sorry, Bobby. Daddy and Judy came to the funeral as husband and wife. They had married on Valentine's Day. Judy was just as I remembered her, except that her red hair was lighter and she'd put on a little weight. Hadn't we all? I told them it was about damn time they were married, and they were genuinely surprised. But yes, I'd seen it 20 years ago. They're supposed to be married. At the funeral, Mom looked like a different person entirely. All the lines on her face had faded away in death. Those lines were what gave her face character, what made her look like who she was. Without those lines, she didn't look like the Mom I'd grown up knowing and loving. She looked like a total stranger, like a mannequin, without personality or soul. Everyone who saw her in the casket said as much. Someone at the funeral home had even decided to paint her fingernails pink, matching her dress. In life, Mom had never painted her fingernails. Mom's brother, Darrow, took pictures for Gramma, because Gramma couldn't be there. Later, Uncle Darrow told me that Gramma looked at those pictures and swore it wasn't her daughter. Gramma died thinking Mom was still alive. After the funeral, Daddy and Judy took Lisa and me out for supper at the restaurant in their motel. At first we talked about Mom, of course. How wonderful she was and how Daddy had never stopped loving her. "But I wonder about Barry," Daddy added. "Maybe if I'd been around more when you were boys--" "No," I quickly interrupted. "He didn't do it because of you." Whenever someone kills themselves, I think all the people who knew that person look for reasons to blame themselves. Don't ask me why. It's just something I've observed. "I always thought the world of Jo," Judy told me, wisely choosing to change the subject. "Especially for being strong enough to raise two fine boys alone the way she did. I know I never could have done that." "So, I guess you'll be heading out in the morning," I said finally. "Yes," Daddy replied. After a pause, he continued. "Son, you know, a lot of things have changed since you left. You know I don't live in

Wilmington anymore. I moved to Burgaw." "I know. Where is Burgaw?" "About 30 miles north of Wilmington. It's in the country, so I can have all the deerhounds I want. The neighbors were getting so mad that I either had to move or kill every damn one of them. The neighbors, not the hounds." I laughed. "I'd never kill my hounds. But son, I build houses now. I built the one I live in and a few others, all on the banks of the Northeast Cape Fear River. I've got all kinds of land on the river, and it's really beautiful out there. You should come up and see it some time." "Yeah, I'll have to find the time one day." He paused again. Something was weighing on his mind. I knew that because of the way he was rambling on about deerhounds and riverfront property. He was leading up to something but he wasn't quite ready to come right out and say it. "I was thinking," he said finally, "That if you want to come back to North Carolina, I could build you a house and sell it to you for my cost. It wouldn't be more than about $30,000, and you could get the bank to finance it all. You'll never get a house that cheap, son." I thought about it for a long moment. For years I'd dreamed of going back to North Carolina and buying a house. Tampa was hot and crowded, full of crime, and it was hell finding a job. All that had stopped me from leaving before was lack of money and wanting to stay with Mom. But now Daddy was offering me the money and Mom was dead. The only thing I'd ever done in Tampa was watch my family die. "Let me think about it, Daddy." "Okay, son. But if you want, you can come up for Thanksgiving. I'll even let you stay in one of my river houses, and Judy and I can stay in another. It'd be like your own little honeymoon." "We never had a honeymoon because Michael's too cheap," Lisa commented. "I'll think about it, Daddy." "Okay, son." As we were leaving, Daddy pulled Lisa aside and said something to her. "What did he say?" I asked her when we got back to the car. "He said it's time for his son to come home."

Chapter Three Going Home I married Lisa in April. In September, Mom died. In October, Lisa died, albeit briefly. It happened in a hospital, of septic shock, right before my very eyes. I had told her to go to the hospital, but she wouldn't do it until her mother told her to go. Perhaps this is another indication of a doomed marriage. Death comes in threes, I may have remembered. Barry, Mom, Lisa. Oh, but what about Bill? That makes four, doesn't it? Fifteen panic-stricken doctors later, Lisa came back to life. A kleibsilla bacteria, which lives in the small intestines of us all, had wormed its way into her stomach and killed her. Septic shock, to be exact, where the immune system reacts to infected blood by shutting down organs. Her heart and lungs were the first targets. Such a strange ailment -- kleibsilla bacteria in the stomach -- that it took an immunologist weeks to figure it out. Lisa told her doctor that he'd surely get a medical paper out of her case. He replied that it was worth several. Lisa eventually recovered, 50 pounds heavier but otherwise seeming the same. But no one knew why it had happened. I mention the weight gain only because her self-esteem went to hell. Was she depressed even back then? It's possible. If you've read my other book, then you know I'm oblivious to much that happens around me. I confess that I was having trouble trusting Daddy when he offered to build my house. Y'all just reach over and slap me for that. Lisa, meanwhile, had no such reservations. When Thanksgiving came, Lisa was alive and well and we were visiting Burgaw. Daddy owned one piece of property that wasn't on the river. It was also the only piece of his property that wasn't in a flood plain. Again, an easy decision. We had to get jobs, and arrive at them on time five days a week. Flooding could make that just a wee bit difficult. Daddy had two acres in a place called Watha, North Carolina, population 99. Those two acres would become mine. "Can't break a hundred, huh?" someone would ask me years later. "Not since my vasectomy." Back in Florida, Lisa and I began making arrangements to move to North Carolina. Away from her family, a mile up the road from what remained of mine. I wasn't thinking "family" back then. I was thinking "home." But looking back now, I'll tell you that having no family at all really sucks. Upon deciding to make this move, I had to tell my employer. He was a big scary fellow who I'd barely spoken to. So yep, there was some fear there. If you'd met him, you'd understand. I believe we'd only spoken once

during my employment, and that was when he'd let me know that some of our customers hated me. So I broke the news to him. I'm going to North Carolina. How did he respond? He arranged a job for me in North Carolina and wrote a completely false letter to get me out of the lease on my apartment. Then Lisa's doctor called us. She had gallstones at age 21. Was that why she'd died? Nobody knew. But since that gall bladder would have to come out eventually, her doctor recommended doing it now. Being a couple of newlyweds, of course we were broke. Lisa pointed that out. If she didn't get the surgery before she quit her job, losing the insurance plan that had paid for her brush with death, we would end up paying for her surgery. She also insisted that I move to North Carolina and start the new job I had waiting. She would join me after her surgery. A fine example of what's wrong with health care in America. The first thing I did when I got to Daddy's house was get drunk with him. The next thing I did was wake up. A few hours later, we got drunk again. And so it went. It must be genetic. "Just like your Daddy," Judy said to me often. When I was growing up, Ruby (Dad's third wife, the "wicked stepmother") often hurled those words at me as if they were the most potent insult in heaven or earth. But when Judy said them, they were a great compliment. I've always loved Judy. I went to my job interview, supposedly a mere formality, and learned that the job was "no longer available." I could start a different one, they said, a month later and at a much lower salary. I told them I'd do it, then went out and plastered my rsum all over two towns. Three days later, I went to another job interview. At the end of the interview, Danny asked, "When can you start?" "Immediately." "Good. There's this Konica in the back that we can't fix..." I took off my coat and vest and tie and got to work. And yes, I fixed it. I'd been to Konica school. I did so many things in North Carolina that made me want to call Mom or Barry, but I couldn't. They were dead. But, fortunately, there was Daddy. A new life. A chance to get it right this time. After work that night, I got drunk with Daddy and Judy again. "Did you tell that other place about your new job?" he asked. "No. They deserve about as much notice as I got before I moved up here and left my wife in the hospital." Daddy nodded, and smiled his approval. "They can kiss my ass," I added. "Yep," said Judy. "You're just like your daddy." On the following night, Daddy's carpenter came to visit. "A damn fine builder," Daddy told me, "As long as he's sober. That'll be the hardest part

of building this house for you, son. I'll be keeping George sober." The three of us sat at the kitchen table over a case of beer and drew ourselves some plans for a house. Trust me, it's a beauty. Everybody said so. Even the guy who bought it from me after I threw out the wife. But wait, that happened nine years later. Forget I said anything. Eventually, Lisa drove up to North Carolina. We built a house. Daddy and George and two helpers built it by day, and Lisa and I cleaned up their mess after work. No need for them to trip over all that crap, and certainly no need to pay carpenters to do clean-up work. Really, I'd have hated it if someone got hurt. Really, Daddy would've hated to pay their medical bills. Lisa and I helped wire the place while we were at it. Unknown to me, Lisa had called Daddy to demand that he pay the closing costs. We had gone way over his estimated cost in building it, but it was an honest mistake. He'd never built on a three-foot foundation before, and he'd never built an A-frame before. He'd always built single-story beauties on stilts. Plus, he'd forgotten that we needed furniture. But to insist that Daddy pay the closing costs after selling to us at his cost, thereby losing money... not a good idea. Nine years later, he told me how he'd cussed her out. I never understood why Lisa disliked Daddy so much until he told me about that phone call. He wasn't exactly thrilled with her either. After settling in North Carolina, I met my family. Daddy's parents were dead. His brother, his sister, his two children from his first marriage, and all their families were not. I saw them again after almost 25 years. Forgotten memories came back to me. I felt like I belonged somewhere again. I also felt that I should go reacquaint myself with Mom's family. When I was a boy, I spent a lot of time with them. Especially her parents, who divorced after 49 years. It took them that long to raise all the children and grandchildren. Mom's brother is my Uncle Darrow, who has five children. I've always been especially close to his oldest son, Clint. But back to the day that we first moved into our Watha home... I woke up in the morning and stumbled to the shower. I turned on the water. Nothing happened. I mean it... nothing. No noise, no drip, nothing. A blown circuit breaker, I thought. I pulled on some pants and stumbled downstairs. I went outside, out the back door, before my morning coffee. I looked out at the well house. The top was off. This was a bad sign. I made the long walk, barefooted on the cold ground. The water pump was gone. The pipe leading down into the ground was gone. This was not good. I went back in the house, grabbed some clothes, and drove to Daddy's house to take a shower before work. "What happened, son? Did you and Lisa get in a fight?"

It turns out that Daddy was about nine years too early with that little comment, and we never did find out who stole the water pump. (I did use our prime suspect as the villain in VIGILANTE JUSTICE.) Welcome to Watha!

Chapter Four I Ain't Nuthin But A Hound Dog I met Lisa when I was 21 years old. She was 15. Her father took us to their house. My predecessor was 30-something, so her father loved me on sight. Meeting the family cats may not sound like a big deal to you, but it was to Lisa's family. One cat was Siamese. Her name was Dusty. Here's what I knew about Dusty. When Lisa was a baby, crying in her crib, Dusty tried to shut her up by biting her. This was an ancient family pet, full of pride and dignity, greatly loved by all. Here's what I didn't know about Dusty. She hated people. Lisa's mother was her best friend in the world. Lisa and her father were tolerated. Lisa's older brother and sister were glared at from a distance. All others were attacked on sight. I walked into the house and sat on the sofa. Dusty entered the room and breaths were held. She crept toward me, eyeing me suspiciously. She stealthily approached like a leopard stalking an impala. Dusty crossed the room. She sniffed my leg. She pounced upon my lap and then she... she lay on my leg and purred. I rubbed her head. The spectators' fears gave way to total shock. Then they told me how hateful she was. I saw Dusty approach many visitors after that day. Without exception, she viciously attacked them. And yet, she didn't attack me. She loved me. "Animals are excellent judges of character," I explained. We hadn't been in our new house for very long before Lisa visited the Humane Society. She saw a female Siamese cat. Even if this cat hadn't been the spitting image of a young Dusty, we all know how this story ended. Lisa named the new cat Witchie. Witchie had two rather nasty scabs wrapped around her neck, courtesy of a dog. Guess what waited for Witchie at her new home? My new dog. Do you like dogs? I love dogs. No, I mean it. I love dogs. They're better than kids. They're better than adults. When mankind finally blows his stupid ass off this big blue ball we call Earth, it is my sincere wish that the next animals to evolve what we like to call intelligence are the dogs. Actually, I think they've done it already. Very briefly, I chose to have a vasectomy because I know I'd be a lousy father. My doctor was a special kind of vasectomizer. He burned the ends. He made extra sure that I understood this would not be reversible. I did. I signed a piece of paper to that effect. Local anesthetic. I still remember him saying, "Nurse, come hold this

for me. You'll need both hands." Okay, I made that up. But I do remember the smell of my own flesh burning. The distinctive Pzzt! when the hot tool touched my wet vas deferens tubes. I never saw the tool, but a soldering iron comes to mind. So, in the absence of children, I've had dogs. Cats. Horses. A goat. A rat. Like any proud parent, I could whip out a wallet full of photos and say, "Y'all look at this!" The ad in the newspaper said, "Free puppies, Dalmatian mix." I went to the house and saw six positively adorable puppies, all fat and energetic, wrestling vigorously beneath a heat lamp in a garage. "We had to take them from their mom because she kept trying to bite everyone who wanted one. She's on the porch. Her name's Molly." I looked to the fenced-in porch, where the barking had been non-stop since my arrival. I saw a healthy, gorgeous, angry Dalmatian. I wanted a girl. In theory, less likely to wander out onto the highway. The biggest puppy in the litter leaped at my face and bit my nose. I checked, and she was a she. I took her home and named her Dixie. As a pudgy little puppy, Dixie burrowed to the bottom of any bowl of canned food without stopping for air, then raised her head and sent food flying. Then she emptied the bowl, cleaned the floor, and licked the food from her face. Lisa stopped sleeping with me right after we moved to Watha. She said it was because I snored, not because her own parents always had separate bedrooms. But Dixie slept with me every night. When the alarm clock rang on that first morning, Dixie growled at it. I hit the snooze button. When it rang again, she growled again. She did this every time it rang, every day of her life. How can you not love a dog like that? Witchie descended from the top of the kitchen cabinets to beat the pure crap out of that pudgy puppy. Well, she tried to. When Dixie got larger, Witchie returned to the kitchen cabinets for a month or so. As I watched how fast this puppy grew, finally losing her fat belly to sheer length and muscularity, I wondered when she'd stop. I'd unknowingly brought home a monster. As an adult, Dixie weighed 70 pounds. She was built like a Rottweiler. I tried to put my shirts on her, which she did enjoy, but I could never button them around her massive neck. Her chest stretched my T-shirts more than mine did. I always thought of her as a Dalmatian wearing a tuxedo. All four paws were white. A long strip of white began on her muzzle, ran down her chin and neck, spread out across her massive chest, and ran all the way down

her stomach. All her white fur was freckled with black like a Dalmatian. The rest of her was a deep, dark black. I've never seen such a happy dog. She was utterly full of life and energy at all times except the early morning. Her favorite game was to run up behind me and slam her shoulders into the back of my knees, then laugh when I landed on my ass. And yes, a dog can laugh. No sound, but I challenge you to look at that face and tell me it's not a laugh. One morning, I saw her walking toward my coffee cup. I thought that would be only too perfect, a dog who growls at the alarm clock and drinks coffee in the morning. So I let her do it. The coffee was black with two Sweet'N'Lows, and hot. Dixie took a big lap of it, then made the funniest spitting noise I've ever heard. Then she looked at me and laughed, as if to say, "Okay, Daddy, you got me that time." (I'd learn much later that coffee is harmful to dogs. Good thing Dixie didn't like it after all.) Dixie never walked anywhere. She ran outside, she ran around the yard, and she ran back inside and chased Witchie full steam ahead. She ran up and down the stairs to be with her daddy, or to eat, or to bark at whatever was making noises outside. She was a fantastic guard dog, with a deep mean bark and the body to back up every word. Deliverymen always parked in the driveway and honked the horn. Baptist ministers gave up on converting us. Once Dixie slipped outside, and a woman promptly leaped onto the hood of her car. Dixie wasn't just a dog -- she was a dog. When Dixie saw the strange dog in her yard, a large boxer, she was not content to simply chase him away. She slammed her shoulders into his chest, then backed away and let him get up. When he ran again, she knocked him down again, four or five times. He never came back after that. I think she missed him. At some point, Lisa decided that Witchie and Dixie weren't enough. She wanted another Siamese cat. I didn't mind. I love animals. We wanted a boy this time, knowing that owning two female Siamese simply isn't possible. As we looked at the kittens, we agreed that we needed the meanest, toughest little monster they had. Witchie would hate him at first, and Dixie's reaction was anybody's guess. The whole litter looked pretty aggressive, fighting and wrestling and scratching and biting. But one kitten always ended up on top -- the smallest one. It was a boy. We took him home. When Witchie saw the new kitten, she let out a mighty howl and

charged at him with fire in her eyes. Dixie quickly ran over to them. One swat of a massive paw sent Witchie reeling. While Witchie looked on in rage and utter confusion, Dixie licked the tiny kitten. He wasn't much larger than her tongue. Imagine a 70-pound dog sitting on the floor. Facing her, an undersized eight-week-old kitten is standing on a coffee table. They're batting each other's faces, him aggressively and her like a gentle giant. They're biting, mewing and growling. Her tail is wagging. She opens her massive jaws and seems to swallow most of the kitten. Like a cartoon, the only part sticking out of her mouth is his tail. He wraps his claws around her tongue and bites down into it. Her mouth opens, and the batting and biting begin again. The kitten quickly became known as Taz. He loved to run up and down the stairs making weird wild noises like the Tasmanian Devil cartoon. Dixie was his mom, protecting him from that evil Witchie. Taz slept on my chest every night, surrounded by a big black dog paw. Witchie wasn't completely evil, though. Once in a while, she sniffed my hair and bit it, then climbed into my lap and purred contently. Much like Dusty, she preferred me to Lisa. The only other person she ever purred for, and this surprised me, was cousin Clint. She did that on his first visit. Okay, so maybe animals aren't such excellent judges of character. (I hope Clint's reading this.) One evening Dixie was having one of her frequent hyperactive runs about the house, so I let her outside. I did this all the time. But on this particular evening, she never came home. I found her in the ditch the next morning, killed by a car. I'll confess that my eyes still get a little wet just writing about it. But anyway, you know that people move on and go find some new pets. This brings us to another truly great dog. Lisa and I went to the county pound. A bad place with a bad reputation, and a seemingly endless string of black mutts. We were trying to avoid black, just because every dog we'd ever owned before was black and we hated to be predictable. But there was this young black pup, with one white paw and a thin white streak on her small chest, looking quite pathetic and quite irresistible. Lisa put the leash on this dog, and the dog immediately hugged the floor. She wasn't budging. Lisa could not pull her out of the pen. Finally I took the leash, being a bit stronger. The dog leaped to her feet and trotted happily ahead of me as if I'd owned her all my life. No doubt about it... this was my dog. Daisy slept during the day and ate at night. It's much safer that way when one is a homeless little puppy. She grabbed a mouthful of food from

her bowl, ran into a corner to eat it, then returned for the next bite. Another trick of street survival -- don't linger around the food or someone bigger will come kick your butt. At least Witchie was staying on top of the kitchen cabinets again. All new dogs scare her unless they're tiny enough to beat up. When we adopted Daisy, Animal Control said they estimated her age at four months. We knew that Taz was four months old, so I dubbed them "the twins." Taz always seemed to think of Daisy as his sister, since she was a black dog like Dixie but smaller. I don't even want to talk about housebreaking. Daisy seemed untrainable. Lisa thought she was stupid. She wanted to return her for a refund. But I saw that there were two sides to Daisy. Part of her was very "bad," a paranoid stray without a clue. But I also saw a smart, eager-toplease dog whose mistakes were more the result of fear and confusion than anything. Daisy was treated to the softest disciplinary touch I'll ever use on an animal. I learned quite a bit about animals from her. Meanwhile, she learned about people. Namely, that we aren't all bad. Eventually, though she hated to do it, Lisa had to admit I was right. Daisy turned into an awesome dog. Daisy always had a few minor problems. Whenever we visited Daddy, he would glare at her and yell, and she'd pee on the porch. Every time. Then he'd laugh his head off and she'd run up to him wagging her tail and cuddling against him. Loud noises scared Daisy. They scare most dogs, probably, but not to the extent of Daisy. Thunderstorms were utterly terrifying. When she was very young, they scared her into peeing on my lap. In later years, she simply cowered there. I suspect that she was shot at in her homeless days. One character trait I never saw fit to cure was Daisy's fear of the highway. She had been a city dog, a stray, and she knew all about cars. I owned her for many years, and eventually gave her to Daddy. This is a dog who will never get run over. Dixie made me wish I could've afforded to fence in my two acres. By the time that was possible, I had Daisy, and it was unnecessary. One day I drove my truck to the feed store to buy some hay for Lisa's horse. As always, Daisy rode up front. My version of Driving Miss Daisy. As far as I knew, Daisy was a mutt, which happens to be my favorite. But the man who loaded the hay swore Daisy was at least part border collie. He bred border collies, and he just knew that's what she was. I'd never heard of a border collie, so I went to a library and looked them up. Daisy has more black than the usual border collie, but dang if that fella wasn't right. It was obvious, even before she started herding. That comes later, along with the bit about a dachshund who herded cows. Lisa found a new job, which meant leaving young Daisy in the house

alone. She chewed the furniture and had many "accidents" on the carpet. I tried buying her other things to chew, but this was before she grew into what she became. In short, it was a lost cause. Daisy could not be trusted in the house alone. I spent the weekend building a rather large dog lot and left Daisy inside it on Monday morning. I prefer leaving dogs in the house -- they can't protect it from inside a fence -- but I had no choice. When I got home from work, I found Daisy waiting on the porch, smiling and wagging her tail. I repaired the fence where she'd slipped under. Tuesday morning, I left her inside the dog lot. When I returned home from work, Daisy was waiting on the porch, smiling and wagging her tail. I saw where she'd slipped under the fence, and I tightened it there as well. Wednesday and Thursday brought repeat performances. At least I was confident she'd never go in the road. Surely she'd have done so already. I was also quite proud of her intelligence and her confidence. But still, I repaired the fence. Friday saw a new wrinkle. Daisy couldn't find a loose spot in the fence, so she simply dug her way under it. During the weekend, I got some more fence wire and cut it into two-foot-wide strips. Then I laid those strips along the ground, buried them, and attached them to the fence. Now, if Daisy wanted to dig her way out, she would have to dig straight down, then tunnel those two feet, then dig her way back up. That kept her safely within the dog lot until she found an accomplice. We bought Peaches, a horse who I'd eventually breed, and who would learn how to drink a bottle of beer without spilling a drop. Running with Peaches, on Daddy's hundred acres, would become Daisy's life. At first, Peaches shared a pasture with my next-door neighbor's horse. One day, this neighbor told me a story about some friends who owned a female Doberman. "Ya think she's pregnant?" asked one owner. "Naw, she ain't that big," said the other. "She's just gettin' a little fat is all." Imagine their surprise when she gave birth to six of the tiniest puppies to ever come out of a Doberman. Upon seeing the puppies, there was no mistaking the father's identity. He was a dachshund. That's right, a dachshund had bred a full-sized Doberman. How was this even possible? I have no idea, but once I heard about it, I had to have a puppy. I had to see what in the heck it would look like. Also, I thought Daisy should have a buddy during her days in the dog lot. I was visiting my neighbor again, and he brought me a tiny black puppy with a pink ribbon around her neck. Her eyes seemed to bug out of

her head like a rat in a trap. Her expression was one of pure terror. Her snout was a bit longer and narrower than usual, and her long floppy ears didn't reach the ground, but she was a dachshund. There was no doubt about it. I held her and hugged her. Her too-short legs wrapped my neck in a death grip that lasted for half an hour. Her little black tail never stopped wagging. Once again... my dog. I have a way with dogs. But finally, the confrontation. Bebe weighed maybe five pounds. Daisy weighed 40. Her daddy walked in the house holding the unthinkable -another dog. Another puppy. Another black girl. Hugging her. Maybe Daisy's replacement. Oh, the fights I had to break up. Pure hatred. And this tiny puppy, little Bebe, was so terrified and love-starved that she seemed to be taking all my affection. Finally, I had to leave Daisy and Bebe together inside the fence. I was concerned. But, I thought, they were acclimatized enough for Daisy not to injure Bebe. I could only try it and hope for the best. When I arrived home from work, there were two dogs waiting for me on the porch. Best friends, it seemed. Daisy looked guilty. Bebe lacked the intelligence, and the soulful border collie eyes. An exploration of the fence showed me something incredible. Someone, and surely that had to be Bebe, had chewed a hole through the metal. A hole big enough for both dogs to escape. Those two little mongrels had worked out a deal. I was stunned. The next day, I decided to let them both stay inside the house. How do you stop a dog who can chew through metal? I could only hope Bebe wouldn't turn those jaws against the furniture. Daisy had matured quite a bit. She was grateful for the second chance at living indoors, with ant-free food and couches and air conditioning. She relayed the message to Bebe, who was positively adorable but dumb as a brick. Many other lessons would follow. Once Daisy and Bebe became friends, they became inseparable. I was constantly asked if they were mother and daughter, or later if they were sisters. In many ways, they were closer than sisters. Daisy was definitely big sister, gladly taking the responsibility. The three of us became a dog pack. I've never known such acceptance. Daisy's gratitude was overwhelming, and of course Bebe was happy not to be picked on anymore and to have friends -- no, to have family. The play-fights between those two looked scary. Fangs bared, growling and snarling and such. Bebe puffed up her little body, her short fur trying to

ridge along the back into hackles, her bared fangs at Daisy's throat. Chests crashing with great volume and much snapping of jaws. But, both tails were wagging the whole time. Great fun. Bebe taught Daisy that if you're gonna fight, go for the throat. Instinct. Soon after, Daisy returned the favor by educating Bebe. One day I was cutting my grass with the riding mower. Of course my darling doggie daughters were with me in the yard, playing and having fun and being best buddies. The highway was not a concern. Also, I only had to whistle once, and the dogs always stopped what they were doing and came running. Full steam ahead and usually trying to knock me down, in fact. They love to run. So Bebe went running through the yard. Daisy ran beside her, ahead of her, and forced her into the woods. Bebe started again, in the other direction, and again Daisy drove her into the woods. Again. Again. Again. Maybe I'm stupid, or maybe I was just drunk. But eventually, I figured out what Daisy was doing. Herding. Border collies do that. But what I didn't understand was, this wasn't simple herding. This was another important lesson. A week later, I adopted my third cat, a stray who wandered up one day and refused to leave. His name was Pumpkin. The first time they saw Pumpkin, Daisy and Bebe herded him. It became their standard greeting. The contrast between the two dogs' intelligence is flagrant. Daisy is the smartest dog I've ever met. Bebe is the dumbest. I'm glad Daisy was there to train her because I believe I would've failed. Daisy explained to Bebe that highways were dangerous. Cars and trucks are great fun to ride in, but one does not race them. Ever. Good girl, Daisy. During one of Bebe's first rides, she decided to leap out an open window when I reached the driveway. Her momentum carried her into the bushes and stunned her momentarily. She learned it's never a good idea to jump out of a moving vehicle. How well did they obey me? Well, I always stopped the car or truck at the top of the driveway to get the mail. Then I went back to the car or truck and drove to the house. They knew not to get out until I reached the house. They only broke that rule once, when Daisy saw some deer in the back yard. Bebe followed, even though she probably couldn't see them. Bebe's eyes are worse than mine. Daisy sees like a border collie, but she knows that Bebe has better smell and hearing. They're one hell of a team. Bebe had real problems getting on the bed, the couch, or whatever. She looked like a dachshund on steroids, with that massive muscular body and those little short legs. But she learned that if she leaped with all four at the same time, like those old Pepe LePew cartoons, she could manage. Daisy's greatest thrill was to hop in the pickup truck, up front of course, go to Daddy's barn, and run with Peaches.

Bebe ran with Daisy and Peaches. Never as fast as Daisy, but fast enough. Another study in contrasts. Daisy runs like a border collie, graceful and elegant, with ease and beauty. Bebe runs like what she is, a freak of nature. A genetic mutation, perhaps a reject from a low-budget horror movie. Faster than a human, slower than a border collie, slanted gait as if her back half is faster than her front half. But it works for her. Daisy really hates to get wet. Her long, luscious coat must always remain dry. Little shorthaired Bebe can't pass a river, a creek, or even a shallow muddy ditch without leaping in, wallowing like an uncoordinated pig, and charging at Daisy and slamming into her chest. During any hurricane, I had real problems getting Daisy to pee because she hates getting wet. I tried my damndest to explain to her that she could pee on the porch -- I even demonstrated -- but she refused. I guess the only porch she could pee on was Daddy's. Perhaps I should have invited him over to come yell at Daisy for me. Bebe, meanwhile, would run out in the yard amidst howling winds and pouring rains and squat down with a big stupid doggie grin on her face. A bit like Gene Kelly. "Peeing in the rain... I'm peeing in the rain..." For months, Bebe did not bark. According to the comedian Richard Pryor, this is a Doberman trait. A Doberman doesn't want to scare the burglar away. A Doberman wants him to come into the house so the dog can get him. But anyway, Bebe didn't bark. Daisy did all the barking. At some point, however, Daisy taught Bebe to bark. In fact, Bebe became the delegated barker. Daisy only let out a single bark when Bebe needed to stop for breath. The typical barking-at-the-burglar sounded like this: "Ruff ruff ruff ruff ruff ruff ruff ruff WOOF ruff ruff ruff ruff ruff ruff ruff ruff WOOF..." Teamwork again. Daisy saw something in the yard, and she barked. Then Bebe chimed in, looking in the general direction Daisy was facing. Finally, the bad thing got scared and left. However, Bebe couldn't see that it was gone, so she kept on barking. Once in a while Daisy would check to make sure no new bad thing had arrived. Fully grown, Bebe weighed 35 pounds. I wish she could've lost about 10 of them, but there was not an ounce of fat on her body. Solid muscle, a bit longer than a dachshund should be, with short legs that rarely straightened. They only straightened when she and Daisy play-fought, making her taller than you'd realize. Bebe is a throwback, I've decided. Dachshunds were originally bred to find badgers, hence the nose. Then to pull them out of the badger holes, hence the short legs. They also had to be rather large and muscular, in order to kill the badgers once they'd pulled them out. But once badger hunting lost its relevance, dachshunds were bred to be lapdogs. This meant making them smaller. But seeing as how Bebe is half Doberman, and therefore 35 pounds

of solid muscle, she could take on a badger with no problems. Thus, she's a throwback. You know how dachshunds think they're invincible? Bebe has the size to back up her attitude. Daisy was always the boss, of course, but nothing or no one else can scare Bebe. She also has the Doberman's intense "loyalty to one person." That person was me. Daisy has a very sensitive stomach and a discriminating palate. Bebe, on the other hand, has licked a two-day-old vanilla milkshake off an asphalt parking lot. I'd expect an iron stomach, though, since she eats rat bait and chews through metal fences. Have you ever seen a trained police dog run over a chain link fence? Bebe did that to the chicken-wire fence surrounding my garden. She was much more destructive than Dixie the radish-plucker, so eventually I moved the garden to the old dog lot. It had a better fence. When I had Bebe, I didn't need an alarm clock. I know this because I forgot to set it a time or two. Given the choice, Daisy would sleep until noon, then run and herd like a maniac until after dark. But Bebe's bladder demanded otherwise. She had a way of rooting at my face, like she was digging up a badger hole, that made sleep impossible. I've slept through fires, sirens, and gunshots, but nobody sleeps through Bebe. Whenever I went to bed, Daisy waited on my pillow with her tail wagging. After a big cuddle, she moved beside me and to the other pillow. Then, being so dainty and ladylike, she would put a paw on my chest. Just one little paw. The white one. I guess she had to know if I woke up because I was Alpha Male, a.k.a. Daddy. Bebe, meanwhile, would lie on her back and squirm and wiggle and get right under my arm. Usually Taz, the male Siamese, would claim my chest, making the burial complete. Often, Bebe would be asleep on her back, legs spread wide, and Taz would walk up behind her. He'd stop and take a sniff. Bebe would wake up, and her tail would wag. Not only did Taz have a big black dog for a mother and a medium black dog for a sister, but now he'd found a little black dog for his girlfriend. Both were desexed, so it never got past the sniffing stage. I have a theory about Bebe's conception. If her Doberman mother also slept on her back, perhaps her dachshund father could... well, it's a theory, anyway. Do you have a better one? Next door to Daddy's barn, where I kept my horses, some neighbors kept plenty of animals. Three horses, a turkey, a pit bull, an Australian sheepdog, some dachshunds, some cats, some goats, and two young cows. When they left for a summer vacation, I agreed to feed the animals. I love the way pure dachshunds stare at Bebe and seem to ask, "What

in the hell is that?" For her part, she stares down at them and almost seems to laugh. They know they're related, but she's so big. The cows were kept inside a flimsy wire fence on an undersized dirt lot. The question was not if they would escape, but when. They had escaped before and would again. It was because they had no grass to graze on, but try explaining that to some people. There was a Daisy BB rifle in the neighbor's barn. When the cows escaped, the Daisy BB rifle was to help scare them back. Not shoot them, of course. It wasn't even possible with that crooked barrel. Just scare them. How, I wondered, did I let myself get talked into these things? The odds of the cows escaping during that week... Ever hear of Murphy's Law? The moment those cows escaped, Daisy was on the job. Desperately wanting -- no, needing -- to herd them. Begging me, her daddy, for guidance. She saw my eyes and needed no more prompting. Daisy ran along one side of the cows, herding them beautifully toward the fallen wire fence like she was born to it. Well, she was. Bebe tried like heck to run along the other side, but I'm afraid not even super-wiener can keep up with young runaway cows. They tried again. Nope. Again. Nope. Meanwhile I was running for the rifle, hoping to help my hard-working doggies. Finally we worked out a system. Daisy on one side, me on the other, Bebe in the middle so the cows wouldn't cut back. Daisy was beautiful. Bebe wasn't, but she was equally effective. I was the weak link. Finally, we drove the cows over the fallen fence. Lisa held up the wire, creating the illusion of capture, until I could quickly repair the fence. Now comes the mob. Two very proud dogs, happily jumping all over me with wet tongues and muddy paws. I'm pretty sure they wanted me to turn the cows loose so they could do it again. Daisy is not a face-licker, though she made an exception this time. Bebe, it seems, lives to slide that long thick tongue all over my face and inside my mouth. Bebe found her niche as a herding dachshund. The neighbors had a turkey, as I mentioned. They used to have two, but one was eaten by something from the woods one night. So the deal was, the remaining turkey ran loose by day and was caged at night. Did you ever try to catch a running turkey? Trust me, it ain't easy. But guess what? A turkey isn't much taller than Bebe. For some reason Daisy couldn't herd an elusive turkey, but it was no match for Bebe. Every day, Bebe ran the turkey into the barn and cornered it so I could catch it. One night of this was left when Bebe decided she wasn't content to simply corner the turkey. She grabbed its head in her mouth. "Bebe!" I yelled. She immediately released the turkey and came to me for reassurance. Well, I had to cage the turkey first, but then I gave her all the attention she

craved. The following day, I fed the animals alone. I was afraid Bebe would eat the turkey. Seven years later, I gave both dogs to Daddy. He loved Bebe too, even though she was the only dog he couldn't scare into peeing on the porch.

Chapter Five Who Was That Masked Cat? You like cats, don't you? Some people don't like cats. Daddy doesn't like cats. Daddy's best friend, Bill Ball, loves his cats. Their names are Clipper and Keebles. Clipper and Keebles are large cats, longhaired blurs of gray, ginger, white, brown, and maybe something else. Whenever Daddy visits Bill Ball, they sit on the porch and drink beer. (The humans, not the cats.) Both cats always sit on Daddy's lap, purring, and Daddy rubs them. But remember, Daddy doesn't like cats. Daddy, as you may recall, is 6'4" and around 280 pounds. Bill Ball is 5'9" and 180 pounds, I'd guess. He's about ten years younger than Daddy, and his beard is maybe a foot long. He raises cows. If you saw Daddy and Bill Ball together, you'd never guess you were looking at two millionaires. They like it that way. When they went to their first Wild Turkey Federation Auction, Daddy wondered about the dress code. Suit and tie? He sure didn't want to wear a suit and tie. "I tell ya, Jim," said Bill. "The last time I wore a tie was in 1964. It was about a foot wide, and it said George Wallace For President." They wore jeans and T-shirts. They were correct to do so. But remember, Bill loves his cats. These cats are rather large, slug-like creatures. But one of them -- I'll pick Keebles because I don't know -- is quicker than he looks. Keebles once caught a hummingbird in his mouth. Bill yelled and ran over to Keebles and slapped him on the back. Keebles coughed up a single feather, just like in an old cartoon. One evening, Daddy was patrolling his property. He saw two Mexicans on foot, trespassing. He grabbed his gun and shot at them, then chased them around in his truck shooting and cussing like only he can. They finally escaped through the woods where a truck can't follow. The next day, Daddy was visiting Bill Ball. One of the cats purred peacefully on Daddy's lap. "Jim," Bill drawled, "A funny thing happened last night. I was settin' out here on the porch, and these two Mexicans come runnin' outta the woods. They were scared to death, I tell ya, like they'd seen a ghost. I asked 'em what was wrong, and they slowed down just long enough to yell at me, 'El Diablo is after us. El Diablo is comin' to get us.'" El Diablo is Spanish for "the devil." Daddy smiled. "Was it around nine o'clock?" "Well yeah, Jim, I believe it was." Daddy laughed. "You're lookin' at El Diablo. I chased those Mexicans

off my land." "Well hell, Jim, if I'd'a known they was yours I'd'a sent 'em back." But remember, Bill Ball loves his cats. Hurricane Floyd, the fifth and final one I saw in Watha, was the worst. It came on the heels of Hurricane Dennis, a rather weak one that hit us twice. The land was already flooded and the river was seeping over the banks. Then came Floyd. Not only was it destructive, but it hovered a while, raining and raining. Like most people in Burgaw, Wilmington, or Watha, Bill Ball was in a world of trouble. He lives half a mile from the river, which was higher than anyone remembered it being before. When the road was under water, he crossed it to get his cats. He left them on the porch, where they stayed for a while. Then they went under the house, a favorite spot, and he forgot about them in the mad rush of activity caused by the hurricane. Hours passed, and the river kept rising. Nobody in the area had power at this point, and there was quite a bit of property damage. Meanwhile, the rains kept coming. Bill and his wife were sitting in the house, waiting it out by candlelight, when they heard an awful howling. It wasn't the wind. It sounded terrible. It was coming from beneath the floor. "The cats!" Bill ran outside. The water came up to his waist, maybe higher. He waded over to a place where a pipe led from somewhere outside to beneath the house. He pulled aside the plastic and insulation that blocked the hole, but both cats were too large to fit through it. He rescued a third cat, a newcomer whose name I don't know. Bill rushed into the house, now thoroughly soaked. The screaming was terrible. Clipper and Keebles had maybe an inch of air, and the water was still rising. These were the screams of two cats who were drowning. "Oh God, Bill, do something quick! Do something!" Bill looked at his floor. His gorgeous, polished hardwood floor. It had his initials burned into it with a circle around them. I never saw it myself, but I heard that it was a real work of art. He was so proud of that floor. "Well," he decided, "It's probably ruined anyway." Bill got his chainsaw and cut a hole in the floor to save his drowning cats. I told you, Bill Ball loves his cats. I briefly mentioned my third cat, the stray who refused to leave. Let me tell you more about this character. Shortly after my next-door neighbor gave me Bebe, his wife drove

over to my house. Neighbors live a bit further apart in Watha than they do in your neighborhood. "I found this cat in my yard. Is he yours?" "No." "Oh. I thought he was." "Well, he's not." "Well, can you hold him until I drive away so he doesn't follow me home?" Oh yes, we all know how this story ends. He was a beautiful little fuzzy ball of orange. Quite an affectionate, purring fellow too. And yes, I fed him. Taz had been the sole male cat for several years. Another male? Not possible. But, I thought, why not have an indoor male and an outdoor male? Since the new guy arrived in late October, and since he was orange, we dubbed him Pumpkin. He loved it when Daisy and Bebe came outside to visit him, even when they chased him up a tree. They were just playing -the dogs love all cats -- and they licked him when he came down. One Saturday afternoon, I went outside to play with my chainsaw. On the porch, I found eight dead mice, lined up beside the front door in a very neat row. They were all on their backs, with their heads pointing the same way and their tails neatly aligned. This was obviously a gift from young Pumpkin, a show of his gratitude. I worked with my chainsaw for a while, then went back to the house for a drink. Now there were only five mice. No doubt my young son had decided that he'd done his part. He'd offered them to me first. If I didn't want them, well, it was a shame to let a good meal go to waste. Still later, I returned to the house to see only two mice remaining. Still later, half a mouse. Still later, no mice at all. No blood or fur, either. He'd cleaned up quite thoroughly. It's obvious how Pumpkin survived before I began feeding him. It's also obvious why he didn't eat very much. One night, I was typing on the computer when I heard a strange squeaking noise coming from the porch. I finally went outside to see what it was. Pumpkin was standing there, looking every bit the wild-eyed feral hunter, with a live mouse in his mouth. I just muttered "Good boy" and went back inside. Eventually, the noise stopped. When the weather turned cold, I let Pumpkin come inside. Yes, it pissed off the Siamese coalition, but I decided I didn't care. I paused to look at life through the eyes of Witchie and Taz, and here is what I saw: Every species has its own identifying colors. All dogs are black with brown eyes. All horses are brown with dark brown manes. All people are white-skinned, with brownish hair and blue eyes. And all cats, quite naturally, are blue-eyed shorthaired seal point Siamese.

Now they see this longhaired, fuzzy, orange thing with yellow-green eyes. It smells like the woods and it's protected by dogs. Surely it's a tool of El Diablo and an abomination in the eyes of the cat gods, something that must be destroyed. In Taz's case, it also happened to be a male thing. I resigned myself to the fact that they would always hate Pumpkin, hissing and threatening whenever they saw him. It didn't seem to bother Pumpkin, so it didn't bother me. Really, it was the only evidence Taz has ever given that he's an adult. He still looks and acts and vocalizes like a kitten, no doubt because his "mother" was a dog. But Pumpkin never threatened back. He knew he was in another cat's domain. He ignored the hissing, and moved away from the attacks. Given his lack of aggression, I decided to just let him stay inside, Siamese be damned. A month or so later, something strange happened. Taz started lying beside Pumpkin instead of lying beside Witchie. Oh, Witchie's face showed her outrage. Taz showed nothing but guilt. After a time, Taz started playing with Pumpkin. They became best buddies. I don't believe Taz was ever forgiven for that. Witchie can hold a grudge for years. She still hasn't forgiven me for bringing home Bebe. I didn't show Pumpkin the litter box. He found it himself. If he clawed something he wasn't supposed to, I scolded him once, verbally, and he never did it again. Again, the gratitude thing. "Show me the rules and I'll follow them; I'm just happy to be here." Once or twice, Taz and Pumpkin slept side by side on my chest between the two dogs. My sons were the same size, as Taz was the runt of the litter and Pumpkin was probably underfed as a baby. Before learning to hunt, of course. Daddy had a problem with rats in his barn, so I told him he could borrow Pumpkin as long as he didn't shoot him. Remember, Daddy doesn't like cats. Nobody fed Pumpkin while he lived in the barn, but every time I went to visit, he was lying on the floor with a swollen belly. I took him home a week later because he was going stir-crazy without human contact. Plus Daddy had no more rats. Before I left the barn, I held Pumpkin up to Peaches. He sniffed and sniffed, quite fascinated. Then the head moved, and he realized that big thing was alive. It scared the hell out of him. I rushed him home; he always loved riding in the truck. A day with Taz and the dogs, and he was restored to his good old Pumpkin self. I think I had Pumpkin for a year. In a manner of speaking, as no one truly owns a cat, especially not an independent fellow like Pumpkin. He vanished for a few days, then came home looking skinny and with a stomach swollen as if he'd swallowed a tennis ball. A trip to the vet confirmed the

worst -- intestinal blockage -- and I made the hard decision. I borrowed Daddy's rifle and ended his pain myself. This led to an unexpected problem. Taz missed his best friend. Weeks later, he was still depressed. No more running up and down the stairs and making weird noises at three in the morning. Always looking out the windows or at the doors as if Pumpkin would show up at any moment. Witchie was happy, damn her, but Taz was miserable. Finally, we visited the Humane Society to bring home a new little buddy for my son Taz. Once again, things didn't quite work out as I'd planned. A skinny white male with some black and brown highlights, one year old, told me with his eyes to stop looking at those other cats. You know you want me. That's right, me. Over here, you idiot. I'm the cat you want. Who was I to argue? It seems that this fellow, Lucas, was adopted from the Humane Society at six weeks of age. A year later, his parents moved into an apartment that didn't allow pets, so he was back. We changed his name to Frosty. I don't know why. There were two things I didn't realize about Frosty. He was much larger than Taz, and he had never lived with any animals except humans. He adapted to the dogs quickly. They tried to herd him like Pumpkin, but he simply stood his ground until they rushed past. Sometimes Bebe, being uncoordinated, would crash into him. This became the new ritual, the failed herding of Frosty. Frosty first walked into my house knowing he owned it. That was fine with Taz, but not with Witchie. Frosty was a bit taller than the Siamese, and as I fed him he quickly grew larger than they were. He also had youth on his side, as he was one and Witchie was at least seven. She didn't care. She had to teach him his place, and that was that. The war of wills was fun to watch. He trained Lisa and me quickly enough, and the dogs, but Witchie was untrainable. So was Frosty, it turned out. Witchie decided that Frosty wasn't allowed on the floor. Whenever he sprang down from a piece of furniture, she charged at him hissing and swatting until he ran for dear life and sprang onto something else. This went on for months. I think Taz tried to play with him once, but Frosty wasn't interested. Also, given his size and his attitude, he was scary. Taz was torn in his loyalties again, upsetting Witchie. If looks could kill, Witchie would be the world's finest assassin. In the year that I owned him, Frosty left me one mouse. Maybe he didn't catch very many. Finally, Witchie accepted him as an equal, a King worthy of Her

Majesty the Queen. They ruled their domain together, as reluctant equals. I'd have bet real money that such a thing was impossible. Taz, meanwhile, accepted his new role as Court Jester. When we worked out the terms of our divorce, Lisa and I quickly decided that I'd keep Daisy and Bebe, and she'd keep her horses and her Siamese cats. Frosty, she decided, would have to go. She would be smuggling her two precious Siamese into a no-pets apartment, but Frosty wouldn't like it at all because he was an outdoorsman and a free spirit. I was selling the house and moving into an apartment myself, leading to the same problem, but if she couldn't find Frosty a good home I'd find a way to keep him somehow. He deserved the best. Lisa gave Frosty to the owner of the boarding stable where the horses were living. It was full of cats. I figured Frosty would be ruling the roost before the day was over, and when I visited him a week later, he was. About a week after that, I was typing at my computer when I heard a familiar noise out on the porch. It was a meow. I recognized the voice, as did Taz and the dogs. Witchie recognized it as well, and she scowled angrily. He'd lost a bit of weight, but Frosty had returned home. A mile or so down the road, and he'd simply decided he didn't like it there. A few days later, one of Lisa's coworkers dropped in because we were selling furniture and such. Frosty, now fat again, decided he would go home with her. He rubbed all over her legs, purring loudly, looking up with lovesick eyes. "He's free if you want him," said Lisa. "Oh, he's beautiful, but I can't take him. I already have two cats." "Frosty won't mind. He lives with two now." "Oh, but these are males. They'd fight." "Frosty's big enough to take care of himself." "My cats are pretty big, too." This conversation lasted another two or three minutes, during which Frosty continued to woo and charm the lady as only he can. He was in love. Finally she picked him up. I suspect she already knew what a big mistake that was. "Well, the other two stay outdoors," she finally said. "Maybe Frosty could be an indoor cat. Do you think he'd be okay indoors?" "Oh yeah," Lisa lied, "He loves it indoors. He'd be great." This is the cat who, on his first day in the house, howled and clawed the inside of the door until I let him out. When he was ready to come inside, he leaped onto the window screen behind the TV and yelled. He usually found himself on the wrong side of the door about once every five minutes, as if he'd had a cat door at his previous home. He never stopped doing those things. But I'm sure Frosty made his own rules, as always, and lived happily

with his new love and her two cats. Really, I think Frosty is just one of those who likes to move to a new home every year. But he has to choose his new home, you see. Horse barn -- no. This woman -- yes. By now he's probably tired of her and moved onto greener pastures yet again. Maybe one day, if you're very lucky, he'll come spend a year with you.

Chapter Six Alcoholic Horses and Redneck Divorces Lisa won her first horse show at age six. She grew up with Appaloosas, and she was invited to three World Appaloosa Championships. This was in the days before the breed had been corrupted by overbreeding with Quarter horses, who are wonderful animals in their own right. The Appaloosa is a Nez Perce breed, and they are working hard to restore them to what they used to be. I wish them the best of luck. When I first met Lisa, she was 15 and I was 21. When we divorced, she was 30 and I was 36. In between, I learned a bit about horses, but I don't have her passion. You know, when horses get in your blood and you don't feel alive unless you own at least one? That's her. Without a horse, she's incomplete. A few months after I married Lisa, following a five-year engagement, we sold her two champion Appaloosas. We moved from Florida to North Carolina a few months after that, bought two acres from Daddy, and built ourselves a house. It was obvious to me that it was only a matter of time before we bought a horse. One weekend, a coworker talked us into visiting a horse trader. Of course I knew what would happen when Lisa got near a horse for sale. We named this horse Cisco. Cisco looked like he was on the edge of death by starvation. His previous owner had left him staked out in the yard like a cow for three months, so he had awful rope burns on his legs. In those three months, all he had to eat was the grass he could reach, so we could easily count his ribs and vertebrae. His previous owners had spent $50 on horseshoes, which aren't necessary on a trail horse, when they should have spent that $50 on three months' worth of food. He'd been ridden daily with a saddle but no saddle pad, leaving a nasty abscess on his back that we just knew would never heal properly. The first surprise was how completely the abscess vanished. I injected it daily with penicillin, and Lisa did whatever the heck else she did to heal Cisco. His legs healed as well, without any scars. He ate like a horse, of course. We were concerned that someone would see him in the back yard and report us to the SPCA for starving him, when in fact we were making him healthy again. The second surprise was how damn big he got, and how quickly. But he was incredibly gentle. I'd fenced in at least one of my acres with simple barbed wire, which I don't like but which is cheap. Lisa considered training Cisco as a barrel horse. He quickly showed her that he'd been schooled before, and he had one hell of a fast run. He could easily wrap his body around the barrel on a turn, meaning he'd have been

awesome. The trick was staying on, since his gait was a bit bouncy. When he spooked at a deer and dropped his rump almost to the ground, I damn near fell off. But dear God, did we have ourselves a barrel horse. Some time after buying Cisco, Lisa and I ended up working full-time on a hog farm. We worked 12 days out of 14, usually at least 12 hours a day. Thus, we found ourselves spending less and less time with Cisco. This was a total waste of such a fine animal, and terribly unfair to him, so we sold him to someone who would give him a good home. He deserved nothing less. Eventually we quit working at that hog farm. I returned to the engineering firm where I'd worked twice before. Later, I got Lisa a job there. Y'all just reach over and slap me for that. Lisa was my employee this time, not a good idea. But anyway, this meant we had time for a horse again. "Just looking," Lisa told the old horse trader. We both knew better. We bought ourselves another Quarter horse, a beautiful female yearling. I'd long since taken down the barbed wire fence where Cisco had lived. Daddy lived a mile away from my house, and he had plenty of land. He let me fence some of it in and keep the new yearling over there. We named her Peaches. Some people see a horse for the first time, and a lifelong obsession is born. That was Lisa. Other people like them, but can take them or leave them. That was me, except in the case of Peaches. Horses were Lisa's passion, not mine. To hear her tell it, I'm barely competent. Maybe so, but Lisa talked me into "breaking" Peaches. We had witnesses. Wilmington's first major hurricane in many years had just blasted through, flooding Daddy's property in Burgaw. This was the second hurricane that year. Daddy and his renters were living in his barn because their roads were under water. When I say Daddy's barn, don't think of a typical barn. Think of a massive metal structure, the size of four large houses lined up in a row. This barn is divided into three sections. One sixth holds a tractor, a riding mower, a four-wheeler, shelves of tools and about 100 deer horns. One sixth holds a gorgeous office, complete with furniture, stuffed and mounted animals, gun safes, a TV, a VCR and a satellite dish. The remaining two-thirds holds couches, chairs, beds, freezers, refrigerators, a microwave, a pool table, a kitchen sink, two full bathrooms and hot running water. Later, Daddy added central heating and air conditioning. Daddy and his wife Judy, and Gurney and his wife Donna, were living in the barn. They all watched the big event, along with my dogs. I climbed onto Peaches, the first human to ever sit on this horse, with much

trepidation. And then, all of a sudden, the frisky young horse... She simply stood there. "Can I walk with this much weight on my back?" she wondered. "Yes," Lisa answered with a tug on the lead line. Peaches walked slowly around the barn. Simple as that. I'll never think of it as breaking a horse. Lisa wanted to ride. Gurney wanted to ride. Donna wanted to ride. We all wanted to ride. Lisa and I strapped on the old saddle, and some of the rotted leather straps broke. Lisa patched it up with her shoestring, and decided she wouldn't ride that day. We didn't tell Donna and Gurney about the shoestring, but I think they're reading this. Sorry guys, but hey, you lived. Gurney had taken all his vacation time from work, and spent it living in Daddy's barn. Before he rode Peaches, he showed us a trick. He gave Peaches a bottle of Michelob Light, and she drank it without spilling a drop. "How I Spent My Summer Vacation," by Bob Gurney. Lisa decided Peaches needed a buddy, and so entered Bandit, a retired racehorse. Perhaps Bandit wasn't the ideal choice. He'd run every day for eight years of his life, with a less than ethical, or competent, trainer. Lisa instructed me to calm Bandit down. I was riding Bandit one day. He was being a bit of a pain, as usual. He was having trouble adjusting to retirement, and to the idea of simply walking along trails. When I turned Bandit toward home, he realized it was suppertime and bolted. I hung on for dear life. How do you stop a running horse? Not by yanking back, as he might ignore you. You pull his head to one side, so he's looking backwards. Wherever his face is pointing, his body has to follow. But in Bandit's case, his neck was too strong. I couldn't turn his head. I couldn't stop him. He was in control. I saw two possible outcomes. Bandit could stop, and I'd fly over his head and crash through the chain link fence. Beyond it was concrete. Or, Bandit could just crash into the fence, and I'd probably still hit the concrete. Bandit opted for a third possibility, a 140-degree turn that left me hanging off one side. He seemed genuinely surprised that I had trouble staying on, and slowed as he ran between the front of his pasture and the back of Daddy's barn. Somehow I yanked myself upright, stopped the horse, and got off as Daisy arrived. Lisa and Peaches arrived soon after, and eventually Bebe. Lisa spent the next few hours riding Bandit up and down in front of the barn, explaining things to him. I fed Peaches. Lisa sent Bandit to bed without any supper. He never pulled that trick again.

All in all, it was an unforgettable ride. Lisa got a call from Daddy one afternoon telling her that Peaches was bleeding. Lisa broke several traffic laws rushing out there. She called the vet, then me. I was working 40 miles away, in Wilmington, and I probably finished my shift before I left the office. By the time I arrived, the vet had finished the surgery. Peaches had a deep cut in her right front shoulder, big enough to stick a fist in. It required two hours of surgery and 25 staples. I walked around the pasture and the stalls two or three times before I found the cause. On each stall were six eyebolts, three per side, for hanging webbing during the hot months. During the cold months, we closed the Dutch doors. On one eyebolt, in Bandit's stall, were blood, hair and flesh. Our best guess is that Peaches went in to visit him, maybe to steal some food, when Bandit spooked at something. Perhaps a bee sting. He slammed her against the eyebolt as he bolted. Certainly it wasn't intentional. I removed the eyebolts before I left. The vet said that, quite probably, Peaches would be scarred for life and possibly weak in that leg. At any rate, her show career was finished. Peaches didn't agree with the prognosis, however, so she eventually resumed life as a show horse and won a few more ribbons. The hair is a bit discolored there, but I'd hardly call it a scar. During Peaches' convalescence, Lisa was approached with an interesting offer. Lisa was working for some Arabian breeders who owned a two-year-old stud. He was El Mistyc. El Mistyc's father, Anaza El Farid, a.k.a. Freddy (as in Krueger), was the world's leading sire of champion Arabians. El Mistyc's owners, Todd and Bill, wondered what El Mistyc would produce with a Quarter horse, so they offered us a free breeding. Any horse lovers reading this know what Quarter horse people think of Arabians. But never mind. We accepted the offer. We only bred Peaches for one reason, and that was to make money. Thanks to El Mistyc, the baby would have some incredible Arabian bloodlines, and there was no doubting the purity of Peaches' background despite her lack of papers. Of course, this is the wrong reason to breed a horse. When spring rolled around, we'd sold Bandit. Peaches was staying in the same barn as El Mistyc, and they were quite affectionate. Lisa was visiting her parents in Florida, and I was visiting Peaches daily to treat her

injury. One day I offered her a carrot, and she refused. This is the only time in her life that she's ever refused food. I immediately found Todd and Bill. "Peaches is in heat. Right now." We bred her then, or tried to. El Mistyc tried to mate with her head. He tried to mate with her side. He tried her head again. He tried her side again. Once Todd and Bill finally positioned him correctly, he fell off a few times. Peaches stood calmly through it all. But finally, a too-short breeding. We weren't concerned, because we knew she was only beginning her heat. The next day, or perhaps the one after, we'd breed her properly. Then her heat cycle would end and she'd be pregnant. Five days later, she was still in heat, so we called the vet. An ultrasound revealed that Peaches' eggs hadn't dropped yet, so more breeding attempts would follow. "Some horses stay in heat longer than they should just because they enjoy it so much," the vet explained. "The technical term is slut." Eventually, Peaches and El Mistyc made a foal. In the wild, horses live on grass. In captivity, they eat protein-rich food of human creation. This makes their embryonic sacs so thick that newborn horses often can't break through them. Thus, thanks to human intervention, humans need to be around when horses give birth. But when a horse has a baby, she does not want people around. She can delay labor for up to two days if necessary. Lisa and I attended classes, complete with graphic videos. At the end of all the coaching, one inevitably wonders why he/she ever bred his/her horse. So many things can go wrong, and we were halfway trained on how to handle them all. They all involved panicking a bit, doing what little we could, and calling a vet. Since the weather was hot, we left Peaches in the pasture with two old mares. Peaches wasn't producing milk yet, so she wouldn't foal that night. Right? Wrong. The next morning, there was Peaches lying on the ground, suckling her new baby. The old mares were standing guard duty over mother and child. Obviously, Peaches never went to those birthing classes. Before the colt was born, we worked quite hard at finding a buyer. Not long after getting to know the little guy, Lisa changed her mind. He's a gorgeous gray, super-smart, whose registered name is Mistycal Essence but whose "barn name" is Gremlin. Peaches was the perfect mother, and Gremlin was the perfect brat. Lisa loved them both. At first Peaches ran herself ragged making sure he was never out of her sight, but eventually she gave up on keeping up with Gremlin. Gremlin displayed the worst of both worlds, the high intelligence of Peaches plus the worst of the Arabian temperament. But after a few months,

he began showing the eager-to-please nature that is Peaches' trademark. It's even possible that, in time, I'd have decided that I'd met yet another irresistible horse. When Lisa and I separated, she took Peaches and Gremlin with her to Florida, where they're all living happily today. Neither horse is for sale.

Chapter Seven Makin' Bacon I can't sit on my butt pretending to be busy just to take home a paycheck. If I'm bored out of my skull, doing something I don't believe in or doing nothing at all, I haul ass. It's the redneck way. This lone voice of experience says that it all works out in the end. Trite, perhaps, but also true. There I was, working at an engineering firm called Eastern Instruments, when they basically ran out of work for us. Being such kind souls, the owners refused to lay anyone off. Their names are Bob and Millie, and Millie took it upon herself to be my "second Mom." One employee left for lunch, then called in to say he'd gotten sick and wouldn't be back that day. On the following day, he faxed us his resignation letter, the only employee to ever quit by fax. Years later, I'd become the only employee to quit by email. In his fax, Doug explained that he couldn't sit around acting busy 40 hours a week. I knew exactly what he meant, as I'd been job-hunting myself. I left a week later to become a hog farmer. I went to work for Lisa's best friend, Ann, at a farm called Farrowwood. Three days later, Ann saw that she couldn't fit me into her budget after all and was nice enough to send me up the road to Scott at Phillips Farm. Eventually I quit working for Phillips Farm and returned to Eastern Instruments. I worked at Farrowwood again on weekends for a while. Then I left Eastern to work for Ann at Cornerstone Farm. Then I left Cornerstone to return to Eastern. I later became a part-time farmer for Ann again. Every time I left hog farming, I swore never to return. The first time I returned to Eastern Instruments, I called Millie. The second time, she called me. The third time, I called her. If there is a fourth return, I guess it'll be my turn to call her. And, with that opening out of the way, it's time to tell you what happened on the hog farms. Before I continue, here's an important warning. This section has offended a few readers. This section concentrates on artificial and natural breeding with hogs. If you don't want to read about that, skip ahead a few chapters and learn how I wound up in China. I think these experiences are funny. Most readers agree. The remainder find them terribly offensive. If you think you belong to the latter group, skip ahead right now. At no other point will I mention "sex with farm animals."

Does this section do anything to develop the characters or advance the plot? Yes, but not a whole lot. I just think it's funny as hell. If you disagree, skip ahead right now. Otherwise, here we go... My manager was a great guy named Scott. Everyone else on the farm was either Mexican or Honduran. Zulema is Mexican, born and raised in Florida. She was a court translator who was fired for translating the profanity. Zulema explained to me that she'd signed an agreement which included the words "add nothing and leave nothing out." So she didn't leave out the profanity and they fired her for it. Now she was our translator. Once in a while I translated Scott's words for Zulema. She's from Florida, where no one has Scott's thick Southern accent. My one complaint about Scott, and it's minor, is that he started working there a year before I did and he never learned Spanish. In nine months, I was almost fluent despite using English grammar and an almost total lack of verbs. I later forgot most of it, except for the profanity. If you work on a hog farm, you will hear profanity. You will probably use profanity. My first week there, we had about 20 employees on salary. Far more employees than recommended in the manual, yet we finished working late in the afternoon/evening. Scott announced that, at the end of the week, we would switch from salary to hourly. Half the employees promptly quit. The other half finished working about three hours earlier than they had before. Every employee had a Social Security card. Not all of those cards came from the U.S. government. You could usually tell by the employee's W-2 form. For example, if an 18-year-old claimed to have ten dependents, you could assume he wasn't filing a 1040 because he was illegal, and thus wanted no withholding tax taken from his check, because he'd never get it back. I don't knock illegal immigrants one damn bit. We had an excellent crew, made up of people who sent money back home to their families in Mexico or Honduras. They didn't take work from American citizens, because most Americans didn't want this work. These were happy, fun-loving, hard-working people. And, at lunchtime, we had the best-smelling break room of any place I've ever worked. I've taught myself to cook Mexican food, even in China. We had one employee named Manuel. He was large and scary, and reminded me a bit of those Mexicans that Clint Eastwood was always killing in the spaghetti westerns. One day, Manuel was washing a room. The pressure-washer quit squirting water. Manuel left it on -- nobody knows why -- until the compressor exploded.

Scott foresaw a problem. He'd just loaned all his guns to a friend, and he'd even forgotten to bring his crowbar to the farm. It was at home. He was afraid he'd fire Manuel and find himself under attack and defenseless. Not really. Scott just loves to spin a good yarn. The firing occurred without incident. Manuel didn't want to be there anyway. Workers had to be at the farm every day because hogs don't take vacations. We worked with a full crew on the weekdays and half a crew on the weekends. Every employee was off on alternate weekends. On weekends we did the least amount of work possible: breeding, feeding, medicating. Thus, the days were shorter, even with half a crew. When I say medicating, I don't mean all the steroids and such that you hear goes into livestock. I spent three years as a hog farmer and never saw this done. We gave them far too many antibiotics, and we treated their injuries and ailments as unqualified, self-taught amateur veterinarians. Christmas fell on a Saturday that year. The following week, New Year's Day would fall on a Saturday. So we made a deal. We worked a full crew both holidays, and showed up at 5 a.m. instead of the usual 7:00, so we should've all been finished by 9:30 or 10:00 on both days. As we were leaving work on Christmas Eve, Scott gave every employee a 12-pack of beer. Nice guy that he is, he'd bought one 12-pack of my preferred brand just for me. The farrowing house, which you may think of as a maternity ward, tended to be staffed by the women. The breeding barn tended to be staffed by the men. Many of the men left with their beer, drank it, and kept on drinking until about 4. Then they drove to the farm on Christmas morning drunk and without sleep. Here's what happened. The farrowing crew showed up at 5, showered in, and was ready to work. The breeders stumbled in around 5, walked into closed doors, fell down in the shower, and laughed like idiots. Scott instructed the farrowing crew. "When you finish, do not help the breeders. If they're late, it's their own damn fault. I just hope nobody gets hurt or killed out there." The farrowing crew finished work at 8:30. The breeders finished at noon. I worked in my own section of the breeding department, the Artificial Insemination Lab. Scott wanted me to leave when farrowing did, as I was the only sober breeder on the farm, but I had too much work to do. I left with the rest of the breeding department, but I did not help them. Fortunately, no one was injured. Monday morning, Scott told everyone that coming to work drunk would mean immediate dismissal. On New Year's Eve, he did not give anyone beer as they left. On New Year's Day, we had one fellow report to work drunk. He was not Hispanic. As soon as he stepped out of the shower, he put on a dust

mask to hide his breath and safety glasses to hide his bloodshot eyes, then rushed out into the barn as fast as possible. We knew he was drunk, but we let him get away with it. At least he wasn't falling-down drunk. A month later, it was time to hand or mail out W-2 forms. To give you some idea of how much turnover we had on the farm, we had 12 employees and about 60 W-2 forms. Over half of the forms were returned by the post office as undeliverable. Those are the people. Now let me tell you about the real stars of the show, the boars. Can you impregnate over 100 women on a single day? I knew a guy who could. His name was Mean Ass. I helped. My job was to masturbate boars. I don't know how many times I stood in the barn with a squirting boar penis in my hand, thinking I can't believe they pay people to do this. Or, This is a long way from Eastern Instruments. Or, I damn sure didn't go to college for this. Or, If only Mom could see me now. I doubt I ever wanted Barry to see me now. When I told my cousin Clint about my new job, he wanted to film it. It's a funny thing to teach your wife how to masturbate a boar. I am not making this up. If you've read my other books, you know I lack the imagination. Truth is stranger than fiction, dear reader. Thus, I will tell you the truth. A boar has a long, thin penis, kept inside a sheath. The penis is pink. It's a foot or two long, shaped like a corkscrew at the end. In nature, he inserts it into the sow, all the way up to her cervix. Her cervix is spiraled a bit like a screw hole. Then he spins it around, clockwise, until he gets a "lock." Is this where the term "screwing" comes from? I don't know. The boar inserts, spins, and pulls back. If it doesn't come out, he knows he's done what he's supposed to do. Then he just stands there, three to five minutes in an ideal situation, shooting his load. His eyes roll back in his head, and he drools a lot. I've seen them fall asleep up there. (Insert your own punch line here.) First, the boar shoots the pre-ejaculate, a clear substance. Then the white stuff, loaded with sperm. Finally, some more clear stuff, called extender. Basically, it's food for the sperm. Then the "plug," a thick white jelly-like substance that makes sure the other stuff doesn't leak out when he's done. (The plug is also supposed to keep other boars from mating with his

girl, but it doesn't work because those other boars are stubborn.) A sow is in heat, or estrus, for 24 to 36 hours. A gilt, or virgin, is only in heat for 18 hours. During estrus, one never knows when the eggs will "drop" from the ovaries to the place where fertilization occurs. It's a brief window of opportunity in an 18- to 36-hour time span. The trick is to ensure that there is live sperm in the right place when the eggs drop, and this is done through multiple breedings at specific intervals. When you think of a hog farm, perhaps you think of the farmer in the back yard raising some pigs. That's the old model. Now it's strictly big business. Thousands of hogs live together, and everything is done to ensure the sows are pregnant as many days as humanly possible. Every sow is rated on how many babies she can make. The time between pregnancies is minimized. The size and health of her litters is maximized. It's all about productivity. In the wild, it's survival of the fittest. Hogs have survived by means of an incredible reproductive system. In industrialized hog farming, that's exploited to the fullest. Every little baby who would've died in the wild is saved on the farms, so the litters can be as large as possible. It's all about numbers now. In industrialized hog farming, one quickly realizes that there just aren't enough boars to go around. Thus the popularity and the importance of AI, Artificial Insemination. Most sows are bred several times over the course of two days, to ensure live sperm is present when her eggs drop. Our farm let a boar do it the first time, since he's the expert on determining when she's in heat. For subsequent breeds, we used AI. We had 98 boars for natural breeding, and 12 different boars whose sperm we collected for AI use. The distinction is made because, once a boar's learned about AI, he usually doesn't want to breed naturally anymore. Especially (ahem!) if the AI guy has my collection skills. Again, my job was to masturbate the AI boars. Not to rub them up and down as in human masturbation, but rather to make them think they had achieved a lock with a female. I did this every day. The boars drooled whenever they saw me coming down the walkway. Then even tried to call my name. Then they said, "Me, me, me!" Some time later in my day, I had to get the smell of boar sperm off my hands. It's a trade secret, one of my own invention, which I'll share with you later. I've never shared it with anyone before. Contrary to what I've been asked a time or two, collecting boar sperm can't be done with gloves. It just doesn't feel right to the big fella. We used "AI dummies," which are carpeted wooden constructs shaped a bit like a sow. They have handholds on the sides, because boars aren't the

most coordinated animals in creation. When they mate naturally, sometimes they fall off and land on their butts. But if the sow's in heat, she always waits for her man to climb on back up there. I regularly poured urine from sows in heat onto the dummies to produce the appropriate scent. When I turned a boar loose from his crate, he was supposed to mount the dummy and "extend" his penis from his sheath. Once he's done it the first time -- no easy task to teach him that -- he'll do it every time. It's easier for him than breeding a sow and it may even be more pleasant. When the boar extended, I grabbed his penis. I did not pull his penis. That would only piss him off. Pissing off a boar is never a good idea. Instead, I gripped the penis and produced the appropriate pressure, which meant stopping him from retracting his penis. This was the hardest part of the job for me, learning that "don't pull his penis" does not mean "let him retract." Once he was convinced he'd achieved a lock, he'd extend to his full length, get comfortable, and ejaculate. In my other hand, I held a Styrofoam cup with cheesecloth attached to the top by a rubber band. I didn't catch the extender, the pre-ejaculate or the post-ejaculate, but only the sperm-rich ejaculate itself. I'd take it back to the lab and mix it with some chemically created extender, which is food for the sperm, careful to match temperatures. If I got the temperatures wrong -- I never did -- the sperm would die and I'd have to go masturbate some more boars. When I started working at the farm, we used 16-ounce cups for collecting the sperm and mixing it 50-50 with the extender. As the doses grew, we switched to 32-ounce cups. As you may or may not know, that's the size of a 7-11 "Big Gulp." So when I met the boar whose extended sperm could fill the cup, I named him Big Gulp. His sperm count wasn't so great, but for sheer volume of milky stuff, he was the champ. I wish I could remember what he looked like. I only know he was too fat for natural breeding. Why was AI better than natural insemination? A typical boar produces enough sperm to impregnate 30 or 40 sows. My champ, Mean Ass, could impregnate well over 100. Unfortunately, I needed both hands and lots of gripping power to make him ejaculate, and I would eventually develop arthritis collecting from him. But we were quite friendly. So, it's numbers. With a natural breed, one boar impregnates one sow. With AI, he usually gets at least 30. Thus, fewer boars are required. If I tell you that an epidemic wiped out most of the company's boars, the value of AI becomes even more obvious. In the wild, this overproduction of sperm is one way that hogs survive the whole timing conundrum. Produce enough, and something will be alive if you're 36 hours early. But due to human intervention, we don't need as much sperm per breed. One of my trademarks as an AI "legend" was to give my gals more boar sperm than anybody else using AI. More live sperm

equals more babies. When the farm opened, it was one of the few to have its own AI Lab. The boars, therefore, did not know what they were supposed to do. The farm manager was supposed to teach them. How would you like to have his job? I'd guess a typical boar weighs around 400 pounds. He's very thick but very quick. He usually doesn't trust strangers. He can smell fear or rage, and doesn't like either one. He's usually smarter than any dog, except possibly Daisy. Oh, and each of the boar's four razor-sharp tusks is at least 6" (15cm) long. "Excuse me, large animal who can kill me faster than I can blink, but I'd like to grab your penis now." Fortunately, this was before my time. You don't need to know what a PIC boar is. But whenever I mention one, you should say, "Wow." Maybe in all caps and italics. PIC boars are the Schwarzeneggers of the hog world, with virtually no body fat, rippling muscles with massive chests and shoulders so broad they can barely fit through a doorway. In these first days, two unnamed white PIC boars arrived at the farm. Both were large even by PIC standards. If you picture a boar in your mind, then try to describe that boar in one word, I bet that word won't be grandeur. But these two guys had grandeur. All the sows on this farm were between 100 and 150 pounds. These guys were around 600 pounds each. Boars are supposed to get on top, you know. The manager looked at these two mammoths, then at his tiny little girls. "Put 'em in the AI section." Smart move. One of the two had a truly goofy face. From the neck down, a phenomenal physical specimen. From the neck up, a cartoon. Gap-toothed, long tongue always hanging out the side of his mouth, an expression that just seemed to yell "Hi! I'm Dumb!" They named him Dumb Ass. The other one, though, was obviously something special. In a war, you wanted him on your side. In a breeding barn, you hoped he could breed just half as good as he looked. This was the genuine article. The manager tried to teach him how to mount an AI dummy. For some reason, the boar did not learn. Could it be that he smelled the man's fear? Did he just have an instinct about this guy? I don't know. I wasn't there. But I can tell you that, if a boar is not 100% comfortable in his surroundings, he's not breeding anything, sow or dummy. One day, in a fit of frustrated rage, the manager swung a metal gate rod at this PIC boar. Surprisingly, that didn't get the boar "in the mood."

Instead, the boar hit him with a tusk and peeled his leg wide open. If a fellow worker (Salvador) hadn't rescued that manager, he'd be dead now. If you ask me, it would have been no big loss. But anyway, the manager wound up with 100 stitches in his leg and proved that there was more than one dumb ass on the farm. He left the hog farming business, to be replaced by his assistant manager, Scott, who would hire me a few months later to run the AI Lab. The boar was promptly named Mean Ass. A few days later, Zulema collected Mean Ass' sperm in a Styrofoam cup. Even though she'd named him Mean Ass, she knew he was a big softie. Several months later, I collected Mean Ass' sperm in a Styrofoam cup. Neither of us used a metal gate rod. There was no job on the farm that Zulema couldn't do. Before my arrival, she handled the AI Lab. (No jokes, please.) After my first few unsuccessful collection attempts, she recommended I wear some of her Tatiana perfume, but I never got quite that desperate. She told me about the time that she tried to teach the other farmers how to collect boar semen. There she stood, surrounded by 15 guys and holding a huge penis in her hand. Things didn't quite work out as planned. But at least I was learning now. I'd been working at the farm for several months before I finally collected Dumb Ass' sperm in a Styrofoam cup. I was the only farmer to ever do it. Like Mean Ass, Dumb Ass gave me over 100 doses of sperm. Four hours later, all his sperm were dead. So much for my big plans. Those two damn near could've bred every sow on the farm if Dumb Ass hadn't been shooting blanks. I know what you're thinking. It's a vasectomy joke. It's all right. You can say it. Or better yet, I'll say it. "Dumb Ass was shooting blanks, just like me." Bye bye, Dumb Ass. We miss you. Our other PIC boar was named Hambone. I love his name. I love him. Much shorter than the Ass twins, but with even broader shoulders. He barely fit in the walkway. When I arrived at the farm, I wondered if Hambone had cracked any doorframes. He was a beautiful rust brown color. Something about his gentle face made me want to kiss him. Then his tusks made me reconsider. Hambone also had the smallest penis by far of any boar I've seen. In the next chapter, I'll tell you how Lisa broke it.

Chapter Eight Hambone and Friends I did more than just masturbate boars. I also squirted their sperm up into the ladies. I showed Lisa how to do that too. My partner in insemination was a Mexican named Martin. Every day, we made a game of it, where he could only speak English and I could only speak Spanish. Thus did we both learn. Later Martin would quit and I'd team up with a Honduran named Leonel. We did the same thing. I have an open invitation to come to his home in Honduras and meet his family. And, in his words, to stick them in the trunk of my car when I leave. He always claimed that his English was weak, but he spoke it better than half the rednecks in Burgaw. It was common for me to be in the barn, talking English with all my new amigos. But when one of these amigos had to speak to Scott, he demanded Zulema translate because No hablo Ingls. Then we'd all go out into the barn and laugh at Scott. Whatever.... Scott knew all along that they were pretending, but since it didn't bother him, it didn't bother me. I can't forget a boar named Cujo. I named him that because he foamed like a rabid dog. Boars are very competitive by nature, but on a farm we can't allow them to fight. In a boar fight, there is never more than one survivor. So on a farm, they foam. Smelly, territory-claiming stuff that gets everyone's testosterone going and makes them all breed better. Cujo was the foaming champ. When I first met Cujo, he hated me. Later, he thought of me as his closest friend, but was still a little nutty in a funny kind of way. He was striped black-white-black like an Oreo cookie. Can you say a boar is cute? I can. He had a cute smile in spite of his deadly tusks. I learned that, as a rule, the large boars tended to be teddy bears. The small ones, like Cujo, are quicker and meaner. That must be how they make up for being smaller. One of my big thrills was to learn a Spanish word from somewhere other than the farm, then use it on the farm. Cousin Clint taught me Chingow! It's a very rude thing to say to someone who has pissed you off. I believe Clint learned it from Cheech and Chong. So there I was with Cujo. I had just finished collecting him, and he did not want to return to his crate. He wanted to stay in the boar pen, resting beside his "woman." He looked like he wanted a cigarette. I told him to go into his crate, but he ignored me. In the distance, Salvador was medicating some sick sows. "He does not speak Ingls!" Salvador yelled, then laughed. "You must speak to him in Espanish!" (A mix of the words Espanol and Spanish, was it, amigo?)

I turned to Cujo. "Andele! Vaminose! Presto rpido! Pronto pronto! Andele andele!" Salvador laughed harder. "Pinche marano!" I added. (Damn boar.) Finally I threw my hands in the air and yelled "Chingow!" While Salvador laughed so hard that tears rolled down his face, I returned to the AI Lab. Fast forward to lunchtime. Salvador was telling the crew a funny story in Spanish. Here's roughly how it went, with me translating the words I understood: "Spanish, Spanish, Spanish, Spanish, Michael, Spanish, Spanish, Spanish, Spanish, boar, Spanish, Spanish, Spanish, Spanish, CHINGOW!" The crew roared with laughter. After lunch, Cujo stumbled lazily into his crate and fell asleep. Since I worked for Scott, and Lisa worked up the road for Ann, the two farms had a friendly rivalry going. The boys against the girls. We were better. When Farrowwood decided to go to an AI program, we all agreed that I'd train Lisa at Phillips Farm for a week. Mostly how to inseminate, but also how to collect, just in case. My buddy Leonel (Leo) referred to collection as collectare, but Rodolfo (Rudy) preferred to call it pierne (masturbation) and then laugh his head off. Rudy, by the way, is one of two people I've seen pick up a sow. Rudy is Mexican, born and raised in Texas, my height but built like a truck. The other fellow, James, worked at my fourth and final farm and was built like James Coffey from the movie The Green Mile. I suspect Daddy could pick up a sow, but he's got too much sense to try. A "spirette" is a rubber device shaped like a boar's penis. It has a hole in the back for inserting a bottle of semen, and a hole in the tip for inseminating the sow. If the sow is in heat, she provides the vacuum to draw out the semen. Otherwise, it's a waste of everybody's time. I always inseminated after collecting semen. That way, I had a certain air about me that drove the girls absolutely wild. Years later, I'd learn about their clitoris. Don't ask me why it took so long. They're bright pink and as big as the head of a toothbrush. But I was a slow learner. For one week, my insemination partner was Lisa. She watched me collect, then helped me inseminate. One day, she cut a bottle open funny and squirted herself in the mouth. I laughed so hard that I almost fell off my sow. That's right, I sat on them. I not only smelled like a boar, but I felt like a boar. Once I learned about clits, I was better than a boar. When we returned to the office, I told Scott that Lisa squirted herself in the mouth with boar semen.

"The breakfast of champions," he quipped. The farm had a solid black boar who I'd named Rascal, mainly for his mean-looking face. If I'd named him for his actions, I'd have used some profanity. Rascal's idea of foreplay was to make me run for dear life. Whenever I took him out of his crate, he chased me out of the boar pen. I waited for him to mount the dummy and start to extend. Then I climbed into the pen. He chased me out, then mounted his dummy again. Every time he chased me, he wasn't joking. His competitive nature didn't want me around when he was mating. How many times he chased me depended on his mood. On the day that Lisa watched, he was in a foul mood. Boars don't like strangers to be around when they're breeding. "You oughta cull his sorry fucking ass," she raged when I was finally done. "I wouldn't put up with that goddamn shit from that worthless fucking piece of shit." I told you that you'd hear profanity on a hog farm. "I'd love to," I replied, "But he's good for at least 70 doses every time." Remember, most boars give 30 to 40. On her last day there, we decided that Lisa should try to collect one boar. My first thought was Mean Ass, the gentle giant. But as you may recall, I needed both hands and every ounce of muscle I had. Lisa has tiny hands and short fingers. There was no way she could do it. Then I saw Hambone. I let him out of his crate and into the boar pen. Just to show Lisa how gentle he was, I hugged Hambone's neck and kissed his cheek. Away from his tusks, of course. "I'm not getting in there with that big thing." "Trust me. He's a big sweetie, and he's got a little tiny dick. Don't laugh at it." Lisa did fine. She only giggled at his tiny dick. However, Hambone ejaculated blood. He was enjoying himself, as always, but it was blood. I'd never seen anything like it before. Obviously, neither had Lisa. "What do I do?" "Just let him finish. I don't think we need to catch it in the cup, though." "No shit." Y'all think about this a minute. How many married couples kneel side by side and watch the wife masturbate a boar? How many husbands give their wives pointers? Once a boar starts ejaculating, a collector must always let him finish, through the sperm and the post-ejaculate stages. Otherwise, assuming he doesn't just get pissed off and kill you, he'll never let you collect him again.

Never let go until he withdraws. So we silently let Hambone shoot his blood. He returned to his crate contented. We were freaked out. "You didn't do that," was all I could say. "Something's wrong with him." Back at the office, Scott didn't know what it meant. I called Ann. She didn't know either, so I talked to her wife, Suzanne. Suzanne said it sounded like a kidney infection, and told me what medicine to try. She estimated a 25% chance of success. I instructed Salvador on the treatment. I've treated lots of boars, but never one of my own AI boars. There was always the chance that I would find myself kneeling beside him, vulnerable, when he remembered that I'd put a needle in his neck. So I never did that. Scott, naturally, made a joke out of it. "You broke my boar's dick. A damn quarter of a million dollar boar, and you come out here and break his dick. I'm suing your farm." Then he turned to me. "If I were you, Michael, I wouldn't let her touch your dick tonight." And we all know the punch lines, don't we? "She never touches it anyway." "His dick is already broken." After Hambone's treatment, I collected him again, onto the ground, once a week for the first few weeks. When the blood cleared up, I checked his sperm under the microscope. He'd made a full recovery. Two collections later, I put him back on active duty. Once every two weeks instead of once every week, as his doses had gone down, but otherwise he was just fine. I was happy for my big short-legged buddy. Boar semen smells bad. Very bad. Extremely bad. Do you know the bachelor's milk carton test? You get a carton of milk from the refrigerator, open it, and sniff. If the odor throws your head back less than two inches, you drink it. More than that, and you put it back in the refrigerator for the next poor sucker. Then you wonder why there's never any good milk in the refrigerator. If that milk carton contained boar semen, it'd look about the same but give you whiplash. Kids, please don't try this at home. Boar semen smells like musk, concentrated so much that the molecules might be breaking up in there. Then on top of that, a scent not unlike bacon and a subtle hint of lemons. When you get it on your hands, or other parts of your body, it doesn't wash out. Folk remedies include lemon juice, tomato juice, rubbing alcohol, drinking alcohol, and acetone. They do not work. Go to the Wal-Mart in Wallace on Sunday afternoon and you'll

recognize the hog breeders by their distinctive aroma. (If you hear them speaking Spanish, they are not talking about you. They're discussing prices, or perhaps the color of the clothing they're considering buying. If you visit a store in China, the Chinese are talking about you.) Go to a farm where a husband and a wife work together. Odds are that he'll be a breeder, making the babies. She'll work in farrowing, caring for the babies and their mothers. Funny how that always works out. Now ask the couple if he smells like a boar. As his lying lips begin to form the word "No," she will yell, "You goddamn right he stinks like a boar!" It happens every time. But now, the secret of my success. I held ejaculating penises and never went home smelling of boar. I would've known. Neither Lisa nor Daddy is known for their subtlety. My day began with boar collection. Then back in the lab, I mixed the sperm 50-50 with a bit of extender at the proper temperature to keep it alive. It had to sit that way for at least 30 minutes, and two hours wouldn't hurt it. Later in the day, I checked it with a microscope and some other lab equipment, and calculated how much more extender to add to ensure at least three billion live sperm per 70ml bottle. I did this second extending in gallon jugs. Later, at my leisure, I bottled and refrigerated the semen. After collection, I inseminated. Ideally, 45 minutes. The number of helpers I used depended on how many girls there were to inseminate. Now here comes the crucial stuff. Immediately after insemination, I put my spirettes in soak, using the special spermicide-free soap, and rubbed them around a bit. At the same time, I was washing my hands. Next step. Using all the fancy lab equipment, I determined just how many doses of sperm I had in those Styrofoam cups. Using the hot water bath and my thermometers to get the temperatures just right, I added more extender to the sperm. For God's sake, don't heat the sperm! Heat the extender! When all that was done, I went back to my spirettes. They were ready for the second wash, the rinse, and the cooker. I fired up the boiler and set my egg timer for 30 minutes. Next, I washed all the lab equipment that I messed up extending the semen and getting it into those gallon jugs. You should see the recurring theme by now. Within an hour of getting the smelly stuff on my hands, I spent another hour washing them in soapy water. How many other breeders can do this? Now comes the best part. While my spirettes were cooking, I didn't want to leave the lab. Every time someone does that, he forgets the spirettes, the water boils off, and the rubber melts. Scott and I didn't really care about the cost, because we weren't paying for them. But it was

embarrassing asking the farm owner for new ones, plus burning rubber will stink up the lab worse than any boar semen left lying around. This doesn't mean I stood over my spirettes like a mother hen. I started pouring the semen from the gallon jugs into the 70ml bottles. I didn't have to finish if I didn't feel like it. I just poured until my egg timer told me that my spirettes were disinfected. If I found myself pouring semen during lunch, I poured with one hand and ate a bologna sandwich with the other. The hand with the food, I guarantee you, never smelled like boar semen. And you thought I was just a dumb boar-jacking redneck with a busted dick... There was a point to the above story, besides simply amusing you or grossing you out. Speaking of gross-outs, every time I left hog farming to return to Eastern Instruments, coworkers insisted on being grossed out during lunch. When I ran out of semen stories, I simply went into tales of birth defects and disgusting bodily discharges. And once, a description of how to take a boar's temperature without breaking the thermometer in his butt -- my greatest fear -- or getting yourself killed. But anyway, I'm going to share my point with you now. I think I have one. Murphy Farms had a number of farms with AI programs. The farms had the same guidelines, but basically they all did their own thing. Murphy decided standardization was in order. They looked at the numbers, and here's what they saw. Every AI program was getting enough sperm from each boar to inseminate an average of 35 sows. When I took over our program, we were getting about 20. This displeased me. When I was done, we were averaging 60. When Mean Ass broke 100, I ran all my figures through a spreadsheet of my own creation and decided we could afford to put four billion sperm in each bottle instead of the standard three billion and still breed everybody. Do you see the problem? Everyone else, 35. Michael, 60. And my God, how can any boar give you over 100 doses? Was I screwing up or was I just plain cheating? If I were doing either of these things, we wouldn't have as many babies as we should. But we were leading the damn company in litter size, which was doubly impressive because our sows were so young. Thus, we had a mystery. Scott told me that, for one week, Jane Mitchell would be watching my every move. That didn't bother me, because I suspected I could put her to work. I never met an "observer" I couldn't get some production out of. Scott was upset, however, because he'd worked for Jane before she

got promoted half a dozen times, and he didn't like her looking over his shoulder again after all those years. "Relax," I told him. "Sit in the lab while I pour this semen and tell me another moonshine story." Scott loves moonshine. He was drinking it when he was "knee high to a grasshopper" just like everyone else in his family. But on this day, when he joined me in the lab, he didn't feel like telling me a story. So I told him this: "Daddy's daddy was a moonshiner and a ridge-runner in Roanne, up in the mountains, where they call it White Lightning. I've seen a photo of Granpappy, standing beside the car, with maybe 100 bottles. I'm still trying to forgive Daddy for not getting the damn recipe. "But anyway, I was 15, living down in Florida, when my cousin Clint came to visit. I'd just finished a day at school, and had to be at work in three hours to pull a double shift. My cousin had a bottle of moonshine. I'd never drank any before. "'Just take a little swallow,' he warned. 'It's mighty strong.' "So that's what I did. I was still buzzing when I went to work, and I was supposed to bus tables. I could just see myself, stumbling around and dropping dishes. But fortunately, the dishwasher had quit -- that happened every other week. So I found myself washing dishes for 16 hours, surrounded by hot steam, and I was buzzed the entire time. "'Was I moving slow?' I finally asked a waitress. 'No,' she replied, 'You were even faster than usual.' "So I finished my shift and rode my bicycle home, still feeling the moonshine 16 hours later because of all that steam. I wish I could get some more." Yes, that story sucks, but it's the only moonshine story I have. However, Scott started to relax. He told me this: "By the time I was 15, Michael, I'd drank a helluva lot more moonshine than that, I tell ya. We had it with supper ev'ry night, then had some more later on. My daddy went out and bought some moonshine for us one time, and the guy who brewed it told him, 'It's a real good batch, but it's still kinda green. You can drink it, but if you do, don't put the cap back in too tight.'" Scott oughta be a writer. He knows all about foreshadowing. "Well a'course we all decided to have a little of that new moonshine with our dinner. And a'course my daddy forgot what the man told him. So we were settin' thar, eatin', and somethin' from in the kitchen went BOOM! Then he remembered. We ran into the kitchen, and he opened the cabinet door, and we saw that the cap had blown right outta the bottle. The moonshine had blown outta the bottle and run all down, and everywhere it touched, it ate the paint off the walls. "Right then I said to myself, 'Scott, if it can do that to paint, what the

hell is it doing to my stomach?' That's when I quit drankin' it. Too late, though. You know that's why I got ulcers." Right after he said that, he cut loose with one of his wicked farts. There's another way to kill the smell of boar semen. "Yeah, sometimes the Zantac don't even work. 'Scuse me while I run to the toilet." Scott could stink up the toilet worse than any Mexican or Honduran. This isn't intended as a racist comment. But think about jalapenos and habaneros. They make your shit smell worse than any food I've ever eaten except kimche or collard greens, both of which I also love. But when it comes to stinking up a toilet, Scott is the all-time champ. Scott was feeling like himself again when Jane Mitchell showed up. She oversaw my every move in the lab, and they were all exactly right. Then I put her to work helping me inseminate. She was my partner for the entire week. As we inseminated together one day, I told her that I'd written a little something called The Chronicles Of A Lost Soul. She recommended that I write The Chronicles Of A Hog Farmer. Looks like that's what I'm doing now. "I still don't understand why you're getting so many more doses than everybody else," she said to me one day. I grinned. "It's all in the wrist." Jane had seen me do everything except collect a boar. Whenever she got near them, they refused to mount their dummies, or to extend if she approached after they'd mounted. She never approached during collection for fear of ruining that. Not even Mean Ass and Hambone would perform in her presence. My personal theory is simple. Those aforementioned guidelines are great. Ann wrote them. I followed them to the letter. I have an organized mind and I keep good records. That was the point of my story about the smell on my hands. It's a demonstration of my organized mind, something I never had before Eastern Instruments. The reason my boars gave so many doses is as simple as that. I did what was in the book and I used what brains I have. For the record, I couldn't do it again if I wanted to. My eyes have gotten so bad that I can't see through a microscope. But for whatever reason, the "legend" of Michael had been born. I thought Jane's visit was a good thing, but in Scott's mind the rift between us had begun. Without getting into the genetics, we bred all our Camborough sows with Line 15 boars. In AI, I only had one Line 15 boar, and that was Little Red.

Little Red was my baby. Half the size of my others, maybe 250 pounds. He could make you forget that boars are not puppy dogs. He talked to me daily -- gr-gr-gr -- and I petted his head. I collected him once a week and kissed his cheek when I was done. He was very prompt about returning to his crate. As I learned more Spanish, I began calling him Pocito Roho. It means Little Red. He liked that too, as did my Mexican and Honduran amigos. But as we bred more Camboroughs, I had to collect Little Red two and three times a week because his sperm lived two days; that's normal. When you collect a boar more than once a week, his numbers plummet, especially a youngster like Little Red. Having seen this problem, Jane sent me two Line 15 baby boars. 150 pounds each. Like all Line 15 boars, they were a gorgeous shade of brownish red. I'd never seen such a beautiful color on a hog before, and I haven't seen it since. Neither of these little guys had bred anything, natural or artificial. You remember what happened when that idiot with the gate rod tried to teach Mean Ass. I wasn't going to let this happen to me. So how does one teach a boar how to breed? With a female, I believe instinct covers it. But with an AI dummy, I didn't know. In fact, I still don't. The smart, lovable baby had a skinny body and a cyst on his face, so I started calling him Ugly. It was a term of endearment. The other baby was gorgeous, but he quickly earned the name Stupid. So every morning, I worked with Ugly and Stupid. Ugly was no problem. I let him watch natural breeds. I let him sleep with AI dummies. I let him stand in the pen beside me while I collected Mean Ass and Hambone. That could've affected my collection efforts -- boars usually try to fight when they're that close together -- but I knew I could trust my gentle giants. What finally worked? After collecting one of these guys, I hopped in the pen with Ugly and mounted the dummy myself. I looked at him and said, "Do like this, do like this!" Then I laughed, but after I got off, he got on. I'm avoiding a very obvious pun here. I collected a virgin, y'all. His expression was priceless. Eyes closed, huge grin, drooling mouth, and an overall effect of communicating utter shock. He loves me forever. I could have probably taken him home. And to think, he probably went through a long happy life without ever breeding a female. Stupid was another story. He was too stupid. Whenever I moved a boar, I used a board. Stupid insisted on attacking it, probably because it smelled like boar, and beating the hell out of me. Once I'd moved him into the pen with the AI dummy, there was no way he was going to mount it. It was an exercise in frustration for both of us. I finally gave Stupid to Miguel. Miguel was in charge of the natural

breeding section of the barn, meaning the entire breeding department except me. I was my own department. Technically I was supposed to supervise Miguel, but he didn't need it. If anything, he should have been training me. He got his job because he spoke more English than any other breeder. The farm got lucky with him, because he's a natural with animals. He's also a born leader, exotically handsome, well spoken with a deep baritone voice. Stupid eventually learned to breed the Camborough gilts quite well, but he never lost the name of Stupid. And with that, I left Phillips Farm. I worked with Scott for nine months. The first seven months were excellent. The last two were pure hell. Why? Because he quit taking his medication. Scott has some sort of disorder. He never shared the details with me. But his medication prevented him from having erections, so he stopped taking it and went to hell. I had to leave. Scott hired Suzanne, who was no longer living or working with Ann. Suzanne had far more experience than I did. I don't blame him a bit, and I bet you Suzanne and I would've been one hell of a team. I could've learned a lot from her. But there I was, assistant manager and AI guru, with my manager trying to drive me out because he just wasn't himself. How did I react? Stubbornly. Scott wouldn't talk to me like a man, I decided, so fuck him. I waited him out. Two months later, he gave up the fight. Then, and only then, did I call Millie at Eastern Instruments and ask for my old job back. With a raise. Yes, I was still an arrogant bastard. Amazingly, she agreed. I left Phillips Farm a week later. The AI lab closed after that. The farm started buying boar semen elsewhere. I could go on, but I'd bore you. If I haven't already. Maybe five years later, Scott would call me. He'd just bought a new computer and wanted me to teach him how to use it. He'd pay me well for my trouble. He'd tell me about how he'd had 90% blockage in one carotid artery and 95+% in the other, and about the emergency surgery. This after being totally blind 30 minutes out of every day for months. Damn proud idiot redneck, same as men. I don't know why it took him so long to see a doctor. I'm just glad he got it fixed, and that he survived. "That blockage runs in your family," the doctor told him. "You'll probably be back in five or ten years." "Can't you just put a zipper in my neck so it'll be easier the next time?" Scott replied. I love Scott.

As Ann would say, 'I shit you not.' I eventually went on to work on two other farms as a natural breeder, then one more as an inseminator and babysitter. Why, you may wonder, is such a thing as a natural breeder necessary? Don't the boars do that themselves? I'll go into specifics later, but generally speaking: (1) Somebody's got to move the animals around so that the boars can get to the sows. (2) The boars can't hit the holes by themselves I'll also tell you how I delivered my first baby pig.

Chapter Nine The Chronicles of a Hog Farmer When I returned to Eastern Instruments, I took a weekend job at Farrowwood Farm. This was where Lisa worked. Ann had left to start Cornerstone Farm as a partial owner. Farrowwood had done all natural breedings, which I had never done. They were changing so that the first breeding was natural and the follow-ups were artificial, so I became the resident insemination specialist. I did not collect boars there, because they bought boar semen from a boar stud farm. While I was there, I learned how natural breeding works, which also figures into the Cornerstone story. As you may or may not recall, I had previously worked at Farrowwood for three days. I spent those three days in the farrowing house. My partner was Barbara. She was in her 60s, rail-thin, with the tan skin of a lifelong tobacco chewer. Most of the crew arrived at work at 7 a.m. The one exception was Barbara. She usually showed up before 6, fed her sows, washed the laundry, etc. On Fridays, she arrived at 5, if not earlier, with the rest of the crew to help move the nursery pigs, which weighed 40 pounds or so, into the truck. One Friday morning, Barbara was driving her Volkswagen Beetle to the farm when it stopped. So she pushed it up the hill, gave it a big shove, jumped in, and started it again while it rolled. She was still the first one to arrive at the farm, able to wash a load of laundry before the rest of the crew arrived for the 5:00 festivities. In short, Barbara was tough. I've never had that much energy and she's almost twice my age. For those three days long ago, I worked with Barbara. The two of us did the work of three people, and finished just after lunch. Speaking of which, every day someone had to go out into the barn and find Barbara and drag her into the break room for lunch. If it had been up to her, she wouldn't have stopped working until the job was done. So there I was, back on the farm after being gone about a year. One day Barbara approached me with a problem. Unthinkable, in my opinion. Barbara didn't have problems. Barbara knew that one of her sows had a stuck pig. This is bad. If a pig gets stuck in the birth canal, that pig and every one behind it will die from lack of oxygen. The sow often dies as well. It's not a pretty sight. Barbara had reached inside the sow's vagina as far as she could, but couldn't get the stuck pig. So she'd come to me, as my arms are longer than hers but still thin enough to do the job. What Barbara didn't realize is that I'd never "pulled" a sow in my life. I agreed to try, however. As we walked to the farrowing house, I tried to remember. Scott had told me of the one and only way to successfully pull a

sow. One must grab the baby's mouth a certain way and turn one's hand a certain way or else hand, plus baby, will not fit. I arrived at the sow and lubricated my arm with blue disinfectant goop, way up past my elbow. I reached up inside the old gal, right up to my shoulder, and strained. I felt a piglet's head! Keep in mind that we're not veterinarians. We just jump in and do stuff. So anyway, I felt a head. I slipped my thumb into baby's mouth, cupped my hand the way I thought Scott had told me in passing conversation so long ago, and pulled. Guess what happened? I pulled out that baby. She was a big one, too. I wiped the mucous and stuff off her face, gave her a little kiss on the nose, showed her to the sow, and put her by the best teat. Later, more babies would follow. Baby was happy. Mamma was happy. Michael was happy. Hell, Michael was ecstatic. I delivered a baby! The miracle of childbirth. Hard for a crusty, cynical, old busted-dick redneck to admit, but damn it's something. I can't describe it, but it was one hell of a feeling. I'll never forget it. "Thank you," Barbara drawled. "I tried and I tried and I just couldn't reach it." "Barbara," I finally said, "Did you know that I've never done that before?" "No," she replied simply, then walked away to sweep a floor or something. Did you know that hogs can't have sex by themselves? The boars are so uncoordinated that they can't hit the target. Ladies, you can just write your own punch lines. So, let me tell you how I got paid to plug boar penises into sow vaginas. Eastern Instruments is quite rare and wonderful in that, every year, all employees take off for the weeks of Christmas and New Year's Day, with pay. How did I spend my vacation? Working for Ann on a hog farm. She owned a share, and she desperately wanted me to come work for her. When the vacation was done, I worked a two-week notice at Eastern Instruments and returned to Cornerstone Farm. I was needed at Cornerstone. I was not needed at Eastern, because the marketing firm had done such a lousy job of selling the new products. The pay was the same, a definite consideration in America. But more importantly, I enjoyed the work at Cornerstone and felt needed, physically

exhausting though it was. A dear friend asked me to help her, and I'm not the type to refuse. I trained my replacement at Eastern, then went to Cornerstone. Despite what followed, I don't regret it. And, if I may be so bold, Mom would have been proud. That's the kind of thing I tend to only think of in retrospect now. Mom was, and is, my inspiration. She died too damn young, yes. But she followed her heart. Always. I learned that from her. I don't know that it was her intention, but that's what happened. And she'd have been proud. I know that. It also occurs to me that when I was born, she was only 26 and, as far back as I can remember, she knew everything. But now I'm past 40 and still ignorant as hell. I think parents fake it. Natural breeding in hogs is not at all like artificial insemination. But it's still impossible without human intervention. In the wild, getting animals to mate isn't a problem. But on the farms, everything's changed. It's all man-made, which means screwed up. The boars and sows have been selectively bred for desirable traits such as large litters, maternal instincts, and low body fat. The health of their feet was never a concern. Nor was coordination. The floors are concrete, slick with urine and feces. Thus, boars were constantly slipping and sliding as they tried to insert their penises (penii?) into the sow's swollen, red, wet, anxious vaginas. The sows were buckling under the weight. My job, therefore, was to grab that penis and plug it in. If necessary, I held the girls up with my knees. Isn't it amazing what they'll pay someone to do in North Carolina? Before I became a breeding barn manager, I don't know what the record was for the largest litter. Nor do I care, because Cornerstone blew it out of the water. A sow has two uteruses. In the wild, she can probably have 10 or 12 babies on a good day, given the extreme fertility of the boar versus the unlikelihood of mating at just the right moment. On a farm, we're quite proud of 16. Given the obsession with statistics on such an industrial operation, folks get quite thrilled if the sows can average 12.376851. I ran the breeding barn at Cornerstone Farm. Ann, my boss, let me run the show. Damn generous of her, considering that she was six months from a biology degree before circumstances forced her to drop out of college, and that she had over 10 years of hog farming experience. All I knew was what she'd taught me. And yet, I was in charge of her breeding barn. The manual stated that a farm our size should have had 13 employees. We had seven. In six months, we went from worst in the company to fourth. Why? Because we all but killed ourselves. We worked 12 days out of 14, and if a single day was 12 hours we called it a short one. I ate like a horse and shrank from 175 pounds down to 145 in those six

months. Ann and her wife Teresa, both my age (35), ignored chronic back problems that will haunt them to their graves. Their work habits regularly put me to shame. Rob, my capable assistant, worked like a dog. I'd have been lost without him. He was a biker who tried to join the Marines, but they rejected him because he didn't finish high school. His commentary on that? "I didn't think you needed an education just to go shoot people." Mr. Will, my other assistant, regularly forgot that he was over 50 and kept up with Rob and me every day he was there. He was running the show before my arrival, but graciously stepped aside based on my experience and Ann's trust. I don't think I let him down. Lisa also worked at Cornerstone, in the farrowing department. She was born with congenitally bad hips and had one replaced when she was young. She still limps because of the other one. Shoulders that pop out of joint, overweight due to her brush with death, etc. Even so, she ran circles around muscular 20-year-old testosterone-charged males. Jamie started his career working in farrowing but later joined my team in breeding. He was the most muscular hundred-pound breeder who ever lived, and he did everything he could to make us all forget that he was, in the end, only 100 pounds. Honestly, he weighed less than that. But anyway, forget all those damn numbers of 10 and 12 and 15 pigs per litter. One day, one of Rob's sows had 18 babies. The next day, one of Ann's had 19. Then one of Rob's had 20. Then one of Ann's had 22. Then one of Rob's had 25, Ann's 26, Rob's 28. Finally, one of my sows -- excuse me for bragging -- had 33 babies. Sixteen from one uterus and 17 from the other, I presume. That had to hurt. Twenty-nine survived. The typical sow has 12 teats, if you're lucky. Baby pigs quickly establish a "pecking order" where each piglet has his or her own designated teat. These little critters ignored every instinct and took turns feeding. The farrowing crew entered the barn the next morning, saw this sow surrounded by 29 healthy pigs, and freaked out. Then they found two more mothers to help feed those babies. Can you guess what I loved most about this farm? The part I'd gone into the job fearing most. The boars. We all remember Mean Ass, Hambone, Cujo, Dumb Ass, Rascal, Big Gulp, Little Red, Ugly and Stupid. But now I had a whole new crew of boars, all with their own names and personalities. Naturally, they were more aggressive than AI boars, and I remembered the nasty boys of Farrowwood Farms. I never had any problems with those Farrowwood boars, but still, they were nasty. I hadn't forgotten. A fellow author who read about Phillips Farm told me that the boars

seemed more like "real people" than the people. Quite right. It felt the same to me too, at all four farms. Here's a typical day in my life at Cornerstone, as closely as I can remember it. We fed the sows and the boars at 7 a.m. We bred sows until noon or so, then took a lunch break. I tried to never take lunch until all the breeding was done, even if that meant waiting until 2. My crew understood the reasons, and I was always working right beside them. After lunch, we did "extras" like moving sows or playing veterinarian or cleaning the place up until exhaustion overtook us. Then we fed the sows again and went home. I also had Cisco the horse waiting at home, but I was neglecting him. Thus, I had to sell him. Y'all remember what I said about my vasectomy, how if I couldn't raise a kid properly I wouldn't have one at all? The same applies to all animals. Breeding works like this. Every non-pregnant girl in my barn had to be "run" with a boar, as did all the girls who'd been bred the day before. This means they were put in a pen together. An ideal boar tries to breed every girl he is run with. Some get lazy in this respect, though. If the sow allows the boar to mount her, she is in heat. The breeder assists as needed. If the boar falls off, the breeder does it all again. When the breeding is finished, the breeder does lots of paperwork. A different boar is usually used for the second breed because competition among sperm from different boars somehow leads to more babies. Does that make sense? Not to me, but it's been established in numerous laboratory studies, as well as on the farms. Back as an AI guru, I'd had success mixing the sperm from several boars in the same 70ml bottle. Here's an understandable complication with natural breeding. To run a sow with a boar, one must back her out of a crate and into a boar pen. A sow who is not in heat doesn't want to go out there. A sow who is in heat doesn't want to move at all; she just wants to stand still because she smells boar. Thus, the breeder finds himself struggling with pretty much every girl he needs to run. One cannot forcibly push a sow from her crate. She's stronger. But what he can do is push against her, in a stalemate, until she gets tired and backs away. A breeder always wins the endurance battle, until he kills his knees fighting every non-pregnant sow in the barn every day. As the day progresses, his own exhaustion and frustration become his greatest enemies. A boar is, or should be, a breeder's partner. Whenever a boar sees a breeder, he can be pretty sure that he's either going to get fed or get laid. So he should like breeders. They should be best buddies. When I arrived at Cornerstone, the first boar I met was Squiggly. I followed Mr. Will into the barn, and he yelled out "Hey Squiggly!"

One boar, and only one, raised his head and grunted in response. He was a fairly good distance away, and he was still grunting when we arrived at his pen. He was white, muscular, confident, lethal... and cute. I can't explain it, but some boars have cute faces. Squiggly was one of them. Mr. Will told me that Squiggly was his hardest-working boar. One of the youngest, too. I would later learn that Mr. Will didn't move Squiggly the way one is supposed to move boars. Mr. Will just opened some gates and said "C'mon Squiggly" and Squiggly followed him like a dog. But only Mr. Will could do that with Squiggly. I saw a young boar nearby, same age and build as Squiggly, but with an upturned nose and a larger chest. He reminded me of the Tasmanian Devil cartoon, so I named him Taz. For a long time he was my best boar. All boars learn their names. I could easily walk into a barn and yell for anyone, not just Squiggly, and the appropriate boar would call back. If I looked at a boar and called him the wrong name, his confused expression would tell me as much. Unless he was a total loser, such as the big old boar I dubbed Roadblock. When I tried to move him, he stood there. When I ran a sow with him, he stood there. If perchance he bred something -- and damn, he was the most uncoordinated fellow I've ever seen -- he simply stood there when he was done. Moving him always took much longer than the matings themselves. How do you move a boar who won't move? Yell at him. Remember what I said about profanity on hog farms. Anything else is unsafe. And if he won't respond? Rob often left the barn and threw things before his temper got the better of him. Rob was a very wise man. We stressed safety. For example, never hit or kick a boar. Even if you get away with it at the time, he will remember, and he will retaliate. It could be the next day. It could be the next week. It could be the next month. It may not be against the same breeder who hit him, though it usually is, so hitting a boar also endangers your coworkers. Plus, it's just not nice to hit an animal, ever. Which brings us to Coconut. I named him that for the obvious reason, the size of his testicles. In fact, I could have just as easily have named him Watermelon. Coconut was an old, large, hard-working boar. However, we had a lot of employees come and go, as we tried to supplement our half-sized crew. Whenever we hired a new person, by lunchtime we'd be sitting at the table and Rob would say, "He ain't gonna work out." That was always my first impression of said person as well, but I'd try like hell to ignore it because we desperately needed the help. But before the week was up, I'd end up firing the new guy for being lazy or for hitting the boars, usually both. Rob was never wrong. One day, Coconut attacked Ann. I know for a fact that he was

retaliating for some other breeder's mistake, because Ann is the last person who would hit a boar. But it quickly became obvious that Coconut had to go. Sorry, old buddy. The cull truck came every few weeks and took away the undesirables. These were sows who had bad feet, respiratory ailments, uteruses falling out, or were simply too old to reproduce. I've seen some ugly stuff, y'all. These were also boars with bad feet, no libido, or low fertility. These were also the rare boars who had simply become too violent, such as Coconut. These hogs became sausage. I'd like to find the breeder who abused Coconut and turn him into sausage. Moving sows onto a cull truck is fairly easy. You just move 'em in a big bunch, hoopin' and hollerin' behind 'em. Rawhide! Yee-haa! Boars have to be moved one at a time, and penned up separately inside the truck, or else they will fight to the death. Every day, I stressed this to my breeders. Don't put boars together. If by some accident they get together, don't break them up or they will kill you. If they don't kill you, they'll give you several hundred stitches, which is certainly no picnic either. We had two new guys helping us move the boars onto the cull truck. Four boars were leaving us that day. Guy Number One moved a boar to the cull truck. Guy Number Two thought that Guy Number One was done, and started moving Coconut. Boar Number One got past Guy Number One and doubled back toward Coconut. In an act of incredible stupidity, I flew through the barn, wielding a board, and leaped between the two boars and broke up the fight. Rob quickly caught Coconut in a pen, and I finished moving Boar Number One onto the cull truck. Later, I sat in the break room and, still shivering, told my workers to never let me do that again. All breeders had their favorite boars. Mr. Will had Squiggly. Rob, a biker, had Harley. He was looking for another favorite, already planning to name him Davidson. My favorites were Taz, Weasel and Double Barrel. Weasel was long and skinny with a narrow weaselly face. I fed him more than the normal amount, but he simply refused to gain any weight. When Ann first saw him, she said, "You need to cull that one. He looks like death eating a soda cracker." I didn't want to cull Weasel. He acted quite healthy and worked harder than anyone I had. So as an experiment, I let him do both breeds on several sows. They all had large litters, thus he was fertile, and thus he could stay. Remember the sow who had 33 babies? Her first breeding came from Weasel. Her second breeding came from my champion, Double Barrel. If a boar runs too many girls who aren't in heat, he either loses interest in running them or he's too dang tired to breed when he finds one who is interested. Only with a special boar would I try a third girl in the

same day. I was still a new breeder, working with a rather large boar who knew exactly what he was supposed to do, to the extent that I ran him with four different sows. The fourth one was in heat. I'd have felt quite guilty if she wasn't. This boar mounted her and inserted himself, without my help, confirming my opinion that he was special. Yes, I decided right then, I will give him a name today. He's earned it. For a breed to be considered "good," the boar should ejaculate for three to five minutes. When he is ejaculating, his anus twitches. This particular boar ejaculated for ten minutes. Now, I was even more impressed. When he was done, he got down, took a drink of water, and mounted her again. Once more he inserted himself, and ejaculated for five more minutes. Again, ladies, insert your own punch lines. I took down his boar card and wrote on it Double Barrel. He bred the same way, every time, every day that I worked on that farm. He also liked homemade fudge. Boars are not pets, nor are they the enemy. They are coworkers. And yet, I fed Double Barrel fudge. But you tell me. Wouldn't you? In the farrowing house, a little piglet managed to slip under the steel mesh floor. Down below is where all the urine and feces wind up, to be flushed out with water every so often. Someone from farrowing came to breeding, needing the guys to go down and catch the piglet. The area in question was long, wide, dark, and about three feet high. The muck-coated piglet was running and having fun. We breeders, meanwhile, barely had room to move, much less pursue. The phrase "catching a greased pig" comes to mind. It's even harder than it looks on TV. Rob finally succeeded. Only on a hog farm. There were more smelly, dripping breeders than there were showers. At least the ladies from farrowing were kind enough to clean the break room when we were done. Why did I leave Cornerstone? Well, as I said, we rose from worst to fourth with half a crew. Three crippled ladies, an older fellow, a biker, an undersized young fellow, and me. The owner, a lifelong dairy farmer who knew nothing about pigs, approached us after we'd achieved all that and decided he knew more about

hogs than our managers. This was because the managers were women, and gay, both of which offended his old Southern prejudices. This owner's name is Herbert Swain. He's a piece of shit. The farm is or was located in Bolton, North Carolina, just in case you want to drop by and remind him what I think of him. Ann and Teresa gave their notices one day, and that evening Millie asked me to come back to Eastern Instruments. The timing was pure coincidence. "You know I'm an atheist," I told Ann, who is a Christian. "But even so, it seems like a sign." I decided it was time to leave the business permanently. My knees hurt, my back hurt, and there was no reason to do that to myself any more. Later, I learned that Herbert Swain was dumping hog shit into Lake Waccamaw. I used to swim in that lake when I was a little boy, and you could see the bottom back then. I used this to run him out of the hog farming business. For blowing the whistle, my name was blacklisted on every hog farm in North Carolina. This didn't bother me one damn bit. When a hurricane destroyed some lagoons -- the word should be cesspools -- full of hog waste, this made major headlines. Swain had the gall to pump his farm's wastes into Lake Waccamaw, then call out a reporter to show her what an environmentally friendly farm we had at Cornerstone. The only good thing I can say about Swain is that one day he'll be dead. Had I failed to close Cornerstone on environmental concerns, I would have called in the NAACP. He was hiring uneducated old black tobacco farmers at minimum wage, then deducting half their salaries to board them in trailers without electricity. He had a lot of old Southern prejudices. He wasn't the only hog farmer destroying the environment, but he was the one I could stop. North Carolina was a beautiful place when I grew up there, but all those farms are destroying it. I hope someone will stop them. Later, I would end up working with Ann yet again, so you can insert your own Brett Favre joke here. So much for my resolution to leave the business.

Chapter Ten Engineers, Hogs, Amigos and Chopsticks In this, my fourth and final "tour of duty" at Eastern Instruments, I was on salary. I was still Millie's assistant, but I spent most of my time working in sales. The engineers have always been brilliant, led by good ole Bob. Now they've finally got an excellent in-house sales department, and more work than they can keep up with. Given the nature of their latest product, this will always be the case. I'm happy for Millie, Bob, and the whole team I belonged to. When I returned to Eastern, I took on a weekend job doing inventories at grocery and department stores. As Eastern got busier, I ran low on time and energy, so I quit the second job, resolving to never work a second job again. We all know what happens when I say "Never again." Ann called me a few days later. She only wanted me to work alternate weekends in the nursery and finishing houses, yet another new area of the farm for me. No breeding, she promised, since her farm didn't do natural breeding. Ann doesn't break promises. This farm used only AI, with a few boars acting as heat checkers. All the farm's semen was supplied by a boar stud farm. Half-days on alternate weekends, she repeated. That's all she needed, so she could have those weekends off. She was well staffed otherwise. Her crew was made of fantastic but inexperienced workers, so she'd worked over two months without a day off. Damn. She was trusting me with her job. She was hiring me for my mind this time, which was good because my body was all but shot to hell. It has healed since then. Every time I complain about physical injuries, I feel guilty. I've left the hogs and gone back three times now. Ann's been at it for over 15 years, as has Teresa, and I know what it's done to their health. They're both my age. They are by no means the only ones in the business to sustain that kind of damage. But the fact is, I felt too old for it. Ann's management style resembles Millie's in that she genuinely cares about her people. Ann's knowledge of hogs is unparalleled. She loves to work at a company's worst farm and improve it until it's the best. She had already done that at this particular farm. I could still fit half-days on alternate weekends into my schedule. I had to work at Eastern during business hours, because part of my job was answering the phone. When I worked my overtime, uninterrupted by the phone and getting something accomplished, was up to me. At this stage of the game, Lisa and I had decided to separate but hadn't actually done it yet. I was all but living in the office anyway. I saw no reason that I couldn't work at the farm during the day on

alternate weekends, then spend the nights at Eastern with two dogs and a six-pack. A couple of engineers claim to have found dog crap near a trashcan, but I don't believe them. Uh oh. Millie didn't know about the dogs and the beer. But since she's reading this book, she knows about them now. Millie, it was just a joke! Once more I stepped out onto the slippery slope and dragged my crusty old body out of hog-farm retirement. When a piglet reaches ten pounds, he's weaned from his mother and moved to the nursery. When he reaches 40 pounds, he leaves the nursery and goes to the finishing house. When he gets rather large, maybe 120 pounds, someone eats him. Oh, here's an actual quote I heard in North Carolina. "I don't know why we need all these hog farms. Whenever I want some pork chops, I just go to the grocery store." The person who said this worked in the hog industry, and she was being completely serious. She also believes the South Pole is the hottest place on Earth. I'm not making this up. Ann's latest farm had a number but no name. My job there was to make sure all the young pigs had food and water, and that their rooms were adjusted to the proper temperatures and humidities. If they were shorthanded in farrowing, I helped feed the sows. That was it! Then, if I was in the mood, I could go sit in a pen in the nursery or finishing barn and let the pigs beat me up. I was always in the mood. They do something in these barns called sizing. For example, if you see a pen full of 20-pound pigs with one 10-pound pig, move that little guy to a place where he can get to the food. They don't do it on weekends, which was good for me. I had never been any good at it, and after my third retirement I was even worse. One weekend I counted how many pigs were on the entire farm. Sows, boars, newborn babies, nursery pigs, finishing house pigs. Perhaps this was the ultimate act of trust from Ann. We both knew it would be either her or me who counted them, and for some strange reason she thought I would do a better job. I counted over 17,000 pigs, if I remember correctly. We were one of the smaller operations. Counting running pigs is not easy. I ran into a few problems -- broken equipment and no repair available -- and took my best guess on how to keep the pigs alive. Somehow I was always right. Ann's crew was mostly Mexican, mostly unable to speak English. She's fluent in Spanish. I'd forgotten everything. Her breeding manager, Iguel, became my best amigo in the world. Ann arranged that in typically devious

fashion, by letting him know that I ran her breeding barn at Cornerstone. Iguel is a gifted breeder and an incredible worker. He's very proud of what he does, and rightfully so. He's also quite competitive. When he heard that I used to do his job, he had to find out how good I was. Ann called me one weekend to tell me that she had someone working in the nursery and the finishing houses, but that there were a lot of breedings to be done. Iguel, it seemed, really needed some insemination help. See how the slippery slope works? The spirettes and the bottles had changed since my day, not to mention that I hadn't inseminated in five years. At first I carried stuff and watched Iguel. I never could figure out the paperwork -- he had to do it all -- but otherwise things came back to me. I also learned a few things from Iguel that I just plain didn't know. Before the shift was over, though, I began to teach. I always started by rubbing the sow up and down her sides while resting my weight on her back. If she was in or near heat, she liked that. You could call it foreplay. Then I sat on her, facing her back. An inspiration came to me... play with her clitoris. Quit laughing. I was at least 24 before I ever heard the word, and 27 before I ever saw one. I'm not joking. And oh, did the sow love that. After I'd worked a day with Iguel, Ann told me that he had always refused to speak English. She'd tried to explain to him that if he wanted to be promoted, the company had to know that he spoke English, but he didn't care. Iguel used plenty of English when we worked together, starting on that first day. Soon he was speaking it to everyone who understood it. He was promoted into management years ago, where he's still doing quite well. I'm glad I could help. The last time I worked with Iguel, he asked me three questions: "When are you going to Hong Kong?" "Next week." "Is this your last day?" "Yes." "Are you selling your truck?" "No, I might come back." I wish I'd known I'd be staying in China. I really would have sold the truck to Iguel, or perhaps even given it to him. As it turned out, I gave it to someone else. It seemed like everyone wanted that truck. (I'm resisting the urge to tell you the story behind that old truck. It belonged to Jay Silverheels.) My last day on the farm was memorable. I'd spent my months working

at the slow, steady, knowledgeable pace of an elder statesman in the business. Ann never hesitated to tell everyone that I knew more than anyone on the farm except her. They tapped my brains regularly, which is why I was there. Ann kept telling them that I was more intelligent than she was, but fortunately they didn't believe her. I don't. My last day turned out to be a horrible day for several reasons. Once in a while you have one of those days where, no matter how well you plan, it's just one disaster after another. Once in a blue moon, that day falls on a weekend. There were a lot of hogs to move. Farms try to never move hogs on weekends, since they only have half a crew; sometimes the unexpected happens during the week and there's no choice. After we plowed through all the other disasters, we still had a lot of sows to move, in several areas of the farm. It was afternoon already, the time when we should have been at home. I knew how I felt, and I could see the same feeling in the eyes of my crew. At the rate we were going, already exhausted and trying to move hundreds of hogs, it would be hours before we finished. I had a Cornerstone flashback, and something in this old boy just snapped. I showed these guys how I used to do things. Before this farm, my hands-on style of management had always involved doing anything and everything faster and better than my crew. I was an endless wellspring of energy in those days. Ten feet tall and bulletproof, as they say. That part of me came out on this final afternoon. I was running from department to department like a hyperactive maniac, helping everybody and blowing their minds. They'd never seen a farmer move like that. They drew on my energy, and on those crazy jokes I was cracking. It takes years to learn how to move an extremely stubborn sow without stressing her. Stress kills babies, plus it's stressful. That's why they call it stress. I gave the guys a lesson in how to sweet-talk a stubborn girl into moving quickly out of the way, and how to make her think it was her idea. Forty minutes later, our three-hour job was done. I showered out, said adios, and rode off into the sunset as a conquering hero one last time. After I'd gone, everyone told Ann what I'd done. They'd never seen anything like it. Nor, I suspect, will they ever see it again. Certainly not from me. I paid for it the next day. So much pain. I am not 20-something anymore, and I have no business leaping over pens and running like my butt was on fire. But you know, I wouldn't trade the feeling for anything. This old boy's still got what it takes after all. I remain retired, but I hear Brett Favre's still slinging the pigskin.

Chapter Eleven How Red Is My Neck? In December 1999, I got myself a shiny new divorce! I think we've established all the groundwork. I had the American Dream, right? A home, a wife, a car and a big pick-up truck. Dogs, cats, horses. No kids, though. I think all American Dreams are supposed to have kids in them. 2.4, I seem to recall. But I think we should revise that dream. Nothing screws up a good divorce like a house full of kids. Lisa always said she hated North Carolina. Looking back now, I think she was just lonesome. Her family was in Florida, and she missed them. We worked well as a team. Looking back, I say we should have never gotten married, but it lasted as long as it did because we were friends through most of it. But beyond the compromises and other work that go into marriages, we were "two different people." Simple as that. Hardly worth writing about. I'm a writer, some introspective nut living inside himself. When I wasn't at work, what did I want to do for fun? Brew my own beer. Get drunk. Hang out at the house writing or reading. Do yard work or build something. What did Lisa want to do? Go out for dinner and a movie. Go to Disney World. Ride horses. Get away from herself as much as possible. Watha had my family and the quiet countryside. Tampa had the big city, her family, and a way to make a career out of riding horses. In her mind, training horses was the one thing she did well. After enough time together, we figured this all out and ended it. I stayed in North Carolina and Lisa went back home to Florida. Here's a story from the first hurricane. Bonnie, I think. I confuse Bonnie and Bertha. Fran came the same year as one of those two, then the other came the following year, then Dennis and Floyd came two years later. But anyway, this was Wilmington's first hurricane in many years. Nobody knew what the heck to do. They've since learned, of course. Basically, the power crews in my neck of the woods waited for help from the other states. Earl Wells, owner of Wells Pork Products, was feeding all the repair crews. One day he said: "Y'know, boys, my generator's 'bout to give out. If that happens, all the meat in my freezer'll go bad, and I won't be able to feed y'all no more." Earl Wells had power that evening. Burgaw Hospital had to wait until the next day. My house happened to have been on the same power line as Earl Wells. The same thing happened every hurricane.

 Lisa and I separated in September, and she returned to Florida. She got custody of the cats, the horses, the car, and all the furniture I could stuff into a big fat U-Haul truck. She went home to her family. I think she's happy now. I hope she is. I kept the dogs and the truck. I donated most of the remaining furniture to Daddy and his renters. No houses were damaged, but they'd lost all their belongings in Hurricane Floyd. The rains had been that bad. I kept a bed and a computer desk for myself. I kept a couch for Daisy and Bebe. I sold the house. I paid the bills. I sent Lisa half of what was left. Then my dogs and I moved into an apartment in Wilmington, right up the road from Eastern Instruments, to start a new life. Moving the couch that I'd kept for Daisy and Bebe was a big pain, as it was heavy and massive. I rolled it end over end. So now, I had money. I had a fantastic job. I had the love of two beautiful women, Daisy and Bebe. Now, at long last, I could pursue the real American Dream, which is to get all that great stuff and find the right person to share it with. Right? Right? Wrong! I quit both jobs and gave everything away, even the dogs and the truck, and moved to Hong Kong. I was still living in Watha when I made friends with an Australian lady, through the Internet, who lived in Hong Kong. It began when she visited my first website, which was dedicated to my dogs and cats. She was reminded of a number of pets she used to own, so our correspondence began with animal stories. I'm an author. She's an English teacher, poet and painter. Conversation drifted into those topics, and she did some proofreading for me. We both needed someone to talk to back then. I was an introspective loner and workaholic, and she lived in a country where English-speakers are hard to find. We poured our hearts out to each other, about anything and everything. In my mind, the safest friend of all. I could tell her anything, and if she didn't like it she'd simply stop writing. No risks, no major fear of rejection. I had no secrets, and now I know that she didn't either. My friend and I began writing in June. Lisa and I decided to divorce in July, and this honestly had nothing to do with my "Internet friend." Lisa doesn't know about her, of course. No need to give her the wrong idea. In September, my friend and I decided to meet. I had a two-week Christmas vacation from work coming, which I extended to a month, and I bought a

round-trip ticket to Hong Kong. My first time out of the US, or even out of the Deep South. When the day arrived, I left my dogs with Daddy, picked up a check for the sale of my house, and filed for a divorce. I left the keys to my truck and apartment, and the signed title to the truck, hidden at the office just in case I didn't return. I had keys to the office with me, just in case I did return. The phrase she used in an early e-mail was French. Meme coeur. It means "same heart." When I met her at the Hong Kong airport, and in the days and weeks that followed, we learned just how true this was. One month after arriving in Hong Kong, I quit working at Eastern Instruments via e-mail. We are now happily married, and so we shall always remain. The key to a successful Internet romance is honesty on both ends. Rare in person, even more rare on the Internet. But if both are honest, they will get to know each other far better than they would in person. Neither of us logged onto the Internet looking for romance. It just happened. Friends first, then lovers, which also happens to be the best way to find a face-to-face romance. As you've noticed from these scribblings, I tend to be a public person. My new wife, on the other hand, is quite a private person. Thus, I've decided not to use her name in this book. But I do need something to call her, just for the sake of convenience. So, let's call her Jan. You'll notice that I haven't described Jan. Her appearance was never important to me, but I'll tell you she's drop-dead gorgeous. To say more than that would involve some bad description and bad writing. She tells me I'm a good-looking fellow, something I've never been told before, and she's almost got me believing her. A long time ago, in a land far, far, away (Australia), Jan's family decided they would go get a dog on Monday. But that Sunday, as her parents played tennis in the park, an Italian woman left a cute little puppy in the park with a large bowl of spaghetti. This Italian woman knew someone would adopt this dog before the bowl was empty, and she was right. Jan's parents took this dog home and named her -- here's another coincidence for you -- Daisy. She was a border collie mix who didn't look a whole lot different from my own Daisy. She loved herding seagulls. When she was a few years old, she saw sheep for the first time. She couldn't resist squeezing through the cracked window of a moving vehicle to herd them. When Christmas vacation rolled around, I went to Hong Kong to meet Jan. I was 36 years old, and I'd never taken a vacation in my life. Oh, I visited Lisa's family a few times, but those were working vacations. I'd tended to spend my "vacations" working at second jobs. After I'd been in Hong Kong a few weeks, I received an e-mail from a coworker. He knew I wouldn't return, probably before I did, when I gave him my beer-making equipment. In his e-mail, he asked me once again to give

him my truck. In my reply, I told him where in the office I'd hidden the keys and the title. All he had to do was clean out the apartment, throwing out anything nobody wanted, and turn in the apartment keys when he was done. Free furniture for everybody! Free clothes, too. All I took with me to Hong Kong was one suitcase. It was new. I learned that it wasn't legal for me to work in Hong Kong. Even though Jan had offered to support me, I never expected it to actually happen. So I resumed the old writing career, and you know the results. I've worked in Hong Kong as an editor for an educational Englishlanguage magazine -- this became legal after the wedding -- but I left after they ran out of work for me to do. Some old habits never change. So after all those years of chasing money and possessions and all the other unimportant stuff, I'm finding myself again. Jan is a big part of that. I'm once again the hopeless dreamer that I was as a teenager, now free to pursue those dreams. Mom would be proud.

Chapter Twelve An American Redneck in Hong Kong Here's a little piece I published on a website or two. It won a contest somewhere or other. I wrote it early during my vacation, which began in 1999 and hasn't ended yet. Let me tell you about my bus ride into Sha Tin, Hong Kong, today. Usually these trips involve sitting face-to-face and right beside total strangers for an hour without a word, or even eye contact. The only exception to this is when an old lady sees how much I sweat. And no, the appropriate expression is not "sweat like a pig." They don't sweat as much as I do. The lovely old Chinese ladies are so quick to offer a tissue, and they all have them. Anyone who's ever been to China knows why they have tissues, right? Because public toilets do not. Many don't even have toilet paper holders. As for the way I sweat -- it's a Western thing. They wouldn't understand. There I was, in my seat, a briefcase in my lap and a Walkman's headphones in my ears and a word-find puzzle book in front of me. The Walkman, incidentally, is all but mandatory in Hong Kong, because you must wear as many personal electronics as your body can hold. A guy sat beside me and immediately began asking me about the book. In Chinese. Pointing and talking, and of course I couldn't understand a word. I only speak English and Spanish. I think he thought I was a student, judging by my clothes, T-shirt, jeans, sneakers, my briefcase and my "homework." I think he was a student, judging by his backpack and the fact that he could have been anywhere between 20 and 50 years old. Until his/her hair grays, I don't have a clue how old a Chinese person might be. This strikes me as a distinctly Eastern trait, but perhaps they feel the same about us. Could I be mistaken for a student back in my homeland? Perhaps, but it'd have to be an older student. At age 29, I was being asked for ID when I bought cigars. At 30, they said "Oh no, you're way too old to show ID." Not too old... way too old. It must have been the wrinkles that appeared so suddenly. By now, I look like a badly folded road map. Do the Chinese think I'm ancient because of my wrinkles, my gray hair and my receding hairline, or do they assume that's just some American trait? Beats me. I pointed at my word-find puzzle book and babbled in English, circled a few, and finally he caught on. It occurred to me that this wouldn't work with calligraphy. Nor will crossword puzzles. So, my puzzle was really interesting

to him. He tried to help me, but he couldn't find any words. May be a teaching tool, those word-finds. I was listening to my Blackfoot tape. American Indian hippies singing Southern rock. I love those guys. My new friend and I were looking for English words when the second song on the tape ended. The third happens to be my all-time favorite by them. The intro is a harmonica sounding like a train. The song, aptly enough, is entitled Train Train. I couldn't help myself. I popped a speaker out of my ear and offered it to my Chinese friend. He listened. He smiled. He laughed. He thumped his foot. He didn't understand a damn word. Blackfoot, I said. He muttered something in Chinese. Blackfoot, I repeated. He muttered again. Black, I said. Black, he said. Foot, I said. Foot, he said. Black-foot, I said. Blackfoot, he said. Hai, I said. (Cantonese for "yes" -- my first word.) He laughed. I'll westernize these people yet. One at a time...

Chapter Thirteen Eating Grits With Chopsticks I live in Hong Kong but work in the United States. This probably wasn't possible before the Internet. I'm so glad that Al Gore invented it for me. As I've surfed the Net, many people have gotten quite excited on learning where I live. "Really? What's it like?" Oh heck, you pick any country you've been in and try to tell me what it's like. Watha damn sure ain't like Tampa, and they're supposed to be in the same country. What I can do, however, is give you some general impressions. I took a flight from Wilmington, NC, to Washington, D.C. The airport was large and crowded. Then I flew to Chicago. O'Hare Airport was large and crowded. I ate some overpriced junk food there and it tasted absolutely fantastic. The plane spent almost an hour on the runway. Months later, I saw on 60 Minutes that O'Hare is the world's worst airport for overbooking their runways. I was watching this TV program from my living room in Hong Kong. When the plane left Chicago, headed west for 20 hours, it finally sank into this thick skull of mine. I do not have to go back. I had planned for the possibility, but I never felt it "in my heart of hearts" until that moment. I do not have to go back. I love window seats. However, the crew insisted on closing all the shutters. So much for the view! Next came feeding time. Breakfast, as it was 10:30 a.m. in Chicago. I wanted to yell "What about jet lag? Don't you know it's after midnight in Hong Kong? I'm ready to go to sleep." I ate. I drank. While the hours passed, I read. Sleeping beside me, in the aisle seat, was a fellow from India who I have named The Camel. He didn't pee until hour 19 of a 20-hour flight. As the bright lights of Hong Kong finally came into view, The Camel spoke to me for the first time. He asked me what my tickets cost. Then he explained how I could've paid only a third of that. My first impression of Hong Kong was of a thick mob of people fighting to get from Point A to Point B as fast as possible. The old Tampa habits came back to me, and I crammed myself into the tram like a local. I must slightly revise my first impression of the high-speed crowd. In Central, which you may think of as "the city" or "downtown Hong Kong," this is exactly how it is. But I lived in the New Territories, which you may think of as "the boonies." It's not so crowded here, and certainly no one's in such a hurry. My main interaction with people comes when I'm shopping. This is the national pastime, a pleasure rather than a duty, so they move as slowly as humanly possible.

Someone trying to catch a bus to work runs and shoves, which strikes me as silly because there's a bus every two minutes to anywhere in the country. My second impression of Hong Kong was that it's loud. I stand by that impression. I suspect it's because there are so many people in such a small bit of real estate. The food smells wonderful, and you can walk into almost any hole-inthe-wall and get a delicious meal. If you prefer, there's always McDonald's and Pizza Hut. I'm surprised at the popularity of McDonald's, but I suppose the grass is always greener... I arrived in the month they call winter. The rest of the year is humid, ranging from mildly hot to very hot. Again, not unlike Tampa. If you want to move here from a foreign country, bring your own clothes and maybe some extra shoes. Everything else is cheap and readily available. But if you're larger than a typical Chinese person, clothes that fit will be a problem. I'm lucky, as my size is Chinese XL and I have small feet. Hong Kong is marketed as a shopper's paradise, and in many ways it is. But did you know that 40% of Hong Kong is protected parklands? I bet your country has around 10%. There are some gorgeous places over here. I don't like seeing Disney World here, or Hollywood blockbuster movies void of substance, or Christianity. I didn't like them in the United States either, so I simply continue avoiding them here. I don't know why they'd want to import this crap, but to each his own. People from Hong Kong have a different definition of personal space than Americans do. Not better, not worse, just different. As in, there's no such thing. It's the natural result of living in crowded conditions. This is also why they tend to avoid eye contact with strangers, I think. There are just too dang many eyes. It'd take up so much of your travel time that you'd never be able to read your paper, get some sleep on the bus or train, or walk to where you're going. Amazingly, this concept of personal space extends to their driving. They floor the gas pedal or the brake at all times, stopping two inches from the vehicle in front. Lots of people do this in the United States when they're in the grip of road rage, and they wreck. Here in Hong Kong they have the skills to pull it off, perhaps because they're so calm about it. I genuinely feel safe on a bus or in a taxi. Traffic is quite heavy in areas, but no more so than any major city. If you want to see bad traffic, visit Bangkok. It'd be faster to walk if you knew where you were going. Unlike Hong Kong, the street signs in Bangkok do not include English translations. Here's an early impression of Hong Kong. They drive on the wrong side of the road! But that's an American impression. I don't care, however, because I don't drive anymore. The most expensive items here are housing, cars, and parking. Buses and trains go everywhere, and there are always

taxis, so I don't need a car. It may shock the Americans reading this, but this is a welcome relief. One Internet buddy said he had a mental picture of me sitting in a rickshaw with my puppy dog. I've never seen a rickshaw here -- you're thinking of mainland China -- and I don't have a dog because I live on the 18th floor of a building surrounded mostly by concrete. Later, though, I'll tell you about my new cat. I've been reading in the local papers that the world thinks people here are rude. It had never occurred to me before. When I was working as a teenager in restaurants in Tampa, the rule I lived by at work was to never speak to a customer unless he spoke to me first. It's a bit presumptuous to automatically assume everyone wants to talk to you. Years later, when I became a copier repairman, someone told me my attitude was rude. No doubt that person would find Hong Kong rude, but I don't. Hong Kong is Hong Kong, not America or wherever the heck else you come from. Judging another group of people from another place, by the standards you learned back home is rude. Are you listening, George W. Bush? I've met some very friendly people here, and others who don't want to speak to me. But you know, I don't speak Cantonese. Maybe they don't speak English. Maybe they're just shy. Maybe they're just afraid they'll say something wrong and embarrass themselves, a sentiment I remember from my days on the Mexican hog farms. I honestly don't care why. I've got better things to do with my time than worry about it. Do you want to know why nobody can agree on the location of Utopia? It's because they don't agree on the definition of Utopia. I think Daddy would say that Utopia is located on his hundred-plus acres in Burgaw. I hear that New Yorkers think it's in New York. I've met some people in Hong Kong who think it's Mad Dog Pub in Central. Arthur C. Clarke, the science fiction icon, probably thought it was in Sri Lanka. I suspect it's on the northwest coast of Australia, a few miles outside Perth. And we're all right. I love living in Hong Kong, but you must remember that I don't have a real job. I sit at home inside my head doing what I love. I could do that just about anywhere, so why not Hong Kong? Y'all forgive me for turning serious on you. I promise it won't happen again.

Chapter Fourteen Dogs have masters; cats have staff Picasso was born in February. I rescued her from the SPCA in September. Someone had stuck her in a donation box. I had very definite plans. A calm, quiet, lazy girl who would be content spending all day cooped up in an 18th floor Hong Kong apartment. There she was. In a glass cage. Her roommate was playing with a cat toy that some people dangled before her, ringing the bells and acting like a kitten. Meanwhile, she rested on a perch, mildly disgusted by all the commotion. Once I reached in, but not before, she rubbed her head on my hand and purred. Yes, I decided, I'll take the quiet one. The paperwork said she was four months old, based on her size. The guy who handled the adoption looked at her teeth and said, "No, she's probably seven months, just underfed." When I got home, I told Jan, "She has a naughty face, but she's really very good." I returned two days later, after the desexing operation, and brought home my shy, quiet cat. I set down the cat carrier, opened it, and there she was. Scared, skinny, gorgeous. Jan, the painter, stated that the kitten looked like a Picasso. If Picasso had painted a cat, this is how it would have looked. Black, white and ginger all in unique swirls and patterns. Thus, we named our new kitten Picasso. Picasso camped out in the spare bedroom, between the wall and the nearby wardrobe, atop some luggage. A very confined, safe area. The room was full of other hiding places, because we used it for clothing storage. Space is a rare commodity in Hong Kong. I marvel at the folks who live with two kids, grandma, and a Filipina maid. "She may be too quiet," we worried for the next two days. "Boring." We need not have been concerned. That's how long it took her to recover from the surgery, and to realize that her masterful con job was a resounding success. Don't you know by now that all cats, when seeking a home, pretend to be angelic? Then, when everything is safe and you've been lulled into that false sense of security... BAM!! Picasso loves to play with pens, lighters and balls of paper. Knocking massive marble balls from the windowsill always gives a satisfying bang. On the polished wood floor, they sound like bowling balls when they roll. Never in a straight line, leading to hours of fascinating study. The hair on her tail sticks out like a bristle brush and her eyes look feral as she rushes madly through the flat. What will she attack next? Possibly the large silk butterfly on the wall. No one ever knows, not even her. She loves pouncing on wall hangings, and attacking funnel web spiders on the television. She knows how to sit on the remote control and turn on

the TV, but it's much more fun to lift the lid on the computer printer and watch the cartridges move. Her favorite room may be the bathroom. Picasso can watch people in there, on the toilet or in the shower. She can smell things. She can stare at herself in the mirror. She can attack the box of tissues, although she knows not to do that. Not that knowing stops her. This is a cat, not a dog. She just lies atop the sink full of shredded tissues and says "meeeeowrrrrr..." Roughly translated, that means, "I didn't do that. I just found them here. I don't know how they got this way." She can leap from the sink to the wall that divides the room almost in half, landing on the 4-inch space between that wall and the ceiling, slamming into the roof on the way. From there she can climb onto the light above the mirror, then leap all the way down to the floor when someone opens a tin of tuna. Imagine you're a guy about to take a leak, only to have a cat jump on the toilet and challenge your aim. Now imagine her batting the stream, perhaps even taking a sniff. Then when the toilet flushes, she must stick her head way down in there for a close-up wide-eyed look. She's stopped doing all that, fortunately. The bathroom has a tub, which is great for rolling in or hiding in. Recently I saw Picasso licking a bar of soap, then licking her white chest. Maybe that's how she keeps it so clean. Or perhaps her favorite room is the kitchen. She and the kitchen didn't get along at first. She leaped onto the gas stove at a bad time and burned her whiskers. Now she's learned that it's safe only when the burners are off. The kitchen offers many opportunities to observe coffee brewing, cooking and dishwashing. Best of all, it has a faucet. The water falls down, then vanishes into the hole. How does that happen? If she's feeling a bit energetic, I can simply leave it dripping and go on my merry way. She'll appear half an hour later, face and paws soaked from batting at the water and trying to bite it. When the pipes stopped up, she was extremely fascinated with my repairs. Running water and an open cabinet. Irresistible. Ditto when I repaired the toilet. This is a cat who is definitely obsessed with understanding plumbing. The bed is also good, because she can lie on Daddy's chest and purr. This after 15 minutes of "kneading bread" on a stomach that bounces like a waterbed. Picasso almost never bites. She doesn't sleep at our feet, but she does visit often. Sometimes too often. Did you know that a bite on the leg or the toe is a friendly morning greeting? Picasso taught me that. Two minutes later, it's also good to sniff my face, purr, and perhaps lick my eyelashes. When I edited her web page, she tried very hard to help. She hit all kinds of buttons, opening and closing windows and creating desktop

shortcuts. Finally, she realized that it happened because she was pushing the buttons. She cocked her head to one side, fascinated. She looked at me, then back at the screen. She understood what was happening. Later she mastered typing with her butt. Beep beep beep. Once she saw a photo of some other cat on the screen. She batted at it for two or three minutes, claws out. It was worse than the funnel web spider. I must turn off the computer when I'm not using it because Picasso likes to log onto the Internet. Seriously. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night with a stomach pain, but that's just her pouncing on it again. In the next second, she kisses my forehead or sniffs my eyelashes again. She doesn't pounce on Jan's stomach. No, she prefers Jan's chest. Her claws have gotten quite sharp recently. We no longer need an alarm clock. Picasso sneaks into the bedroom, with the stealth of a born hunter, sticks her mouth directly in the closest ear, and lets loose with a blood-curdling MEEEEEOOOWWRRRRRRRR!!! Convinced that we're awake, she returns to the couch and sleeps contentedly. One thing about the tri-colored Picasso alarm clock, however, is that she doesn't know when we want to get up. She visits at midnight, 1, 2, 3, etc. She also doesn't bother to check the calendar. As of late, she's become a more discriminating alarm clock. She realizes that nothing wakes me up, so she concentrates her efforts on Jan. At the moment, Jan is responding by imitating me and lying unmoving. It's working, but one never knows for how long. Apparently, Picasso feels that we don't need sleep anyway. Either that, or we're simply deaf. We never know when we'll hear things crashing in the living room in the middle of the night, or perhaps some strange howling. By now you may be wondering why I'd keep such an insane cat. It's because we love each other. Does your cat wait for you to wake up in the morning so she can say hello? Does she run to the door and talk to you when you return from work or an errand? Does she know your schedule intimately, adjusting her sleeping habits to wake up and stare at the door at lunchtime, waiting for you to pop in for a quick visit? Picasso does. She often visits me when I'm reading in bed, rubbing and purring and saying, "I love you, Daddy." When I'm working at the keyboard, she watches contentedly from a nearby perch. She always follows me or Jan around the apartment when we cook or clean or whatever because she loves to watch us do stuff. She has mellowed with adulthood, but not 100%, because we all have to blow off some steam sometimes. Life with Picasso is never boring. There are two problems with writing about Picasso. The first problem is, it becomes obsolete so quickly. The second problem is, I don't know when to shut up. I think I'll just do that now.

You may rest assured that Picasso will be living with us for a long time to come. We're all much happier this way.

Chapter Fifteen Secret Agent Man Today's mission: smuggle a contraband cat from my flat, past security and a few hundred tenants. Find a taxi. Explain to the driver that we're going to the SPCA. Get the cat vaccinated. Find another taxi. Return home. Smuggle the cat past security again. I began by carrying my cat, in a cat carrier, past the security guard. As usual, he looked the other way. There must be hundreds of dogs living here, in spite of the rules. Every time a dog is taken for a walk, he rides in a lift with a security camera. A guard sees him on the monitor. He doesn't care. Then the dog is walked past a second guard, who also doesn't care. Then the dog comes back and the guards see him again. So really, this isn't a problem. The fun begins when I get in the taxi. There's always one waiting by the exit, it seems. I told the driver "Wan Chai." That was easy. Then I said "Wan Shing Road." He didn't understand. I said "SPCA." He still didn't understand. In a flash of insight, I realized that the SPCA logo on the side of the carrier was in both English and Chinese. I pointed to it and said "This place." The cab driver laughed. "I understand. Cat?" "Yes." He laughed again. "Is she a good cat?" "Yes." "You are lucky." He laughed again. Then he looked at the box and said "Meow!" Then he laughed yet again. He's quite happy in the mornings. "Is she Bossy Mouth?" "Yes." More laughing. "How big is she? This big?" He put his hands far apart, as if perhaps I had a Labrador retriever in the tiny box. "No, this big." I tried to show him with my hands, but my memory's shot at that hour of the morning. Along with the rest of the time. "She's very young." "Ah, I understand." He paused to look at where he was driving. "Is she cat daughter?" "Yes," I agreed, and we both laughed. It didn't occur to me until later that he never saw the cat. He just guessed "she." Likewise, she never made a sound during the cab ride. He just guessed "bossy mouth." Maybe he has a cat daughter of his own. I really liked this guy. Was his English any better than the other cabbies in Hong Kong, or the cashiers at the grocery stores, restaurants, or 7-11s? Probably not. But he spoke with confidence, and when I didn't understand what he said, he repeated it until I figured it out. He wanted to

communicate. I loved that. Finally we settled into the journey. He drove through the absurd earlymorning going-to-work traffic of Hong Kong while I read my newspaper. When we reached Wan Chai, he attempted another conversation. I was slow picking up on this one. He repeated what he had said, verbatim. His vocabulary was a bit limited. I caught on at last. This was a sales pitch. He wanted the fare back home as well. He gave me his cell phone number. He made absolutely sure that I wrote down his cab number. He told me to call ten minutes before I was ready to leave, and he'd be there. How could I resist this smiling, friendly, charismatic old cab driver? We skip ahead to when I'm waiting for the taxi. I called him maybe one minute before I was ready to go. I said, "I'm ready to leave the SPCA." After a pause, I added the code phrase "Cat daughter." Guess what he did? You guessed it... he laughed. "Ten minutes," he told me. I went outside to wait. Taxis passed by me frequently, trying to give me a ride. With each taxi, I looked in at the driver, unsure if I'd recognize my new best friend, then waved him by. As he passed, I could finally see by the license number on the back that I was correct. I supposed -- I hoped -if I tried to wave my guy by, he'd just ignore me and stop anyway. Twelve minutes later, a taxi slowed to a stop beside me, but I knew it wasn't my guy. Then another taxi came barreling up behind this one, Out of Service sign on the windshield, honking his horn and flashing his flashers. Immediately I knew. My buddy. He was laughing and smiling as he stopped. He pointed at the cat carrier. "Is she okay?" "Yes." He nodded vigorously. "Good, good. How much?" "Sixty dollars." (That was about eight US dollars.) "Sixty," he repeated. "Yes. She only needed a shot." "Ah, good. She is good cat." We drove around the looping roads that lead out of Wan Chai. Then he spoke again. "I used to live here. Now I live in Sha Tin." Sha Tin is where he'd picked me up. "I get up early every morning. Very early. I live in Sha Tin six years. Your home?" "Yes." "How long?" "A year." "Oh." He nodded approval. "Very good, Sha Tin. Very nice." By now we were moving rapidly down the freeway, away from Wan Chai and toward Sha Tin. He pointed to the traffic going into Wan Chai. It was bumper to bumper. "Too much traffic." "Yes." It seems he was using a lot more words than I was, doesn't it?

I finally noticed the color of his hair. In my early-morning fog, I had it in my mind that it was gray. It would be consistent with the lines of age in his face. But looking at the back of his head on the way home, I saw that it was a brown-orange color. Dyed. In fact, it even matched one of the colors on my cat. Her other two colors are black and white. Finally, Sha Tin. He pointed at some buildings, around the corner from my own apartment complex. "My home. Six years, my home. Is very nice. Wan Chai, no good. Hong Kong, no good. Sha Tin, very good." We didn't need more English for me to know why he felt that way, which is good because he probably didn't know it. Hong Kong's reputation is one of crowds and traffic and the hustle and bustle. But the fact is, that's only in the central areas. Out in Sha Tin, we still have the high-rise buildings, but it's not nearly so crowded. It's a bit more relaxed. We even have a park or two, and some very friendly cab drivers. So what's my point? Is it that an American, living in Hong Kong and speaking only English, is so desperate for human contact that even a conversation with a cab driver warrants publication? No, not at all. It's that people are people everywhere, and that you never know when a total stranger will become a friend, even if it's only for one morning. Plus, many of us love cats.

Chapter Sixteen They Don't Have A Donation Box My mission was two-fold: (1) Get a library card. I presumed most of what they had was in Chinese, but as I learned long ago, you can find some great treasures in tiny libraries. (2) Donate some books I've read so many times that I won't read them again. If you saw the overflowing bookshelves in my tiny apartment, you'd understand. Part one, the library card, required a Hong Kong ID Card, which I have. It also required proof of address. An electric bill, perhaps. But all our bills are in Jan's name, as she arrived here a year and a half before I did. I scrounged through my files, and found two things with my address. Adoption papers for Picasso, and publishing contracts that may or may not be fake. I got lucky here. The adoption papers were acceptable. So next I went looking for something to read. They have the ultimate in electronic card catalogs, I think, but all the menus are in Chinese. I saw one guy reading it in English, but couldn't figure out how to get to the English part. I gave up. Wandering through the bookshelves labeled English Literature, I picked up some Kinky Friedman. Considering how much of his stuff I've already read, it amazed me that the one they had was one I haven't read. I filed it in my brain for future reference that they also have lots of Gao Xingjian, the only Chinese Nobel Prize Winner in Literature. He's banned in the mainland, but Hong Kong is still "one country, two systems." The library has many other books that I plan to read. Next I looked over the music collection. Quite an impressive set of CDs and cassettes, both classical and contemporary, both Western and Eastern. I love all types of music. They have the ultimate Elvis collection, but I wasn't in the mood. Ditto on the Frank Sinatra. I picked up some Bach and some Indonesian Bamboo Music. My third acquisition was Moment of Glory, by the Scorpions and the Berlin Philharmonic. Finally, I tried to donate my books. Just one bag. I left the others at home, in the event that I had to carry my books back home. Back in the States, the libraries have after-hours deposit boxes. I used to just swing by those and toss in a few dozen books that I wished to donate. Not so in Hong Kong. There is no such box. They love paper trails. Nobody can return a book without it being scanned in right then and there. Another sign I've been here too long... it didn't surprise me a bit. I started at the Returns Desk. They sent me to the Assistant

Librarian's Desk. I waited in the line, but it wasn't long. The Assistant Librarian, an enthusiastic young fellow, reached for the paperwork. "It is in Chinese," he explained in slow but flawless English, "So I will translate for you." He needed my signature, name, address, and phone number. He needed to know if I wanted an official notice by mail informing me that they had my titles under consideration. He needed to know if I wanted an official notice by mail informing me which ones were and were not accepted. He needed to know if I wanted each of my donations stamped with an imprint identifying me as the donor. I answered 'No' to them all. I just wanted someone to enjoy my books instead of dumping them into a recycling bin. The way we did the paperwork was impressive. Another patron popped by for something, speaking in Cantonese. The Assistant Librarian pointed at my paper and told me what to write, then typed on his computer for the other patron. When I was done, he pointed at the next section and told me what to put there, then went back to his computer. And so on. He was done with the other patron first. As for his English, it didn't surprise me either. At the post office and the bank, everyone is bilingual. It's a necessity. At the 7-11 or the restaurants, one is never so lucky. At the library, folks are bilingual. Finally the Assistant Librarian flipped the paper over to the back, where he had to write down all the titles and authors. I thought I'd have to wait while he did that, having a little experience with paperwork in Hong Kong, but I was wrong. He told me he could do that after I left, which was fortunate because five people had accumulated in the line while I donated my books. Instead, he quite formally bowed to me from the neck and said, "On behalf of the Hong Kong Library I wish to thank you for your donation." "Mm sai," I replied, one of my few Cantonese phrases, and left. I had a bus to catch. I'm averaging one new Cantonese phrase a month. Before "mm sai," which literally means "no problem," I learned that "bei jow" means "beer." When I got home, I promptly fired up The Scorpions. I've never been a fan, but this new CD changed all that. As I danced around like an idiot, my Cantonese Calico cat joined me. She rolled in rhythm to much of it. When the guitarist started cutting loose, she scratched her scratching post in rhythm. I had no idea she was so musical. I've never seen anything like it. Those other two CDs will simply have to wait. If I can ever stop listening to The Scorpions long enough, I'll finish reading my Kinky Friedman and take it back along with two big bags of book donations. I love libraries, and I'm even getting the hang of Hong Kong.

Chapter Seventeen Honeymoon in China I'm an American who went to Guilin while a flight crew from a US spy plane was being held in China. I arrived on April 9, they were released on April 12, and I returned home on April 13. Surely this was just a coincidence. Another coincidence... we flew back home on Friday the 13th. Guilin is marketed as a place of natural wonder and beauty, where the Chinese go to "get back to nature" and to "get away from it all." When I asked some local expats about it, they said forget Guilin and go up the road to Yangshuo. I've been to both, and I happen to prefer Guilin. Here's what happened. When Jan and I stepped out of the airport, the first thing I smelled was clean salt air, as if a gentle breeze carried it from the ocean. Now there's no ocean for miles around, and I never smelled that again. Not even when I returned to the airport to go back home. So I don't know what that smell was, but I liked it. Much better than the pollution of Hong Kong. A dapper young man with slicked-back hair, impeccably dressed in starched shirt and slacks, walked up and said "Hey Joe, you want a taxi?" I'm not kidding -- hey Joe. I thought that was a Hollywood stereotype from movies about the Vietnam War. But no, he said hey Joe. Overall he made me think of a pimp renting high-priced courtesans. I ignored him and walked away. In Koh Samui, Thailand, as soon as you leave the airport, someone walks up to you and tries to get you into his taxi. 250 baht for a ride to the hotel. Keep walking, and someone farther along will give you the same ride for 150. Walk all the way to where the taxis are parked and it's only 100. I thought that's what "pimp" was up to and ignored him. Jan and I reached the queue of taxis, all sitting empty waiting for fares. We were promptly surrounded by a swarm of about 12 drivers, and pimp again, all wanting to know where we were going. I told them in English, ready to pull out my printout of the hotel name in Chinese if needed, but someone understood. He yelled it to the appropriate driver, two guys loaded our luggage into the trunk, and yet another guy got into the driver's seat. Meanwhile the best English-speaker in the bunch explained the price to me. It was incredibly cheap. Once we were all loaded up, the swarm moved away to help the next tourist. This is different, and I think wonderful. In Hong Kong, there is a line of taxis with the drivers simply sitting, waiting. In Guilin, it's a cooperative effort. They know which driver is in front of the line, and all the drivers hang out chatting and smoking and working together to understand what the tourists are saying. It all works out the same for them, so why not? The swarm was disconcerting, but I like the system.

We left the airport in the dead of night. I couldn't see a thing, but the cabbie was amazing. He'd approach a crosswalk with an unlit bicycle, tap the horn and slow down. Every time we approached a vehicle, he lightly tapped the horn before overtaking. He also tapped it at vehicles coming in the other direction, simply as a greeting. The one vehicle he didn't honk at was the police van. He simply blew it off the road. I thought it'd be funny if we arrived in China and our cabbie was arrested for speeding, but it didn't happen. In America or Hong Kong, and probably most places, someone lays into the horn in aggravation. Not so in Guilin. It's a simple greeting, a hello, a way of letting the other guy know "I'm here." Then the two vehicles, or even a taxi and a bunch of pedestrians or bicycles, cooperate to handle it. The cabbie stopped at one point and another fellow got in. "The driver is my brother," he explained. Great English, but he hit his Rs very hard. His throat opened in a funny way as a result, trying not to say R like L as the stereotype has it, and it affected his whole accent. I heard this accent several times in Guilin, and I've heard it once in Hong Kong. But fine English. Brother explained that due to some road construction, we'd be moving down some back roads for about ten minutes and it'd look like we were going the wrong way, but we weren't. Considerate of him, I thought. As we kept riding, he wouldn't shut up. He explained that he has brothers all over Australia, which is Jan's homeland. He didn't have anything to say about America. He went on about the roads again, and about the extra 20 minutes of traveling. That's not a typo. Ten became 20, though it really turned into an hour. Then came the sales pitch for city tours, and for Yangshuo being better than Guilin, and how he could be our guide in both places. I could have nightmares about spending an entire day with this guy. We drove down roads that it appeared no motor vehicle should ever use. Pedestrians, so many bicycles, and weird vehicles that I saw more fully later in the daylight. The driver's night vision and sense of space were a wonder to behold. Everybody's sense of space was a marvel, in fact. Finally we were at the hotel, being checked in by two or three people while brother salesman stood there trying like hell to sell me a city tour the next morning. It was 11 p.m. and we had no plans beyond sleeping late, but it seemed he wouldn't go away. Finally he did, though, and we were in our room. Conrad Hilton, I think, said something about how people love to go see the world as long as it's just like home. Thus, the generic everything-thesame hotel chain, and why not? A comfortable base of operations from which to explore "the real China," no more. The air conditioning was the sort that can probably keep a cool room cool but not make a hot room cool, but we managed. Westerners are spoiled.

The TV wasn't working when we arrived. I learned later that this was because it was after 11 p.m. It worked fine the next afternoon. We didn't really watch it, but after a long night of traveling maybe some background noise would've been nice. No big deal. We just went to sleep. Much later I'd check out the TV. I've never seen Everybody Loves Raymond in English, but I've already decided it's much funnier in Mandarin Chinese. I couldn't handle more than one minute, though. I'm just not a TVwatching kind of guy. Is Guilin "the real China?" At first glance a fair question, but at second glance a damn stupid one. It's a tourist town, due to its natural wonders; it's always been one, dating back to 300 BC, I believe I heard. But I do love Guilin. This was our honeymoon, and it was wonderful. 10 a.m., the phone rang. It was that damn cabby's brother wanting to sell us a city tour. Jan hung up and we went back to sleep. I did visit the lobby first, asking how this guy got our number, but nobody understood my question. I decided that if he called again, I'd explain things to him in a truly redneck fashion. It's probably good that never happened. I'd hate to see the inside of a Chinese prison. We had some lovely scenery outside the window. Old cement houses, a narrow street, some guy selling watermelons on his front porch. He and his neighbor waved and smiled when they saw us looking at them. Watermelon man mimed someone eating watermelons, then waved at us to come down and buy some. I liked his style, but we decided to move to a room with a view of the river and mountains. As a fringe benefit, cabby's brother had no idea where to find us after our move. We spent the afternoon wandering along the road in front of the hotel, along the clear Li River, with green mountains off in the distance. This was fun, and it also gave the cleaning staff a chance to get the new room ready for us. Turn left, and one passes homes that are little more than plywood sheets. Market stalls are sometimes made of tarps over bamboo poles, or perhaps old cement buildings with open rolling doors for a front. All inventory is readily visible. It's amazing to see so many places and so much stuff and not have a clue what any of it is. People wash their clothes in the river. They wash their fresh fruits and vegetables in the river. They wash their dishes in the river. They swim in it. I know what you may be thinking -- oh, the nasty polluted industrialized river -- but that's not the case in Guilin. It's beautiful, and there is no "heavy industry" to speak of. Their product has been tourism for over 2000 years, and they take pride in that river and that environment. In Hong Kong, people tend to go about their business and avoid contact with strangers. It's just a mindset. So much to do, so little time, just do your bit and ignore everybody else. I don't knock it -- I've done it myself far too often -- I simply observe it. In the big American cities I've lived in, I

think people actively hate strangers. In Guilin, everyone loves strangers. Everyone looked so happy. Parents grabbed their little kids' hands, waved them at us, and yelled "Hello!" I'd look at the dazed little kid and say my one Mandarin Chinese phrase, "ni hao." Lots of laughter. Shoes are fascinating. I didn't know that, but every time we walked past someone, he or she would inevitably throw a glance at our shoes. They were black boots, by the way, made of Australian leather. A few days later, Jan switched to sandals, which are considered "peasant footwear." As I say, that's what happens if one turns left from the hotel. Turn right, however, and one sees huge gorgeous homes that look truly Chinese, and beautiful. We seemed to be on a boundary. Affluence and what you might call poverty, side by side in harmony. I won't call it poverty, because the people were just so damn happy. As in, money truly isn't a big deal to them. A place to stay, enough to eat, and a good family life. I'm not saying they hate money -- let's get real -- but priorities are elsewhere. We say that, sure, but they believe it. The streets are clean in Guilin. I hear this isn't the case throughout China, where some places have mountains of trash so high that you just want to cry at the sight of them. Again, Guilin is a tourist town. Smiling old ladies wield big brooms of phoenix-tailed bamboo and ensure both streets and sidewalks are spotless. They laughed, they said hello, they checked out our shoes as we passed them. I heard birds singing. You probably take that for granted. I've never been much of a bird person myself, but after a year and a half in Hong Kong, I notice the singing of the birds now. Yes, they do sing in Hong Kong, but it's not a daily occurrence in the industrialized areas. Let me tell you about the vehicles I saw. First there is the bicycle. Then there is the elongated three-wheeled bicycle. Then there is the threewheeled bicycle, with a flatbed instead of a basket. Then there is this same vehicle, enclosed in some sheet metal with passenger benches inside. Incidentally, new bicycles are US$25. I suspect one works a bit longer for that $25 in Guilin than in the U.S. Next, picture a motorcycle. Instead of a back wheel, there is a belt driving the two back wheels of an elongated three-wheeled contraption. Now the motorcycle has become a small truck. Some have brand names and matching color schemes, but others are put together in a backyard with covers slapped on by a sheet-metal welder. As we drove into town on that first evening, I saw a welder working and it was almost 11 p.m. I also came across something that looked like the front end of a riding lawnmower attached to the bed and cab of an old Model T Ford. But that

wasn't quite right, given the long steering handle. After much thought, I realized it wasn't a lawnmower. It was a tilling machine. If you've ever used a tilling machine, or a stump-grinder, you know what happens. You put the blades against ground or stump and the machine wants to pull you across the ground. The Chinese have decided "Fine, let it pull me across the ground" and turned it into a truck. A damn good one, too, as I saw a fellow hauling rocks with one of these things. Back to the bicycle for a moment. Did you ever see a ten-speed bicycle with a narrow metal rack over the back mudguard for strapping on things? In Guilin, they strap on small wicker chairs for the kids to ride in. Or, adults simply sit sidesaddle on the unadorned rack with perfect balance. I've seen little two-years-olds sleeping in the little wicker chair but somehow hanging on to the driver, or perhaps looking around wide-eyed and smiling. Little tiny hands, little tiny fingers, somehow hanging on. One driver was pedaling so fast that I'd have fallen off, but not this little dude. The babies were beautiful. Bald or nearly bald heads, little fat faces, sleeping or maybe just looking around wide-eyed at the incredible scenery. One stared at me for a long moment, then seemed to realize "Oh, it's a foreigner" and turned casually away to look at something else. One studied the electrical workers quite intently as they pulled wire through holes in the ground. I spent a lot of time looking at those little kids, amazed at their balance, and just at how damn cute they are. I saw a guy carrying a load of 16-foot long PVC strips over one shoulder and steering his bicycle with the other hand. I saw one of those flatbed three-wheeled bicycles loaded with sheets of plywood, and some dude sitting atop them. I suppose he was going to do most of the construction work, since the driver had to do a lot of pedaling to get them to where they were going. I saw one fellow I will call The Ice Cream Man. He was pedaling a three-wheeled bicycle with a flat bed instead of a basket. Something was on the flat bed, covered with a tarp. A speaker on the bicycle played digitized music of the sort you'd hear from a MIDI file or your cell phone, but the music was Chinese. From time to time he called out something, probably the product he was selling, in a cadence matching the music. I walked past an empty police truck and had the chance to look in the window. It had the mandatory radio, of course, but it also had lots of personal junk, as if the cop took it home with him and used it all the time. In the back seat was a blanket with 101 Dalmatians on it. Guilin has those unique vehicles, but it also has trucks and cars and such, all sharing the road in harmony. Vehicle drivers try to pass the others, sure, but not by getting angry and blaring the horn and yelling "Get your slow, sorry butt outta my way." Harmony and cooperation. As I saw all these vehicles and suits and cell phones and other Western things, I couldn't help but think that yes, China can readily adopt

stuff from other cultures. They make it uniquely Chinese. The culture is thousands of years old, and it'll take more than a TV or a department store or a KFC to change that. They take it, use it, make it their own, but they are still who they are. The Chinese make you forget that the bicycle, such a symbol of China these days, was invented by Leonardo da Vinci. On the second day, we went on a half-day tour of some mountains and caves. Our tour guide introduced himself as John. Excellent English, but pauses in funny places as if he were translating in his head. A few speeches were obviously memorized, as in "I would like to begin with a brief introduction to BLANK" followed by a long recitation of facts. Interesting stuff, though, and we went into Guilin knowing nothing about it, so quite welcome stuff as well. When we first met the tour guide, he hesitatingly called me "Mr. Mitchell." I told him "Michael." So those were our names for the day, Mr. and Mrs. Michael. We didn't know what we were getting into, but it turned out we were getting a car, a driver, and our guide. The driver greeted us with a huge grin, at 2 p.m., with a booming "Good eve-en-ning. How do you do?" I truly loved this guy. Every time we got in the car, he boomed "How do you do?" The next morning, he said "Good morning. How do you do?" He just doesn't know there's an afternoon in between, that's all. If I'd spent another day with him I'd probably feel the same way. By the way, folks in Hong Kong also say evening as if it were a threesyllable word. In a very deep voice, for some reason. I like it. It sounds rather formal, don't you think? Like Lurch. We visited FuBo Hill, named after a famous Asian general who hung out there about 300 years ago. "John" quickly learned that we're not the usual noisy Western tourists, and that he didn't have to talk nonstop to make us happy. Just the best bits. He delivered them with humor and wit, a bit nervous but handling it well. FuBo Hill is beautiful -- you'll notice I use that word a lot. He pointed to our hotel from there, which he'd do from everywhere, simply to give us a point of reference. When we first arrived at FuBo Hill, John popped off to buy the tickets. Jan decided to visit the toilet. John returned to me and wondered where Jan was. Oh, the worry on his face! I told him she'd be right back because she'd gone to the toilet. He yelled "Toilet?" and ran after her, yelling "Mrs. Michael!" At first she didn't realize that was her new name. I wonder what happens to guides who lose tourists. Anyway, he rushed up ahead of her and made a flourishing hand gesture and said "Toilet." While we waited, he said something yet again about Guilin (population

600,000) being so small. I told him that before Hong Kong, I lived in a town with a population of 99. He laughed, a laugh that said, "I don't know how to respond." The Chinese have many laughs, each communicating a different thing. These laughs cross all boundaries of language, as I understood them all. Through a cave of limestone and some dripping water, he told us to watch our step. I almost banged my head on the top of the cave, so John corrected himself. Watch your step, and your head, with a laugh at his own foolishness for forgetting that part. There's a gorgeous handcrafted bell that is about 400 years old. It weighs over 2500 pounds. There's some rather ornate Chinese calligraphy upon it. John explained that those were the names of the people who contributed to the cost, in return for having their names upon it. That's right, corporate sponsorship. He laughed one of his many laughs as he explained. This laugh leaned towards but didn't reach embarrassment. Beautiful bell, too. I wish it still rang. Next stop: Reed Flute Cave. Oh God, that place is incredible. Oh yes, and lemme throw in another "beautiful." Twenty or 30 feet tall, with stalactites and stalagmites in amazing patterns. A U-shaped, 45 minute walk. At certain points along the walk, we'd stop and look at the snowman here or the stage curtains there or the watermelons and peanuts over there or whatever. John listened to the other tour guides and repeated the interesting bits to us. Behind us were some Brits who wouldn't shut up. One bloke told the tour guide "It's what, 20 degrees Centigrade in here? We have caves in Britain, but it's four degrees in them. And what is it here, 20 degrees?" "Yes, 20." "Well, it's only four degrees in the caves in Britain. Twenty degrees here, did you say?" He said this four or five times. That tour guide had much more patience than I do. When one first enters Reed Flute Cave, there is a big sign with a pair of lips and a finger over them. It seems that Jan and I are the only tourists with any sense of respect, because nobody else would shut up. Even so, the scenery was gorgeous. I remember the pool of water that reflected the scenery beautifully at one point, and some other stuff, but words can't do it justice. I also remember the tour guide ahead of us with the damn megaphone. Her voice echoed all over the damn place. I guess she didn't see the lips with the finger across them either. John told us that Presidents Bush (senior, I presume) and Nixon (of course) had been to Reed Flute Cave. Then, in typical John fashion, he told us that it was the most popular cave but not the most beautiful. Some other caves are silvery instead of limestone. I chose to ignore that. I'd never been in any cave before, and this place was phenomenal. We weren't done yet. Next came a "tour" of a pearl-making place. In

effect, a sales pitch. Aimed at the ladies, of course, or perhaps the guy who would buy her something. My wonderful wife deflected that in about 15 seconds. (Her family believes pearls bring bad luck...) Then we returned to the hotel exhausted and tried to sleep before... Day Three. Day Three was an all-day tour of the Li River. John immediately addressed us by our correct names. No doubt he'd studied the files. In Chinese culture the family name comes first, hence he assumed we were Mr. and Mrs. Michael. By the second day, not only had he corrected that, but he'd realized that Jan did not adopt my family name after marriage. In my mind, the Li River tour would be on some large rowboat gizmo. Not at all. It was a three-deck tour boat complete with air conditioning. As we drove to the wharf, John explained that he'd arranged for us to get a snack -- he called it a snatch -- but that it would be not too good, and that if we wanted more food we should have brought some because it's quite expensive on the boat. He also asked if we could eat with chopsticks. During the drive to the wharf, I saw the only sign of impatience in a Chinese driver. The buses ahead of us were all stopped. We'd passed some cops along the way without really noticing. It turns out there were some VIPs in the other lane, so traffic had to stop and let them by. I didn't ask why a classless society would have VIPs. Once they were gone, John urged the driver to pass some buses so we wouldn't be late. We were 40 minutes early. When I was in Tampa, driving my own vehicle, sometimes I "joined" funeral processions just to get through the damn stopped traffic. Don't get offended -- the stiffs never complained. Guilin's drivers aren't nearly so impatient. A couple sat opposite us on the boat. He was a big, burly, red-haired and red-mustached American. She was a shy young Chinese girl. He began by saying he had five TVs. He spoke very slowly, as one might do if condescending to someone who may or may not speak much English. "Do -- you -- have -- a -- TV?" Later he showed her his passport. "This -- is -- a pass -- port. -- In -- America -- no -- one -- can -- leave -- the -- country -- without -- a pass -- port." Later, he said "I eat beef every day." My stomach was starting to turn. As the afternoon progressed, he stopped doing that crap so much. It seems he's some sort of businessman who was working in some capacity with her brother, and her brother set this up. He got a tour guide and she got a trip on the Li River. Both were nervous and such. Hell, I'd rather not judge. I'd rather not even think about it. Yes, there is an ugly side to this East meets West bit sometimes.

Let me tell you about the meal. A waitress brought a bowl of peanuts that I successfully munched on with my chopsticks. Then some seaweed tied in knots like bowties and seasoned with something yummy. My favorite part of the meal, in fact. The trick was to grab the knots with the chopsticks. Then something else, something else, something else, something else... Want to know how fresh the fish was? When the flotilla of touring boats first left port, a bunch of little fishing boats approached them from behind. Ropes were thrown and tied, and the fishermen in the small boats sold what they'd caught to the big boats. You can't get much fresher than that. There was way too much food! John, what do you mean if we want more?! Dishes on top of dishes all over the table. The American wouldn't eat -- too much eating during his visit already, he said, and I do believe that. She wouldn't eat -- probably embarrassed to eat Chinese style in front of an American or something, and rail-thin anyway as if she wanted to look like an anorexic American actress because that's the unfortunate fashion all over China and Hong Kong these days. Meanwhile, Jan and I ate until we were stuffed. We drank their beer too, as they didn't want it. They brew a fantastic beer in Guilin. It's called Guilin Beer. As the trip came to a close, I saw that the boat crew washed all the dishes in the Li River. As I mentioned before, it's damn clean. Slightly green, a clean green. There was an earlier episode where Jan asked John why it was so green. He didn't understand. "The color of the river," she explained. "Oh yes," he replied, a bit confused. "It's green." At various points during the boat trip, Jan and I would go to an upper deck together, and I'd return alone. This worried John at first, but he got over it. I was glad to see that. Before the car ride back to Guilin, John apologized to me for the food. I tried explaining to him that it was fantastic, way too much of it, but I don't think he believed me. I have a theory. Most Western tourists, probably, like the fancy style of Chinese cooking. Especially the Westerner from Hong Kong, who tends to be a bit, um, snobbish. The meal on the boat was "peasant fare." When it comes to Chinese food, I prefer the simple food. Incidentally, I became a redneck again on this cruise. Four hours in the sun, my Australian bush hat left behind in Hong Kong. I've been living in an apartment too long, I tell you. I was a bit pale. But my neck turned red in the Chinese sun. Were we done yet? Nope. Corporate sponsorship again. Exhausted and ready to return home to the hotel, we visited a hospital. Traditional Chinese Medicine. Once again Jan saved the day, having seen this bit on a previous

Beijing tour, and deflected that in about one minute. Did I mention how lucky I am to have such a wonderful wife? John took us to the pearl place and the hospital because he had to. He didn't want to, I could sense. No doubt he gets a percentage of sales, a common thing in China. His driver, meanwhile, was just an awesome dude. Simple, happy, just great. I tipped these guys heavily, by their standards, and I picture my driver right now sucking down a bottle of Dynasty white wine -- Chinese made with some advice from the French -- and perhaps even buying a couple of new suits. Amazing how much we squeezed into three slow-paced days, isn't it? But guess what? There's one more day to go. Checkout time at the hotel was noon. Our flight left at 9:20 p.m. Yeah yeah, we could've gotten another day at the hotel, but we didn't want to. Turns out we chose right. We slept late, wandered down to the lobby, and checked out. We left our luggage with the bellboy, enjoyed a leisurely beer or two in one of the hotel lounges, and headed out into the streets on foot. We began by walking along the river, then crossing the bridge to the part where there's no road construction. Everybody in Guilin works, but nobody works all that hard. There's enough work, and certainly enough people to do it. There's no frantic rush to do too much in too little time. Work may be important, but it's not the most important thing. In Guilin, to repeat myself, they have their priorities in order. The bridge was originally wooden. Now it has metal across the top as well. Having worked close to a machine shop for about eight years, I noticed that the welds were across the entire seam, not just spot or tack welded. I was impressed. They're not doing things halfway in Guilin. I was walking down the street arm-in-arm with Jan, talking to her about something or other, and didn't notice the Chinese fellow bicycling right beside me speaking to me in English. Once I noticed him, I realized he was saying, "Great weather we're having today. It's really beautiful out here, isn't it?" I replied, "Yes it is," but he didn't hear me because I tend to be soft-spoken. He replied, "Don't you speak English?" and pedaled happily away. The weather truly was wonderful throughout the trip. Subtropical. Our first day there, it rained. Fine with us because we were feeling quite lazy. After that, bright and sunny, not too hot and not too cold. The hotel windows were bolted shut, which was odd, as it was perfect outside but a little too hot in the room. But not excessive. Wonderful place, Guilin. Clear skies, quite unlike what I've heard about China's industrial centers. John made a point of telling me how much they do for the environment in Guilin, but it wasn't necessary. I saw it myself.

We passed lots of little booths selling stuff. Now here's a cultural difference. I'm unable to look at stuff and listen to words at the same time. Lots of stuff to see, all gorgeous. Whenever I looked in a booth, someone would yell something like "Hello, ten dollars," and I had to keep walking. I guess that works or they'd stop, but this old boy's from a little town where they don't do that. Try to find a cashier in the Wal-Mart when you need one. In a city of 600,000 people there has to be at least one jerk. That would be the first cabby's brother. Well, on this fourth and final day we met the second. We walked a bit, just taking in as much as we could. Nobody can take in all of China in a few short days, not even a semi-Westernized place like Guilin. We grabbed a cab and asked for a ride to Niko Niko Do. John had recommended it, and damnit that's the name of the place. Jan hates shopping -- so do I -- but she's a bit taller than folks in Hong Kong. So when we go elsewhere, we force ourselves to shop. This cabbie spent five minutes talking with some other folks, then drove us away as if he had a clue. Was he stupid or just a jerk? I don't know. He kept taking us to other places and pointing and yelling "Here? Here?" We tried the soft approach, but no luck. Finally I just yelled "No!" like a redneck and insisted "Niko Niko Do!" He stopped some damn place and let us out, defeated. He's the only person I didn't tip. Ten enjoyably scenic minutes later, I found Niko Niko Do. John had pointed it out two days before, and stressed the road name enough for even my old brain to remember it. I was quite proud for still remembering all that. In order to get there, we had to cross a street full of moving vehicles, but nobody hit us. Jan took over after that, successfully navigating us to the toilets and then to some food. I'll tell you what I ate. As a rule, I love Chinese food. I loved it in America, but it wasn't exactly authentic. In Hong Kong and I suspect all of China, you can walk into any hole-in-the-wall looking place and get the best food you've ever eaten dirt-cheap. But, how to order it? I'm afraid if I don't have a translator or an English-language menu I'll end up with Savory Snail Stew or snakes or squid. Gotta watch them S's. But never mind. This was a Western-type eatery. I ordered the Hamburger Set. It was not a hamburger. Well, not what you're thinking of. It was a hamburger, no bun, like Mamma used to make. Almost a hamburger-shaped meatloaf, with some Heinz 57 on the table. That's right, down-home country cooking is alive and well in Guilin, China. Plus rice hot enough to burn your hand, an egg, and a cucumber-like mystery vegetable that I wish I could've identified because I want more. The walk through Guilin was great. Maybe the best part of the tour, though I certainly hate to compare apples and oranges. Certainly not the worst part. I'd seen the natural wonders, and now I'd seen a bit of the "local

color." Just a small bit. It would take years to take it all in. Our walking excursion took four hours, but it seemed much shorter. Happily exhausted, we caught a taxi back to the hotel. We had its name in Chinese on a receipt. We grabbed our luggage and headed for the airport. We visited the restaurant in the airport and studied the Me Nu. Really, that's what it was called. I wish I could've bought a Me Nu, just to tell you how they mishandled the English. But communication was achieved, and that's the point. We ordered some stuff by pointing, and it was quite tasty. Meanwhile the stereo system played Chinese versions of Greensleeves, Yesterday, and other equally forgotten yet recognizable tunes. Upon returning to Hong Kong, I got one last surprise. There were several taxis parked in a line. The drivers weren't in them. They were standing in a huddle of three, and they swarmed us. "Where are you going?" someone asked. "Ma On Shan," I replied, the same way I always do when I want to go home. I might not know much Cantonese, but I do know the name of where I live. The driver didn't understand me, and started pointing to one of the other queues. But another driver understood, and explained it to our driver. Then all three grabbed our luggage and heaved it into the trunk. We piled in and the driver took us home. That's right, a cooperative effort, just like they do in mainland China. Somehow it felt too perfect. During the drive home, the Hong Kong cabbie felt compelled to play some music. It began with an instrumental version of that damn song that goes "Blah-blah-blah blah-blah America, I like to be in America, Everything's free in America, Blah-blah-blah blah-blah America." This was followed by a jazz pianist playing Bach's Jesu and Beethoven's Fur Elise. After the music I heard in Guilin, this somehow seemed quite appropriate.

Epilogue Jan and I moved to Hangzhou, China, in February 2002. I became a teacher as well, which was quite a learning experience. I think I started writing because I feared/hated speaking. I had to get over that in the classroom, didn't I? Eventually our boss discovered I'd published four books and turned me into a writing teacher. Thank you, Huang Haijun! We taught English to university students. Jan is a career teacher, and I used her knowledge every chance I get. I decided that I loved teaching more than I do writing. Every career teacher who read the sentence above is shaking his or her head and saying, "That feeling will pass." It did. That's why I used the past tense. We moved to Shaoxing in February 2004, then returned to Hangzhou in February 2005, although at a different school this time. We moved to Chiang Mai, Thailand, in July 2006. I left teaching immediately, 4 years after starting. Jan needed a couple more years to give it up, after over 20 years as a teacher. She quit teaching three times in Thailand. In September 2010, we moved to Hanoi, Vietnam. Jan returned to teaching. I did not. Those drivers in Guilin are a rarity in China. Most folks are nuts, including me when I ride my bicycle, and the smaller the city, the more likely the drivers are to disregard all the rules. I haven't driven since December 8, 1999. I bicycled in China, and I bicycled in Thailand, and I bicycle in Vietnam. Picasso, the lovely Hong Kong Calico cat, is still with us. There have been many instances where I was afraid I couldn't find her cat food and/or litter, but thus far I've always come through. Why is she so finicky? Surely I don't spoil her, do I? Do I?

### ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Copyright 2005, Michael LaRocca http://www.michaeledits.com/ When Mamie Jo Hill was a young virgin, a doctor assured her she could never get pregnant. After seeing her firstborn son, she wished he'd been right. Little Michael was dumb as a brick, and he had a face that could sink 1000 ships, a face that could make a freight train take a dirt road. A quick peek at http://www.michaeledits.com/ will establish that, unlike a

fine wine, I have not improved with age. As I got older, I learned to compensate for my lack of ability by BSing my way through life. 1982 WHO'S WHO IN AMERICAN WRITING. Four books published in 2002, one in 2004, another in 2005. Three EPPIE finalists. Won some Reviewer's Choice Awards at Sime~Gen. One of WRITERS DIGEST's Top 101 Websites For Writers. And all without a lick of talent. Now I work and live in Asia, where I can BS to my heart's content. But I'm not all bad. My cat really loves me. My wife loves me too, but she doesn't know any better because she's Australian.