If I want to speak with my chickens, I’ll do it in person

There are some phone conversations I just want to avoid. I’m generally a convivial person. I enjoy the company of others and live for the free exchange of ideas. But let’s be real, some people are just … boring.

Even people who generally aren’t boring can seem that way on the telephone. I think it’s one of the reasons texting has become so popular; you’re forced to sum things up in a few sentences. There’s not all the messing about with “So, how have you been?” and “Are Sally and the kids doing well?” and “Did you hear there are missiles headed for Hawaii?”

With texting, you’re in and out of the conversation in a hurry and can get on with the important stuff, like marathon Facebook sessions and watching paint peel from the wall behind the radiator.

My daughter, Aubreii, feels the same way. We text each other almost daily, but a phone call between us requires more planning than goes into most Royal weddings.

There are the obligatory “Are you free to talk later today?” texts. Once a time is set, a second text is required just prior to dialing the phone (not that anyone “dials” anymore, but you know what I mean). That’s the “Is now OK?” text.

Finally, we’re talking, live, on the phone. It’s gotten so it feels like a big deal; like back in the days of long-distance charges and “formal” first of the month calls to Grandma’s house in Indianapolis, circa 1965. Each kid was allowed 20 seconds – which my father timed with a stopwatch – with Grandma.

I’m sure my grandmother considered the time limit a blessing. What adult really wants to talk with five dopey kids?

But like I said, most phone calls – even those not initiated by children – are boring. Which is why I’m nervous about the Petcube. The Petcube is a device that (and I swear I’m not making this up) allows your pet to call you. You read that right: Fido can now dial you up from home, just to say “woof.”

Now, I’m a true animal lover. At present I have no dog, but I do have eight cats, seven chickens and a hermit crab. I like them all, but I do not want to be fielding calls from them when I’m away from home.

Frankly, I just don’t care how their day is going. As long as they’re fed, watered and not dead, I don’t need regular feline/poultry/crustacean updates from the home front.

Why? Well, first off, most animals are even more boring than their human counterparts. My cats do nothing but sleep, eat and eviscerate small animals. What are they going to say on the phone that can’t wait until I get home and find the decapitated mole on the back porch?

And the chickens, by comparison, make the cats look like the love children of Garrison Keeler and Mark Twain. A chicken’s whole purpose in life, far as I’ve been able to ascertain, is to eat, leave messes on the lawn furniture, and (fortunately for them) create eggs. They are neither bright nor interesting animals and I feel no need to check up on them when I’m out to dinner – or to have them check up on me.

Far as the hermit crab is concerned, I’m not even sure she’s still alive. She hasn’t moved in three weeks. Fortunately, death alters a hermit crab’s demeanor only slightly; a dead one is as good a pet as a live one. But again, no phone call needed.

The Petcube provides not only voice interaction, but video as well. Basically, your pooch stands in front of the device and it sends a message to your smart watch or phone. At this point you push a button and – shazam! – you’re enjoying long-distance facetime with Lassie.

Think your pet wouldn’t be interested in speaking with you? Think again. The Petcube lets you remotely dispense food for your dog or play laser tag with your cat. I have no doubt my cats would be “calling” me 10 to 15 times an hour, just for the pleasure of chasing the Red Dot.

But here’s the worst of it: Petcube also allows for the automatic posting and live-streaming of your human/critter interactions on social media. How long will it be before we’re all drowning in “Who’s a good boy? Who is? You are” Facebook videos? It’s all too horrible to contemplate.

I have no idea what a Petcube will set you back, but I’m hoping they’re prohibitively expensive. I have an old iPhone around here somewhere. I think I’ll just switch it on and leave it in the living room. If the cats or chickens can figure out how to use it, then I’ll know they really have something important to discuss.

If not? Let ‘em communicate by leaving dead animals on the back porch, the way nature intended.

MTaylor325@gmail.com

MTRealityCheck.blogspot.com

(616) 745-9530

It’s hard to be nice when, by nature, I’m a jerk

I try to be a nice guy. I really do. I’ve made enough mistakes in my life that I try to forgive the mistakes of others. Also, my murky cosmic worldview includes a vague belief in Karma, so I’m nice for purely selfish reasons; namely, because I want others to be nice to me.

Usually, I manage to at least keep up the pretense of niceness. But the guy who ran into my car the other day was lucky to escape with his life.

It was one of those days when everything goes wrong, y’know? We’ve all had them.

I was supposed to meet my sons for lunch; nothing fancy, just tacos out of a cardboard box. I was running late because, while leaving the house, I discovered one of my Beetle’s tires was soft. One of my Beetle’s new tires, that I’d just dropped $700 on a week earlier.

Now, ordinarily, there’s nothing I love more than dealing with a flat when the outside temperature is minus-two. Oh, sure, there are root canals and reruns of American Idol, but other than these, sub-zero flats are definitely my favorite thing.

Being the kind of guy I am, I dealt with the flat by re-inflating the tire and rattling off a quick prayer to Ba’lial, the imaginary god of punctured rubber. He must have been listening, because so far, the tire hasn’t gone soft again. We true believers have a distinct advantage when dealing with this sort of thing.

To show Ba’lial my gratitude, I took Ruby (my Bug) through the car wash. It’s easier than sacrificing a goat.

I arrived late at Taco Bueno (not the real name; you know the place I’m talking about). My sons never really expect me to be on time, so they hadn’t called out the National Guard or pinged my Life Alert bracelet.

Over a gigantic box of food that only cost five bucks, my eldest son informed me he was moving to Detroit. I wasn’t happy about this, since it means I’ll be seeing less of him.

That wasn’t the end of the bad news, though. My youngest son told me his schedule – he’s a semi driver – was going to be super busy for the next couple months, so I’d also see less of him.

I don’t have enough friends that I can afford to lose the two guys I love best. I tried to mask my disappointment, but I didn’t try too hard. I was raised Catholic, and if Catholic guilt was good enough for me, it’s good enough for my kids. I wanted them to feel a bad about deserting me.

It may have worked a on Jordan, but James knows no shame and obviously feels that making a living and providing for his children is more important than eating tacos with the old man. Kids. What are ya gonna do?

At any rate, we ate and left. I was feeling grumpy. But I lied and told both boys I was happy with their decisions to a) move to Detroit, and b) spend the next three months on the road. They drove off in Jim Bob’s pickup, the one with the balloon tires; the one that looks like it should be jumping through hoops of fire at the DeltaPlex.

I would have driven off as well, but Ruby’s doors were frozen shut. (Here’s a helpful automotive hint: don’t go through the car wash when it’s minus-two outside.)

Now, I was wearing only slacks, a T-shirt and a sports jacket. Because I’d rather look cool than be warm. Five minutes of trying to de-ice the seal around Ruby’s door with nothing but a credit card put me firmly into the early stages of hypothermia, but eventually the frost relented and I was able to get in and out of the wind.

And that’s when the guy backed into me. To be fair, he was barely moving. I saw him coming and laid on my horn, but he didn’t realize all the tooting and wild gesticulating was for his benefit.

 We both exited our vehicles. He was an old guy, by which I mean at least ten years older than me. But probably not 12. His first words were, “Are you all right?”

It’s hard for me to be mad at someone who’s worried about my well-being, but I tried anyway. “How it’s supposed to work, pal, is that you look, and then you back up!” I said. Considering how angry I was, I thought this was a fairly measured response.

But being Catholic, I immediately felt guilty for being a jerk. It got easier from there. The guy apologized, I apologized for yelling at him, we surveyed the damage, figured out there was none, shook hands, and went our separate ways.

I’m sure I racked up at least a little bad Karma though, because of the yelling thing. It’ll come back to me, I just know it. Ba’lial or no Ba’lial, I expect that tire will start going soft again any day now.

MTaylor325@gmail.com

MTRealityCheck@Blogspot.com

(616) 745-9530