Under New Management

November 21, 2018.Reading time 5 minutes.

Think of your best boss and then consider your worst. You likely have a mental picture of both right away. One makes you smile and the other grimace. Management is hard.

I started my professional career with a very good manager who took me under his wing and trained me for about six months before he fell victim to the dreaded, “personal problems”. When you’re twenty-two, you don’t understand what’s happening when your boss starts coming in late and looking like he slept on the sticky beer-floor of a frat house. I had no idea what was going on until the rumor mill swirled with talk of infidelity, divorce, and scandal. Finally one day, my formerly conservative boss came in to collect his last paycheck on his motorcycle wearing an earring and a leather jacket.

The next boss was only about three years older than me. He had no management experience and no discernable people skills. He had somehow caught the eye of the CEO and was completely out of his element. If we weren’t half my size he would have attempted management by fear. Since he was a little fella, he ruled through paranoia – often sneaking up on us to see what we were doing. Like all paragons of business, rather than coach us during the year, he decided to surprise us with our insufficiencies during our performance reviews. One of my coworkers actually walked out of her review never to return and the rest of us found new jobs within a month. I wonder what that bonehead is doing now.

I’ve had bad managers since those days, but I’ve mostly been blessed to work under some very good ones. Being a manager is difficult because it relies on people working hard toward a common goal. A good manager knows what motivates his or her employees. But in the end, people are people. We are terminally flawed and often self-seeking.

I hope this new guy is good.

We have new management.

They say dress for the job you want and not the job you have. While we were shopping for a new collar for Stanley we found this number with a bow tie. The minute we put it on him, he assumed the reigns. It wasn’t so much that he took over; he just looked so qualified that we gave him the promotion. But now, he’s turned into a little tyrant.

I used to think it was cute that he followed me around, standing behind me when I made coffee or got him food. Now I feel like he’s just watching me to make sure I’m doing it right. Before his rise to power, I loved to hear him squawk. Since he got promoted all I hear is him bellowing orders.

And we can’t call him Stanley anymore. With his new air of formality, we have taken to calling him Mr. Stanley.

He seems to like this new role and as long as we keep feeding him, following orders, and giving him salty chips to lick, he usually stays out of our affairs. No one else seems too concerned, but I’m your basic slacker here at home. So I feel like since he is always watching, my performance review has the potential to be negative. But that’s okay. I assume he will put me on some kind of notice before he terminates me.

I will say, I used to love how he purred and wrapped his little tail around my leg as he passed. But now, having the boss constantly rub your leg is quite disconcerting… like I’ve stepped into a 1950’s secretarial pool.

Sorry, Mr. Stanley, I was blogging… I’ll get back to work now.

Do All Dogs Go to Heaven?

November 7, 2018.Reading time 5 minutes.

I wonder about things like that. It’s nice to think of the good dogs in our life walking beside us in great beyond. What about the bad ones? Did they never get a chance here but deserve a break in the afterlife?

I made a big mistake fourteen years ago and would like for some young simpleton to profit from my stupidity. Here is my advice: if you lose a beloved old dog, don’t immediately take four sad children and your big-hearted wife near a pet store that frequently holds adoptions. You will end up with a puppy, I assure you. We did. She was a cute little black thing but she was a handful.

Someone found her playing in the road when she was five weeks old, too young to be weaned. But with no mother dog in sight, the rescue took her in and then we did.

I never really bonded with her. With work and a big family, maybe I had too much going on in my life, I don’t know. She bonded with the girls though… and she ate quite a few of their toys. We took her to obedience classes. She failed. Nothing stuck. She still ate toys. She wouldn’t mind.

But she was always sweet to the girls and never, ever growled or snapped at them or their friends. Besides the typical puppy stuff, we discovered that she was obsessed with the game of fetch. That dog would knock over anything and everything in pursuit of a tennis ball. In fact, we had to ban them from the house because she crashed into children over a ball more than once. When she was a puppy, that wasn’t a big deal. When she grew to a 90-pound menace, running over kids became a problem.

Her back legs began to wear down early in her life. She struggled mightily when it got cold. Over the past year, a knot began swelling at her shoulder. The vet said it was bursitis, but things began to turn. She was getting old, slowing down and we knew the time was coming to make a decision – the worst decision a pet-owner has to make. When she stopped eating, it became obvious. A Saturday appointment was made.

We were in the den Friday and she began methodically licking her shoulder. Like I had for the past year, I told her to quit. But then it dawned on me – what does it matter now? She has less than 24 hours left.

Lick away, Misty.

That night, the girls all spent time with her. When they were little and we had company, Jenna and Kylie would forfeit their rooms for the guests and sleep on the floor with the dogs. They thought that was really cool – to sleep with the dogs. So Jenna decided to spend the night on the floor with her.

It dawned on me that Kylie would take the next shift.

We all piled in the little room at the animal hospital and saw her peacefully away.

I have a vivid picture of Kylie waiting with a tennis ball… smiling and calling her name. The first of her family to come home to her.

“Come here, Misty. Come home… good girl.”

Do all dogs go to heaven?

I don’t know. It’s a theological question too lofty for me. She wasn’t a great dog. I wasn’t a great owner, either. But she was loved and she loved my girls. She did her job here and had a good run – 14 years for a dog found playing in the road.

I think of the two of them running and jumping on perfect legs – bound by earthly maladies no more – and I find that I really hope dogs make it.

Have a good fetch, Misty. Take care of Kylie until we come home.