A Sign of the Times: Specialization

The garbage truck broke our big green monster trash can -- almost cut it in half. When I called the nice 311 lady last week, she said someone would bring us a new one in a week or two. It arrived this morning before the trash pickup. 

The delivery guy moved our trash from the old one to the new one and hauled off the old one. Clearly the can-deliverer cannot also be a trash-hauler. 

This scenario kind of reminds me of the time I had a flat tire on the Bonnet Carre Spillway bridge. USAA sent a tow truck to get me off the bridge because Roadside Assistance doesn't change tires on bridges. The driver hauled me to a "safe place" then took off because tow truck drivers don't change tires. So I had to wait for the tire changer. A long time.

Who knew the flat tire, and sanitation, industries were so specialized?

Bouie, the Outcast

Today's Times-Picayune carried Shelia Stroup's column about local goings-on.  Ordinarily, I like her columns; I even sent her a "fan email" shortly after moving to New Orleans, telling her that after reading her column devoutly, I counted her among my first "friends" in the area.

But, today's column was about the first anniversary of the wonderful dog park ("City Bark") that was opened in City Park last year and sounds like something that Bouie would envision as Doggie Heaven. 

Why, you might wonder, doesn't Moogie know first-hand how wonderful the City Bark is?  Well, just let me fill you in.

The City Bark "board members" feel they should "support" the City in its "efforts" to reduce the number of "vicious" dogs maurading around town, slashing children and propagating their own breed as they maraud.  The Board's solution?  Ban all dogs who have not been spayed or neutered.  Without appeal.  Without Due Process.

Although we haven't yet been successful in arranging a "date" for Bouie, we're still trying.  He has a bloodline, good nature, and hunting instincts that should be preserved and passed along to future generations.  We never dreamed that packaging up an arranged marriage would be so hard.

So, he remains a dateless outcast.  Doomed never to romp in the ponds and sand pits of City Bark; doomed never to enjoy a cool, cleansing shower after playtime is past or slurp a drink from the fire-hydrant-shaped drinking fountain. 

I think it's just shameful and mean not to have a procedure for intact animals to pay their money and revel in the pleasures of City Bark.  If every domesticated animal were spayed or neutered, there'd be no more domesticated animals!

So, I posted this comment on Ms. Stroup's column at nola.com.  It won't amount to a hill of beans, but it made me feel better.

And I hope it will make some of those know-it-all do-gooders feel bad and mean, like the mean-spirited baddies they are.

I cannot express the pain I feel that our adorable, non-agressive, playful, INTACT 4-year-old black lab will never get to enjoy the City Bark playground and make new friends. It sounds like the park was designed with him in mind; furthermore it sounds like something our family would delight in supporting, both financially and as volunteers. Sadly for all, that's not in the cards.


Shame on you, board members, for assuming the role of omniscient judge and jury. Shame on the City for assuming that all intact dogs will become rogue puppy mills. Not all owners of intact pets are irresponsible, but it appears that we must assume the penalty along with those who are irresponsible.

Shame on you all. Shame, shame, shame.

Saga of the Spring, Chapter Next -- Evolution of a Pothole

Perhaps we should have requested an asphalt crew in addition to the water-main repair crew. Those literal folks who answered the phone at the "Help, there's water pouring out of my street!" department apparently just create holes to repair water pipes, and the citizenry must request street repair from a separate "Hey!  Shovel something over that hole in the street!" department. 

The water pipe repair crew filled in the hole it dug, but, this being New Orleans and all where it rains quite a bit, the absence of anything to seal the replaced dirt in place has allowed the dirt to escape once more via being washed out.  Hence, . . .


. . . where once there was a babbling "spring,"

there is now a growing pothole.

I think some folks are gonna sprain some ankles in a couple of weeks come parade time.  Maybe I should buy an orange cone to stick in the pothole to warn overserved and/or observance-challenged revelers.

Nah.  Last time I put out orange cones to try to save parking spots, someone stole 'em.

Wonder how deep it'll get?