These essays first appeared in “Off My Noodle“.

Revenge of the Chihuahua
by Judy Gruen

I have always had a secret hankering to take bold and dramatic action to further the cause of liberty. Sadly, I have had few opportunities to foist my valuable opinions on the public. Heck, I haven’t even served on jury duty, since I am directly responsible for the care and feeding of minor children between the hours of 8 a.m. and 5 p.m. The closest I have come to helping secure justice for the downtrodden was when I offered to attend Doggy Court to testify on behalf of Bubbles the Chihuahua. It wasn’t exactly the Supreme Court, but it was something.

At only three pounds and six inches tall, Bubbles is a sorry excuse for a dog. In my opinion, a dog small enough to fit in a shoe is more an annoyance than anything else. For one thing, you can never see them without binoculars, and therefore end up stepping on them by accident, inducing guilt. However, Bubbles belongs to my good friend and neighbor, Sally, who loves her boundlessly. Bubbles has another redeeming quality in that our dog, Ken, a beagle/lab mix who qualifies as a real dog, loves to play with her and steal her chew toys. Therefore, when our neighbor, Marvin the misanthrope, reported Bubbles to the police for her incessant barking, I could hardly abandon them in their time of need.

Marvin the misanthrope is one of those weird reclusive guys who does not even pretend to be friendly. If one day he turned out to be an ax murderer, no one on the block would exclaim in shock to a reporter, “But he always helped me dig my car out from the snow and delivered meals to shut-ins!” Instead they’d say, “Well, that explains it.”

 Marvin complained repeatedly to Sally about Bubbles’ habit of barking — not an unusual trait in a dog. Admittedly, Bubbles can detonate a volley of shrieking barks louder than Ken, and he’s pretty loud. I have always suspected that Bubbles, like many other small creatures, has a bit of a Napoleon complex. In fact, Bubbles is not much larger than a Napoleon (the kind you’d find in a bakery, not a history book). But Marvin didn’t appreciate Bubbles’ dogged efforts to protect the neighborhood through baying vigorously at every passing car, truck or pedestrian. Nor did he appreciate Sally’s efforts to keep the Chihuahua quiet. He just wanted her to shut up.

Bubbles refused to understand that her clangorous yaps were driving Marvin the misanthrope mad. Sally, knowing that Marvin was losing patience, even brought him a home-cooked meal and freshly baked chocolate chip cookies by way of apology, but — and prepare yourselves for a shock — he refused them, proving that in addition to being a miserable wretch of a human being Marvin is also an idiot. Everyone in the neighborhood knows that Sally is a remarkable cook.

If anything, Sally’s “food for peace” program backfired. The next week, Sally received a summons to court in an action brought by Marvin. Bubbles’ fate hung in the balance.

“You’ve got to help me!” Sally pleaded as we walked our dogs together, trying to avoid leash burn as Bubbles and Ken wrapped themselves around our legs. “I have nightmares about Marvin dressed like the Wicked Witch of the West, screeching, ‘I’ll get you, my little pretty, and your little dog, too!’ Then he grabs Bubbles and throws her in a dirty backpack and drives off while the authorities just stand by. I won’t be able to cope if anything happens to Bubbles.” The image of Marvin wearing a witch’s cape and pointy hat was chilling enough. Even I was moved by the thought that this miniscule scrap of a dog might be taken from Sally because of Marvin’s malevolence. Besides, with whom would Ken spend his lazy afternoons if not with Bubbles?

“Don’t worry, Sally. I’ll get a petition going in the neighborhood attesting to Bubbles’ good character and to Marvin’s bad one. I’ll come with you to court. Marvin won’t stand a chance against us.”

We walked by Marvin’s house, the only one on the block with no lawn. Even grass could not grow in the inhospitable environment inhabited by miserable Marvin. I went home and typed up the petition, which asked neighbors to affirm that Bubbles’ barking posed no annoyance and that in fact Marvin’s refusal to landscape and general orneriness were driving property values down, and therefore he should be asked to sell his house and move to another state. Other than one neighbor who was convinced I was trying to collect money for a save-the-endangered-mollusk fund, I had no trouble gathering more than a dozen signatures.

Finally the big day arrived. I picked up Sally and Bubbles and we drove off to court. Bubbles was smartly dressed in a new pink leopard-print collar with two bells and matching fringed sweater set. After all, there was a decided chill in the air, and that was even before we entered the room to face Bubbles’ nemesis.

Marvin was surprised to see me. “I never thought that you’d turn on me like this,” Marvin said, looking hurt.

“You gave me no choice, Marvin,” I said. “Your pathetic-looking front yard is bad enough, but when you reported Bubbles to the police, you went too far.” I stared at him. So this is what righteous indignation felt like! I enjoyed it immensely.

The judge called us into a small, sterile looking room that did not exactly radiate an aura of justice. However, the good news was that he and Bubbles hit it off immediately, and the judge allowed her to lick his hand with her flyspeck of a tongue. Marvin could hardly contain his revulsion. After calling the proceedings to order, the judge asked Marvin to state his case.

Marvin proceeded to list a long litany of complaints, mostly dates, times and durations of Bubbles’ barkfests. Then Marvin asked the judge permission to play a videotape that he promised would seal Bubbles’ fate. As Sally and I held our breaths, and even Bubbles, sensing that something was terribly amiss, whimpered, her pointy little ears suddenly rearing back in fear. The judge allowed the viewing, and Marvin triumphantly played the tape on the court’s television. He had secretly mounted a camera from his own den of depravity next door, filming Sally’s yard, or at least one wall of it, to indict Bubbles with the proof of her barking.

Marvin rolled the tape, barely containing his excitement. The judge, Marvin, Sally, Bubbles and I stared intently at the wall of Sally’s house. A minute or two passed, but no damning barks were heard.

“It’s coming, don’t worry,” said Marvin, worriedly.

We continued to watch Sally’s wall, where nothing much was happening. Not even a bird flitted by nor a squirrel ran past.

“Marvin, I don’t hear any barking on this tape,” said the judge.

“I promise you it’s here!” Marvin’s voice began to crack. “I stayed up all night watching this! Just wait!”

This time, Sally and I exchanged glances with the judge, and with Bubbles, who began to relax. I wanted to laugh at Marvin’s utter humiliation, but he was too creepy to risk doing so. I had to bite my lip instead, and it was beginning to hurt.

Several more excruciating minutes passed, during which Marvin’s feckless attempts to entrap Bubbles on videotape revealed absolutely nothing except that if you looked hard enough, you could see an area where Sally’s paint was beginning to crack from sun exposure. Finally, the judge had had enough.

“I don’t hear anything on that tape, Marvin. Please turn it off.”

“I swear to that dog was barking when I filmed it! There must be something wrong with the audio!” Marvin seemed dangerously close to the edge, and I pushed my chair further away from him. After all, we were in a small room — what if Marvin was packing heat? Where were all the armed bailiffs were when you needed them? I hated to think that during my very first chance to do my bit for justice, I would be blown away by a nutcase, and all because I had chosen to defend a Chihuahua dressed like a rock star. Somehow, that would seem like a waste.

Still, I figured that if Marvin was going to blow, he was going to blow no matter what happened next, so I took the opportunity to offer my petition as exhibit A in the case of Marvin the misanthrope versus Bubbles the Chihuahua. I asked the judge permission to read the petition and show him all the signatories. Permission was granted, and Bubbles was found innocent of the canine charges against her. The case was closed.

As Marvin shoved his camera into his bag, the judge said to him, “You’re lucky you don’t next door to me, Marvin. I’ve got two Rottweilers.” And with that, Marvin, his case melted, turned to Sally and warned, “I’m not through with you yet! I’ll take this to an appellate court!” Then he stormed out of the room.

After he left, the judge shook his head. “I’ve seen a lot of guys like this before,” he said, as the four of us basked in a moment of judicial bonhomie. “They’re pathetic. But don’t worry. Their bark is worse than their bite.”

We thanked the judge, and Bubbles gave him a final lick of thanks before we left. Sally and I peered out the window to make sure Marvin had gone before we dared to go out to the parking lot. After all, Bubbles was not likely to offer much protection, and as usual I had forgotten to buy pepper spray.

On the way home, we stopped at Pets-a-Rama to buy new dog treats and bones for Bubbles and Ken. That afternoon, we unleashed a party in Sally’s yard for all the dogs in the neighborhood. And just for posterity, we caught all the festivities on tape.

****

Walking a Mile With My Pedometer
By Judy Gruen

It does not augur well when you must suck in your gut and hold your breath as if you are having multiple x-rays taken simply to zip up your skirt.

When this happened to me, I knew I had two choices: give up my current wardrobe or lose the excess baggage. Since I recently wrote a book on diet and exercise that ended with my buying a new, smaller wardrobe, I decided it would be too embarrassing to blow up like Kirstie Alley. Better that I should return to vigorous exercise and horrid Weight Watcher bars.

I perused several fitness magazines I had at home and found an article about walking. “Brisk walking is one of the best forms of cardiovascular exercise, even for out-of-shape marshmallows like you,” the article explained. “It is suitable for all ages and abilities and requires no special equipment beyond a good pair of walking shoes and a commitment not to double-dip into the cookie jar. A simple, affordable pedometer or step counter can help motivate you to a more active lifestyle.”

Eureka! I live in a large city where I could walk to many stores and businesses — this plan could work for me! I jumped in the car and drove to the nearest sporting goods store to buy my pedometer. Why walk there before I knew how many calories I’d be burning in the process? Besides, no sense knocking myself out so early in the day, leaving no energy for a brisk walk later on.

I chose a fitness pedometer that would track my mileage, steps taken, and calories burned. I declined the pedometer that barked out peppy rah-rah encouragement, such as “You’re doing great!” How would a pedometer know if I was struggling up a hill or just walking to the freezer to get a bowl of Haagen-Dazs? The article also noted that in today’s lazy society, most people walk a measly 2,000 steps on a typical day. My goal should be at least 6,000 steps, but if I wanted to see real results I had better ramp it up to 10,000.

Not surprisingly, I had trouble figuring out how to operate the device, but after an hour and a half on the phone with a patient customer service representative, I was programmed for fitness!

Ready for action, I clipped the pedometer to my skirt and strode energetically to the front door to see if the mail had come. I took 23 steps and burned three calories. Then I took the dog around the block — 198 steps taken and nine more calories gone. Borrowing a cup of flour from a friend around the corner tallied another 79 steps and 11 calories. I could see that it was going to be a long way to 10,000 steps.

I refused to let my enthusiasm flag, even as I wondered how to meet my daily walking quota while also completing my regular work. Most of my “must-do” work involves sitting at a computer or tending pots on a stove. I planned to squeeze in as many steps as possible by following other advice from the article: parking my car in a shopping center a half-mile from the one where I intended to shop; taking the stairs, even if I had an appointment on the 23rd floor; going for a lunch hour stroll (the writer made no mention of when I might actually get to eat lunch); and my favorite: marching in place while I’m on the phone.

Then I hustled over to the mall for some new walking shoes — essential to keep my spirits up. I parked in a far corner on the uppermost level of the parking structure where I had never parked before. I assumed, correctly as it turned out, that I would not be able to locate my car afterwards and therefore would log at least another half mile in aimless wandering.

At the mall, I tried to remember all the article’s walking posture instructions: I kept my head up and centered between my shoulders (where else would I keep my head?), my eyes focused straight ahead (as opposed to having my eyes darting like a psychotic?), my chest lifted, swinging my arms and hands at a 90-degree angle (too bad; I much prefer an 85-degree angle). I had no idea how to do all this while also pulling my belly button in toward my spine and tucking my pelvis forward so that I could feel taller than my paltry five feet, three inches. One wonders how our ancestors managed to walk throughout history without expert advice on how to put one foot in front of the other.

I suddenly lost my train of thought when I spotted a strange character striding confidently toward the food court. I couldn’t tell if it was male or female, but it was wearing woman’s clothing. I picked up the pace and followed the mystery shopper, but it was fast! Out of breath, I finally got close enough to see that he was a transvestite, carrying a very trendy purse in aubergine. I was tempted to go up and ask him where he got that purse, but I couldn’t afford to get sidetracked from my mission. I checked my pedometer. Stalking the transvestite burned another 21 calories.

My foray to the mall yielded an impressive 987 steps, 503 of which were spent finding the car. Despite this exertion, my pedometer only claimed a 62-calorie burn.

Donning my new athletic shoes, I took the dog for a mega-calorie burning walk. Fitness walking with a dog is a unique form of “interval training.” When Ken sees a squirrel or other amusing creature, he runs like a rocket, forcing me to hurtle after him. But his insistence on stopping to sniff every other tree gives my heart a chance to recover from the last squirrel sighting. We returned home and I eagerly checked the pedometer. I had gone 2.5 miles, including hills, but only burned 198 calories! How could this be? My walking article claimed that a vigorous 45-minute walk should burn up to 350 calories!

I realized the pedometer was faulty, and I called the manufacturer to complain.

“There’s something wrong with. . . your . . . pedometers,” I huffed. “It’s. . . not . . (huff huff) showing that. . . I . . . burned . . . enough calories.”

“There’s nothing wrong with our pedometers,” a surly female agent told me. “Besides, if you’re that out of breath from making a phone call, it’s no wonder you can’t walk very far.”

“I’m out of . . . breath because. . . I’m jumping up and down to burn. . . more calories! That’s what the . . . article on . . . walking for. . . fitness told (huff huff) me to do!”

“Maybe you didn’t program your pedometer correctly,” she asked. “Is your weight correct?”
“No, my weight is not correct!” I had stopped jumping at this point, worried that I might have an unfortunate cardiac emergency. “It is very, very wrong. It is unjust in the extreme! That’s why I bought this blasted pedometer in the first place!” I realized that I was not advancing my cause by having an emotional breakdown while on the phone with this unsympathetic person. How could she possibly understand? I bet she wore a size 2.

I got no relief from my conversation, but I persevered. Five days later I had walked 19.97 miles, or 43,637 steps, burning 1,616 calories. This included walking to the bakery, where I slaked my sorrow over my lack of pedometer progress in a large cinnamon bun and coffee.

Despite this, today I did not have to hold my breath until I nearly turned blue to zip my skirt. It was a subtle difference, but a difference nonetheless. Progress was coming, one electronically measured step at a time. But I’m not kidding myself: I’ve miles to go before I’m sleek.