Please God Don't Crack My New Windshield

I've been driving around this morning with a shiny new windshield.  It was cracked for the last couple of years, compliments directly of a semi-truck without mudflaps, and sometimes I think indirectly of a Higher Power intent that I not be overly enamored with a nice car.  Of course I know such is not true.  I think.  But it is uncanny how many times rocks have cracked the windows of my vehicles.  Long ago I met a dump truck on a road in Michigan that tossed a rock into my windshield.  In anger I made a u-turn with the intent of chasing the guy down.  I never caught him, which was probably lucky for me.  I remember, one time, driving a couple of hours to salvage yard to purchase a replacement window.  Arriving home, carefully I sat the delicate glass on the carpet.  Then turning, accidentally I overturned the chair.  Yep, it cracked my $75 windshield into a thousand pieces.  And the proprietor was not interested in providing a free replacement.

Likely it is illegal and could be dangerous to drive around with a cracked windshield.  But I'm cheap.  Finally I set aside sufficient funds and called for estimates.  It was not nearly as expensive as I thought.  Here is my review of the folks who did the work, H&A Mobile Auto Glass .  So, I guess, now I am an officially published author!

I have a question about tipping.  Do you tip a guy who puts a windshield into your car?  I thought about it, and finally decided it would be nice to make the offer.  But I only had $4 in my pocket.  So, a secondary question: Is it better to give a cheap tip, or nothing at all?  He was professional and gracious, and received the tip without a smirk.  Afterward, while inspecting the work and admiring my new windshield, I noticed the installer also had adjusted the hinge on my hood, allowing it to close at a more fitting angle.  I had wondered how to fix that for some time.

Well, I guess I should have also given him the two extra quarters in my pocket?
09.19.09 (12:17 pm)   [edit]

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How To Kill A Cat

Here is a confession: I have been directly instrumental in the untimely demise of our family cat, Scooter. Were the victim a human, likely a court of law could not formally convict. But even with acquitted in the courtroom, this perpetrator likely would receive dirty looks from the gallery, and meet outside with protesters wielding signs scribbled “Cat Killer!” As it is, my family seems kind and understanding. My wife says he was old and it was simply his time to pass. And my daughter foregoes the manipulated logic, simply pining with pity, “Poor daddy”. But I have to live with myself. I did not like the cat and spent little time with him. I fed him, petted him on occasion. And then I killed him. Sometimes I feel bad about it.

Scooter was our cat for 18 years. Overall he was a gentle and forbearing creature. Early I had him neutered. Likely he never fully understood the dastardly deed, but from that moment he never wielded to me the title of owner. My job was to feed and house the critter. Others were reserved the privileges of petting and purring and his ghastly habit of drooling. And that was o.k. with me. About ten years ago he started the particularly annoying habit of entering my bedroom at around 2 a.m., to scream me awake. I did not like it and let him know with a broom. The habit continued, but followed with a dash to a preplanned place to hide. Months later he quit. But sometime I would see him, sitting on the arm of my favored chair, staring at me with disgust as he shed fur and emitted gases. We did not like one another. At times I would mumble bad things, but I really did not mean it. Honestly.

The kids dressed him in doll clothing. The neighboring felines beat him to a pulp. My son and his friends spent a few days baptizing the poor creature. Rocking chairs pinched his tail and heavy shoes sometimes mashed his toes. Still he prevailed.

A month ago, on a rare occasion, I was rubbing his back and scratching his cheek. Drool flowed freely upon my sleeve. I felt a rash along his back. With the best of intentions I went to the drug store to buy a spray medication, and generously doused his skin. Later I learned from the vet to never use human medications upon animals! Just a few minutes after the application, a series of sad events unfolded before my eyes. The cat tumbled from the arm of our new sofa- the arm he had been using to sharpen his claws- onto the carpet. There he lay with legs pointing rigidly into the air and tongue hanging out. Eyes stared blankly toward the ceiling. Scooter was paralyzed. After about five minutes he rolled to his side, vomited, and staggered from the room. He went outside to sleep under the shrubbery, something never done previously. I guess it was as far as he could get from me?

For four weeks he refused to eat. He would drink a bit of water, and milk. I tried force-feeding, and all kinds of goodies and treats, to no avail. The vet said his kidneys were shutting down and he had entered a death fast. He spoke with his usual detachment. But while carrying the emaciated cat from the room and out the door, I am sure his sweet female assistants looked at me with contempt.

Today he is gone. We took him to the vet to have him put out of his misery. To be specific, my wife took him. I was a coward to the very end. She brought him over to me, wrapped in a blanket, warm and purring. I scratched his cheek and rubbed his head, and told him I was sorry. He didn’t seem to be angry. 

Should I hear a familiar screech in the middle of the night, I’ll not reach for a broom. It would be fitting retribution.

09.16.09 (3:24 pm)   [edit]

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