The Larson Family

A former roommate of mine pointed out to me once that I have a lot of stories about stupid things I did that could have killed me. He then went on to list all the stories I told him about “the time I almost died” or the “time I could have died.” And I realized he was right.

We had many jokes about it, thought it was quite funny, but now I have a son. And I see a lot of me in him. And I really hope he’s not as foolish as I was.

You want an example? OK, how about this… I remember one year, I couldn’t have been more than twelve, it had been a VERY cold winter. I grew up in Minot, ND, home of the Souris River which we locals called the “mouse” river. In the winter, it would freeze solid after a couple weeks of sub zero temperatures, and we thought nothing of walking and even sledding on the ice.

Well that year it had been very cold, but like North Dakota weather so often does, we experienced a dramatic turnaround in temperature that spring. It went from below freezing to fifties and sixties in the course of a couple days. I remember being at my friend’s house–I’m thinking his name was Shawn–which was right on the river. As young boys will do, we climbed the fence in his back yard and went down the riverbank to check out the ice breaking up on the river.

We were thrilled to find huge chunks of ice floating around, like mini Titanic-busters. There were so many of these chunks of ice on the river that they were floating around, bumping into each other with just inches or a few feet between them.

What do boys do when they see such a scenario? Well, they jump to the nearest block of ice and try to cross the river without getting wet, of course. So that’s what we did. We had a great time, jumping from block to block. I managed to avoid getting too wet, although there were a few times that I jumped on a block of ice only to have my weight lift the other end of the block out of the water, soaking my shoes.

Our fun ended when my friend Shawn jumped on a block of ice, and the edge broke off, dunking him in the dirty Mouse river. Luckily, he was near the riverbank and only went in to about knee-depth before he hit bottom. I think we realized then that what we were doing was very dangerous. And I could have died.

Oh, there are lots more of these stories to come. Playing on the freight trains… playing in the abandoned water treatment plant… and much more. Stay tuned. — Troy

About a year ago, a co-worker brought a box of farm kitties into work. We didn’t intend to get another cat–we already have one, Tigger, seventeen years old–but one of these little kittens looked up at me with sweet little green eyes… Oh, he was so cute. He was even the same color as Tigger. Charcoal gray with a white belly and paws.

So I sent my wife a text and asked if she wanted another kitty who looked just like Tigger. Big mistake. A twenty mile drive later, we were on our way home with a new kitty. A farm kitty no less.

After some debate, my suggestion for a name won out. We decided to call him Gizmo, although my wife and son have taken to calling him Gizzy Poo Poo, or just Poo Poo. And he was oh-so-sweet… for awhile.

Before too long, Poo Poo had appropriated my son’s favorite stuffed animal, Bob the Pop Tart Monkey (that name is another story), as his humping buddy. And man does he hump it. That poor monkey has taken it in the pooper more times than a forty-year-old adult film starlet. And he loves to do it in the middle of the room too. Gizmo has taken to picking the monkey up by the scruff of the neck and bringing him into whatever room we’re in, just so we can watch him work. And he makes this weird noise when he’s doing it too… it gets pretty old hearing that in our bedroom at night.

The humping isn’t the worst of it, though. Now Gizzy Poo Poo has become Gizzy Pee Pee. He’s begun to spray, or mark his territory so to speak. And it stinks. And we’re doing the laundry like ten times per week to keep the smell down. Not to mention chasing him around the house and yelling at him every time we catch him.

We’ve had our fill of it now, and it’s time to get this kitty neutered. But neutering is really expensive these days. I called to set up an appointment for him today, and was astounded at what they’re asking. A pre-surgical exam–fifty bucks. Vaccinations–fifteen bucks per shot. And the neutering itself–one hundred thirty to one hundred fifty dollars. I mean, I was probably looking at two fifty to three hundred by the time I was done. Plus they wanted me to jump through all these hoops. First I had to bring him in with a stool sample for the pre-surgical exam. Only when the Doctor gave him the go ahead for neutering would I have been able to set an appointment for the neutering on a separate visit. I don’t know about you, but I’m busy. “Yes, um, could you just cut my cat’s nuts off without all the paperwork please?”

So, I called another joint… same deal, although a little cheaper. And then I found someone else. A vet who was listed only by name, not affiliated with an “animal hospital”. When I called, he answered the phone by saying “hello?” loudly. Not the most formal greeting. Turns out, he’s a retired vet who now works out of his house. Is this even legal? Who knew? You know, I once called the city to get some information about the health regulations for running a hot dog cart. And I was shocked at how strict the regulations were to boil some hot dogs. But this guy can run a veterinary business out of his home?? How would you like to be his garbage collector?

Anyway, he’s a lot cheaper, actually comes to your house to pick up ‘the animal’ as he put it, and no annoying exams or vaccination records required. After an overnight stay and some antibiotics, little Gizmo will be back home, licking his wounds no doubt. And Tigger, who was neutered long ago, will be wearing a big smile on his face. And Bob the Pop Tart Monkey will be getting the last laugh over this kitty’s gone nuts. — Troy