BAD HEARING FOLLIES

DEAR GEORGE, As you know, my hearing isn’t a hundred percent. Actually it’s improved a lot during the pandemic (since I rarely talk to anyone), but it’s still shaky enough that it can leave me muddling through public situations. For the most part, these are harmless but amusing encounters. I try to keep track of examples in my daily diary. Here are a few. LOVE, DAVE

HELPING OUT A STRANGER. Sometimes I’ll ask people to repeat what they said when I don’t get it. Other times, when it’s less important, I just fake it. The other day, for example, I was taking photos of the flowering trees on Ludlow Ave. A middle-aged man approached me on the sidewalk and said something like,“Is grat houch dooling arn the narket?” “Yes,” I said confidently. “I knew it,” he said, shaking his head vigorously. Then, double-checking, he asked, “That one?” and pointed to the house directly in front of us.“No,” I said cluelessly, “that one down there”, and I pointed in the general direction of the house next door. Suddenly it dawned on me that he’d asked me if the house we were in front of was going on the market. Too embarrassed to correct my misinformation, I sped up my walking pace, leaving my innocent victim in a state of befuddlement.

MY ERRONEOUS MEDICAL RECORD. When I went in recently for a medical checkup, the nurse went over my recent history, going through her list to see whether I’d been experiencing various symptoms (e.g., unexpected weight gain, chest pains, dizziness, medication allergies, etc.). As she read through the list, I said “no” for most of them. Sometimes, though, I didn’t quite hear what she said, so I just said “no” to those too. Later I decided that that might not be the best way of going about it since incorrect information could affect my treatment. I have survived so far though.

MYSTERY LUNCH. Returning from the dentist, I came upon a Long John Silver’s. I looked over the drive-through menu and decided on the two-piece fish lunch. The woman over the staticky loudspeaker said, “Would you like to try a kkrccash mnintrop vrvv? It’s $5.99.” She had a high-pitched voice which always gives me trouble, so I asked her to repeat it. She said, “Would you like to try a ppraavckr menffllk fibber? Only $5.99.” So I said, “Yes, that’s what I want.” She asked if I would like some Krrmlkfszces with that, and I said no thank you. It only took a minute or two to get my order, and I pulled into a space in their parking lot to eat. I was curious about my mystery lunch. Actually it turned out well: one piece of fish, one crabcake, four fried shrimp, French fries, and coleslaw. I’d order it again next time but I don’t know what to ask for.

MY FAVORITE SUPPER. The other night Katja brought in a delicious meal to the table. “What’s this?” I asked. “Chicken pot pie,” I heard her say. “Oh great, my favorite, chicken pot pie.” “No,” Katja replied, “chicken pot pie.” “Yes, chicken pot pie — my favorite,” I said. She spoke slowly and articulated carefully, “Chicken Pad Thai.” “Oh, Chicken Pad Thai, I didn’t think this looked like chicken pot pie.” In any case, it was tasty. The next day I sat down and Katja brought in another plate. “Chicken pot pie,” she said. “Oh, Chicken Pad Thai,” I replied. “No, chicken pot pie,” she said. “Are you saying Chicken Pad Thai?” I asked. As it turned out it actually was chicken pot pie this time. I gave up trying to get it right.

Winston and the Creatures

DEAR GEORGE, My household project this past month has been to clean up the attic room in which I’ve stored detritus that I’ve accumulated over the past four decades (e.g., 1970s magazines, old encyclopedias, antique photos and postcards). Thousands and thousands of items. What a mess. Most of it is useless, though, now and then, I’ve run across items of sentimental value. One of these is a story I’d written in February 1989 about our Bedlington Terrier Winston and the wild creatures that invaded our house and property. It brought back lots of memories, so I thought I would post it here.

“On a chilly Sunday morning at the beginning of the month we slept late, only to be awakened by Winston’s incessant barking. He was pawing wildly at the bedroom door, and he somehow managed to nudge it open, then dashed headlong down the stairwell. Katja followed him to check out the commotion, and moments later she was screaming uncontrollably from the kitchen. Our next-door neighbor was standing on the back porch with a baseball bat in hand. As Katja sobbed, the neighbor explained that two dogs roaming free had attacked our rabbit hutch to get at our bunnies, Jasper and Moonbeam. The dogs had run off when our neighbor approached, but the rabbits’ hearts had burst, and they lay dead on the floor of the hutch. We buried them solemnly next to the porch and grieved for days.

“Two weeks later Katja came in from the back porch, yelling urgently to me to come downstairs. She pointed out the back door. There on the porch, rummaging about the plastic garbage bags, was a full-grown opossum — an ugly brute, large, almost Winston’s size, with a pale whiskered face and a tail like a rat’s. I thought momentarily about trying to catch him, but the sight of him staring back at me made me nervous, and we left him alone.

“On the following Wednesday night, I was working at my office after Evening College when Katja called on the phone. She was sobbing, and I couldn’t make out her words. Something about Winston. As it turned out, she had stepped out on the porch to walk the dog. The 40-pound bag of dog food had been knocked over, and a large tail was protruding from it. Winston leaped at the intruder, and Katja slipped on the rain-soaked stairs, landing on her arm and back. Before she could recover Winston had the opossum by the neck and was shaking it to and fro. I raced home, and Katja was waiting for me. She explained that Winston had momentarily let go of the animal, and she’d pulled him back into the house. She assumed that the opossum was dead, but, when she looked back out, he had vanished. Winston was banned from our bed for the next two nights.

“Then, yesterday, I heard Katja screaming from downstairs again. (For unknown reasons, I am never at the scene of these events.) Winston was racing madly through the living room, and as I stepped into the foyer, a large bird flew past me and caromed off the front door window. Maybe a starling, I’m not sure. With the dog madly in chase, the bird zoomed through the living room, dining room, kitchen, and back again, bouncing off one window after the next. I tied Winston up and opened the front and back doors. Within a minute our aerial visitor was gone.

“These are, I must say, peculiar and trying times. As a lifelong city-dweller, Katja is a bit undone. Having grown up in the country, I take it more in stride. Winston is stimulated and full of fervor. This February, without question, has been the highlight of his mostly uneventful life. All in all, we’ve mad enough excitement from the wild creatures to last the rest of the year.” LOVE, DAVE