The Art of Tim

My pharmacist's name is Tim. I value him not only for the hallucinatory respite from the harsh realities of this vale of tears we call life, but that his art is pleasant and calming to my troubled soul. OK, I'm being a bit dramatic - but I really do like his art. Here's one of my favorites:

K-9 Corps - New Recruit

Charlie continues to amaze and astound us with his recollections of being in charge of an immense metropolitan police department.

Today's installment allows us civilians to obtain an insider view of the hitherto cloaked K-9 operations. For purposes of confidentiality we'll just refer to the dog as "K-9". Let's listen to Charlie recount his first experiences in the 'early years' of K-9 deployment:

"My first experience with a K-9 police dog wasn't with one of those expensive, extensively trained dogs. Instead, I had a deputy who had a pet Weimaraner. He talked the Sheriff into using him as a K-9 dog, claiming he had a good sense of smell and could track anything.

The first time we used our new K-9, it was on a burglary in progress. The suspect fled on foot and was hiding in the area. We had a really good perimeter set up around the burgler with about ten Deputies on site.

All eyes were on our new K-9 as he left the police car to start the track. The dog immediately ran over to a neighborhood dog and started humping it. Watching a working dog in a professional-looking reflective vest humping a citizen's pet is a little embarrassing.

Another time we had a burgler surrounded in a house. Our K-9 Deputy insisted he send in his dog to apprehend the bad guy. He got on the loudspeaker and shouted "Come out or I'll send in the dog".

After saying this about five times with no results, he released the dog. Our K-9 ran through the front door and then jumped out one of the rear windows to start chasing birds bathing in the backyard birdbath.

When we got the burglar out of the house he asked us what was wrong with our dog. Even the bad guys were wondering about this dog.

Another time we went to a bank alarm and brought in our fearsome K-9. It turned out to be a false alarm and all the employees wanted to pet the dog. As we were talking to the employees, the dog walked over to a plant in the lobby and peed all over it."

Save the leg! Don't take the leg!

It was a fine Thursday afternoon. The sun was out and the water was warm. We were out on Kim's boat, all set to enjoy a late afternoon/early evening ski on the Columbia. Smooth water, nice munchies, good people. What could possibly go wrong? Here I am - confidently surveying the scenery as we looked for just the right spot.

Now I'm in the water, that tiny little dot 70 feet behind the boat, on the right hand of the picture. Momentarily the ski would lift me into a marvelous display of jumping the wake and touching my elbow as I skate across the water like Tonya Harding on steroids:

I hadn't skiied in probably 10 years. But it's just like riding a bike, right? I was never as good a skier as my sister, but our years at Shasta Lake afforded us many opportunities to slalom to our heart's content. You just pop up out of the water and the river or lake is your playground. Nay gentle reader, my fifty year old body registered a violent protest. As I attempted to get up on the ski (for the second, or was it the third time?) I felt a ripple in my right hamstring, and instantly my leg flooded with pain. The kind of pain where you know you are severely injured. Kim pulled the boat around and Kristar helped hoist me out of the water.

Kim made an ice bag, and I sat on it all the way back to the dock. I limped up to the parking lot, the pain continued to increase. I had beads of sweat on my forehead but made into the driver's seat. We were in Scappoose, and it waves of pain washed over me as I headed home. I had a terrible night, and the next day I asked Sherry to take me to urgent care. The doctor ran through one of those "does this hurt?" examinations. I had a fleeting moment where I wondered if my massive muscles would hinder her poking and prodding, but it seemed to be going OK. Until she hit the tear. I'm embarrassed to admit this but I screamed, literally; and tears came to my eyes. It hurt so bad. She gave me a shot, it wasn't morphine but something like it; and then told me to take the maximum dose of ibuprofen every four hours, and Vicadin to help sleep.

Well, that didn't touch it. The next Monday I went to the orthopedic surgeon. He acknowledged that it was a severe tear but that (thankfully) surgery was not required. He prescribed Oxycontin and Flexeril. My typical regimen became 12 ibuprofen, 3 Vicadin and 2 Oxycontin in 24 hours. The pain was so bad that I couldn't dress myself, which was embarrassing but Sherry just laughed and told me it was preparation for my old age. Ha, I'll get her for that. I had to use a cane for 2 weeks.

Here it is two months later and with a dozen therapy visits I managed to run a half mile on the treadmill and cycle for 45 minutes at the gym last weekend. The road to recovery is now fully in progress!

Check it out:

It's not...

I took some writing samples, and it's not:

1. Daren
2. Gary
3. Debbie
4. Jim
5. Julie
6. Vonne
7. Kim
8. Todd
9. Robert
10. Claudia
11. Reed
12. Brent
13. Kelly
14. John

It might be Ron. It's very likely that it is Charlie. But there's a unique twist which also points to Daryl Lynn. And just what does Johnny Cash have in common with Chicago, Fort Worth and Martinsburg West Virginia?