And when he said, “I have bad news,” I steeled myself. If I had to describe him succinctly, I’d say he is an amalgam of Hank Hill and Dennis Hopper. He has a sense of humor that is Sahara-like in its dryness. He is laconic, though given to occasional scabrous and amusing outbursts. He is a highly skilled machinist whose work has included beautifully customized-as in chopped –Norton motorcycles. He now teaches grammar school kids in Phoenix’s poorest and toughest district. Several years ago, he enrolled in college, took his BA in education and obtained a teaching credential. He served a stint in the Coast Guard, then 10 years as a cop, quitting the force after determining he neither liked nor respected his superiors then he became a master trucker, driving triple trailers on the I-80 Reno to Salt Lake City run. He is a person of a certain age who has had a colorful life. I got a phone call from him a couple of days ago.
This rumination begins with a phone call from my brother, but it’s really about domestic animals, dogs and cats mostly, and our changing mores about them: How they are now viewed as peers and family members rather than pets, how we’ve come to define ourselves as their guardians rather than their owners, whether our growing obsession with them is somehow a simulacrum for the complicated and messy human relationships that formerly dominated our lives, and whether apotheosizing them somehow minimizes our sensitivity to human suffering.īut back to my brother.
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