Sparrows

    
     If you're not careful, when trying to solve one problem, there is a risk of creating a worse problem.

     The house sparrow, such as these black-throated specimens above, were an English bird, introduced to the United States in 1851 as a way to combat caterpillars. Over the next 50 years, sparrows spread across the continental United States.
     That's an oversimplification — there were continuing efforts to bring the bird to this country through the 1870s.
     By the 1880s, sparrows were seen as pests, and an effort was made to undo the folly — bounties were put on them. Books were written on how to hunt sparrows. Regret set in.
     “Without question the most deplorable event in the history of American ornithology was the introduction of the English Sparrow.” W.L. Dawson wrote 1903 in "The Birds of Ohio."
     To add insult to injury, it was discovered, too late, that sparrows do not eat insects. They eat seeds, and grain.
     This sparked what was called "The Sparrow War" in the late 19th century, with some advocating their destruction, and whether they could be considered "American" birds — a designation which was not grudgingly given until 1931, according Diana Wells' essential "100 Birds and How They Got Their Names."
     At first, Wells writes, "sparrow" designated any small bird. The word itself is old, from Old English spearw, , meaning "a flutterer." The Oxford English Dictionary traces the word deep into the mists of time, well over a thousand years old, offering numerous cognates, including the useful "sparrow-blasting," used "with jocular or contemptuous force" and meaning, "The fact of being blasted or blighted by some mysterious power, skeptically regarded as unimportant or non-existent," popular around the late 1500s.
     Another useful variant is found in Wentworth and Flexner's "Dictionary of American Slang" — "sparrow cop," defined as "a policeman in disfavor with his superiors and assigned to a park to guard the grass," dismissed as "not common," though perhaps it should be.
     I expected Noah Webster, writing his 1828 dictionary, to view them as English birds, but he does no such thing, calling them, "a small bird of the genus Fringilla and order of Passers. These birds are frequently seen around houses," which certainly meshes with my experience.   

     Working backward in time, to Samuel Johnson's great 1755 dictionary, a sparrow is merely "a small bird." He quotes a line from Macbeth that at first seems bland, almost meaningless. "As sparrows, eagles, or the hare, the lion," until you check the context — the Captain is answering a question whether Macbeth and Banquo are frightened by an attack from the Norwegians, and declares they are as little concerned as eagles and lions are when confronting sparrows and rabbits.
     Johnson was writing his dictionary practically alone — an accomplishment that was to be of great pride to his countrymen, especially compared to French team who spent decades compiling their nation's dictionary — so can be forgiven for overlooking a much stronger appearance in Shakespeare. Horatio tells his friend Hamlet that if his mind isn't in his duel with Laertes, he will find a way to delay it.
     "Not a whit, we defy augury," the melancholy Dane insists. "There's a special providence in the fall of a sparrow. If it be now, 'tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be now; if it be not now, yet it will come, the readiness is all."
     That sounds like a plan but — spoiler alert — the duel will be the death of Hamlet, Laertes, Gertrude and Claudius.
     In other word, thinking you are ready for what you suppose is coming, and actually being ready for the mean trick fate has in store for you, can be two very different things.

Donald Trump mounts a Chicago hobbyhorse — Christopher Columbus

Columbus monument, Barcelona, Spain.

     Certain issues just seem to belong to Chicago. Dibs, for instance. That peculiar tradition of trying to claim a parking space with a few scattered chairs, or dinette tables, or whatever, just because you took the trouble of shoveling it out. A weird blend of private effort and public display, these fragile monuments to selfishness. "I went to the trouble to clear the public way, so the space now belongs to me." There's something tragic about dibs; I sometimes snowblow the sidewalks of my entire block; I don't then try to stop people from walking there.
     So it stood out, from the general wrongness of everything happening in Washington, D.C., to see Donald Trump's White House leap into the Christopher Columbus fight, erecting a statue of the great explorer near the grounds of the White House early Sunday morning. Truly, it was as if the president had issued an executive order banning ketchup on hot dogs, not to give him any ideas.
     “In this White House, Christopher Columbus is a hero," a spokesman declared.
     I bet he is. Columbus's heroism has curdled in some quarters, particularly after the 2020 George Floyd protests, when the exact degree that our government values the lives of people who didn't have the good sense to be born white came into sharp relief. Suddenly, deifying Confederate traitors and rampaging colonizers couldn't be shrugged off quite so easily.
     Columbus statues were taken down in other cities across the country, such as Boston, Richmond and Pittsburgh. Baltimore's was broken into pieces and tossed into the Inner Harbor. The statue erected on the White House grounds, in front of the Eisenhower Executive Office Building, was created by an artist — to stretch the term — working from the shattered Baltimore statue, fished out of the water.
     Still, Columbus seems a uniquely Chicago concern. Maybe because the city yanked three Columbus statues off the street in 2020. Maybe just from watching close up the day-to-day gyrations of old-school Italian pride groups trying to make the case that once someone is honored in a public space he therefore must be honored forever, no matter how tastes change. The issue resembles school prayer, where specific groups insist their own private devotions become mandatory public ritual.
     Maybe because Columbus, while known around the world, has been a particular fixation in Chicago, where the city's monumental 1893 fair was dubbed "The World's Columbian Exposition," part of the 19th century trend of celebrating Columbus for discovering the continent. An effort picked up enthusiastically by Italian immigrants, who at the time played then playing the despised outsider role now forced upon Venezuelans. Columbus became demonized in the 21st century for his rough handling of the discovered — raping and torturing and murdering them more than many like to see in our public heroes. Except for the president, of course, who has made a career of slathering plaudits over the most loathsome personalities,  particularly himself. 

     As a historically minded person, I generally don't like to see statues pulled down. It smacks of the Taliban blowing up Buddhas. There is an enormous monument to Stephen Douglas at 35th Street, just west of DuSable Lake Shore Drive. Douglas was not only a slaveholder, but a notoriously neglectful slaveholder. Yet the edifice remains, and rightly so, because it's historic and in a part of the city not otherwise bristling with tourist sites. Besides, it's also Douglas' tomb, and it could be argued that everyone, no matter how vile, gets to slumber in his own grave.

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Flashback 2012: If they go to school, kids will know who Pulaski was

     There are so many tragedies manifesting themselves right now — a deepening war, a shuddering economy, a corrupt and cruel American government bent on its own enrichment and establishing permanence in power, for starters — this one might seem far down the tree of disaster.

     But seeing how vibrant young immigrants come to America and become the same hidebound haters and status-starved revanchists found among the native born, the subject is important enough to merit a reminder. The Italian old-guard claws at the vanished majesty of Columbus, and embraces stone cold haters like Trump when he supports them in their self-destructive folly. 

    It is natural that both strands would come together, as Trump placed a statue of Columbus on the White House grounds Sunday, to show his hand. You'd think it would chill the bones of any conscientious immigrant. No doubt they dug it. As for Poles...

    This ran when Rahm Emanuel suggested that Chicago Public School children go to school on two make-believe ethnic holidays. Spoiler alert: CPS dropped Pulaski Day as a holiday in 2012.  Columbus Day became Indigenous People's Day in Illinois in 2017, and CPS decided not to make it a school holiday in 2019. Now if we could only work on summer...

 

    On the base of the Dante Award that the Joint Civic Committee of Italian Americans gave to me at a lovely luncheon two years ago is the inscription, “Never be a timid friend to truth.”
     Those words appear, more or less, in the 17th canto of Paradiso, the middle of the third book of the Divine Comedy, a particularly beautiful chapter containing Dante’s famous lines about exile: “Bitter is the taste of another man’s bread, and hard is the way going up and down another man’s stairs.”
     The motto on the award ­— a life-size bust of Dante — isn’t exactly what Dante wrote. He is torn whether to speak the truth and risk angering his friends or keep quiet and risk oblivion. “Yet, should I be a timid friend to truth,” he tells his patron Cangrande, “I fear that I shall not live on.”
     Which is a fair summation of the thought that went through my head when I saw that representatives of Chicago’s proud Italians and equally proud Poles were objecting to Rahm Emanuel’s plan to send kids to school on Columbus Day and Pulaski Day.
     “Part of an ongoing campaign to diminish ethnic recognition in the city,” said my pal and lunchmate Dominic DiFrisco, president emeritus of the Joint Civic Committee.
     “A slap in the face,” said Gary Kenzer, executive director of the Polish American Association, whom I don’t know but I’m sure I would like if I did.
     The polite thing to do would be to cough into a fist and ignore them, confident the mayor will not cave under pressure. If he can frog-march the teachers union, he can handle the old guard ethnic guilds too. In the delicate kabuki of ethnic and racial politics, caring is best left to those with credentials.
     “Yet, should I be a timid friend to truth. . . . ” A "timido amico." Dante doesn’t add “regarding my own people,” does he? Besides, I’m sort of an honorary Italian already, due to the award, and my ancestors came from Poland; my grandfather was born in Bialystok, and even though some Polish readers seem to be unwilling to accept that a Jew can be Polish, I don’t see the conflict.
     So here goes . . .
     Our school system betrays the children it’s supposed to teach in many ways, but the worst is the abuse of low expectations. It’s always easier for a teacher to show a film.
     All sorts of secondary side values undermine education, from our state’s messed up finances to meddling parents to antique customs that should have been scrapped long ago. Why do we kick kids out of school every summer for nearly three months? So they can go into the fields and help bring in the crops. Only guess what? They don’t do that anymore. We dismiss them anyway, for a summer of Nintendo. Not all bad, of course; there’s also Little League and family vacations. But it isn’t a rational system.
     Columbus Day and Pulaski Day are similar relics, inserted into the calendar as a sop to large ethnic communities that craved honor and belonging. And that’s fine. Human nature. Have a parade, close the Recorder of Deeds office, put on a hat with a feather and go enjoy a glass of grappa or Slivovitz.
     But school is serious. Poor education is both a major cause and serious symptom of half of our problems. If you want to put a finger on why America lags further and further behind the rest of the world, you’d have a smorgasbord of reasons: broken health care, crumbling infrastructure, knee-buckling debt. But a wheezing, feeble education system designed to babysit the lowest achievers would be the ice sculpture in the center.
     We’re not supposed to make ethnic generalizations anymore, though everybody does. But if I had to use one word to describe what I consider being Italian means, its essence, I would say, “boldness.” I wish my pals at the Joint Civic Committee would have asked themselves: What would Galileo have done? Add a day of school or keep the day off so kids can hang around the mall? How about Columbus? Would he let the crew sit on deck playing cards because it’s a saint’s day, or would he have them hoist the sails and get moving toward the New World?
     And for Poles, the word I use is “hard-working.” We get up in the morning and plow. If you’d told my grandpa it was Pulaski Day and so he should sit on his butt, he’d have laughed and said, “No work, no pay.”
     Dante is advised — spoiler alert! — to “forswear all falsehood,” vex the shameful, and “then let him who itches scratch.”
     Good advice. So if you want my Dante Award back, I’ll box it up. But kids aren’t going to learn about Columbus or Pulaski or much of anything else while on vacation. Send them to school, and let the adults slake their thirst for honors somewhere else.

     — Originally published in the Sun-Times, March 19, 2012

Iran War won't be so absentee

 

     What was America's longest war?
     Not the Civil War — that was the bloodiest, 620,000 dead, with Americans falling on both sides. That ended three days shy of exactly four years.
     Not World War II — four months shorter. Not the Vietnam War. Good guess, but no. Nearly 20 years, from the first military advisers in November, 1955 to the fall of Saigon in April, 1975.

    A long time. But topped, by a couple months, by the Afghanistan War — how quickly we forget. Also nearly 20 years, from 2001 to 2021, 2,400 American military died, not to forget maybe 150,000 Afghan civilians and fighters.
     And for what? The country is under the thumb of the Taliban. Just like when we started.
     We should think hard about these past conflicts as we go sailing off into a new one. Well, we should have thought about them before we went sailing off into a new one. But thinking hard wasn't on the table, apparently. No consultation with Congress before going to war, as required by law. No communication with the American people — the opposite, we were told the job was done last year. No huddling with our allies — our former allies, fallen away after a year of Donald Trumps global charm offensive.
     Trump says the war will be Iran will be over "very soon. But Trump says a lot of things — the war is won, no, it continues. Five thousand Marines are on their way. The Strait of Hormuz will be easy to open — no, we must have the help of NATO to do it.
     The only thing happening very soon is the war's one month anniversary — on Saturday, the 28th. A good time to consider where we're heading.
     Wars take on a momentum, a weight of their own. After the first six Americans died, Secretary of War Pete Hegseth dragooned their grieving families into an imaginary chorus, urging our country deeper down the hole. Using initial to justify feeding an unknown number of soldiers into a grinder for an undetermined span of time.
     “What I heard through tears, through hugs, through strength and through unbreakable resolve was the same from family after family," Hegseth said. "They said, ‘Finish this. Honor their sacrifice. Do not waver. Do not stop until the job is done.’”
     Finish what? What is this exactly? We seem to be making the goal up as we go.
     Not to be outdone, Trump conjured former presidents expressing envy at his triumph. All four living ex-presidents deny saying that.
     If the war lasts a year, or 10, we'll want to look back and see what we were thinking when it started. The Republicans were thinking, "Whatever Donny wants, Donny gets." While Democrats gnashed their teeth and wailed, quietly.
     Afghanistan could go on for 20 years because the war was so removed from our everyday existence. Pain was felt, but not by us.

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Company man

Calbert Wright

     When Calbert Wright began work at the Ford Motor Company's Chicago Stamping Plant in Chicago Heights in 1963, the factory was a noisy, smelly, smoky hellscape with a leaky roof. Working one shift imbued your clothes with what one veteran called "the Ford smell" causing wives to demand they strip down at the door when they got home.
     And it was hot: 100 degrees on the production line.
     "Ooh," Wright said. "No fans. Water fountains were rare, very rare."
     Plus Black workers such as himself were given the hardest duties.
     "The first month, I didn't like it," remembers Wright, 85, "I said, 'I'm not going to stay here'. They had us stacking steel. We couldn't touch no presses. All we could do is stack stock. They were trying to work us like Hebrew slaves."
     But stay he did.
     When Wright began work at the age of 23 at Ford, John F. Kennedy was president. Henry Ford still ran the business — albeit Henry Ford II, grandson of the man who founded the automobile manufacturer in 1903.
     Meaning that Wright, who still prowls prowling the floor today checking that workers on the line have enough parts to keep the robots busy — and takes taking their place when they go on bathroom breaks — has worked for Ford a little more than half the 123 years since the company sold its first car, a two-cylinder, two-passenger Model A, in red, the only color available, for $850 to Ernest Pfennig, a dentist on Clybourn Avenue.
     Wright had come up from Mississippi when he was 11, and his voice is rich with Southern drawl. He had an uncle at Ford's Torrence Avenue assembly plant, and got a job at Chicago Stamping.
     Why did he stay? 

     "There weren't jobs paying like this," he said, laughing: $1.40 an hour. "Big money."
     He had a wife, Thelma — now married 65 years — and an infant son to consider. And things were changing.
     "[Martin Luther] King, plus the union, made everybody be classified," Wright said. Conditions improved. He moved up from stacking steel. "That's why I stayed so long."
     Wright's 63-year tenure isn't even the longest of Ford's 177,000 workers — that would be Art Porter, 86, who joined Chicago Stamping in 1961.
     Their longevity is especially amazing when you realize how frequently workers change employers. According to the U.S. Department of Labor, the average worker at a private factory like Ford works 4.9 years before leaving.
     Wright has put in a dozen times that, and seen many changes.
     One of the biggest is automation. When robots were first introduced, in the 1970s, it wasn't clear whether they'd be a benefit.
     "They were throwing parts all over," Wright said. "They were dangerous. They couldn't control it. They were putting welds in the wrong place, blowing holes."

Better with robot help

     Gradually, the machines improved.
     "They got it right now," Wright said. "They come out better with the robots. They put the welds in the same place. When they manpower with a gun, they put one here, one there."
     Walking through the plant with Wright now, it's cool and almost quiet, except for the faint panoply of clanks and hisses. Only occasionally do you spy a person, shielded by machinery., evoking the quip attributed to Henry Ford: "Machines don't buy cars."
     "Them robots came in and knocked all those people out," Wright said. "Each line would have 18 people, Now they got three. When I hired in, they had 6,500 people in this plant."
     Now Chicago Stamping employs 1,100.

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Work in progress: Jack Clark on the No. 93 bus

     Not living in the city, I probably like buses more than Chicago residents do — familiar enough to grab one when convenient; not familiar enough to be thoroughly schooled in their shortcomings. Like them enough to show up toward midnight at the Kedzie Avenue garage once, near midnight, to watch one being cleaned. 

     Thus I'm happy to present the latest contribution by Jack Clark, a deep dive into a particular bus route. My guess is this won't be everyone's cup of tea, but that some will appreciate it, if only for its granular look at part of a city we all love.

     I’d write to the CTA if I could figure out a concise way to express my thoughts, which aren’t about important issues like crime on the system or whether Donald Trump will figure out some way to cut funding. Mine are closer to home: the route of the CTA’s 93 North California/Dodge bus, which comes out of Evanston and was recently rerouted so it now connects the Purple Line in Evanston, the Brown Line at Kedzie Avenue, and the Blue Line at Logan Square.
     Now before I go on, I should tell you that I can see Kedzie Avenue out my kitchen window. (I just looked. It’s still there.) And, at first, I assumed that my desire to have the extension of the 93 go straight down Kedzie on its way to Logan Square was nothing more than typical selfishness. I did a bit of research and changed my mind.
     There are two California buses, the 93, which I mentioned above, and the 94 California bus, which goes south from Addison Street all the way to 74th and Damen. Until recently, the two buses did not meet. Most of this can probably be attributed to the blockade put up by Ravenswood Manor, where California becomes a narrow side street and only runs for a single block in the half mile between Lawrence and Montrose Avenues.
     The old 93 didn’t try to get around this gap. It just gave up on California, took Foster to Kimball, went down to the Brown Line terminal at Lawrence, and started back north for Evanston.
     The new route takes Foster only as far as Kedzie where it turns south and connects with the Brown Line. A few blocks later, at Montrose Avenue, the bus makes a wrong turn. The CTA could have sent the bus the direct and logical way, straight down Kedzie, (past my kitchen window) a little over two miles, to the new end of the line at Logan Square. Instead, they decided to add a mile to the trip and go east, back to California.
     Now this makes sense on paper. It’s the California bus after all. Shouldn’t it be on California? Confusion starts as soon as the bus makes that turn. Montrose Avenue already has a bus. People have been taking it for decades without having to check to see if it’s the right one. If a CTA bus came along it was the Montrose bus. So now, of course, you have people getting on the wrong bus only to discover their mistake once the bus turns south.
     South of Montrose, California is a quiet street. There’s an ordinary residential neighborhood on the right. On the left, is first Horner and then California Park. Mostly what you see from the bus are parking lots. Beyond those, there are playgrounds, baseball diamonds, a nature walk along the river, a dog run, a swimming pool, and a bike, walking, and running path that goes under the Irving Park bridge, over the river and into Clark Park, and all the way to Belmont Avenue. There’s also an indoor sports center with tennis courts and an ice rink.
     In my several fact-finding trips, I haven’t seen anybody getting on or off the bus who looks like a park patron. I haven’t seen many riders at all. It’s a pleasant trip during daylight when you can actually see what you’re passing. At night, with the tinted windows, what you mostly see is your own reflection.
     The parks end just north of Addison where DePaul College Prep--the recently renamed Gordon Tech High School — sits, and this is also where the 94 California bus turns the corner from Addison and begins its long, 13-mile journey, south to 74th Street. The two buses, the 93 and the 94, now run together for a mile, both with California in their name, which must cause a bit of confusion. At Diversey, the 93 turns west, causing even more confusion as it drives a half mile down a street which already has a bus, and goes right back to Kedzie where it turns south for a block or so, to the end of the line at Logan Square.
     So the bus went a mile out of its way on two streets that already have buses, just so it could go two miles down another street, a mile of which is already covered by another CTA bus with a very similar name. Mass transit turns to mass confusion.
     The CTA apparently wanted to connect those two California buses, probably so passengers could transfer from one to the other. This makes sense, of course, but believe me, there are better ways to do this.
     Here’s what the 93 missed by not staying on Kedzie all the way to Logan Square. The Auto Zone auto parts store at Cullom, which is right next door to the Easy Clean laundromat. The Cermak Produce grocery store at Berteau, which is right across the street from Sanabel Bakery and Grocery, which is full of Middle-Eastern baked goods and other products.
     The next block, Belle Plaine, is where you would get off for the Village Discount, a huge thrift store. At Irving Park, there’s a currency exchange, a full-service Chase Bank, a Walgreens, and Fuller’s Pub which has live music many nights of the week and is not a bad place to watch the Bears.
     At Byron there’s another laundromat with a dry cleaners attached, and at Grace there is the Daniel J. Doffyn Post Office, which is the main post office for zip code 60618. This appears to be the only post office in the entire city that is not serviced by the CTA. Yes, you can walk two blocks from the Irving, Kimball, or the Addison bus, or four blocks from California, where nothing at all is still going on.
     I’m sure there are plenty of people who would appreciate a bus that would take them right to the front door. Of course, this would lead to even longer lines inside the post office. Well, I don’t really mind the lines. In this busy world, it’s sometimes nice to have nothing to do but think about CTA buses ambling down that orderly grid of Chicago streets. Orderly Grids. That sounds like some boring, generic breakfast cereal. What’s really needed here is a bit of sex, some drugs, and rock and roll. 

     Now Kedzie Avenue is not much on that first diversion. To my eyes, it’s one of the least erotic streets in town. You want rock and roll? Go right back to Fuller’s Pub at Irving Park. Drugs? Straight ahead on the left just past Addison. That’s where you’ll find the BLOC Dispensary. According to Google “it is a Latino- and woman-owned social equity dispensary…” They also sell marijuana and related paraphernalia. You have to go around the back to get in. I think this is to remind you how much fun you used to have sneaking around when drugs were illegal and much, much cheaper.
     Wait a minute, can you get a contact high just writing about reefer? I missed the White Castle which is kitty-corner on the other side of Addison, and the big Jewel/Osco, which anchors a big shopping center across Elston Avenue with a bunch of other stores including, believe it or not, another currency exchange and another Chase Bank. Kedzie Avenue, the financial center of the North Side. Who knew?
     From here on out, Kedzie is just about as boring as California. So, dear CTA, if you really think these two buses must meet on California itself, you could send the 93 down Elston. The two buses could kiss when they meet at Belmont, and then proceed south a half mile to Diversey where the 93 could wave goodbye and turn back to Kedzie to get to Logan Square.
     But this brings up another issue, one which I’m sure the CTA in its insular way has never even considered. The California exit from the inbound Kennedy Expressway is one of the worst exits in the entire city. It frequently backs up onto the highway. This happens because cars wanting to go east on Diversey must make an immediate left turn when they come off the exit ramp. If more than a couple of cars are attempting this, it generally blocks everybody else trying to get off and the exit backs up. I’m sure there have been plenty of accidents on the ramp and on the expressway itself because of this backup. Adding a second CTA bus to the confusion cannot help matters.
     But I have a simple solution. Let’s just send the 93 straight down Kedzie Avenue (and by my kitchen window) to Logan Square. This was how it went until the route was cut back to Lawrence Avenue in 1982, which in my mind is still sort of the recent past.
     Now the other California bus, the 94, is going all the way to 74th Street. That’s so far away it sounds like another galaxy (and let’s face facts, if the numbered streets didn’t make the South Side layout so easily understood, for most of us on the North Side, it might as well be). The bus already has to make a detour at Chicago Avenue to get around the Metra yards, which cuts off California between Grand Avenue and Fulton Street. So one more diversion on the way out of the Milky Way is hardly going to matter.
     My suggestion — after 1500 words — send the 94 down Logan Boulevard to Logan Square? It’s only a half mile. The two buses could do their little kiss, people could transfer from one to another, and then the 94 could go right back out the boulevard to California and continue on its way.
     Of course, now it’s the 94 that’s going a mile out of its’ way. But Logan Boulevard is a wide street without much traffic, so this diversion will take much less time than the one currently in place. There hasn’t been a bus on Logan since the early 1950s when the old boulevard bus system was taken over by the CTA. So there won’t be any confusion with other buses as there is on Montrose, California and Diversey.
     And the last time I looked, there was even an old sidewalk-to-nowhere left over from one of the old boulevard bus stops. So the CTA could bring back a bit of transit history too.
     Before I finish, I should tell you that I rarely take the CTA. I usually get around by bicycle, unless it happens to be really cold or it’s raining or snowing, like it’s been for the last several months.
     Now how ironic is that?

 

 

JustFoodForDogs

  

    No column in the paper today. I was on assignment for the Sunday editor, and wrote a larger piece that's running this weekend.

     "I wonder if they have any food for cats," I mused, as my wife and I drove to Highland Park. "Maybe I'll ask them."
     We don't have a cat, not anymore, having lost our Natasha last June. So no need for cat food. But my odd comment becomes less mysterious when you understand our destination: a shop called "JustFoodForDogs" in Highland Park. I guess I was trying to be funny, and failing.             
     Our Kitty, who is a dog, for new readers, or longtime readers slow on the uptake, is pushing 16 years old this summer and has been suffering from what we call a wanky stomach. As have we. I will spare you the details. Let's just say instead of taking her out three times a day, I've been taking her out five or six. This morning, my wife took her out at 1 a.m. And I went at 2:30 a.m. We know to do so because she starts crying. It's like having a newborn.  This also necessitated several visits to the vet — three, maybe four — a variety of tests, including x-rays. An expenditure, I estimate, of some $500. At least.

     We'd given her medications. We'd mixed canned pumpkin into her food. Now the vet's suggestion was to go to this JustFoodForDogs — not sure what happened to the spaces between the words, but that's how they present themselves — and secure some balanced remedy food. No problem. Had Dr. Jones suggested we go to Lourdes and wash her in the water at the Grotto of Massabielle, well, that's what we would do. We love her that much.

     I must admit, I was taken aback by the store, particularly its sparseness. The place reminded me of the Parachute boutique on Oak Street in the 1980s, when "you're going to pay a fortune on this rags" was conveyed by having just a few exquisite garments hanging from a hook or two. Or the Richart chocolate shop in Paris. Swanky dog food.

     I let out a mental slow whistle.

     Our entrance tripped some secret signal, in the back, and a young man hurried out and curated our high end dog food needs. He was a handsome young man, tall, with his face obscured by a mass of hair, and I considered taking his photograph, then thought better of it.

     We bought two forms of the food, a frozen slab and a small box of what was, in essence, cooked turkey and rice with a bunch of oils and vitamins in it , and took it home.

     Kitty zupped the stuff up. And while the unmentionable problems got only a little better, if that, we were encouraged enough to return. This time I bought three frozen slabs, each weighing 18 ounces, for a little over $30, and took them away in a little white bag, the sort of thing you'd expect at a jewelry store or expensive boutique, which I guess this is.

     Yes, it occurred to me we could whip up some turkey and rice and mash it up and save ourselves about 90 percent. But we could also make our brooms out of sorghum. "We cook our dog's food ourselves," is not a sentence that I ever want to utter. 

     JustFoodForDogs was founded in 2010 to offer "human-grade food" to canines without all the filler, sawdust and ground up horses and whatnot that must be in commercial dog food.  In addition to the stand-alone stores, they're available in PetSmart — also no space; I'm beginning to see a trend here,. Maybe the pets eat the spaces between the words.

     When I made the cat joke at the beginning of today's post, I immediately realized that I was re-working a joke David Letterman made when he visited a store called "Just Bulbs" for his show. Doing my due diligence, I dug up the sketch, and was a little shocked to see the bit was aired in 1982. 

     "Do you have any sandwiches here, do ya?" a shockingly young Letterman asks the proprietor. "So besides bulbs, what do you have here? How about shades here? Can you get shades?" She suggests he go to a store called "Just shades." And he does. "Do you sell bulbs?" he asks her, earnestly.

     That's the thing with these jokes. A good one can stick in mind for a long, long time.