When Frustrations Rise

I’m grumpy this morning.  My body hurts all over.  Sinuses are running and the decongestant I took is making me sleepy.  I’m on my 3rd mug of coffee.  If it’s helping, it’s not enough.

NOT Wilton Springs Hdwr, but similar.

I went to fill a propane tank yesterday, so I could keep Scout and Camden warmer at night. It’s supposed to be down in the 20’s at night all week.  I took an empty tank to Wilton Springs Hardware, went inside to let them know what I needed. They made me prepay. That’s new, but understandable. The way things are laid out, it would be easy for someone to just drive off without going back in to pay.

Paul hooked the tank up to their pump and turned it on. The rolly-gauge thing did not roll up. To save time in the telling of this story: he tried a variety of things, including turning the tank upside down and banging it on the concrete, but each time the read-out stayed on zero.

“The valve in your tank is jammed, I can’t get gas to go in.”

This was the first time this winter that I’d tried to fill this particular tank, so it’s possible it corroded. I have several, so I went to get another tank.

I returned with a tank that was not quite empty. Paul was busy helping a customer in the store so a tall, young fellow (Justin, I think they called him) came out to help me, and we got a repeat performance.

I seriously doubted that this tank was bad because I had been using it before I put the last freshly-filled tank on the furnace. Gas flowed through that valve just fine. But … if they can’t get gas to go into it … they can’t.  Another fellow drove up to have a tank filled.

I loaded mine up to go get a refund. I was thinking I’d drive out to JCCUD and see if they could fill the tank. That’s way out the other side of Newport, but I need propane to keep the doggos warm in this cold.

While I was working on loading and strapping-in, this other fellows tank was pronounced “bad”. Three tanks in a row, just like that? No way! The other fellow agreed, said there was nothing wrong with his tank.  The owner came out and checked the pump and the hose. The pump was producing pressure and he could send a plume of propane out the end of the nozzle. Not clogged. He stood there scratching his head as I drove back over to get my refund.

While I was inside doing that the young fellow came running over, snatched the 40 pound cylinder (which weighs more than 40 pounds, especially when it still contains some propane) out of my truck and ran off with it. Mitch, the owner, came in and explained that the cogs on the meter wheel were stripped. The wheels don’t roll, but gas is flowing and they can go by weight instead of gallons.

The cashier quickly aborted my refund.

So I drove back over to the filling station and backed in again. The strong young fella hoisted the now full tank up into the back of my truck for me and I strapped it in, then drove back over to the main building. They still owed me money because I paid for a full 40 pounds and there was a little less than 1/4 tank still in this one before the fill-up. So they calculated it out and gave me back the difference.

I left a little frustrated by the wasted time: I had several other errands to run that morning and needed to be back home by 1:00 to connect with Marie. As it turned out, I made it.  But only because the other stops went exceptionally well.  I’d say God was smoothing the path for me.  So I’m glad I didn’t grouse at anyone about the issues. I remained pleasant and cordial, even though I really wanted to choke someone. But it all worked out and Da Boyz were warm last night. And now we all know that when the wheels don’t roll, look at the scale to see if the tank is getting heavier.

Before I started typing this I went to get another mug of coffee. I just picked it up off the mug warmer to take a swig and … it’s EMPTY!

“Alright, which one of you dogs snuck in here while I was typing and drank my coffee?”

Head Games

I’m getting into playing games.  Not board games, not even computer games, but head games … with telemarketers.

I have been using the technique of just not answering the phone if I don’t recognize the number.  That’s fine as long as no one you don’t know is likely to be calling you, but recently I’ve been on the other side of that fence and have had to answer calls that were potentially important.  And, there is the fact that a no answer just seems to keep me in their dialing queue so they just keep calling for ever and ever.  So I decided to take them on and see if I couldn’t get them to take me out of their listing because they know it’s a waste of time calling this number.

Last night was a fella selling burial insurance.  He had a fancier name for it but that’s what it was, and we chatted a for a bit about the high cost of a funeral and internment.  Then he asked me how old I am.

“147 years old, and I never felt better”

He said some angry things in what sounded like Russian and hung up.

This evening it was a fella named Tom from GE Home Security Systems.  He talked about what a dangerous place the world has become and asked if I was concerned about my home’s security.

“No, not at all.”
“No?  Why is that?”
“I have eight large pit bulls living with me.”

He hung up.

I’m starting to like this.  I’ll keep track of who calls and see if they call back.  If not, I’ll just keep on with this program.  It’s kinda fun.

No Left Turns

This is a wonderful piece by Michael Gartner, editor of newspapers large and small and once president of NBC News.  In 1997, he won the Pulitzer Prize for editorial writing.  It is well worth reading, and a few good chuckles are guaranteed.  Here goes…

My father never drove a car. Well, that’s not quite right. I should say I never saw him drive a car.  He quit driving in 1927, when he was 25 years old, and the last car he drove was a 1926 Whippet.

“In those days,” he told me when he was in his 90s, “to drive a car you had to do things with your hands, and do things with your feet, and look every which way, and I decided you could walk through life and enjoy it or drive through life and miss it.”

At which point my mother, a sometimes salty Irishwoman, chimed in:
“Oh, bull—-!” she said. “He hit a horse.”

“Well,” my father said, “there was that, too.”

So my brother and I grew up in a household without a car. The neighbors all had cars — the Kollingses next door had a green 1941Dodge, the VanLaninghams across the street a gray 1936 Plymouth, the Hopsons two doors down a black 1941 Ford — but we had none.

My father, a newspaperman in Des Moines , would take the streetcar to work and, often as not, walk the 3 miles home. If he took the streetcar home, my mother and brother and I would walk the three blocks to the streetcar stop, meet him and walk home together.

My brother, David, was born in 1935, and I was born in 1938, and sometimes, at dinner, we’d ask how come all the neighbors had cars but we had none. “No one in the family drives,” my mother would explain, and that was that.

But, sometimes, my father would say, “But as soon as one of you boys turns 16, we’ll get one.” It was as if he wasn’t sure which one of us would turn 16 first.

But, sure enough , my brother turned 16 before I did, so in 1951 my parents bought a used 1950 Chevrolet from a friend who ran the parts department at a Chevy dealership downtown.

It was a four-door, white model, stick shift, fender skirts, loaded with everything, and, since my parents didn’t drive, it more or less became my brother’s car.

Having a car but not being able to drive didn’t bother my father, but it didn’t make sense to my mother.

So in 1952, when she was 43 years old, she asked a friend to teach her to drive. She learned in a nearby cemetery, the place where I learned to drive the following year and where, a generation later, I took my two sons to practice driving. The cemetery probably was my father’s idea. “Who can your mother hurt in the cemetery?” I remember him saying more than once.

For the next 45 years or so, until she was 90, my mother was the driver in the family.. Neither she nor my father had any sense of direction, but he loaded up on maps — though they seldom left the city limits — and appointed himself navigator. It seemed to work.

Still, they both continued to walk a lot. My mother was a devout Catholic, and my father an equally devout agnostic, an arrangement that didn’t seem to bother either of them through their 75 years of marriage.

(Yes, 75 years, and they were deeply in love the entire time.)

He retired when he was 70, and nearly every morning for the next 20 years or so, he would walk with her the mile to St. Augustin’s Church.
She would walk down and sit in the front pew, and he would wait in the back until he saw which of the parish’s two priests was on duty that morning. If it was the pastor, my father then would go out and take a 2-mile walk, meeting my mother at the end of the service and walking her home.

If it was the assistant pastor, he’d take just a 1-mile walk and then head back to the church. He called the priests “Father Fast” and “Father Slow.”

After he retired, my father almost always accompanied my mother whenever she drove anywhere, even if he had no reason to go along. If she were going to the beauty parlor, he’d sit in the car and read, or go take a stroll or, if it was summer, have her keep the engine running so he could listen to the Cubs game on the radio. In the evening, then, when I’d stop by, he’d explain: “The Cubs lost again. The millionaire on second base made a bad throw to the millionaire on first base, so the multimillionaire on third base scored.”

If she were going to the grocery store, he would go along to carry the bags out — and to make sure she loaded up on ice cream. As I said, he was always the navigator, and once, when he was 95 and she was 88 and still driving, he said to me, “Do you want to know the secret of a long life?”

“I guess so,” I said, knowing it probably would be something bizarre.

“No left turns,” he said.

“What?” I asked.

“No left turns,” he repeated. “Several years ago, your mother and I read an article that said most accidents that old people are in happen when they turn left in front of oncoming traffic.

As you get older, your eyesight worsens, and you can lose your depth perception, it said. So your mother and I decided never again to make a left turn.”

“What?” I said again.

“No left turns,” he said. “Think about it. Three rights are the same as a left, and that’s a lot safer. So we always make three rights.”

“You’re kidding!” I said, and I turned to my mother for support.
“No,” she said, “your father is right. We make three rights. It works.”
But then she added: “Except when your father loses count.”

I was driving at the time, and I almost drove off the road as I started laughing.

“Loses count?” I asked.

“Yes,” my father admitted, “that sometimes happens. But it’s not a problem. You just make seven rights, and you’re okay again.”

I couldn’t resist. “Do you ever go for 11?” I asked.

“No,” he said ” If we miss it at seven, we just come home and call it a bad day. Besides, nothing in life is so important it can’t be put off another day or another week.”
My mother was never in an accident, but one evening she handed me her car keys and said she had decided to quit driving. That was in 1999, when she was 90.

She lived four more years, until 2003. My father died the next year, at 102.

They both died in the bungalow they had moved into in 1937 and bought a few years later for $3,000. (Sixty years later, my brother and I paid $8,000 to have a shower put in the tiny bathroom — the house had never had one. My father would have died then and there if he knew the shower cost nearly three times what he paid for the house.)

He continued to walk daily — he had me get him a treadmill when he was 101 because he was afraid he’d fall on the icy sidewalks but wanted to keep exercising — and he was of sound mind and sound body until the moment he died.

One September afternoon in 2004, he and my son went with me when I had to give a talk in a neighboring town, and it was clear to all three of us that he was wearing out, though we had the usual wide-ranging conversation about politics and newspapers and things in the news.

A few weeks earlier, he had told my son, “You know, Mike, the first hundred years are a lot easier than the second hundred.” At one point in our drive that Saturday, he said, “You know, I’m probably not going to live much longer.”

“You’re probably right,” I said.

“Why would you say that?” He countered, somewhat irritated.

“Because you’re 102 years old,” I said..

“Yes,” he said, “you’re right.” He stayed in bed all the next day.

That night, I suggested to my son and daughter that we sit up with him through the night.

He appreciated it, he said, though at one point, apparently seeing us look gloomy, he said:
“I would like to make an announcement. No one in this room is dead yet”

An hour or so later, he spoke his last words:

“I want you to know,” he said, clearly and lucidly, “that I am in no pain. I am very comfortable. And I have had as happy a life as anyone on this earth could ever have..”

A short time later, he died.

I miss him a lot, and I think about him a lot. I’ve wondered now and then how it was that my family and I were so lucky that he lived so long.

I can’t figure out if it was because he walked through life,
Or because he quit taking left turns. ”

Life is too short to wake up with regrets. So love the people who treat you right. Forget about the one’s who don’t. Believe everything happens for a reason. If you get a chance,take it & if it changes your life, let it. Nobody said life would be easy, they just promised it would most likely be worth it.”

ENJOY LIFE NOW – IT HAS AN EXPIRATION DATE!

Mustang Memories

It’s funny the tracks our minds take sometimes.  I don’t normally sit around thinking about the Mustang automobile, but today is has been on my mind quite a bit.

It started with a discussion with artist Donna Gregg about the artwork she’s doing for the Dogwood Days event coming up in May.  That event is centered around a classic car show.  I sent Donna a picture of a 1953 Skylark to use in her drawing.  She asked if a ’65 Mustang would work — she learned to drive in her dad’s ’65 Mustang and  it has always had a special place in her heart.

That got me thinking about the 1964, ’65, and ’66 Mustangs.  And the article I wrote about the 1967 Mustang Wagon.   Then I remembered my most recent encounter with a Mustang.  It was late on a dark and chilly night, at a truck stop on the edge of nowhere.  And I was given the opportunity to help some people out of a pickle.

The Mustang’s Tale

Marie and I were to meet the HEARTS LLC animal transport truck at the Pilot truck stop on the edge of Bulls Gap Tennessee, about an hours drive from us, to put one of our foster dogs aboard for his ride to New Hampshire.

Their instructions said that we should arrive at the meeting place early in case they caught a tail wind and were running ahead of schedule.  They would wait at each stop no more than 10 minutes.  We left home a little extra early in case we encountered any problems along the way.  There were no problems and we arrived in time to watch a group of young men push their snazzy Ford Mustang up the road and into a parking spot at the McDonalds which serviced the truck stop.  The driver got out and they all went inside.  Tough way to go out for a burger!

We were still waiting when these guys came back out.  They stood leaning on the car, one of those modern-retro Mustangs, talking and joking around.  I figured they were waiting for someone to come with a gas can or something.

After a little while one of the fellas approached our truck, I rolled the window down, and he politely asked if I had a set of jumper cables.  Pah!  Do I?  I always carry jumpers, a tow chain, flash light, small gas can, basic tool kit … I’m old school.

“I sure do.”

“Do you think you could give us a jump?  Our battery died.”

I checked my watch, we still had about ten minutes before the time the transport was expected, “Yes, I have time for that.”

So as I backed the truck out, they pushed the car across the drive so it was nose-out in a parking spot and I sidled up in front.  I got out a flash light, we hooked up the cables, and they gave it a try.  No go.  That battery wasn’t just dead, it was necrotic.

I revved up my engine a little, they waited for a couple of minutes and tried it again.  Their engine turned over a few times then caught and a throaty growl burst forth as the engine flared to life.  A cheer went up!

We cleared away the cables, buttoned up the hoods and I got out of their way.  They wasted no time getting on the road home.  Probably a wise move.

That transport truck never did arrive.  They’d had a flat tire and sent someone in a car out to retrieve their passenger and bring him to them.  As it turned out, we were going to go right past the place they pulled off the interstate and could have met them there.  But we didn’t know that until she was already there to get Spartacus.

So it was a late night of multiple adventures that all turned out well … as long as those boys got home okay.

Years End

It is that time of year when folks tend to wax reflective: looking back over the past year and forming lists of accomplishments (or failures, depending on your mental set) reviewing lists of top movies, songs, memes, and popular people. Or most unpopular people, depending on your mental set.

I’ll not do that this year.  In years past I have catalogued successes and failures with the intent of using those to chart a course into the new year.  Forging out a plan of action to get me and my affairs where I want them to be by the end of the coming year.  But in truth, that doesn’t work.  Things change so fast that any course I set has to be kept general; sort of a “Let’s go over yonder”sort of thing.  Pick a direction, but don’t try to schedule ports of call and dates.  They won’t be there.  Keep the spyglass at hand to help see what lies ahead and keep to a general compass course, but be equally as prepared for storms as you are for smooth sailing.  Provision where you can.  Enjoy what ports of call offer.  Be vigilant for pirates.  But don’t get hung up on timing.

For the past seven years Marie and I have been involved in Canine Rescue.  Each year that effort has grown in size and complexity.  This year we built a new kennel building and took our mom-n-pop operation to a new level as a 501(c)(3) non-profit charity.  This was not easy.  It may be easy if you hire a lawyer who is familiar with the ins and outs of the process, but we couldn’t do that, that’s expensive.  I spent months researching the process, then taking it step by step, patiently and in the order they must be taken.  And in October of 2019 we were awarded 501(c)(3) Public Charity status by the IRS.  Not only that, but we also achieved tax free status with the state.  Not all non-profits do.  This allows us to buy supplies for Piney Mountain Foster Care without paying sales taxes.  In our location, that means saving almost 10% on our costs, right there.

As we go into the new year my biggest challenge is going to be remembering that I am no longer the commander of this ship.  I’m more of an engineer, tinkering away to keep the machinery working smoothly.  At the helm is a Board of Directors –good people all, people I know and trust.  But it is no longer just Marie and me bare boating it around the sea of life.

Together we have pointed the bow in a particular direction and together we will go, “over yonder”,  wherever that may end up being.  That is up to God: for He determines the wind and waves and has arranged the islands and continents that we will discover on our journey.

I will, as a rule, not be writing about Piney Mountain Foster Care here on Random Thoughts.  PMFC has its own web site and its own mailing list.  If you are interested in that, please pop over there to look around and sign up for the emails.  Thank you and may you enjoy clear sailing in the year ahead.

Assaulting A Battery

I was shopping for a replacement battery for my cell phone last night.  Not that my current battery is obviously bad: it holds a charge for 5 or 6 days easy, unless I use it a lot.  But every once in a while my phone just shuts off completely without so much as a by-yer-leave to me.  This is a problem because I’ve missed several calls from people I did want to talk to.  I don’t know it’s turned turtle unless I pull it out to check the time or something and find the screen blank.  No, I hardly ever make outgoing calls. Continue reading “Assaulting A Battery”

Chance Encounter

An odd thing happened today.  Marie and I were at the Friends Animal Shelter in Newport to assess a dog they have there.  While that is not a common occurrence, that is not the odd thing.  After we assessed the dog we were standing outside talking to a staffer.  I noticed an Audi pull up to the front gate of the facility, which was closed. A woman got out of the car, slipped through the gap in the gate and approached the front of the building, disappearing from my sight.  Audi’s are not common here, but someone entering this way is not in itself odd, we came through the closed gate as well.  So I paid it no mind: must be someone the staff knows.

A few moments later Carol, the facilities vet tech and person in charge that day, led the woman around the corner toward us.  The woman said, “Oh, are you Doug Bittinger?” but she said my name in a manner that caused me much confusion.  She said it as though it meant something: someone of importance that she was excited to meet.  What unfolded over the next few minutes was astounding.

A man joined us and it turned out these were Marcie and Bob D., who had adopted a dog named Drake almost 5 years ago (Oct 2014). We had fostered Drake.  But, they adopted him from Eleventh Hour Rescue in New Jersey.  What were they doing here in Newport TN?  That’s the astounding part.

They have since moved from their apartment in New Jersey to an acreage in Kentucky and were on their way to Asheville today.  As they drove, they saw a sign indicating that Newport was ahead and Marcie said, “I’m sure Newport is where Eli is from (Drake is now named Eli, after their son’s favorite football player), let’s see if we can find that shelter.”  So they pulled off the interstate and poked around until they found what was, 5 years ago, known as the Newport Animal Shelter.  And they just happened to arrive during the one moment of eternity that Marie and I also happened to be there.

I am not a statistician, but I’m pretty sure the odds of something like this just happening is astronomical!

We remember Drake because he was a particularly bright, well behaved dog, and because he was one of the few dogs who was adopted the same day he arrived at the facility Steele Away Home – Canine Foster and Rescue sent him to.  Marcie has kept in touch over the years by sending occasional photos and updates (something we really appreciate, by the way). They gave us the story behind his rapid adoption and caught us up on their lives and the ways Eli has enriched it. It was wonderful meeting them in person and hearing all about Eli’s new life in the country.

But I’m still marveling at the way our paths crossed, from such distances, at that one place, in that one moment, to form that experience.  God does work in mysterious ways!

Bob, Marcie, Marie

 

Sofa Sleeping

I’ve been sleeping on the sofa the past couple of nights because Lil Blue (a dog Marie and I rescued from a bad situation – http://pineymountainfoster.org/how-lil-blue-came-to-piney-mountain/ ) NEEDS to be able to see someone all the time or he howls like a banshee and no one gets any sleep.

He is doing better already, but he does get anxious if I leave him for more than a couple of minutes.  And since we’ve already got 5 dogs sleeping in the bedroom with us, there is no room for one in a crate.  So I sleep on the sofa with Blue’s crate nearby.

Last night he only fussed at me twice, once at 11:30 and once around 3:00.  Both times he seemed to be in need so I took him outside.  He “produced” both times then went back to the door, into his crate, and back to sleep.

Blaze has only recently earned the privilege of free-range sleeping and has been reveling in being able to sack out on a cushy dog bed on my side of the people bed to sleep.  But last night my big brown buddy Blaze decided to forego sleeping in the air-conditioned comfort of the bedroom and curled up on the dog bed in the living room with Blue and me.  Blaze is such a lovey, dedicated fellow.  I love that boy!

So it is with mixed emotions that I read the Facebook post this morning that listed the dogs going on the next Steele Away Home rescue run and found Blazes name on the list – along with two others of my pack, Sable and Cinnamon.  I’m thrilled that Blaze will be going out to find his forever home, but I will miss him terribly.  He’s such a sweet boy.

But, this is how rescue works.  We save their lives, heal them, train them, then send them to live with someone else.  Sometimes that’s painful.  But far less painful than knowing we left them where they were to die.  In the end it is rewarding work, we just have to deal with the occasional heart ache when one steals our heart.  And before you ask, no I can’t adopt them all.  We’ve kept four.  But if we kept all of those to we absolutely fell in love with we’d have about 20 dogs (out of the 93 we have fostered at this point in time) and animal control would, no doubt, be out here pulling the dogs and calling us a “hoarding situation” because there is no way we can properly care for 20 dogs.

So we do our part, then let those loves go on to homes that can and do care for them very well.  And I take comfort in that.  Even if I am sleeping on the sofa for a while.

Drinking Coffee Through a Straw

Yesterday I was treated to a new experience. I tried flying. Unfortunately I had no wings and the landing was poor. Let me explain…

Luna
Luna the Large Lab

We have a foster dog named Luna, who is a Black Lab-Great Dane mix.  She’s almost 70 pounds now (will be 80 to 85 at proper body weight) and quite strong.  I’ve been taking Luna out of the yard and along the edges of the woods to cater to her “need” to potty in the underbrush. Someone (probably someone with children) has trained her not to defile the family play yard.  But the increasing number of Feral cats around here has made that problematic because her need to chase cats has smashed me into more than one tree as she takes off suddenly after spotting a fur-blur in the woods.

She spent Friday in her kennel because every time I took her out to potty she got distracted by tracking a cat and forgot why we were out there. Having done nothing towards emptying out made her dangerous to take in the house. Although she did nothing in her kennel, either: this girl can really hold it!  But she had to be getting uncomfortable.

Saturday I resolved that we would stay in the yard and she would learn to use that, like all the other dogs. Late in the morning I had her out on her 20 foot lead – believing that if I wasn’t hovering over her on a 6 foot lead, she’d be more likely to avail herself of the grass. We walked around and around the yard with no results. At one point we were standing on the walkway beside the house, looking out over the play yard and the other dogs playing in the yard.  Something (probably one of those Feral cats) aroused the attentions of the other dogs and they went charging across the yard to investigate.

Luna decided to join them.

Had I had her on a 6’ lead I’d probably have been able to stop that charge with nothing more than a painful jerk to my arm. But because she was on a 20 foot lead and I was unprepared, she hit the ground running and had both traction and momentum on her side. She jerked me clean off the walkway, I went heels over head crashing to the slope below the walkway, landing on my right shoulder and the back of my neck. I did at least one complete rolling somersault down that slope before thinking to flatten out to stop that roll. Had I not thought to do that I might have continued rolling down the slope like an old tire.  I came to rest flat on my back about 25 feet from my starting position, Luna still trying to tow me out into the yard.

I laid there for a few moments, unable to move at first, then slowly, carefully wiggled things to be sure all the parts were still connected and nothing was broken. There was a good deal of pain, but everything seemed to be in working order, so I slowly got to my feet and put Luna in her kennel.

My right shoulder and neck hurt A LOT, and continued to do so that whole day. In fact I could not move the shoulder of my coffee drinking arm at all without intense pain. Everything I did the rest of the day was done via elbow and wrist alone.

Normally day two and day three of an injury are actually MORE painful than day one, so I was not looking forward to Sunday. But, probably because I launched into an aggressive campaign of anti-inflammatory pain killers immediately after the injury, I’m actually feeling better this morning. I am able to get my arm up on my desk to type, at least. So I think I’m going to be okay. And I am really grateful that I didn’t land any more on my neck than I did, because that could have resulted in life altering injury. They say God watches over saints and fools, so “Thank you God for watching out for this old fool.”

Oh, and Luna and I wandered the yard (on a SHORT lead) for a looong time last night, with her going from gate, to gate, to gate, until she finally relented and “did her business” in the yard. There is hope I’ll get that penchant worked out of her yet.

That’s Riveting

We use a spring clip device to attach our PMFC dog tags to foster dog’s collars so it’s easy to remove the tag when we deliver the dog to transport, so we can let the dog keep the collar.  But if I attach the tag to the clip with an S hook, the whole assembly gets to be awfully long and dangly.  This is bothersome to the dog and a tempting target for other dogs when they’re playing.  I lose a lot of tags that way, and they’re kind of pricey.

While cleaning out a drawer in my workshop I came across my old pop rivet tool and decided to try riveting the tag straight to the spring clip (as shown).  The result was about 30% reduction in overall length, and because the aluminum tag is sandwiched tightly between the steel clip and a steel washer, it is less likely to be torn loose during play with another dog.

But I don’t have many rivets of that size left, so I added “pop rivets” to my shopping list for Saturday.

Then I saw the price on the box of the tool I have.  I wonder how old that tool is!  I can’t say I’ve seen a pop riveter in the hardware stores lately.  I wonder if they still make pop rivets.

Curiosity just got the better of me and I searched the Ace Hardware web site (The store I plan to shop at on Saturday) for pop rivets – no result found.  I went into Amazon (because Amazon has EVERYTHING) and did a search for pop rivets.  I got a listing of riveted dog collars, shoes, and bracelets.  No fastenings.  I tried Lowe’s web site and found a snazzier version of the tool I have and an assortment of rivets.  So they’re still available, I’m just limited on my sources.  And a box of 100 rivets alone costs twice what my whole kit cost when I got it.  But I guess that’s just the way things are.  What can ya do?