Deer Joe:

Sometime around age 11 I decided that my name was no longer working for me. “Joe” lacked flair. I needed a nickname, something memorable that would command instant respect.

After careful consideration, I settled on my pick: Cobra.

Quick! Fearsome! Deadly!

And, of course: Ridiculous!

“Cobra” never caught on for me, as you might imagine. A friend offered an animal alternative, “Deer,” because, he said, “You look like one.” I didn’t think much of the suggestion (Skittish! Meek! Harmless!) and so continued as Joe or, among my high school football buddies, Rogers.

All this while guys called Squeezer, Stump, Pear, Red, Scooter, Bones, Wild Man, Wild Bill, MiniBrute, Winky and Spud crossed my path.

Then, at 25, I went to work for my first newspaper to employ computers. The log-ons tended to be some combination of first and last names, a process that had already produced, for a guy named Jerome David Oglethorpe, the memorable “jdog”: jay-dog.

I became jrog: jay-raj.

And so I remain to this day for some people, chiefly those who know me through newspaper connections. I suppose that, in the great scheme of things, it has no more flair than “Joe,” and doesn’t exactly command instant respect.

Which, come to think of it, probably makes it perfect.

Frolicking in the Mist

It’s 12:30 in the morning, sprinkling rain, and I’m pedaling my bicycle into the driveway, one hand on the handlebar and the other holding a three-foot-tall, stuffed green dragon with a yellow belly and blue horns.

My wife sees me and laughs. As well she might: this is all her doing

Kayne is a practiced scavenger, often coming home with things that had been set out for the garbage collectors. I had always mildly discouraged her. But she argued that she was being environmentally conscious, helping keep landfills unclogged.

It all struck me a little like rummaging through a city dump after dark. Still, I seemed to recall reading somewhere that an item clearly intended to be thrown away can’t be stolen.

So one morning about 1:30 I agreed to accompany her to check out two bar stools she had seen. They weren’t exactly what I might buy, perhaps, but close enough, at a much lower price. I scooped up both, and started walking furtively home.

Then I noticed a weight bench in another yard. Again, not as good as one I would consider buying, but better than the nothing I had. And another bargain. My wife took one of the stools, I picked up the bench, and we continued on, hoping very much not to be seen.

That’s how it started for me.

Mondays and Thursdays are trash days in our neighborhood, which means Sundays and Wednesdays are now treasure nights. My work schedule already has me walking home from the train station after midnight, so I don’t have to make special efforts to be up when others are asleep. All I have to do is cast a different eye on what I used to consider refuse.

I see a board roughly the size of a door, with two holes cut in it, and think, What can I use that for?

Nothing, I decide. But that small aquarium - surely it could be turned into a terrarium. Those random-length two-by-fours - firewood? I hate those stackable, white plastic lawn chairs, but...

I soon realized that walking allowed only a limited coverage area. What if tonight the big score is not on this street, but one block over?

That’s when I turned to the bicycle, and, my first night on wheels, someone several blocks over had thrown out what appeared to be a perfectly good pedestal fan. I managed to get it home, only to plug it in and learn that, while having fan looks, it lacked fan action. It quickly went to the trash in front of my house.

My wife brought home a metal shoe rack that night. This would be shoe-holder No. 6 or so for the household, but I no longer begrudge her.

Instead, I look forward to the next treasure night, when I will again sniff through the discards like one of the neighborhood cats. In this manner we’ve cluttered the garage with some items -- a door, a wooden fence gate, an animal cage, assorted screens and shutters and tables and chairs -- whose usefulness has not yet become apparent.

But we’ve had our successes, too, in addition to the stools and weight bench. There’s the wine rack now holding magazines in the dining room. The two excellent ice chests, now protecting bird seed. The sisal rug in the basement, the wicker love seat in the bedroom, the metal cabinet in the pantry.

And, on one rainy night, a stuffed green dragon. In need of rescue.

How to Hydrate a Cat

1. Have a cat actually in need of hydration, perhaps for kidney issues. One way to tell: his skin has taken on the elasticity of a prune’s.

2. Have the foresight to have married a vet or vet tech.

3. Absent that, try to get the cat to drink more liquids by spiking his water with clam juice.

4.When that fails (he’s no fool), try seafood stock.

5. When that fails (perhaps he’s watching his sodium intake), buy a bottle of electrolyte solution intended for hydrating infants. Try to hold the cat still while you shoot it down his throat with a syringe.

6. When that fails (and startles the hell out of him), spend $50 on a device that offers a constant flow of enticing, filtered water.

7. When that fails (the constant flow is accompanied by a constant unenticing electric hum), be thankful that your wife volunteers to go to the vet and learn how to administer subcutaneous injections.

8. Try not to express visible horror when she comes home with the kind of plastic drip bag that reminds you of your unfortunate trip to the hospital last summer, and a collection of needles.

9. Find a spot your cat enjoys and will be comfortable in during the procedure, like the bed, which is as much his as yours anyway. Lie down with him near your shoulder, and encourage him to be still and nuzzle your chin the way he loves to at 5:30 in the morning when you’re trying to sleep.

10. Secure the cat gently but firmly as he realizes that something sharp and pointed has entered his flesh.

11. Be supportive of your wife through her initial trial-and-error jabs -- some of which poke completely through the skin, others of which become dislodged and spray you and the bed -- keeping in mind that you didn’t have the guts to do the job yourself.

12. Stroke the cat’s head and face in a manner that says, This too shall pass. Try to remind yourself of the same thing.

13. When the process is completed in five minutes or so (trying to do it faster can result in a leaking cat), give him a treat of his very favorite canned food so he will have pleasant associations.

14. Give yourself a treat of your very favorite canned or bottled beverage, for the same reason.

15. Repeat Step 14 as needed.

The Art of Spar

In case you've never experienced the thrill of martial arts sparring, let me describe it to you based on my own first experience:
Punch. Miss.
Punch. Miss.
Punch punch (a combination!). Miss miss.
Punch. Miss.
WHAP!
Brain rattles inside head.
(Thought:)Where the hell did that come from?
And so on.
This was not the plan. My art is Jeet Kune Do: the way of the intercepting fist. If someone throws a punch at me, Sifu Dino says, the proper response is “Thank you for giving me the opportunity to hit you!”
And to hit him first.
Instead, it seemed as if my arms had suddenly grown shorter. Try as I might, I could not reach my opponent, Sergeant Steve.
Ha, he seemed to say, as he swatted my efforts aside - sometimes with this hand, sometimes with that one - or simply leaned slightly back to render them impotent. Puzzled but undaunted, I kept trying again.
WHAP!
I should mention we were both wearing headgear, which, as I discovered, seemed to function primarily not to cushion the blow but to spread the force around and amplify sound. In my mouth was a plastic piece designed to protect my teeth and keep me from biting off my tongue but which also made it next to impossible to swallow so my mouth filled with saliva and I felt like it was about to drool all over...
WHAP!
Geez.
Don’t get me wrong. Over the course of two opponents, I am dimly aware that I landed a punch or two of my own. But had either contest been a real confrontation I would probably have been a TKO victim at best. Which, the optimist in me says, just goes to show how much room there is for self-esteem-building improvement.
My next opportunity comes in two days. Maybe by then, my jaw will have returned to its proper alignment.