Ninjas in the ICU

You know, if you just have the right attitude, you can be in ICU at a VA hospital, and still have fun.

There I was, (as every good war story begins) lying in the ICU, recovering from (surprise) life-saving abdominal surgery. (Aside: I have nothing but praise for the care I have received from the VA through the years. If you want to bash the VA, please leave me out.)

Now, this isn't really one of my Vietnam stories, after all, we're talking 45 years later, but VN was why I'm at the VA, and Agent Orange is thought to be at least partly responsible for my problems. Enough serious stuff, on with the tale.

There I was in an ICU room. It was three AM, and the nurse had just been in for Vitals Check, and IV bag changes. As she started to leave, she reached to pull the curtain around the bed closed. I asked her not to, and explained that I felt better if I could see what the noises in the hall meant, and it gave me something to do to watch the comings and goings--I was easily entertained at the time, there was a self-administered morphine pump involved.

“Besides,” I said, putting tongue firmly in cheek—I thought—I need to be able to see the Ninjas when they try to sneak down the hall.”

It was like the flash of the Enterprise leaping into Warp Speed. Suddenly my bed was surrounded by a half dozen nurses, and burly orderlies.

“Mr. Carrithers,” demanded a nurse built like Joe Torre, “Can you tell us what year this is?”

“Uh, 2009.”

“And do you know where you are?”

“In the VA hospital, I think.”

“And can you tell me who the president of the United States is?”

“Obama.” I began to understand. “Hey, really, I was joking.”

“When did the Ninjas first try to get you?”

“Look, it was a joke, really!”

“Have you ever been involuntarily committed to a hospital.”

“NO!! Hey, hey, joke, please, joke.”

Finally, with an orderly sort of holding me down, the biggest, meanest nurse who ever wore an Army Nursing Corps uniform said VERY sternly, “Mr. Carrithers, please be careful. You're at the VA. We get the men who DO see the Ninjas.”

That was my last ICU joke. That one nurse gave me a nasty look every time she passed, and the orderly who looked like he was still living in 1969 gave me a thumbs up every time he went by.

Less of a Matrix, more of a Cluster

Maybe it's time for another tale from the world of advertising and corporate America. We need to keep reminding ourselves of how the brilliant business minds of the “makers” work.

Some years back, the management of some divisions of Exxon briefly fell under the spell of a “process expert” and management guru from some university. Par is, these guys have never actually run anything bigger than a lawn mower, but they have “researched”, “studied”, and written whole academic papers on their Theories of Organizational Management and Structure. (always capitalized)

Professor Wizard convinced them of the power of groupthink. And, under his careful guidance, the headquarters implemented a Management By Matrix structure. This was LONG before the movie of the title.

Each major function or task was assigned to a Matrix Block, a group of 7-9 managers. (Never any people from the working levels who would actually have to implement decisions and policies flowing downward from these mountain tops.) All decisions would need the “confluence, connection, consensus, and commitment” of the entire matrix if it was to proceed. (management gurus love alliteration)

What this meant was, nine guys, each one jockeying for promotion over all of the others in the room, would have to agree unanimously on every decision. Any one of the nine could say “NO” to an idea, and no one in the group, not even a majority of the group, could say “YES”--only the entire matrix in consensus could say yes.

The most important little item of corporate politics that jumps out is that not any single member of the cluster could claim credit and bragging rights about any idea or successful venture, while every single one of them would wear the career stain of any failures coming out of their group. It was the total and absolute re-invention of cluster, uh, gridlock. Bring on the Maalox.

For a time, this worked really well for Middle/Upper Middle management. After all, its was lots of meetings, equal “power” for each one in the matrix, and not one evaluation of them on individual achievement or productivity. Nothing happened, and they got paid. An MBA/B School dream. “We met and discussed several items,” was a report for a whole day's “work.”

While it may have been good to the corporate drones, it was hell in a bucket for any outside vendors or agencies, like their ad agency. It instantly became impossible to get anything approved, whether marketing plan, ad design, copy, media buy, or even who should cater the annual sales picnic. “No, that just doesn't quite work for me,” was the killer phrase heard from some corner at every meeting. Meetings always ended with the direction to, “Go back and see if you can't come up with something better” And, of course, no definition of how “better” would be measured. And, of course, outside vendors would be held to all deadlines. If they couldn't satisfy the entire matrix, that was certainly not the fault of the matrix.

One of the things that made this system REALLY unworkable was that each Matrix Block by design contained a “Multiphasic Skill Set”--guru-speak for “people from several disciplines and departments.” Engineers, accountants, sales managers, geologists, etc. So that you could not gear any idea or presentation to any particular mindset with the hope of approval.

The whole matrix had to agree on even the smallest item for it to advance—including meeting times, locations, and duration. One high point was a two-hour meeting with only one item on the agenda—deciding when to hold the next meeting.

As my wise friend George Arnold once said after a lengthy, talky, totally non-productive and pointless meeting, “Those guy will talk about how much they worked today. I accept only the physicists definition of work. If no movement has occurred, no work has taken place.”

It took upper management about three months to begin to realize that absolutely nothing was happening, and that many corporate functions were simply grinding to a halt. So, they did the predictable thing. They formed another, slightly more high-level, Matrix Block to study the situation, and develop, “Implementarily Possible Structural Frames for Organizational Throughput Maximization.” I'll bet those were fun meetings. Luckily, the ad agency wasn't invited.

Besides obvious reasons, I tell all of this because one of my favorite corporate phrases came out of one of our meetings with the matrix. We were presenting a concept for an ad campaign for Diesel Engine Oil—aimed at owners and drivers of 18 Wheelers. As in all such early presentations, the layouts were artists sketches, and the copy on the layout was presented just as a block of ruled lines—the actual copy appearing alongside the layout on a typed sheet. One of the engineers, seeing ad layouts for the first time in his life, just couldn't get his head around the process. He'd ask, “But why don't we use real pictures? (photographs)” We'd explain, “We will, this is just concept, no reason to spend money on a photographer until it's approved.”

He'd say, “Why aren't the words on the same page as those drawings?” We'd say, “When the copy is finally approved, it will be typeset, and printed in the ad in the magazine, meanwhile, there are a lot of approval steps it will go through, even legal.”

He'd say, “It doesn't look like a magazine ad to me.” And we'd say, it's a layout, a concept, to help everyone visualize, imagine, what the finished ad will look like and say.”

Then he hit us with it:

“Well, I just can't imagine how someone can imagine something that I can't imagine.”

These are the people who tell you that government ought to run “more like a business.”

The Attack of the Manhole People

The Beagle Posse spent all of yesterday at Defcon 27; full RedScarletSreamingApocalypse alert.

Starting early in the morning, monsters and their human minions began doing work and repairs on a manhole cover in the middle of the street in front of our house. In full view through Front Window Beagle TV. Each arrival and departure required immediate and full-throated canine response in order to prevent disaster.

The invasion began with the arrival of a crew truck which began disgorging shovel-wielding shock troops. Tommy issued the warning aroos them be, keeping them beyond the driveway border. Just about the time the defense was safely reduced to occasional admonitory growls, the first of the true monsters arrived on the battlefield.

This was what I thought I recognized as a basic backhoe on a trailer. Tommy quickly informed me of my error. “NO!! That is a “Totaltoothed Reachmouth.” They can grab you from 10 feet away, and they keep a human captive in a small cage on their back so they can suck out his brain to power their soulless actions.”

Then we all noticed that this particular machine was fitted with a six-foot diameter circle drill to bore through the street and form a work space around the manhole.

Monster barking had to take a pause while the Posse argued as to the exact function of this particular horror. Tommy maintaining that it was a “San Andreas Magma Finder,” which would open a hole down to a reservoir of molten lava, unleashing the flow on the neighborhood and incinerating us all.

Tuppence was adamant that the device was a “Devil's Bore China Sucker,” which would open a portal all of the way through the earth, allowing all of us to be instantly sucked through to China, where, as it happens, they EAT dogs.

They could not fully agree on the monster's identity, but agreed that only very loud beagle threats could hold it at bay and ensure our safety. They began to apply that remedy.

Following the retreat of this abomination, the ground assault began with the deployment of the shovel and sledge hammer Rangers. As they enlarged the street opening, they would unleash a flurry of slamming and scraping sounds. These sounds required counter-battery fire from the Posse, loosing equivalent noise from “our” side of the battle lines. After flurries of work, the shovels and hammers would fall silent, and shortly after, the barking would too, as the Posse became convinced that they, and they alone, had brought peace to the street.

The Posse curled up on couch pillows for a well-deserved nap, having just preserved home, neighborhood, and civilization as we know it.

As public works employees, also known as “invading mongol hordes,” will, the workers soon went back to their task, raising the now even angrier beagles from their just commenced naps. And the beagles flung themselves back at their loud duties.

And so it went through several cycles of hammers, shovels, and barks; and hammering barks, and barking shovels.

Then, roaring, clanking down the street approached the next smoke-breathing monster. It looked to me exactly like a Caterpillar tracked front end loader. The posse lashed me for my lack of vision, and lashed the monster for its approach. As Tuppy explained, what we were facing was nothing less that an evil reincarnation of a Triceratops, a beast widely known in beagle communities as a “Roar Throating, Boulder Eating, Chihuahua Squasher.” This fearsome beast from the darkest pits of the past was unstoppable by any weapon known to mere humans, and vulnerable only to the fearsome sound of the beagle voice. And the Posse flung themselves once more into the breech. They launched volleys of barking at the creature as it used its fearsome giant mouth to “clang, clang, rang a dang” attempting to pry the old manhole cover from its fitting. Having accomplished that, and holding the cover firmly in its teeth, the beagle defense drove it into retreat down the street, still carrying its cast iron prize.

BUT....no sooner was there a beagle sigh of relief than the Saurian foe made another charge at them, clenching a replacement iron disk in its maw. The beagle barking caused it to fling that disk onto the pavement beside the hole, and retreat once again.

We began to hear what Tommy told me were “native battle cries” as the ground troops in the street discussed strategy for the remainder of Operation Enduring Hole in the Street.

After the attacking force had levered the lid back in place, the street heard the roar of a yet larger colossus. Slowly lumbering up, its fearsome black trunk extended for battle, came the monstrosity I was smart enough to not identify as a concrete truck. Soon enough, Tommy identified it as a “Rattle Spin Roar Rock Spitter,” and began building yet another sound wall. Tommy yelled, “My DOG, Tuppy, it's vomiting up its gray guts all over the street.” It was, but beagle action soon drove it off in retreat, with its dripping nose appendage fighting a rear guard action.

Some mopping up, shoveling in, and smoothing by the beast's minions ended the day's assault, and left the street quiet--with only traffic cones marking the scene of the recent carnage.

The Posse began to complain to me that they had been required to spend nearly the entire day in defense of me and my possessions, and had thus been robbed of their required quantity of naps. They determined that only extra food that evening, and a few days of extra treats, could possibly compensate them for their patriotic sacrifices.

I tried to explain that we had been in no danger, but Tommy shushed me, and told me only beagles were qualified to properly perceive danger. As they wearily moved off for a pre-supper nap on our bed, Tuppence explained, “You're just lucky we aren't paranoid alarmists.”

Posse Down the Bunny Trail

The Beagle Posse was chasing, dancing, yipping joyously, right in the middle of was was normally First Morning Nap time.

“Hey, guys, what's going on?”

Tommy bounced by, “It's almost Easter!”

Puzzled, I ventured, “And why do you care about that?”

Tuppence looked at me like I was a slow-witted Tabby Cat. “Easter is the beagle national holiday.”

“You're going to have to explain that one.”

“Six foot rabbits coming through the front door, and baskets of treats!” And they started dancing again.

Tommy said, “We have a great plan this year. Mr. Antenna Ears is ours. Rabbit stew for Easter lunch.”

“How come you haven't caught him before?”

“He's sneaky,” said Tommy. “Like that guy in the red suit in the winter.”

Tuppence smiled a sly beagle smile. “But THIS year, we're gonna stay awake. Besides, tell us, how does the Bunny get here?”

“He hops down the bunny trail,” I said.

“And who,” gloated Tommy, “is better at bunny trails than beagles?”

Thinking I'd have some fun with them, I said, “What if I put up a sign to warn him?”

Tommy shook his head. “Fool, rabbits can't read.”

“Oh,” I said, “but beagles can talk?”

Tuppence curled a lip. “In some countries, you'd be in a rubber room already. Get between us and the Big Rabbit, and we just might make the call.”

I was sure I had 'em now. “If I'm locked up, who is going to feed you?”

Tommy said, “We'll be feasting on rabbit. Try to keep up here.”

I sat down to explain. “Guys, I'm sorry to tell you, but the Easter Bunny isn't real.”

“Yes he is,” snapped Tuppy. “We've seen him on TV. And they can't put anything on TV that isn't true.”

“Oh,” I said. “Donald Trump is on TV. Not much truth there.”

There was a low menacing growl in the back of Tommy's throat. “WE know what to do with New York Sewer Rats.”

Obviously tired of the palaver, the Posse looked at each other, jumped and tore off down the hall. Tommy shouting, “YOU be the bunny this time.”

They disappeared through the dog door and into the back yard, joyously woofing and beagle bugling.

Beagles are easily entertained. All it takes is a giant rabbit and a dense human.

Beagle Butts in Spring

Mid morning, and the Beagle Posse was gone for a long time from their normal nap places and carpet sun spots. I felt it wise to go look for them.

In the backyard, I spied two beagle butts stuck high in the air, with beagle heads together in a growing hole, and dirt furiously flying.

“DOGS! Stop that. Get in here.”

They came rushing, presuming if I was that excited about something it MUST involve treats. And, of course, in the rush, they brought large clumps of mud on their feet. “Wait! Wait! Stop!”

“You said get in here. Make up your mind.”

“I just wish you dogs could learn to wipe your feet before you come inside.”

“Why? The carpet wipes them for us.” Perfect beagle logic.

“OK, Posse, why did I find you with your butts in the air digging?”

Tuppence sighed and explained, “It's Spring. Spring is for digging. Everybody's doing it.”

“I don't see anyone else doing it.”

Tommy spoke up. “Oh, yeah? Just this weekend, Deborah had her butt in the air and was digging holes in the front yard. Since she claimed the front yard, we took the back. Just doing our part.”

“Dogs, she was gardening. The holes she was digging were to plant flowers. And she filled them in after she was finished. You never fill the holes you dig.”

Tuppence sniffed like a society lady with a cup of luke-warm tea, “If you dig a hole right, it doesn't need filling.”

I'll admit, I was close to losing it. “You certainly weren't gardening. Just what were you digging for?”

Tommy: “Digging is it's own reward. And sometimes you find treasures--like old bones or chipmunks.”

“Did you find any?”

“Nope, and all this talk is keeping us from our digging.”

“No more digging!”

The Beagle Posse exchanged the smug look of true canine non-compliance. Then Tommy asked Tuppence, “Are you gonna tell Deborah he was talking about her butt on the internet?”

“Not right now,” Replied Tupp. “We'll save that 'til we need it.”

And they walked off as I pondered my failure.

We Got Great Seats for the War.

Dateline: Long Binh, Republic of Vietnam, 1970----

“We appear to have a couple comedians.”
The First Sergeant had called a platoon formation at 0600 hrs.

Sgt. Nidifer was a six foot six rail thin son of Appalachia, who had used an Army career to escape the coal mines of West Virginia. He once said, “If I'd a stayed in the mines, I'd a spent 8 hours a day breathin' coal dust in a hot wet place where I couldn't stand up straight.”

He was striding back and forth in the Vietnam dawn in front of the platoon of draftees, and waving a single sheet of paper torn from a small shirt-pocket spiral notebook. “Will,” looking closely at the paper, “Scott and Bill please step forward.”

No stepping took place. No forward.

Right here, let's flash back about 6 hours to near midnight.

WHUMP! WHUMP! WHANG!

Shouts through the hooch, “Incoming. Incoming.” All the GIs were supposed to head to the safety bunkers beside the hooch. Then, as the move started, the platoon sergeant ran through with, “Grab your gear. We got red flares.” Red flares meant a ground attack at the “Wire”--the perimeter of the base. Each company had a reaction force to reinforce the guards in its assigned bunker at the wire if an attack was signaled.

Men just coming off duty, and a few others, were excused from reaction force, and were supposed to evacuate the hooch and shelter in the blast bunkers just outside. That stunk, literally. The bunkers were ankle deep in stagnant water, steaming hot, stuffy, and full of mosquitoes.

Two of the heroes, who had been enjoying a post-duty smoke of the Zig Zag paper, hand rolled variety, looked at each other and instantly had better plans than a night in a stifling bunker. So, as the reaction group stormed off, they slipped on tire-tread shower shoes, helmets, and flak vests, grabbed a six pack of Blatz beer and a couple of aluminum frame lawn chairs. Convinced by both training and cannabis that they were bullet proof, they climbed to the corrugated tin roof of the hooch, popped open warm beers, and settled down to watch the war. The perimeter was about three quarters of a mile off, and the roof gave a perfect view of the tracer rounds, claymores, grenades, parachute flares, and other tools of war lighting up the night. When the helicopters showed up and began spewing tracers from the dark sky, things got even more interesting. There they were, dressed only in Olive Drab boxer shorts, flak vests, helmets, and BF Goodrich sandals, and armed only with cheap beer, enjoying a tropical evening of entertainment.

About the time these two had pretty much settled the betting line for the war at The Viet Cong and 6, a gruff voice shouted “HEY!” Two hands grabbed the edge of the roof. A camo covered helmet began to appear. Just preceding the face under that helmet, our lawn chair shock troops notice a pair of captains bars on the front of the helmet.

The face of the officer was unfamiliar. He demanded, “What are you two doing up here?”

“Uh, watching the war.”
“I'm putting you on report for endangering government property.”

Hero one looked confused. Hero two, who's name was Bob, said, “He means us. We're the property.”

“Ohhhhh.”

Captain Rule Book pulled a spiral notebook and a pencil from the breast pocket of his shiny new fatigues. Obviously, he was new incountry. “What are your names?”

Bob looks at the captain with an absolute serious face, gulps, and says, “Fitzgerald. Scott.”

“How are you spelling that, Fitzgerald?”

Bob helped him out as he scribbled down the information. He then turned to the other war watcher. Not to be outdone, this trooper replied, “Faulkner. Bill.” And that name was duly entered in the notes on the evening.

“You two are on report. Get to the G.....D.....bunker.”

And so, we circle back to the morning formation, and the scrap of paper in the sergeant's fist.

“Gentlemen, the new captain of the motor pool toured our Area last night, and he was not impressed by the demeanor of this unit. That captain may be eye-literate, but this sergeant is not. He has told me to put the two from the roof on sand bag filling duty until further notice. So, the so-called Scott and Bill will step forward. Now.”

No stepping. No forwarding. Army rule one is: Admit nothing.

With no movement, Sgt. Nidifer said, “That's what I thought. Damn comedians.” Crushing the note in his fist, he growled, “Dismissed.”

As the group walked off to breakfast, the sergeant passed Bob, and out of the side of his mouth said, “Have a nice day......Scott.”

The other roof-perching veteran has never been identified.

BAD DOGGED day.

“Are we gonna get Bad Dogged again?” Tommy asked, but didn't seem too concerned.

“Would it do any good?” I replied.

“No,” said Tuppence, “but you have that fun vein that throbs on your forehead when you try to do it.”

The Beagle Posse had a very bad couple of days, so I called a top-level meeting. They wandered in.

“OK, we're gonna talk about three things. First, the huge mud track in the back door and up the hall. Second, the poop in the dining room. Third, when Tuppence bit Deborah's finger and made it bleed.”

They held a nose to butt Beagle caucus, then Tommy said, “I thought this was in important meeting.”

Gritting my teeth, “Look, a bleeding finger; mud so deep I had to get out the carpet steamer; and a stinking pile I found just a half hour before guests arrived are pretty important matters to me.”

Tommy: “Why?”

Tuppence: “That's all easily explained.”

“OK, Tuppy, why don't you start with the finger bite?”

“Deborah tried to take my chicken bone.”

“No, she tried to grab the chicken bone you we stealing off her plate. A bone, by the way, that could have splintered and choked you.”

“Tomato/tomahto, squirrel/chipmunk. And, her finger was the same size as the chicken bone. I just made a mistake.”

I took a slow breath. “It was a mistake for you to try to steal food from a human's plate.”

“Yeah, while the human was looking.”

“Well, dear dog, she almost had to go to the emergency room for it.”

Tommy chimed in, “No stitches, no foul.”

Taking a long swig of coffee, I counted to ten. “Let's move on to those deep mud tracks. I had to go to the store, get carpet shampoo, then spend nearly an hour with the carpet steam machine.”

Tommy checked his butt, then said, “You own beagles, right?”

“Right. And?”

“You should have had carpet shampoo on hand. Your mistake.”

“Look, Posse, you could see it was pouring a deluge. Why did you rush out the dog door and go tromp around in the yard like that?”

“Squirrel.”

“OK. And ankle deep mud.”

“It was raining.”

“Why couldn't you just bark at it through the glass door like usual?”

“You were already awake. No point in barking.”

Sigh. “You messed up the whole bedroom and hallway.”

“It was raining.”

“Then why did you go out?”

“Squirrel.”

“OK, dogs, we're going in circles here.”

Tuppy stopped butt licking long enough to say, “If you'd quit pacing, you wouldn't be going in circles.”

“You know Tuppence, you're putting your Elevenses treat in jeopardy here. Smart ass beagles don't get Milk Bones.”

She said, “Don't make us puddle the TV room.”

Even the coffee and counting didn't calm me down this time. “Then let's just move right to the matter of the dining room deposit.”

“You can't prove we did it.”

“Wha.......?”

“Did it smell like cat doo?”

“Tommy, we don't have a cat.”

“You put in a dog door, and cats are sneaky.”

“LOOK, I KNOW ONE OF YOU POOPED ON THE DINING ROOM FLOOR!” (….6,7,8,9,10)

With an audible beagle snort, Tommy explained. “It was raining.”

“So?”

“We don't like to go stand in the rain to poop and pee.”

“But you'll go out after squirrels?”

“You'll clean up poop and pee. You won't catch squirrels.”

“So, you blame me?”

“No.”

“No? Good.”

“It was raining. We blame the rain.”

I gave them the stare, and said, “Well, the floors are one thing. But let's get back to Deborah's bleeding finger.”

The Beagle Posse turned to leave the room. As they went, Tuppy said over her shoulder, “Tastes like chicken.”