The Gambler

I received an invitation to a Kentucky Derby Party this morning. It's an annual event and being something of a social butterfly, I'm used to being in demand. What was a little odd though, was that my company's e-mail blocker refused to let me view it.

I'm not sure which of the forbidden subjects a Kentucky Derby Party would fall under, but as pornography, violence and weapons haven't been a feature of the previous shindigs, I suspect it must have been 'gambling'. Which is a little comical because you see, I hold the official title of the world's worst gambler.

It matters not one whit whether it's a game of chance or skill, the roll of the dice or a study of form, I'm hopeless at it. Uncannily hopeless in fact. Hopeless to the point where other gamblers pay attention to what I do, so they can do the exact opposite and rake in the bucks.

It's not as if I win a little, but lose overall. No, I lose every...single...time. Most other people can happily play the slot machines for hours, sometimes coming away a few dollars up, sometimes a few dollars down, but usually happy with the pleasure they've obtained in exchange for the money they've spent. But me? I might as well just hand over my wallet to the casino owner the moment I walk in and be done with it.

Years ago, my mates and I used to make a bi-annual pilgrimage to the race course at Cartmel. Despite the meetings being held on public holidays, the weather was invariably sunny and warm, while the northern England country setting was impossibly idyllic. Best of all though, the pubs were open all day, which given the archaic licensing laws at the time, was a rare treat. A good day out was invariably guaranteed, but when it came to betting on the races, forget it. The pedigree of the horse was irrelevant. The skill and fame of the jockey mattered not. If I placed a bet, they came last and that was that.

In later years the jockeys used to sit around in the weighing room waiting to see which one of them was to receive my favor. If they learned I'd bet on them, they didn't bother to get changed, they just went home.

My first time in Vegas, that Mecca for the gambling fraternity, I figured it wouldn't hurt to have a wee flutter. I was a backpacker at the time though, and every penny counted, so I was pleased to pick up a leaflet that entitled me to $50 worth of free gambling. Free! The word which brings light into any backpacker's heart. This was my kind of gambling.

The deal was you got one pull of a slot machine, one spin on the wheel of fortune, one throw at the craps table and so on, about 10 different chances to win. The catch was, this had to be spread out over 5 hours or so and I suppose the expectation was that you would play with (and lose) your own money while awaiting your next chance to play for free. Not me though; I'm way too smart (and cheap) for that. No, I played my one roll of the dice; then headed back to the hostel to read my book until it was time for the next shot at the prize. Do you know how much money I won from my $50 worth of free gambling? None. Nada. Zip. Not one single penny and I left Vegas the same way I arrived; on the Greyhound bus.

Whether it was my sister crushing me at Snakes and Ladders ("Chutes" and Ladders, for you Murkans) or taking part in the office sweepstakes on Grand National Day, I've always come a solid last when it comes to games of chance and skill. The fact that my sister cheated like a bandit is little consolation - she would have won anyway.

But my most crushing loss came outside the old Wembley Stadium in London, where yer stereotypical Cockney wide boy had attracted a crowd with a game of "Find the Lady", that well-known method of fleecing the unwary whereby 3 cards, one of them a queen are laid on a table and shuffled from side to side at lightning speed. If you can keep track of which is the queen and identify it at the end, you win. £5 a bet, double your money if you're right. Of course it's not that simple. Distraction, deception and slight of hand are all part of the game but you know what? I had this guy figured out.

I stood there for at least an hour, studying his every move. I saw him switching cards while the punters were reaching for their wallets, I observed him slipping cards up his sleeve and different ones out again, I figured out who in the crowd were his plants, I'm telling you, I had his number.

And I had £5 burning a hole in my pocket. £5 that I could easily turn into £10. Never mind that this included my tube fare back to the hotel. I'm telling you, this was easy.

Oh, that nagging voice kept reminding me that I suck at this; that I'd lost countless times before, that I never, ever won when I gambled. But look! There I was right again. If I'd bet that time I would have won. Again and again, I picked the correct card - if only I'd had the courage to put my money down. Finally, I could stand it no longer and after watching the play like a hawk, I pulled out my £5.

"It's that one!" I declared, planting my index finger firmly on the card and keeping it there. No switching cards this time laddie, I'm too sharp for you. Without batting an eyelid, the wide-boy flipped over the card next to it, and to nobody's surprise but mine, revealed that this was in fact, the Queen.

Devastated, I began the long walk back to central London. I swear I must have watched his routine a hundred times and was right on each one of them. Except for the one hundred and first time, when I put the money down. What did he do differently? I don't know. I do know however, that I was beaten by a master.

As evidenced when he swept passed me in a chauffer driven Mercedes. He and his mates in the back seat, each counting a huge wad of notes.

And they didn't even offer me a ride.

Fly like an Eagle

So on a day reminiscent of The First Bike Ride of Spring, Raven and I took advantage of the spring weather (finally!) and went for a bike ride along the banks of the river Platte. It wasn't warm exactly, but the sun was shining, the grass is turning green and there are definite signs that winter might be on the way out at last. (Don't get me wrong, the winters here are beautiful, but enough already.)

The wildlife were enjoying the mild weather too, so we kept our eyes peeled for anything that might be occurring. The birds in particular, seemed to be out in force, hawks and ravens and crows, many of them simply wheeling and circling in the sky, seemingly just for the fun of it. Before we even began our ride, we spent some time admiring two ravens circling ever and ever higher, apparently for no other reason than that they could.

All awesome stuff but best treat of all came later on the ride. Two golden eagles were playing in the sky up ahead. At one point I thought we'd lost them around a rocky crag but moments later, after a few moments they came swooping towards us, and flew not more than 15-20 feet above our heads before settling on the ground just a few yards away. One of them appeared to have something in its talons but they were obviously aware of our presence because before long, they took off for the tree tops and soon disappeared around the hill.

But not until we'd had the chance to enjoy the blessing of observing these magnificent creatures, from a distance closer than most people are ever lucky enough to experience in a lifetime.

I've seen quite a few bald eagles since moving to the States, but never a golden eagle, and never two at once, and never quite that close.

What a special privilege that was.

When Irish Eyes are Smiling

Although St. Patrick's day isn't until tomorrow, me and the other members of the pipe band marched in Denver's annual parade yesterday, then spent the rest of the day and a good chunk of the night playing for the revellers in the city's Irish pubs. So, as I wait for the hangover to pass, I thought it might be fun to revisit my first St. Patrick's day parade, back in 2004.

When Irish Eyes are Smiling

The city of Denver boasts the 4th largest St. Patrick’s Day parade in the US, behind New York, Boston and Chicago. In it’s 42nd year, it’s a colorful display of music, marching and of course, free stuff, the parade winds through the LoDo district of downtown and takes between 3-4 hours to complete.

As you might expect there are a number of marching bands, step dancers, decorated floats and Star Wars characters. Well, perhaps you might not expect the last group, I know I didn’t, but they were there all the same, in full regalia complete with swords and light sabers. I’m not entirely clear on the link between St. Patrick and Star Wars, any more than I am about his connection to the Hari Krishners who were also in attendance, but nonetheless, they added a little fun to the proceedings.

Being a participant in the parade means you don’t get to see the parade itself so one of the most entertaining parts of the day was watching the other groups preparing. Everybody was out to have fun so there was a lot of camaraderie and joking around. Well, with the exception of a band of scary looking clowns who, standing off to one side, stared unsmiling at us while we warmed up. I don’t like clowns at the best of times and this gang were freaking me out but luckily, once the parade started, we didn’t see them again.

Of all the bands in the parade, there were none so musically talented, so physically attractive or so...big as the Isle of Mull and St Andrews Pipes and Drums, of which I happen to be a fledgling member. We were out in force this year with no less than eleven snare drums, far more than most bands have on their roster and even marching shoulder to shoulder, more than could comfortably fit across the street.

As a general rule, public performances require the band be turned out impeccably, with every uniform accessory complete, shoes polished and cap ribbons ironed. However, St. Paddy’s day is a little different and to the consternation of Big John, the Pipe Major, a number of rules were being broken. Many of the band members were wearing a little more jewelry than normal for example. Kelly green jewelry for the most part, usually made of plastic and often flashing and/or bearing the name of a beer company. A couple of the drummers were wearing green foam rubber Mohawks and there was one very shaggy, bright green wig. I myself sported a plastic derby hat, but after it blew off my head for the third time, I donated it to a kid in a stroller. Check off my good deed for the year.

The most important factor when participating in a parade is of course, “who are we near?” In most parades, bands are kept a reasonable distance apart, so they don’t interfere with each other’s playing. Sometimes you get lucky and are stationed near a group worth looking at, the parade queen or a troop of cheerleaders for example. However, this time out, for some sadistic reason, the organizers had placed us in front of the Colorado Italian American society. All very nice people I’m sure, but their contribution to the parade was to play songs of a not particularly Irish nature through a low-grade loudspeaker. “Danny Boy” I can sort of tolerate, particularly this day of all days, but “That’s amore” would be bad enough even on a quality sound system. This is why guns are still legal in this country.

Being a rookie, I was stationed next to Megan, the drum sergeant and leader of the corps, so she could keep an eye on me and make sure I was playing, at least approximately, the same tune as everyone else. And there were brief periods when I accomplished that although marching and playing simultaneously is a skill I have sadly, yet to master. If someone were to ask me to chew gum too, I’m not entirely sure what would happen. Lets just say I was the only one marching in step, everyone else was somewhat “off”. However, being next to Megan gave me one advantage in that for the most part, I was able to keep in line with her, an all important factor when marching. The rest of our drum line had at times, a distinct “question mark” appearance, a flaw which infuriated Megan, especially in light of the number of drummers with marching band experience.

As if playing a drum, marching AND keeping in line weren’t hard enough, you also had to keep a close eye on where you were putting your feet. Not surprisingly there were a number of horses in the parade and naturally, they were doing as horses do. Several volunteers were equipped with shovels and buckets and they did a sterling job. However, some of the horses must have been eating what I can only imagine was a fiery hot chili because the sheer volume of output was phenomenal. Let’s just say it wasn’t something you’d want on your ghillies, and leave it at that.

Being blessed with longer legs than many, I did have the advantage of being able to keep up without a problem. This was a challenge for Alhana, our youngest and cutest band member. Her tenor drum is approximately half her height and just wearing it at practice is a feat of endurance for an eight year old. Lugging the thing around the Denver streets was almost more than she could manage. As she’s our unofficial mascot we all wanted her to do well but I in particular had a vested interest in making sure she stayed on her feet, as I was marching directly behind her. “If she goes down, you can walk over the top of her, but don’t hurt the drum”, was Megan’s direction on the subject. Megan can say that kind of thing, being Alhana’s mother. But she did just fine, even though she tended to drift out of formation and towards the end, required one of the other tenors to “tow’ her along so she could keep up.

I’d been warned the parade would take a couple of hours for us to complete, but in fact, we marched for barely more than an hour. Not too bad, I can handle that. The real test of endurance will come this Wednesday, St. Patrick’s day itself. Beginning in the afternoon, we’re being driven around Denver’s Irish bars, playing until the small hours of the morning. Should be fun. I’ll get back to you.

A Boy and his Dog

Nobody came and put their head in my lap as I put on my shoes this morning. Nobody took it for granted that me lowering my head meant I needed a smelly-breathed dog face in mine, or that I should stop tying my laces and administer a good ear scrunch instead. Because today there's a big hole in the house where Wiley the dog used to be, and it's exactly the same size as the one in my heart.

Many, many years ago when we were still desert dwellers, Dear Wife volunteered for one of the local animal rescue shelters. Occasionally, one of the other volunteers would bring a new arrival over to our house and they'd stay with us for a night or two until space opened up at the shelter. This all worked very well until one time we received a call asking if we could foster a dog for a little longer - two weeks this time as she couldn't be put up for adoption until she'd recovered from being spayed. "It's an Australian Shepherd," they said, "just like your other two."

No problem there; we did indeed have a matching set of Aussies in the house, two medium-sized incredibly well behaved dogs, so the idea of having a third for a while was quite appealing. Until the car door opened and this enormous great beast of a dog fell out. We could see immediately that while she was almost certainly part German Shepherd, quite possibly part Belgian Shepherd, and who knows what else, there was nothing to indicate even a scrap of Australian Shepherd in the mix.

No matter, there's always room for one more dog in the house so we welcomed our new guest and prepared to be a three dog household for a couple of weeks. Of course, you know where this story's going. By the time the two weeks were up, this big hearted, clumsy, noisy and incredibly goofy dog had wormed her way into our lives and there was no way we could give her back.

The first thing to change was her name. Her previous owner had, for reasons beyond my comprehension, named her 'Lady'. I have to wonder if they'd even met her because whatever other qualities she might have, a lady she was not. We decided that her scrawny, half-starved appearance made her a dead ringer for the cartoon character Wile E. Coyote and within days she was answering to her new name of Wiley. Lady - bleh.

With love, a healthy diet and lots of exercise she soon filled out and her short, dry, scruffy coat grew long and silky. Her energy level was incredible and despite spending many long days hiking the local trails while she raced back and forth, I never saw her really tired. Everything about her just exuded life, from her habit of talking in a rurr-rurr-rurr voice when excited, to the noise of her tail thumping against the wall echoing around the house, to her endless curiosity and love for all. The concept that some people might not actually like dogs, never entered into Wiley's head and every human was just another friend to whom she needed to introduce herself.

But the most frustratingly endearing aspect of Wiley's personality was her perpetual belief that she was on the brink of starvation. No matter the quality of the dog food we gave her, or how much she managed to steal, or beg from strangers, poor Wiley's hunger was never satiated.

We learned early on that no food was safe. A dirty plate on the coffee table, bread on the kitchen counter, a bag of powdered sugar one Christmas Eve, a whole bag of premium dog food belonging to our friend Kris, whom we were visiting - all fair game. We had the cleanest kitchen floor in the world because dropped food never hit the ground. Wiley wasn't fussy - if it fit in her mouth it was food and it mattered not one whit how long it had been dead or whether something else had already eaten it. The stuff that passed through that dog's trash compacter intestines without apparent harm was phenomenal.

Although there were many scares. The first came early in the relationship when she dug up Dear Wife's newly planted roses to get at the bone meal mixed into the soil. What we didn't think about at the time was the bug poison mixed in as well. That resulted in a late night race across town to the emergency vet, with a thunderstorm crashing around us as we ran every red light hoping that no cops would be around to slow us down. The vet told us she was lucky to be alive, and indeed for several days, it was touch and go. But in a week or so, the spark returned to our new pal, and soon after, the irrepressible joy of life was back.

Another time she snagged an entire 5 lb jar of peanut butter; all but the bits around the dimple at the bottom where her tongue wouldn't quite reach. No, she didn't go to the bathroom for several days, and yes, I nearly threw my back out cleaning it up when she finally did.

As you can tell, learning from experience was never Wiley's strong suit and over the years we spent many worried hours sitting next to her on the floor, massaging her stomach and wondering if the latest ingestion would be the one to do her in. Mushrooms were nearly her downfall on several occasions after we moved to Colorado. We never really learned which were the poisonous ones but in the spring they grow in the yard faster than we can clear them. After finding her drooling and panting too many times, we resorted to putting a muzzle on her before letting her outside.

It's really a miracle she lasted over 14 years especially as that's a ripe old age for a dog her size in the first place. But over the last few years it's been hard to watch this boisterous, noisy and tireless dog grow slow and stiff and old. Eventually, I had to stop taking her on my long hikes and it broke my heart to leave the house with Sasha, The World's Most Irritating Dog™, while Wiley stared at us through the door. Still, most days I walked a mile around the neighborhood, while Wiley plodded gamely along beside me.

I didn't have a dog growing up and the Aussies were in Dear Wife's life before I came along. So while we always talked about Wiley as being 'our' dog, she really wasn't; she was my dog...my first dog. My hiking partner, my camping buddy, my therapist and my best friend.

Wiley passed away, peacefully in her sleep on Tuesday night, almost certainly as a result of something she ate, and I've hardly stopped crying since. And yes, I'm crying right now.

So happy trails and so long Wiley, my greedy, goofy, lively and loveable friend. Wherever you are now, I hope they're feeding you right. Thanks for everything...I'm going to miss you so much.