costs money

When I was a child, we had a dog who we called Fritz. Fritz was a little black dog, around 40 pounds, with Doberman-like markings. Dogs were not called “mixed breeds” in those days; they were just plain ol’ mutts. Fritz was a scrappy little mutt. Actually, Fritz was one of the best of them plain ol’ mutts.

He had wiry hair and a tail that curled into a perfect circle. He ears were always perked up, not floppy like some dogs, and he had soulful eyes. Fritz was a dog’s dog. He did what dogs do, or at least he did what dogs did in those days. He kept me company, played with my sisters and me, barked when the mailman arrived, and ate cheap canned food or Chuck Wagon kibble with water for dinner. He seemed to enjoy the savory gravy that the powdered kibble created.

He smelled like a dog, too, and I do not mean that he sniffed the ground or hunted cats. He had a knack for getting out of the backyard – we called it “running away” – and for finding his way into the neighborhood’s garbage cans. Where he found these garbage cans nobody knows, but he would return home smelling like crap and rotten food, and was drunk on being a bad dog. I am sure those whose garbage cans were overturned knew our Fritzy well.

He wore one of those antique plastic pest control devises known as a flea collar. I am not sure they still make flea collars like that, since “modern” dogs such as mine use Frontline to control fleas. Fritz’s flea collar had to be trimmed with scissors to ensure a proper fit and it carried the faint smell of pesticide when it was brand new. Accompanying his flea collar were his dog tags, a chain with his Santa Clara County dog’s license and a tag with his name, our address, and phone number on it.

His tags jingled whenever he walked. You could hear him coming. Tinkle-tinkle-tinkle-tinkle. When he scratched, which was often since those flea collars worked so well, his chain and tags tinkled loud and fast. Ting-ting-ting-ting-ting-ting-ting-ting. You could also hear him coming by the clack of his toenails. Clack-a-tinkle. Clack-a-tinkle. Clack-a-tinkle. Clack-a-tinkle. Clack-a-tinkle. Clack-a-tinkle. Clack-a-tinkle.

He would show his excitement when we would come home or when his dinner was being prepared by clacka-clacka-clacka-clacka-clackaing in place. We called it “tap dancing” and he earned the nickname “Fritz Astaire.”

He wasn’t great on tricks or commands. He could sit and lie down. He would come when he was called and he would stay sometimes. He would shake. He would attack and chew on your slippers if you made them out to be monsters, a game that delighted my sisters and me into fits of giggles. He would chase you in the fields at Rosemary Elementary School. He could catch a Frisbee, chase a ball, and walk on a leash. He was a good boy.

He did have one trick that was his specialty. It was called “Costs Money.” My mother’s father, Grampa Harry, taught him this trick. I am not sure when he was taught this trick, but it must most likely during a Thanksgiving or Christmas visit. Grampa Harry had a great sense of humor and was a definite clown. I am sure he loved teaching this little dog this trick.

Here is how it worked:

Fritz would sit. A treat would be placed in front of him. He would start towards it and would be told that “it costs money” in a tone that indicated, “you can’t eat that yet .” The phase “costs money” would be repeated in teasing proportions as the treat was moved closer and closer to him. He couldn’t eat the treat until he paid for it. And he knew it. You could see it in his eyes. He would sit there patiently and stare longingly at the morsel, whether a bit of Thanksgiving turkey, Christmas ham, salami, bread, or a charcoal Milk Bone dog biscuit. Sometimes he would drool. Sometimes he would need to settle into his sit again, or regain his balance, and his toenails would clack-clack-clack on floor.

“Costs money, Fritzy. It costs money.”

When it was time to pay, when services were rendered, the age-old system of barter was in play. The goods were presented, desired, and waiting to be enjoyed. But first, an exchange was needed in this commerce game. Oh capitalism, how you enthrall me!

The person who was withholding the bounty would extend their open hand and Fritz would swipe his paw into it. This was the equivalent of him reaching into his wallet, and placing cash in the open palm. At that point, the keeper of the feast exclaimed, “It’s paid for!” and Fritzy would gobble up his reward.

The phrase “costs money” has been top of mind for me lately. I hear that phrase everywhere I go. Everything everywhere costs money. Since leaving my last job, and still not working, my income has been greatly reduced. I have lived my entire life with income and I have lived my entire life with expenses. There has always been money coming in and I have been good at ensuring that money goes back out again.

Everything everywhere costs money. Eating out costs money. Ordering food in costs money. Groceries cost money. A new pair of mittens cost money. Learning to knit costs money. Buying yarn costs money. A manicure and pedicure costs money. A new pair of nail clippers costs money. A movie costs money. A book costs money. A newspaper costs money. Everything everywhere costs money.

A friend said once that the minute you walk out the door in NYC, you drop at least $30. And the sad part is that it is true. Even when attempting a “cost free day”, where you do nothing that costs money, you must budget at least $5. There is no such thing as a “cost free” day. You watch TV and it costs money. You turn on a light it costs money. You surf the internet and it costs money. You eat lunch and it costs money.

From my perspective, the only thing that does not cost money is sitting in my living room, petting my dog and thinking. This is something I do very often. I think about how we taught my childhood dog a trick called “costs money” and then I pet my dog, Victor. I think about how it is so true that everything really does cost money and I pet Victor again. I pet my dog and I think about how maybe I should write something about Fritzy or maybe something about “costs money.”

While I pet my dog, I think about how I need to get my taxes done. Even that costs money. It costs money to pay the government money. Pet, pet, pet, think, think, think.

It is a good thing that there is no way to tax thoughts or petting … yet.