To use a phrase that could be found in a contemptuous critique of modern art, the anal glands have been expressed. This was not something that can be done online, you know. There is no app. You can set up the appointment online, though, and that’s what I did. Then I realized that I had chosen the wrong time, since Laura (old friend from Daughter’s piano Friday class) was coming over for lunch. I tried to cancel online. No good. Checked my email: there was a confirmation letter with a link to cancel or change.

Well.

So I made another appointment and figured I’d cancel in the morn.

Phone rings at 7 AM. I am not up at 7 AM. I see no reason these days to be up at 7 AM. Message was left; I drifted back to sleep with that irritation you feel when awakened prematurely, mapping out the day ahead in case you don’t fall back asleep. When I got up at 7:49 the message was from the pet vet, noting that I’d made two appointments, and I should call to clarify. I called. Recorded message: the clinic was closed, and would open at 8. It was 8:15. I called several times; same message. Eventually I called another one in the chain, and asked them if they could somehow get ahold of their Richfield office, because their phone was off the hook. This did the trick: the vet called me, and the most monotonal person in the great state of Minnesota took my particulars. It was like speaking to the incarnation of novocaine.

We left for the vet. I stopped off to get gas, and while I was trying to get the card in, I . . . heard my name! ’Twas a Bleatnik! With kind words and encouragements! I can’t tell you how marvelous that is, how lucky it makes me feel. So when he said he ‘d run out of gas and just needed $20 to fill his can so he could pick up his daughter at the hospital OF COURSE I gave it to him -

Kidding. He wanted to meet Birch, who was in the backseat, and because my life is so very damned odd he noted that he didn’t smell that bad. Yes, someone I’d just met 37 seconds ago knew my dog had impacted glands.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Went to the vet - which is not my normal vet, I should note; couldn’t get in right away, so I chose the local chain vet. And by" chain" I mean, naturally, it is owned by a candy bar maker.

Imagine asking someone where they work, and they say The guys who make Milky Ways and drain dog’s butt sacs. So do you do one or the other or both? Well I’m in dog-butts now but I’m hoping to transfer to the Skittles division.

The person at the counter was the affectless young woman with whom I’d spoken on the phone. Full Gen-Z stare. Everyone else was vivacious and lively, though. I drove home and went back up to Fred Base One and had this sudden sad mood of doglessness. Even when he’s just sitting behind my chair in my office, I know he’s there, and not just because he passes silent gusts most foul.

Had a great lunch, albeit a bit dry. She brought a bag of my favorite chocolates, having read the Bleat about the Dove squares with the balcony espresso. Those are the rules and that is the way of things. I’m now set for choco-rations until September, I think. Picked up Birch later, and realized I was low on heart worm pills. Asked if I could buy some. Two options: the chewable pills, for $90, or an injection for $140. The former would last six months and the latter would last a year. Best to go with the injection so I didn’t have to worry if I’d given him his pill, so I went with that.

And then I thought: I’m assuming he’s going to make it a year. Maybe I should get the pills -

No. Let’s presume a year. Let’s demand it.

And now . . .

Previously known as "Here to There." Remember that? It was put on hiatus after the Great Schism was announced. Turns out I have a few in storage, because I'm a hoarder, you know. Same basic idea. I found something and it led to other things.

I was researching the original names of some 19th century churches for an architecture piece, and this meant studying a lot of old newspapers. At the bottom of one general-news page, a note. Our prompt.

Well, which to investigate first? Lester Prairie, or New Germany?

Lester Prairie is small, but its ramblers are jolly:

Its main gas station is called Big Don’s Carthedral, a name guaranteed to annoy spell-check programs.

The main industry seems to be this place:

Liquibox. Among other things, the company makes boxed wine possible. The Lester Prairie facility makes the fitments.

And now you know what those things are called.

But what’s this business about being “Liquibox, Now A Sealed Air Company”?

		He looks bothered by something, like he left a gas burner on at home.

Sealed Air bought them, and they want everyone to know it. Can you guess what Sealed Air makes?

That’s right. Their first product, in 1960. Bubble Wrap.

Bubble wrap was invented in 1957 by engineers Alfred Fielding and Marc Chavannes in Hawthorne, New Jersey. Fielding and Chavannes sealed two shower curtains together, creating a smattering of air bubbles, which they originally tried to sell as wallpaper.

The company has a remarkable product line, which would seem to be the result of wise expansion into adjacent markets. What I can’t find is where they make their air pillows. You know, those inflated plastic bags you get when you get a box from Amazon. I’ve alway thought those would be a great plot device in a terrorist thriller novel, because no one thinks twice about popping them and letting their contents into your space. Where does the air come from? Is it Chinese air? Doubtful; surely they don’t ship bales of inflated plastic pillows all the way from China. So it’s domestic air. But where?

As for New Germany - a name that would settle decisively an out-of-towner’s query about the residents’ heritage - it’s smaller. Wikipedia:

In 1917 during World War I, the village changed its name to Motordale. It restored the name New Germany in 1922.

Not according to the New Ulm paper, which said the change was made in 1920.

Anyway: “New Germany was established in the 1880s around the Great Northern Railroad depot.” Which is gone. But it makes you look for the remains of the railroad line, to see if you can trace it from space. As it happens, it’s easy: it’s now the Dakota Line Trail.

In Oct 2014, the rails were still visible.

Removal still left a reminder:

The rest of the trail is unpaved, a ghost lane into the woods.

You can follow it west from the Google Maps, because it’s dead straight and marked by trees on both sides of the line. Eventually, it all fades away and it's all prairie. The rails came, and the rails went away.