From: boesch@cs.washington.edu (Eric Boesch)
Subject: A happy story
Keywords: marriage cancer pettiness delusion
Organization: Hamburger Repair Coordinator for Big Mac #15,343,2342,343
Date: Tue, 5 Jan 93 05:05:05 GMT

[from _Chess Life_, "the magazine for cool people"] I hope and
distrust that nobody read my last article.  Read this one instead,
it's much funnier and better because I didn't write it, and it's also
true, at least I think and hope it's true.

[...]
I had not seen Max for almost 20 years and was totally unprepared
for the shock when we came face to face.  Or, rather, what was left of
his face.  After Max was diagnosed as having cancer of the jawbone,
the doctors removed it to save his life.  His customary buoyancy was
gone along with much of the humor and wit.  Though still in his 60s, he
looked much older.  And no wonder.  To see a deboned, wrecked face
every morning while shaving would be enough to crush anyone's spirits.

Yet Max retianed a wonderful way of exprssing himself, and he brought
me up to date.  I forgot about his looks.  He seemed to have made
peace with himself, and as he later proved over the board, his chess
had not suffered.  But I was sorely mistaken about Max enjoying
internal quiet as I learned at our next get-together.

"My marriage is falling apart," he confided, "and I cannot see a way to
save it.  When I first me Renee, there was no one more beautiful.
I was so deeply in love that nothing else mattered.  She was not as
deeply in love, but I made allowances for this shortcoming so long as
I did not have to share her.  Mind you, we had our differences, but we
got along most of the time."

Max paused and signed.  "During the past year," he continued, "she
has gone completely off the deep end.  All she does is primp and fuss
over that silly poodle, Bobo.  He has replaced me in her bed, and I've
been moved to a room down the hall.  When I try to discuss the issue,
she says that I'm acting silly.  I should have taken a stand right
after coming out of the hospital.  Now it's too late."

WHISTLE WHILE YOU WORK

We did not meet again for several weeks.  And when we did, Max's eyes
shone brightly, though not with the witty twinkle of yore.  They were
like two searchlights peering into the distance.  His lips quivered
almost convulsively.  He was clearly in the grip of a great mission
and spoke urgently, mopping his face and trying to contain an
excitement.

"I have a plan," he said feverishly, "that will break up this canine
conspiracy to wreck my home.  On my way here to the club, I pass a pet
shop; and I've been thinking what would happen if I bought one of
those silent dog whistles and blew it occasionally in the wee morning
hours.  Chances are that Bobo would come charging into my room where I
can greet him with a piece of his favorite chocolate.  Arnold, you've
heard about conditioned reflexes and Pavlov's dog?  What do I have to
lose?  And if nothing else, it will surely upset Renee."

Max proved a prophet.  "The plan is working," he beamed happily some
weeks later.  "Renee is so upset that she is even considering a dog
psychiatrist for Bobo."

As the summer months wore on, Max became increasingly pleased with
himself.  He seemed happy and expectant.  Renee was nervous and
distraught.  The poor woman could not understand why Bobo got up in the
middle of the night and dashed from her bedroom as if he had left a
steak bone on the 5:15 to Yonkers.

Renee fought back as best she could.  After consulting a barkeeper's
wife, whom she came to know while out walking Bobo, she became
convinced that "her baby" was possessed by evil spirits.  Later, when
prayers and poultices applied by the same barkeeper's wife failed
utterly, Renee looked for a dog psychiatrist.  Finding none, she began
to seek advice from everyone she met, no matter how limited the
persons' experience and remote his occupation.  If sheer inquiry could
save Bobo, then the dog had nothing to worry his curly head about.

On one occasion, Renee came to the club to pick up Max and spoke about
Bobo's dilemma.  "Can you imagine a big city like New York with no
place to take a poor, disturbed animal like my Bobo.  They spend
billions on literally everything, but nobody gives a hang about a poor
dog's nerves."  Then, turning to Bobo and kneeling down to hug the hound
and to tousle the well-coiffed hair atop his head, she said, "Don't
worry darling, mother will find someone to help you."

BOB'S SIXTH SENSE

Help came quickly.  Strolling along Fifth Avenue a few days later, I
bumped into Renee and Bobo.  She was wearing a large, striking black
lace hat that reached to her shoulders.  Her dress was lacy black as
well, and several strands of pearls were intertwined around her neck
like a boa constrictor.  Even Bobo had gotten into the spirit of
things by wearing a hat similar to Renee's.

I remarked on how well they both looked, since it would have been
impolite to exclude Bobo.  She explained that the reason for the
matching outfits was that Max had passed away.  The very night of his
passing, she had been unable to sleep and as she paced the floor,
something drew her to Max's room.  He lay on the floor near the
threshold.  "Arnold," she whispered on the busy street, "what do you
think he was up to?  You could never guess.  Can you imagine a man of
his age playing with a whistle and eathing chocloates in the middle of
the night?"

She continued, "When I summoned the doctor, he said that it was not
unusual for some aging men to start acting silly.  They yearn for
their lost youth and make complete fools of themselves by chasing
aftern and whistling at young women.  Poor Max, he must have been
entering his second childhood."

"You know," she concluded, "I should have had more faith in Bobo's
sixth sense.  His instinsts told him that there was something wrong
with Max, and that was why he couldn't sleep normally.  How else can