Cupid is coming to live with me. This is happening sooner than I expected, but not sooner than I wanted.
I think I’m ready for a puppy, but I guess I’ll find out.
Cupid is the sixth puppy in a litter of eight born on December 23rd. How many of you can name his brothers and sisters? Let me just leave that for a moment.
After Darby died, one of my fellow kennel club members (the one who matched me up with Darby to begin with) told me that if I was interested in another Spinone in the future, she might let me co-own a puppy with her and I could train and show it and we’d see how it turned out. I said that would be great, but let me wait a while.
I was more or less planning on waiting through this year so I could “get some stuff done.” Some of that stuff included getting some better-paying writing jobs, which I’m actually already getting. And one of those writing jobs involved doing some research on Irish Wolfhounds, and I learned that they make really good therapy dogs because of their gentle natures.
Of course I thought, “A Spinone would make a great therapy dog, too,” because they’re so loving and loveable (when they’re not being spastic goof-balls). And then I didn’t really want to wait for a puppy.
Fast-forward to last Friday, when Bonnie called to ask if I might like to have Cupid come live with me so he could get some extra attention while she dealt with her other dogs and possible surgery for her husband (her kennel help).
Even though her husband won’t need surgery after all, which is great news, Cupid is coming home with me this Friday, and Ramses will have a playmate almost his size (for a week or so), and my life will be in uproar. Bliss.
Now about those names. Dasher is staying with Bonnie. Need any more hints?
One thing you can always count on if you sew, knit, crochet, whatever. You’re going to have to take things apart. You’ll rip out seams and stitches – rippit rippit rippit.
I learned how to sew when I was in junior high school. Girls were required to take two semesters of “home economics.” One semester was sewing, the other was cooking. I actually retained some of the sewing. Probably because my mom sewed and let me use her machine when I wanted to make something. I remember a pair of bell-bottom pants I made with a crazy paisley border print. Yeah, cutting edge fashion, baby. 1970.
After all the time between then and a few years ago, when I got my own sewing machine, I decided to start making some of my own clothes for work. I’m a little out of practice.
Last summer I cut out a pants pattern for some simple pull-on cotton pants in a gray print and a khaki color. I figured I’d cut them to the largest size given since I was gaining weight at that point. Yesterday, I finally got around to starting to put one pair together.
Then I had to take everything apart again because the pants would be way too big. WAY too big. Oh, yeah. I lost the weight I gained last summer. In a way, I guess I was anticipating having to rip all those seams out. I didn’t do any fancy back-stitching at the ends of the seams to prevent them from loosening.
It’s a pain in the ass, though, because I was to the point of “finishing” the pants with the waistband and hems. And now I’m starting over. Including having to go back to the pattern to trim off some more fabric — in the right places — to make everything fit.
That’s life, too, it seems. So many times I thought I’d set my feet on a path I could follow indefinitely, only to find that I was going the wrong way or for some other reason had to retrace my steps or take an indefinite detour. I’ve had to do that a lot.
Maybe I’m not so out of practice at this sewing stuff as I thought.
I turn 60 this year — I’m midway through the sixtieth year since I was born. Turning 60 is one of those milestones, and this one is giving me pause. I blew right through 30, 40, even 50, barely acknowledging their significance. None of those birthdays made me feel old or like my life was over. But now I realize that I’ll get to my 80’s and 90’s a whole lot sooner than when I was 30.
It might be time to decide what I want to do when I grow up. One thing I do know. If it’s what “everyone” does, it’s probably not for me.
On the other hand, maybe I’ve been doing what I want all along, and now might be the time to start getting it all down on paper, as it were.
Writing a memoir, I’ve learned, is more than just starting with “I was born late on a Thursday night.” Not that interesting. In fact, most of my childhood was not that interesting, although there was this one weird thing that happened.
I passed out while riding my bicycle. To this day, I don’t know why. I had got on my bike, started down the street with a friend, and the next thing I remember clearly, I was standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom with one parent on either side holding me up while they washed the blood off my face. (It sounds worse than it was. Just a few scrapes and bruises and a slightly loosened tooth.)
Later I remembered that I had suddenly felt cold and had put on a sweater before taking out my bike. My friend, Joyce, told me that I’d said something about not feeling good and started to turn back for home almost as soon as I cleared my own driveway, and then I just crashed into the curb. She ran to get my parents when I didn’t get right up, and they came out and hustled me into the house.
Eventually, I vaguely remembered starting to turn and realizing I couldn’t avoid hitting the curb head on. But everything between that and “waking up” standing in the bathroom is a black void. My brain must have done one of these “Scary stuff, don’t look” numbers and just switched off something in my visual circuitry for a minute or two.
Brain stuff fascinates me. The brain is such a strange and wondrous landscape full of mysteries.
I look back and wonder what I might have been coming down with that caused me to faint, except that I never got sick. I was around 10 or 11 at the time and puberty was still two or three years away for me. And that stuff never made me faint. I was basically a healthy kid. Not a swooner.
Scientists keep learning more and more about the brain and about things that “don’t have a known cause” or “happen for no reason.” Although I can’t go back and investigate what actually happened that day, maybe someday I’ll at least have a few clues to speculate on.
That’s one story. Maybe not that remarkable. The fact that I still have that memory is reason enough for me to record it. I remember a lot of other things that happened to me over the past 59 years. Some are actually pretty good stories. And maybe that’s what I was meant to do “when I grow up” — have stories to tell.
My writer’s block has been getting worse. I know why. It’s because I am hesitant to write the one thing that will set me free. I tend to avoid controversial topics because I like to avoid fights, arguments, even heated discussions. I get overwhelmed by anxiety and very uncomfortable. I don’t like feeling attacked. I tend to take it personally. Head down, mouth shut is how I have always operated.
But I’m old enough now to not really give a rat’s ass if people don’t like what I think and say. And over the years, I’ve learned to express myself better, even under pressure.
Okay, okay. Get to the point, already.
I hear a lot of passionate, well meaning folks telling everyone within earshot that they got their dog from a rescue or shelter and how wonderful the dog is and how no-one should ever feel the need to buy a dog from a pet shop or a breeder because if you get a dog from the shelter you are really saving two dogs, the one you take home, and the one who can have that space in the shelter.
I know people who are like this. They want everyone to get their pets through rescue, and no pet should ever be left intact (with respect to reproductive organs only. Stay away from ears and tails). And by “pets” they mean all dogs, all cats. I just want to be clear on that. And on one other thing. These people are almost always pet owners or want to be pet owners.
I just always want to ask, “and then what? What happens when your fondest dream is realized and there are no more pet animals capable of reproducing. In ten, fifteen years…POOF! No more pets. At. All. None for you, none for your kids, none for their kids.” As unlikely as that is to happen in the immediate future, it is still a possibility.
Did you even realize that was your goal? Did you realize it’s the goal of some who are trying to legislate pet breeding out of existence? Because that is what will happen if they get their way. They lump all dog breeders into the “puppy mill” category to vilify anyone who would force a poor, innocent dog to mate and produce even a single litter of puppies. And they write laws to that effect. They write laws making it illegal in some cities to own a dog that is not surgically sterilized.
If some of the people in those cities dump their animals because they don’t want to comply with the ordinance, how will that “fix” the stray pet situation? If others who can afford to do so move outside the city limits to avoid the ordinance, they will no longer be paying for typical city services, and how will the city pay for enforcement of the ordinance? If some people move to another state, how is that good for the city?
The sad thing is that if all the laws are enacted that these people want, the people with the actual puppy mills will just find better places to hide and carry on. People who don’t care about their dogs certainly aren’t going to care about laws telling them how to behave. Many honest dog fanciers will simply stop breeding their dogs rather than deal with the expense of getting and maintaining a license while always looking over their shoulder for finger-pointers eager to find them guilty of the slightest infraction.
This would be a sad outcome indeed for those of us who have an interest in pure bred, carefully and consciously bred, lovingly and healthily bred dogs. I’m proud to say that my Basenjis were all bred that way, by a breeder interested in the health of the dogs and the improvement of the breed.
If we legislate away our rights to keep non-human animals as pets, there will be people who will find ways to be cruel to animals, or will simply transfer their cruelty to their own family members. There will be other people, like me, whose lives will grow dim from having all the joy and color sucked out of it. No antidepressant drug can compensate for that one creature you can always rely on to be there for you when life seems incomprehensibly bleak.
I’m all for rescue dogs. I’ve had rescued dogs and I’ve had shelter dogs, and I’ve loved them all. But I don’t want anyone telling me I can’t plan to get another Spinone Italiano puppy from a breeder some day.
You can’t legislate away the dark side of human behavior. And I suspect some of the very ones who think laws can do that have a deep, deep well of that very darkness within.
I’ve been stalling on writing this post. After I made optimistic plans for Darby’s future, it turned out that she had no future. The x-ray she was scheduled for that same week I wrote the last post showed some suspicious looking spots on her lungs, but also an enlarged heart. The vet also confirmed my suspicion that she already had another mammary tumor. On the phone, we talked about having an ultrasound done, both to get a better idea what was going on with her heart and a better look at those spots on her lungs.
That Saturday afternoon Darby collapsed while trying to hop up on the couch after I brought her and Ramses in from their yard. It was hot out, and although I didn’t have them outside very long (I was out there with them, and when I was ready to come in I decided they were, too.), I hoped Darby was just suffering from a little overheating. Except she never really recovered.
I got her to the vet Monday morning, and after another chest x-ray, the vet called to say her lungs were filling with fluid — they’d been clear on Thursday. She told me that there was no way to do anything about Darby’s cancer because of the congestive heart failure, and that her heart was already too damaged to fix. She said Darby might have as long as six months, but she would not be the same dog. She also said how shocked everyone at the clinic was by how much Darby had changed in the few days since they’d last seen her.
Darby came home in “hospice care,” with medication to get the fluid out of her lungs. One of the vet techs had to carry her to the car. One of my neighbors had to come across the road and help carry her into the house.
She died in her sleep that night.
In her previous home, Darby led the good life. She had other dogs her size to play with and got to go running on the beach every day. She also, apparently, didn’t have to do much of anything she didn’t like. Take grooming, for starters. “Oh, no. That pulls my hair. Hurts. Don’t do don’t do don’t do!” Head jerking this way and that to keep me from getting anywhere near her face with a TOWEL! Comb? Scissors? Forget it.
Same with her feet. Trim toenails? NNOOOoooooooooooooooo! Thankfully, I’m persistent. To the point of stubborn. If she wants to pull her foot away, I’ll just grab it again. It came down to me just holding her foot until she relaxed, then bringing the clippers closer, and waiting her out again until the new panic attack subsided. Over and over and over.
A few times I had to just practically sit on her to pin her long enough to get one foot “done,” as in toenails trimmed, mats clipped out from between toes, etc. When I was successful, she would sometimes go through a sea change and let me comb that foot a few days later without all the histrionics. Oh, she can be a drama queen.
I was told I needed to “get tough with her,” but I figured that would just make matters worse. I decided good old quiet, calm, dogged, pig-headed persistence was the answer.
Did I mention that Darby is a sensitive flower? She cowers at a harsh tone of voice, drops to her belly in a boneless, seventy-five-pound heap of unhappy if she gets confused about what I’m trying to get her to do. Not optimal when trying to teach “Stand,” so I could comb her belly.
I never let her decide when it was time to quit, but when I did stop “torturing” her (usually because my back was killing me from leaning over), I gave her lots of praise and special treats, then put her in her crate with a few more special treats and gave her time to calm down.
She’s been here over a year, now, and things have changed. She still doesn’t love having me comb her face and trim her nails, but she tolerates those things better all the time. The shorter hair-cut helped keep her hair from matting as quickly. Fewer mats mean less hair-pulling and pain. She’s about due for another trip to the groomer, by the way.
Now it’s time for “big dog” training. Learning to heel and stay, sit without me having to push her butt to the floor, answering reliably to her name, walking on leash like a respectable individual. Yeah, this is going to take a while.
It won’t be the kind of good life she had before, but it will be a good life with me.
Headlines are funny things, aren’t they? Sometimes trying to come up with a title for a blog post is a challenge, although for me it’s easy most of the time. The consequences of some of the titles I’ve thought up are another matter. But more on that later.
Since I’ve been dealing with a writer’s block the size of Mount Rushmore, I wanted to use Mount Rushmore in the title. Something like “Mount Rushmore Around Every Corner,” or “Mount Rushmore in My Rearview Mirror.” The second implies I’m over the writer’s block, which may be a little premature. “Being Stalked by Mount Rushmore” is just dumb. Besides being a little creepy.
On the other hand, the image of dragging around a mountain with heads carved in it is not the least bit creepy. No. Not at all. It clearly conveys the idea that I’ve had a little difficulty lately when it comes to blogging.
By contrast, I’ve had no difficulty what so ever at thinking about blogging, or getting ideas for blogging, or even reading other people’s blogs. I just haven’t been able to make myself sit down and get the ideas from my head onto the screen. What I need is a direct conduit from the blogging center in my brain to my computer. Think it = Write it. If only.
I’ve been visiting my blog during this prolonged drought. Some days I think I’m my only visitor. I come around to clean out the spam comment folder from time to time. I sure get a lot of those comments. I even sometimes get an email that asks me to “please moderate” a comment that made it past the spam filter and is waiting for me to approve it. The sad fact is that these have all been spam comments, too.
Apparently the doctrine that says to be successful as a blogger one must comment on n blogs every day has produced some canned comment generators. The problem is that they generate the most nonsensical, grammar-free drivel I’ve ever seen. Clearly no human eyes ever come in contact with this stuff until it shows up in a comment queue. Even the somewhat sensible comments show up attached to posts that the commenter could not possibly have read. Seriously. No relationship between content and comment.
It’s also interesting to see what posts are getting the most comment traffic in a given week. For a long time, my post about one of the local natural science / history collections attracted the most attention. Trying to figure out why, I carefully re-read the piece. It’s about long-dead field mice, for crying out loud.
I included the word “sexy.” Twice. Not to attract search engine attention. I don’t think about search engine optimizing (SEO) my blog as I work on it. Any time it has worked has been an accident.
Like the time I titled a post “Springbok” because I was trying to see how many posts I could write with titles that started with the word “spring” while I was dithering around over spring break a few years ago. Apparently there is an athletic team of some sort with that name. I was actually talking about the African antelope, having worked with those at the Fort Worth Zoo. I had a lot more readers that week than at any time prior or since. Who knew?
And who knows what kind of traffic today’s title will attract? Folks looking for travel advice? I have to apologize in advance to them. Yes, I have been to Mount Rushmore. It is an awe-inspiring sight and I highly recommend a visit, but I was there in 1973. My knowledge of the area is sadly out of date.
Speaking of Mount Rushmore, I can’t say that it won’t continue to get in my way — metaphorically, anyway — but I have things I need to share. Chaos may ensue, but I will try to organize. After all, if someone could figure out how to carve faces into a mountain, I should be able to figure out how to keep writing.
I didn’t spend as much time at the show on Saturday. I was still tired from standing or sitting on hard bleachers for so long Friday. But there were classes for the “Large Animals.” A lot of the pictures I took seemed to be of the south end of a critter facing North. Typical.
And there was this one donkey. I guess he was camera shy. He was standing perfectly still, facing me, ears up like he was begging to have his picture taken. Until I raised my camera.
I thought that big grey donkey was the handsomest one there.
I didn’t stay long enough to see the “under saddle” classes, but got to watch some riders practicing. Taking pictures at that ring had challenges, too.
I had to stand on my toes, or crunch down a bit, neither of which was comfortable. Oh, well, one must suffer for one’s obsessions.
Just to be clear from the start. The Texas Shoot-out is not about guns. I’ve been here before. The Texas Shoot-out is the annual show event put on by the Southwestern Donkey and Mule Society, and since they hold it so close to where I live I try to go and watch a few classes, chat up some equines in the barn area, and if I’m feeling very brave I even talk to a few people.
A lot of the pictures I take are fuzzy, or what I like to call “soft focus.” Some of it is me not knowing all the things my camera does without any help from me. It’s not a very big camera, and not easy for someone with a heartbeat to hold it perfectly still. There’s also the fact that all my subjects are moving, or breathing at least.
There was plenty of light to get good pictures without a flash, and I had the camera set to “sports” which I think should speed up the shutter, but that may have been countered by the lower light in the shady covered arena. I’m just saying. When critters were holding still, the shots came out fine. I just need more practice shooting the moving subjects.
Most of the classes on Friday were for donkeys large and small — mostly small. Miniature donkeys are quite popular, and a lot of people who have them like to get them all gussied up and show them off.
There are driving classes where driving ability is judged in a simple pattern of turns, stops, starts and backing up. Then there are obstacle courses where the driver has to be able to guide the donkey through a series of maneuvers designed to demonstrate how well the driver and donkey communicate and how well the donkey has been trained.
For instance, you have to be able to get your donkey to back your cart into the area marked by timbers next to the mail box so you can get your mail (which you have to take out of the box, show the judge and return to the box).
There are other obstacle courses for you to lead your donkey through. The great thing about the minis, and probably why they’ve become so popular, is that very young and small people can show them. There are a lot of youth classes, divided into age ranges, all the way down to “peewee” for kids five years old or younger. How cool is that?
I’ll have more stories and pictures from Saturday’s classes in my next post.