Life Without Air-Conditioning

Last night our air-conditioner went out. It's August. Temperatures have been hovering around 97 degrees with 260% humidity. Of course, that's an exaggeration but it doesn't feel like one. We noticed about 9:30 it was getting hot in the house, and when we looked at the thermostat, it read 80 degrees. It was set for 75. By the time we went to bed, it was at 82 degrees and rising.

Lucky for us we installed six ceiling fans in this house when we first bought it. Every one of them was going on high. We thought about opening windows but the humidity ruled that idea out immediately. Instead, we laid on the bed underneath the whirling fan and tried to go to sleep without any cover on us at all. The moon is full right now and the light filtering in made the room glow. Neither of us could settle down enough to drift off, so we started reminiscing, about how neither of us grew up with air-conditioning in our houses. I seriously don't know how we stood it, except we were ignorant of it and unaccustomed to it. 

My childhood bedroom only had a single window, but my bed was shoved right up next to it. With the window open wide, and with the helicopter fan on a chair in the middle of the room, I stayed cool at night. But this was in Corpus Christi, so how could it have been all that cool? I must have been wet with dew every morning from the humidity coming off the Gulf of Mexico, but I don't remember that part. 

Our house was a modest, post-WWII house in a tacky-tacky neighborhood--block after block of houses built from one of three floorplans. My best friend, who lived kitty-cornered from us, had the same house as ours only turned around, a mirror image. For some reason, the architect who designed these houses thought it would be a great idea to put a planter box in between the kitchen and living room as a sort of room divider. I don't know of a single house in the neighborhood who kept that planter box. Daddy filled ours with concrete and mother arranged cushions on it in an attempt to make it into a bench, an uncomfortable one stuck off in an odd corner. For my brother, Ray, and I it became a great stage. Ray, who by age 10 was already an actor in his heart, choreographed complicated dance routines for the two of us. Many of them started with a launch off that concrete former planter box with high-kicks and leaps. It's a wonder we didn't break our necks. 

We had a garage, which made us special. Many of the houses in our neighborhood only had driveways. Daddy and his next-in-line brother, Sid, built the garage together. The only thing they didn't do was pour the concrete foundation. After the mixer truck left, Daddy pressed my right foot into the edge of the cement and wrote the date with his index finger. My 4-year-old footprint must surely still be there.

Our garage was as big as our house. It was a two-car-plus boat garage with a grease pit so Daddy could work on our cars without lying on his back. There was a small shop at one end where he had his table saws. I used to hang out in that shop for hours when he worked. Now, I wish I had learned some of the things he knew, but at that time I just wanted to be wherever he was. He really was good with his hands, had taken classes in work working and mechanics at the local tech college. By profession, he was an accountant, the youngest of five to second-generation immigrants from Eastern Europe. All Dad's brothers could build and fix and take care of plumbing and the like. Most of my friends had dads who could do those things, too. It seemed to be something men were born knowing how to do, just like our moms all knew how to cook and sew and clean house. I didn't realize until I was grown that not all men are handy with their hands, just like not all women can wield a skillet or a needle-and-thread.

In the center of our garage, double doors opened onto a crescent shaped patio where we played hours of ping-pong, or sat in the Adirondack chairs Daddy built visiting with neighbors, friends, and family. Out in the yard was a playhouse Daddy also built, for my fifth birthday. It looked exactly like our real house, complete with the same asbestos siding and tan paint. My dog, Gaylie, and I had many tea parties inside that playhouse, although I do remember his tail knocking things off the little shelves built into the wall. I suppose someone since has dismantled the playhouse but it was still there when we moved. By then I was 12 and could barely crawl inside the door.

Back to my bedroom and that noisy, oscillating fan. It was a huge thing, full of oil and dust. It had two speeds--loud blast (and I mean BLAST) and so low it would almost stop oscillating. The blast speed was so forceful I could tie-down the corners of my top sheet and the wind from the fan would lift the sheet like a parachute. Me, my scottie dog stuffed animal named Scottie (how original!) and Lollipop, my purple poodle, would play under that sheet tent until Mom or Dad finally hollered at me to go to sleep. I was never allowed to handle the fan even to turn it off or on. A friend of my parents had a young son who stuck his hand inside the cage of a moving fan and had lost two fingers. 

My mother mostly lived in fear that my brother or I would do permanent damage to our bodies. There was a entire list of things we were not allowed to ever do, including climbing trees, horseback riding, and roller skating. Of course, we did all three of those things whenever the opportunity arose. I recall being really high up a backyard tree one day when Mother came home early from work. I stayed still and quiet, heart pounding. She didn't even notice Gaylie (who normally mauled anybody who came into the backyard with lots of hello hugs and kisses) sitting patiently at the base of the tree staring up at me in the limbs. As soon as Mom stepped inside the back door, I clambered down, much to Gaylie's delight. He was so happy to have me back on earth, he tore around the backyard in big wide zoomies.

We weren't poor but we weren't rich either. Since Mother worked (back then most mom's didn't) we had enough to go out to eat on Friday nights. We rotated between Piccadilly Cafeteria, Taco Village, Angelo's Pizza, and Whataburger. Occasionally, we got to go to Chung May's. It was a high-end (for the times and the place) linen-tablecloth Chinese food restaurant. Back then, we knew nothing about Chinese food so we always order the Cantonese Surprise Dinner for Four. It varied from trip to trip, but it was alway served in multiple courses with hot tea in a precious tiny porcelain pot. We felt fancy when we ate there. I always picked Chung May's for my birthday night dinner. Later, when I was in high school, one of the boys from the Asian family who owned Chung May's was our drum major. Since I was a majorette, I got to know him pretty well and had a big-time crush on him. All these years later, Chinese food is still my favorite, just a tad above Mexican and Pizza. Hmm. I guess we are what we come from after all.

Well, the air-conditioning man has just pulled up to the curb, thank God! Memories of days without a/c are fun but I'm glad they're just memories. I would rather belong to the good-old days of NOW with cold air blowing in every room.

Onward!

Pet Love & the Contract With Sorrow

Today I’m thinking about pets. I probably should be focusing on the promise of 2019 - the garden I’ll probably plant in a few weeks, the trip up the Danube in April, or the cataract surgery my darling will have in two days. But instead I’m thinking about pets.

It started this morning when I was in the doctor’s exam room waiting for her to finally show. They had a new calendar on the wall with beautiful pictures of farm animals. I was bored, had forgotten to bring a book. The March photo was of a border collie with intelligent, brown, soulful eyes that reminded me of Lulu, the part border/part shepherd rescue dog that stole my heart eleven years ago. We lost her last year and I miss her still. Lymphoma -- the scourge of well-loved, well-cared-for animals these days. My eyes were teary when the doctor came in, so I had to explain about the dog in the calendar, the one that looked a lot like Lulu.

In my life I have had many pets: nine dogs, five cats, a myriad of aquarium fish, a few turtles, and because of my children, a handful of hamsters and one cottontail that my boys saved from the jaws of another special dog, Little Missy Prissy Rae.

Missy was a hunting dog, the only purebred, registered animal I ever owned. She was sweet-tempered, had a “smart knot” on her head, and so fearless and focused when she got the scent of prey, mostly poor helpless things like tiny cottontails or frogs. She was affectionate, devoted, all the things a family dog should be. We loved her and cared for her -- well, I did that more than the rest. She and I had a special bond. It was me who had to make the decision to end her pain, when she began to develop tumors and stopped eating. I cried so hard I could barely write the check to the vet. When that canceled check came back in the bank statement, there were big tear blots that nearly obliterated my signature. Missy was a month shy of her 12^th birthday. I still have her AKC certificate in my keepsake box.

And then there was Trouser, the cat who came into my life a decade later. He was my special pet, the one who loved me best and only. When I discovered him in the backyard, mewing and howling, he was a tiny, single handful of gray and white fluff, struggling, I believe, to find me, too. We became best friends, and went through a lot together: My halcyon days of living the writer’s life, on the road all the time, out promoting books, leaving behind my sweet Trouser to wait patiently for my return. He helped me survive my divorce, which nearly flattened me. Once when I was grieving for my lost 34-year marriage, my wasted years as I saw them then, Trouser came over to me and bit me gently on the leg - as if to say, “That’s enough of that nonsense. Get it together, you are embarrassing yourself.” So I laughed, dried my tears, and we soldiered on together.

Trouser and Lulu never loved each other. Once they saw the other one wasn’t leaving, they learned to live together in peace. Lulu had come with a tall man, and Trouser wasn’t happy with her attempts to pull me away. But he ended up liking the tall man well enough, and so we became a family - Wayne and Lulu, me and Trouser.

Shortly before his fourteenth birthday, Trouser got sick. Really sick. I hurried him to the vet’s office where he was diagnosed with lymphoma -- that scourge. The vet thought he probably wouldn’t make it two weeks. But our vet had a kind heart (what vet doesn’t?) and she described a treatment we could try. We tried it. And by golly it worked. In a couple of days he was chasing lizards again. And it lasted awhile, too, before it stopped working...and we were back in the vet’s office, and she was giving Trouser another treatment. And wow! he perked up again, just like the first time -- and then he slid back down again, a little sooner than before. And we carried on with this seesaw for another five months.

Then on September 25^th, 2011 -- a Sunday so as usual he and I were watching MASTERPIECE THEATER in the bedroom together -- I was holding him on my shoulder, flat against my chest, and I looked into his sad tired eyes, saw his misery, and asked myself who I was keeping him alive for -- him or me? I knew the answer and what I had to do. The vet had told me I would know when it was time. She was right. We spent a last long night together, with me holding him limp and thin in my arms.

The next morning, September 26^th, we took Trouser one final time to the vet. She agreed he was exhausted, would not get better again, and administered the power shot as I held him. It broke my heart. Someone wiser than I once wrote that we make a contract with sorrow when we bring a pet into our lives. Truer words were never written. I had him for 14 years, but it wasn’t long enough. It’s never long enough.

This would not be the only tragedy to come on that day. It was the same day Wayne’s only child died. His son. Forty-two years old. The aching sorrow of losing my pet, and the grief I felt in my sore heart, had to be put on hold. There were people who needed me to be strong for them, and so I shed a few little tears for my cat, then tended to the humans who needed me that day, and the days and weeks and months that followed.

In late December of that same year, I was alone one night with just Lulu for company, and my floodgates finally opened. I keened and sobbed for what seemed like hours, for my cat whom I had so dearly loved and so dearly missed. He had left an aching hollow in my heart. After a while, Lulu rose from her bed by the fireplace, came to me, and laid her head on my knee. She looked up at me with her chocolate eyes, and I got down on the floor. I told her I needed a hug and taught her how to do it. She wasn’t thrilled at first, probably thought I was trying to hold her down, but she had so much trust in me and before long, we were hugging in earnest. I really needed all the big black dog hugs she gave me, from that night forward.

I have a couple of friends who have just lost beloved pets. One a dog; the other, a cat.  I suppose that’s what has me thinking about all this today, after reading their sorrow-laden Facebook posts. I don’t know what it is about the love and loss we feel for these special friends, these family members that become so much a part of our mix. It must be the unconditional love they give so freely. Wayne likes to tell a joke that goes something like - "Lock your dog and your wife in the trunk of your car for 15 minutes. Then open it and see which one is happy to see you.” THAT is unconditional love.

When Lulu was 15 we got another cat. I had waited for four years after Trouser, and probably still wouldn’t have him if he hadn’t shown up one morning at the place where I worked, a frightened orange kitten. Anyway, he’s ours now -- Mr. Sam. He is unlike any of my other special fur babies, but he brings us so much joy and we are both glad he’s here. We’re older now, not as eager to get down on the floor to play (not nearly as much as he wants us to) for fear we might not get back up! I don’t look as Sam as a replacement pet -- I tried that once and it ended badly -- but I’m sure glad we had Sam when Lulu made her last trip to the vet, four days past her 17^th birthday. I believe she lived so long due in part to the TLC she got but mostly because of her great big happy heart. Afterwards, Sam searched the house for her, slept in her bed, smelled all her of her favorite spots. He still drinks from her water bowl. He loved her almost as much as we did.

Sam makes us laugh with all his silly antics, and although he isn’t yet as lovey-dovey as I am trying to make him, he’s getting there. So, no, he’s not a replacement pet. He is so completely different, but I wouldn’t trade him. As big of a pain as pets are -- with worrying over their health, or who will pet-sit when you have to leave,  or the hassle of taking them with you, and just all the other bother that comes along with them -- being without a pet, for me...well, that is just not an option.

Onward....

Spread Too Thin

Practically the first thing this morning, I netted a dead fish out of one of the aquariums. A golden platy that I've had for a while. Seems like 2010 is not shaping up to be as good of a year as the last two have been.

There was white frost on everything, almost like snow. There were a few flurries yesterday, which I noticed on the drive home from the animal hospital. Had to take the kitty in, an emergency this time. His regular doctor wasn't there, but I really liked the one I saw. She seemed especially thorough. Put the cat on an IV drip for the afternoon, took X-rays and a more exhaustive blood workup. Part of the results will be in today, the rest Saturday, and he's scheduled for a sonogram of his intestinal tract next week. He's been a very sick boy, but seems to feel better this morning. I was reduced to forcefeeding him with a syringe of high-value pate last night. This morning he's eating on his own, seems to have an appetite, almost like he's decided that he'd better eat or he'll have to endure that hated syringe down his throat again. Wasn't a fun experience for either of us.

The cattleguard was icy, and I sort of tiptoed over it going after the newspaper, which was also icy. Dog ran through the knee-high field of rye grass. Tracks from our Sunday joyride in old Henry were still visible. I would mow but my sweetheart hasn't shown me how to start the tractor yet, and since it's older than I am, I'm certain I'll need some instruction. He can make any old piece of junk machinery run. It's amazing -- but he can't hang a towel rod straight in a bathroom. We each have our jobs, our calling. I'm actually better with an instruction booklet and a screwdriver than he is, as I learned building the greenhouse, but forget me when it comes to anything with a motor.

The damned free heater that came with the greenhouse stopped working last night. It was 33 in there when I checked, but hopefully that's high enough to have kept away damage to my new seedlings. I'll have to set something else up in there today because the forecast is for another cold night. The birds don't seem to have noticed it's still winter. I saw a pair of cardinals fighting a few minutes ago. They're brilliantly red and ready for breeding. Already. Not even March. We've had a plethora of birds here this winter. Chipping sparrows primarily. They rose in a great flock from the rye as I walked down the driveway.

On the way back, the dog ran the herd of Axis deer across the fence. She can't get at them but I suppose they don't realize that, and they take off at full gallop when they see her. The males are fully antlered and seem to be in rut again. They followed, noses low and forward, after the females. I had already seen two new fawns the other day, frolicking just before sunset. But there was a brand new one this morning, hardly as big as the cat. So cute. They're furrier and chubbier than whitetail fawns. They have rounder cheeks. Much more spotted as well. You want to jump over there, grab one up and give it a hug.

Today is the last of physical therapy on my foot. I believe it's helped me but I'm still deviled by heel pain and the ping of that nerve behind my ankle twinging at some point during each day. I suppose it's another one of those things I'll learn to live with and manage. I've been massaging my foot each night before bed with Sports Cream and sleeping with a fuzzy bootie on it, at least I start out that way. I never know if the bootie will still be on my foot when I awake, or lost somewhere beneath the covers. The dog has been sleeping with me with the SO out of town. I hope she doesn't get it in her head that she can continue with this new habit. I'm sleeping on his side of the bed and she's on mine, which means I'll be out of a spot once he's back, so as soon as he's back, the gig's up. But she's such good company, always in a happy mood, always ready for whatever comes next. She has a great heart.

Something tells me that this is not going to be a writing week. Seems my life is reduced to tending to animals. Suppose I failed the gold platy on that score. I've decided that there are two kinds of people -- those that live for themselves and those that are the caretakers. I try to be both kinds, and it probably isn't possible to be successful at either when you spread yourself too thin, as my SO is constantly telling me I do. But I'm also a control freak so it's hard to give up on anything, or even to delegate duties to him when he's here. These are two areas I really need to work on with more diligence. I thought I was doing better but it's so easy to slide back into old habits.

Onward ....

Foot Sore in Denver

Bummer! Nothing worse than having a bad foot at a trade show. We're in Denver for my SO's semi-annual trade show, and I have a horrible case of plantar fasciitis. Feels like a hot roofing nail is stabbing my left heel. I've been to the foot doctor already four times, and am due back on the 27th. I'm afraid I'm going to need surgery to correct this. I've had two excruciating injections into my foot, and am now wearing a brace, or removable cast, to cushion my heel, but it's helping very little. I'm feeling pretty depressed about it right now, and like a bit of an invalid. Ignoring it certainly doesn't help. I tried that for several weeks before I resorted to a doctor's visit.

It's weird how something to do with ailments or health problems can become such an issue. I had bought new high-heeled boots to wear with my skirts while I was here. That was a couple of hundred bucks wasted. And I'm really starting to feel like an albatross around my SO's neck, even though he's been so understanding and sweet about it all. But still ... what a drag to be partnered with someone who can't walk fast or well. It's driving me crazy. I hate to be out of commission, and it seems like I have been an awful lot lately.

On a brighter note, I saw an old friend yesterday. She knew about my foot situation and so she drove over to our hotel and we had lunch in the room. She stayed for about three hours, but it felt more like 30 minutes. We have always just jabbered our hearts out when we're together, and yesterday was no different. Time flew by. She's always so sensible, and sort of made me realize how unimportant, really, in the grand scheme, is my latest dilemma.

Without back-tracking over the last ten years, it's to do with a filmmaker who has had my first book optioned a couple of times and wants to renew. I have been thinking seriously about trying to write a screenplay myself of that book. It's never been done to my satisfaction, and this time is no exception. I've made a pretty big fuss in the last week, probably caused a lot of hard feelings, but I just hate to compromise the book's story. I really like this filmmaker as a person, just not crazy about her script. There are a lot of things in there that are so far afield from what I intended when I wrote the book. But my old friend said yesterday that I should renew one more time -- she said, what have you got to lose? And I've been thinking about that. I haven't finished reading the latest script yet, so I really can't answer my friend's question at this point. But the truth is, I just don't care that much and it's been causing me a lot of needless worry and upset.

Once our three hour visit was done, I took the dog out for a romp. My foot was hurting pretty badly, so I went around to an open space near our hotel, and let her off her leash. Snow is still on the ground from a blizzard last week, and she took off through the banks without hesitation. The dog has lived in Colorado before, when the SO lived here, and she's never minded snow. She just blasts out into it with such abandon and sheer joy. She makes me laugh and takes my mind off all this extraneous stuff. Life is, as the saying goes, too short. The older I get the more I realize the truth in that.

Onward ....

The Healing Power of Pets

My mother died in 1995. She was not an easy woman, to put it mildly. She had her moments of sweetness but she was troubled by self-doubt and feelings of inferiority as well as a mistrust of people and a negative outlook on life in general. Daddy endured 49 years with her, and when she died he was liberated. This may sound like a degradation of my mother, and I don't mean for it to. The liberation line came from Daddy himself.

Other than a couple of obligatory dogs for my brother and me, along with the odd turtle or two, for most of their married life, my parents were petless. Mother liked it that way. She was afraid of most animals, and didn't understand the ones she knew well. Daddy, on the other hand, was raised on a farm and craved the connection to animals that he had lost when he married Mother. So when she died, practically the first thing he did was get two puppies.

On a trip to K-Mart, he saw a sign on a telephone pole advertising "free puppies" along with an address, and he came home with Buddy and Sister. Like all puppies, they were adorable, and almost instantly, he became obsessed with them. They provided laughter and companionship, both things he needed after losing his spouse to lung cancer. Even though she was difficult, she was his partner and they had weathered a lot together. The sudden aloneness was awkward for Daddy at first. And losing a loved one to cancer is not only appalling, but also exhausting to those left behind. Two cute, frolicking puppies were just the ticket to bring Daddy out of the funk of becoming a new widower. Those two pups grew up and gave Daddy fourteen years of purpose. When they died, within four weeks of each other last December, I worried that Daddy might die, too.

Sister was the first to go. Her decline was rapid and unexpected. Buddy had been the one in bad health for a while. And it seemed unfortunate that she would also die of cancer, like Mother had. Sister's cancer was in her stomach. Daddy needed a lot of help coping through her quick death. Me and my SO were the ones who took her to the vet her final time. We knew Daddy was suffering. What we didn't expect was how Buddy would grieve for his littermate. He become ill almost immediately, and after four hard weeks, the SO and I made a second final trip to the vet on Daddy's behalf. He was just too overcome with depression to be the one to put his beloved Buddy out of his misery.

This sad story has a happy ending, so don't stop reading now.

About the same time as he was losing his pets, Daddy was also losing his eyesight. I had noticed how erratic his driving had become. Daddy was always was a careful, steady driver, who to my knowledge, has never had so much as a fender-bender, but suddenly he was running stoplights he didn't see, and swerving towards curbs, running over obstacles in the road. In addition, he spent way too much time sleeping. When I went to check on him, I almost always woke him and at all times of the day. I have a key so I could let myself in when he didn't answer the door, and twice this happened. Both times he was wadded up in his bed, so still and quiet I felt compelled to shake him awake. He was obviously deeply depressed and I felt powerless to do anything about it. I prepared myself for the inevitable.

One of the reasons I chose to move into this house in the country is because it lies just outside the small town where Dad resides. Now in his 80s, I could see the time when he would need me nearby and I was only three miles from him here, rather than the twenty-six miles away I had been before the move. I had made a deathbed promise to Mother that I would take care of Daddy. Not that I needed that promise to make me see to Daddy's welfare, but still, I had told her I would look after him, and I intend to make good on my word. This house has an extra room across the garage, with its own bathroom and sort of modified kitchen area. It seemed like a place where Daddy could live with us and still have a kind of autonomy. During his depression, just after the dogs died, I broached the subject of him moving in with us. He flatly refused. I can't lie and say that I was disappointed; I was relieved. If he still wanted to live alone, then he still had some of his old spirit left.

We got through his eye surgeries, and they worked miracles. He no longer even needs his glasses on most days. Just last week I was thinking about how I haven't known him without glasses for at least forty years, and he looks a little funny to me still, a little naked without them. Now he needs only cheap reading glasses, and uses them sparingly.

So it was time, I thought after he had recovered from his surgeries, to approach him about a new dog. He was instantly receptive to the idea. Four months had gone by since Buddy's death. Daddy was ready to think about having a dog again but he had stipulations. He only wanted one dog this time, and it must be a female. She had to be grown, already housebroken. He couldn't see himself starting over with a puppy. He would be 85 on his next birthday. A calm, older, smallish dog would suit him best. We started looking online at the shelters in our area. We found a few prospects and made a date with each other to go around and meet our online choices in person.

The first pet adoption was a disappointment. They'd had one dog we had liked online, but once we were there, the people told us she had behavior problems, would often snap and bite for no apparent reason. Still, I could see the light coming on in Daddy's eyes. I think he would have liked to have given her a try. It was me who nixed that idea. The truth was, Daddy would have taken the whole roomful of dogs home if he could have. We drove to the next place.

Right away I had a better feeling. It was clean and neat, the dogs had roomy kennels and an outside play area. The dogs looked happy and cared-for. Information about each dog was posted clearly on the outside of their kennel. The border collie-cross we had seen online was bigger than I'd expected, and she growled when Daddy approached her door. However, there was one dog with unusual brindle markings that caught Daddy's attention. I'm not sure what it was about her really, who understands love at first sight? Her name was Heidi, and I saw right away that she was only 8 months old. And she was already big, so she would end up much bigger than our small Dutch shephard. They said Heidi was a Labrador cross, but I said then and still say now, she has next to no Lab in her at all. She looked like a small greyhound to me. The attendant asked if we would like to see her in a private room. Daddy's face lit and he nodded without taking his eyes off her.

Once we were in the private room, with Daddy holding a bowl full of milkbones, I asked, almost hesitantly if he realized she was not even a year old yet. He was laughing so hard at the dog's antics and her enjoyment of the bones that he barely nodded. He said, "She has charisma, don't you think?" Well, what do you do? Yes, she seemed sweet-natured, and she took right to Daddy, but she was only 8 months old, a really REALLY large puppy. The attendant said she was house-broken, and that seemed like enough for Daddy. I hadn't seen him smile so big in such a long time. I was not going to nix this dog for anything. We signed all the papers, paid the adoption fee, and they brought her out to us cleaned up like a new bride.

That was last Spring. Heidi is firmly ensconced in Daddy's heart and home now. She has destroyed every pair of houseshoes and flipflops he owned. She has dug holes in his yard and shredded papers in his office. She has chewed his couch. She has unloaded his closet several times over, strewing his things across, not only the house, but all over the backyard as well, because he leaves the sliding door open for her to come and go as she pleases. She has the run of the place, but ... she has also saved him.

When I talk to Daddy on the phone now the conversation is all about Heidi and her latest pranks. Sometimes when we're talking, he begins to talk to her midway through, and laughs. He laughs and laughs. A lot. He's full of wonderment about her intelligence, about her ability to remember and respond, about her affection. He tells me that when she wants him to get up she stands by his bed and stares him awake. I love her for this. She motivates him to stay out of that bed. She has given him a purpose and new enthusiasm for living.

I've read all the reports about how petting a dog or cat can lower your blood pressure. I believe in it. I've seen the healing power of pets with my own eyes, and felt it within myself, too. My cat has mustered me through many a hard time. Now, I have both a cat and a dog to lift me and give my life a little added joy. When the SO goes out of town to work, I have their company and their attention. We have our morning rituals and habits. Neither the dog or the cat care for much variation, and our routine gives me focus as well. I advocate for pets. What a kickstart they give us!

Onward ....