This morning my next door neighbor called. Her Irish Setter has been sick for several months, but today was the final day. She wondered, tearfully, if I could come over and help her get her beloved boy into the car to take him to the vet. I was still lounging around with my coffee in my nightgown. I hurriedly threw on some clothes and walked to her house. Another neighbor was also coming to help. The Irish Setter was lying on a rug in the living room. He could no longer stand. His rear legs had become atrophied. My neighbor said he had cried in pain all night. The consensus is that he had some sort of gastrointestinal cancer. He was a large dog, and it took all three of us to get him into the car. He was obviously uncomfortable, chattering teeth, trembling. He has always been such a sweetheart, was the first to welcome us to the neighborhood when we moved here. All three of us women had trouble holding back our tears.
Long story short, once we were at the vet's office, the doctor came out with the syringe and administered it in the back seat of the car, which was the way my neighbor had decided she wanted it done. I was holding the dog as he died, just as I held my dear sweet cat, Trouser, last year. I barely controlled my sobs. So many memories flooding back over me. I remembered that my doctor had given Trouser a shot to relax him first, before the big overdose. I held him close and spoke to him as he died.
I had another dog, our family dog, Missy. Always loyal, loved and looked after my boys, was an integral part of our family for over 12 years. She contracted a mysterious cancer that caused large tumors on her abdomen. She went through a surgery to remove them, and lived another two years. But the cancer came back with a vengeance, as it seems to do too often. She stopped eating, wouldn't come for loves and hugs anymore. The boys were in school, my ex was off in another town. We all knew, though, that Missy's end was nearing. Bravely, I carried her to the car and drove her to the vet -- all alone. I had never done such a thing before. The doctor thought it best to put her down. I began to sob uncontrollably as he took her away to a back room. I wrote the check. This was back when the banks still sent your canceled checks with your monthly statement. I barely recognized my own handwriting through the blotchy tear stains on the check I wrote that day. I did not stay with Missy, and always felt guilty for that cowardly decision. When it came Trouser's time, I decided that for his sake, so he would not be as frightened at being at the doctor and feeling so sick, that I would stay with him through to the end. It was peaceful, tragic, heartbreaking. My heart is still broken, but I am glad I was there with him.
Same thing today, with my neighbor's dog. She chose to have him put down in the backseat of the car, lying on his blanket. She already has a place picked out where she will bury him, wrapped, I assume, in that same blanket. Back at her house, she told us she didn't want anymore help, but she was thankful we had been there with her. I understand the need to do your private grieving. It is a special kind of love we have for our pets, our companions, it comes completely without strings. They give us their uncompromising devotion. It is our duty to give them the decency and respect they deserve in their infirmity and death. They just don't stay with us long enough. And as we lose them, one by one, our grief compounds exponentially, even when the loss belongs to a neighbor.
So this post is for my neighbor and her brave, sweet Seamus. He was a great dog, always greeted our car as it past his house. I loved hearing him come out in the evening, barking as he came, as if to say to all the creatures that might lurk in the dark -- "I'm here, and I'm bad, and you better watch out for me!" The first time I went into "his" house, he brought me all the toys he owned, for me to throw and him to fetch, his way of letting me know he approved of my company. We were friends. I will miss him. I feel for my neighbor and the emptiness of her house today and in the days to come. It will not be easy.
Onward....
Thursday, October 25, 2012
Friday, August 24, 2012
Remembering My Pop On His Birthday
When I was a preschooler (except nobody called us that back then, we were just kids), I stayed with my grandparents all day every day while my mom worked. I don't know when this began, but as far back as I can remember, it was the state of things. I didn't mind it, in fact, I loved it, just figured every kid stayed with their grandparents all day every day while their mom's worked. I always felt loved and welcomed by them. I remember a single incident of a spanking from my grandmother with her soft house shoe because I kept going across the street to play with some neighbors even after she told me not to. I also remember lots of rocking.
My grandfather, we called him Pop, worked all day, too, for a wholesale grocery company about three miles from their house. He would usually already be at work when my mom dropped me off, but he called mid-morning to talk to Grandmother, and almost always to me, too. Occasionally, when Mom and I were running late, she would stop at a bakery close to Grandmother and Pop's house, and get me doughnuts -- which is probably the reason I still love glazed doughnuts above almost all other sweets. These doughnuts, in my memory, were exceptionally good. They always had a little crisp bottom where they had cooled on a wire rack and where the sugar had run down and pooled. These were doughnuts with substance, not the too-soft, doughy confections you find nowadays. These old time doughnuts were just good, and I was always exited about stopping there on the way in the mornings. This would usually be the first thing I said to Pop when he called -- "Mama stopped and got me doughnuts this morning." And he would always say in reply, "Be sure you save me the hole." What he meant was the imaginary hole, the center, back in those days you didn't see fried doughnut holes like you do now. I suspect the bakeries probably put what bits would have been the holes back into the dough to be rolled out and re-cut into actual doughnuts rather than selling holes separately. I never saw doughnut holes for sale until I was an adult.
At noon, we would hear Pop's car arrive in the driveway, and I would hide behind the refrigerator to jump out at him with a "Boo!" when he came in the back door. He would tremble and shake just as if I had scared him to death, just as if we didn't go through this ritual every single solitary day, and then he would hug me and kiss me and take me on his lap for a minute. And I would present him with my empty palm and the "doughnut hole" I had saved for him. He sometimes sang, "Have I Told You Lately That I Love You." I still remember the words to that old song.
At this time, mid-1950s, Pop would have only been in his 40s, but he seemed so old to me. He always wore a white shirt and modest tie, a Silverbelly hat, lace-up wingtips. He was of that time period. He loved his family, he loved Tennessee Ernie Ford, Gunsmoke, he loved God, and was a lay Baptist preacher. In World War II he drove landing craft for the Navy in the Pacific theater. After the war, when he went to work for the grocery company, he taught himself to speak Spanish so he could talk to the men in the shipping department. He could play the French harp. He kept a roll of wintergreen Lifesavers in his desk drawer, a roll of Lifesavers I sometimes robbed when I thought he wouldn't notice. He never said a word about my thievery. He was three years younger than my grandmother, a fact which she hid from everybody all their married life. He was my Pop and I adored him then, later, and still.
After lunch (we called it dinner) was done, while Grandmother washed dishes and I colored at the kitchen table, Pop laid down to take a quick nap. He was a snorer and the walls of that wooden house would shake he snored so loud. After about twenty minutes, Grandmother would send me in to awaken him. I would open the door and say in a stage whisper, "Pop. You've got to go back to work now. It's time to wake up." And he would say, "I'm not sleeping, I'm just resting my eyes." No matter the window-rattling snores that had just ended. I think he had it in his mind that it was somehow wrong to take an actual nap in the middle of the day.
In January 1992, Pop and I met for lunch. He went to the same cafe for lunch every day, managed by one of his nephews. They all called him by his name. They showed us to his regular table. They knew he wanted sweet tea. I don't remember what we ate for our meal, but we split a piece of apple pie, and then we went back to his house. This was not the same house where I had stayed as a little girl, but was a much more modern, comfortable house that he had bought for my grandmother a few years before she died. We sat in the den and talked about my writing. We talked about history. I was surprised by how much he knew about some of the historical characters from Texas history and the Old West. He gave me a book which I still have, GUN IN POCKET, BIBLE IN HAND. We discussed religion. Pop was still giving sermons at a nursing home then, but didn't have his own church anymore. Some of his views surprised me coming from him. He was not as close-minded as some of the so-called religious people I hear spouting their rigorous ideas now. He gave me a bracelet that had belonged to my grandmother. I still have it and cherish it.
Two weeks later, Pop got up one morning to prepare himself for the day. He was in the bathroom shaving when a massive heart attack or a stroke struck him down. My aunt and uncle found him mid-morning lying on the floor. We were all in shock. I had just spent that great day with him. I'm glad we had that time.
Happy Birthday, Pop. You would be 98 years old today. I love and miss you, still.
Onward ....
My grandfather, we called him Pop, worked all day, too, for a wholesale grocery company about three miles from their house. He would usually already be at work when my mom dropped me off, but he called mid-morning to talk to Grandmother, and almost always to me, too. Occasionally, when Mom and I were running late, she would stop at a bakery close to Grandmother and Pop's house, and get me doughnuts -- which is probably the reason I still love glazed doughnuts above almost all other sweets. These doughnuts, in my memory, were exceptionally good. They always had a little crisp bottom where they had cooled on a wire rack and where the sugar had run down and pooled. These were doughnuts with substance, not the too-soft, doughy confections you find nowadays. These old time doughnuts were just good, and I was always exited about stopping there on the way in the mornings. This would usually be the first thing I said to Pop when he called -- "Mama stopped and got me doughnuts this morning." And he would always say in reply, "Be sure you save me the hole." What he meant was the imaginary hole, the center, back in those days you didn't see fried doughnut holes like you do now. I suspect the bakeries probably put what bits would have been the holes back into the dough to be rolled out and re-cut into actual doughnuts rather than selling holes separately. I never saw doughnut holes for sale until I was an adult.
At noon, we would hear Pop's car arrive in the driveway, and I would hide behind the refrigerator to jump out at him with a "Boo!" when he came in the back door. He would tremble and shake just as if I had scared him to death, just as if we didn't go through this ritual every single solitary day, and then he would hug me and kiss me and take me on his lap for a minute. And I would present him with my empty palm and the "doughnut hole" I had saved for him. He sometimes sang, "Have I Told You Lately That I Love You." I still remember the words to that old song.
At this time, mid-1950s, Pop would have only been in his 40s, but he seemed so old to me. He always wore a white shirt and modest tie, a Silverbelly hat, lace-up wingtips. He was of that time period. He loved his family, he loved Tennessee Ernie Ford, Gunsmoke, he loved God, and was a lay Baptist preacher. In World War II he drove landing craft for the Navy in the Pacific theater. After the war, when he went to work for the grocery company, he taught himself to speak Spanish so he could talk to the men in the shipping department. He could play the French harp. He kept a roll of wintergreen Lifesavers in his desk drawer, a roll of Lifesavers I sometimes robbed when I thought he wouldn't notice. He never said a word about my thievery. He was three years younger than my grandmother, a fact which she hid from everybody all their married life. He was my Pop and I adored him then, later, and still.
After lunch (we called it dinner) was done, while Grandmother washed dishes and I colored at the kitchen table, Pop laid down to take a quick nap. He was a snorer and the walls of that wooden house would shake he snored so loud. After about twenty minutes, Grandmother would send me in to awaken him. I would open the door and say in a stage whisper, "Pop. You've got to go back to work now. It's time to wake up." And he would say, "I'm not sleeping, I'm just resting my eyes." No matter the window-rattling snores that had just ended. I think he had it in his mind that it was somehow wrong to take an actual nap in the middle of the day.
In January 1992, Pop and I met for lunch. He went to the same cafe for lunch every day, managed by one of his nephews. They all called him by his name. They showed us to his regular table. They knew he wanted sweet tea. I don't remember what we ate for our meal, but we split a piece of apple pie, and then we went back to his house. This was not the same house where I had stayed as a little girl, but was a much more modern, comfortable house that he had bought for my grandmother a few years before she died. We sat in the den and talked about my writing. We talked about history. I was surprised by how much he knew about some of the historical characters from Texas history and the Old West. He gave me a book which I still have, GUN IN POCKET, BIBLE IN HAND. We discussed religion. Pop was still giving sermons at a nursing home then, but didn't have his own church anymore. Some of his views surprised me coming from him. He was not as close-minded as some of the so-called religious people I hear spouting their rigorous ideas now. He gave me a bracelet that had belonged to my grandmother. I still have it and cherish it.
Two weeks later, Pop got up one morning to prepare himself for the day. He was in the bathroom shaving when a massive heart attack or a stroke struck him down. My aunt and uncle found him mid-morning lying on the floor. We were all in shock. I had just spent that great day with him. I'm glad we had that time.
Happy Birthday, Pop. You would be 98 years old today. I love and miss you, still.
Onward ....
Sunday, August 12, 2012
COPD or I Think I'll Get Another Opinion
So, I was not getting any better from my sickness. I would have a good day, then two bad days. Or I would feel better, start trying to check off my list, and slide backwards into feeling basically like crap. So, I called a doctor. One reason I was hesitating on this is because I really love my doctor back in Texas, and since I haven't been sick since we've been up here full time, I haven't had the need of a local doctor. Didn't know who to go do. My SO went to a doctor here once last winter, so I tried calling him. Frankly, I wasn't that upset when I was told I could see THAT doctor until mid-week next week. Because, well, he's a D.O. rather than an M.D. and I have these prejudices. Anyway, they told me that the only opening they had was with their newest associate, a M.D., to the clinic, and I could see her the next morning at 11:30. Fine. I am spoiled by my Texas doctor who, when he knows you are truly sick, will work you in that afternoon. And I was obviously sick -- I could barely talk above a whisper. But they were going to make me wait until the morning. Fine....
I thought I would wake up the next morning feeling well, and call to cancel the appointment as soon as they opened. But there were some things that happened to change that plan. Namely my SO, who showed up here at 9:30 pm having driven straight through, 16 hours, from Texas just so he could be here to take me to the doctor the next morning. He had been worrying about me, and hated being so far away, and when I told him I had made the appointment, he drove like a maniac to get here to make sure I MADE that appointment. He thought I had pneumonia. He wasn't far wrong. This was the clincher -- him making that desperate drive. But the second thing that happened is that I was coughing so hard, really the hardest cough I have ever had, that I threw up. Literally. Right on the bathroom floor. Jeez! Did I need THAT to clean up. Answer -- no. But I realized that this cough is really a bugger-bear, not normal at all, or productive enough, and even my ribcage was starting to hurt from this violent cough. Maybe I had whooping cough -- I'd read where it was making a comeback. And besides all that, I really wasn't feeling good enough the next morning to call and cancel, so I let my sweetheart drive me the 26 miles into town, and I made the doctor's office.
They had a ream of papers for me to fill out that took over 30 minutes. Apparently, I gleaned from some of the questions and statements I had to sign, that there is a big narcotic drug problem in Las Vegas, NM -- ya think! Maybe that explains all the violent headlines in the local newspaper. I told the lady at the counter that I felt like I was applying for a mortgage. She said I ought to have to make all the copies once I was finished.
I liked the doctor. She was, I would say about 38, young, smart, straight-talking. She told me she believes I have COPD. What?!!!!! Aka Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease. No way, I said. She said that even though I have been a non-smoker for 20 years on my last birthday, I still have lung damage. I argued that the last time I'd had a chest X-ray, right before I had the breast biopsy in 2008, the doctor had told me that I had the lungs of a person who had never smoked, that you could not tell I had smoked 10 packs of cigarettes a week for 19 years. He said that! She just smiled, gave a head shake, and went on to tell me about how COPD presents itself in these bouts of acute bronchitis, and that I was not moving good air through my lungs. She said she thinks I have about 93% of my lungs at this stage, but that there is a test that will definitively diagnose COPD and that she would like to perform that test if I would like her to in about thirty days, once the infectious bronchitis I have now is taken care of. I liked her, as I said, but I got my back up about this. I refused to believe I have COPD. I said that I was going to be seeing my doctor in Texas on the 23rd of September and I could get him to do the test. She said that would be fine, and proceeded to take down all his information so she could forward her reports to him. How presumptuous of her!
Then she said that she was going to go get prescriptions she wanted me to take to clear up this bronchitis, and left the room. I laid there with my head spinning. I cannot have COPD. That is an incurable disease that can kill you! My SO had a woman he worked for who died from it about three years ago. She'd had a lung transplant and everything. I would go to my Texas doctor and together we would just decide that I had FINALLY developed asthma. I'd had an allergy doctor tell me I was borderline asthmatic back in the 90s.
She came back in and I attacked her with questions. She explained that asthma is usually something that begins in childhood. I gave her my whole history with allergies, shots, yada, yada. She sat down and listened. I said, "Can't this be asthma, or allergies, or what do you think?" She looked clearly at me. "I think it's COPD. But we need to do that test to get a definitive diagnosis." And I'm sitting there thinking, what do you have to gain from me having COPD? Are you being paid by somebody to prescribe COPD medicine? Is this just the designer disease of the year? Is there some ulterior motive for you telling me all of this? Why do you hate me?
She explained what she wanted me to do with all the drugs she was prescribing. Prednisone to get me through this bad bout of bronchitis -- which was caused, she said, by a viral infection that went into a secondary flareup, namely bronchitis. I have taken prednisone. It makes you feel like you can conquer the world. It's what the vet gave Trouser the last three months of his life. The next thing was an antibiotic, and amoxicillian combo to kill the infection. The third, and most important she said, thing was an inhaler, combivent. If this thing really helps you, she said, it will be a step towards us looking further into the COPD. Ah-ha!! Could this be the drug she was taking payoffs on? And then she gave me a steroid nose spray -- yeah yeah, been there done that. A million times. They make my nose bleed. But I've made my prescription drug deductible. I took it from her. She said go home, throw away the cough medicine I had been taking, and to take Mucinex without the D. And all this in addition to my blood pressure and cholesterol, etc etc. I really feel like a little old lady, now, with a pill despenser so I can keep track of what all I've taken each day.
Speaking of little -- I had lost 10 pounds. The only good side effect from all this. Don't mean to be so shallow. I celebrate any effortless weight loss, ok?
So we stopped off to fill the prescriptions, and I was really fading by the time we got home. My SO made me take a nap. I laid there on the bed and my mind was still reeling, but a little slower now. I remembered way back in 2000 when I had been admitted to the hospital emergency room with a BIG infection following my hysterectomy. The staff was more worried about the lack of oxygen in my blood than they were about my reddening incision area. The kept running test, took me to nuclear medicine, drew blood. And then I thought about how I cannot seem to get acclimated to this altitude, and we are coming up on one-year of being here full time. I walk the dog and come back so winded I can't move off of the couch for thirty minutes. Just bringing the groceries in from the car down in the carport takes the air out of me so much that I have to sit down before I can unload them into the pantry or the fridge. And climbing Mount Capulin when the boys were here last year, that seriously nearly killed me. Everybody was laughing at me, but I was in super distress. I tried to laugh it off, too, but it aggravated me how they would not take my situation seriously. They just thought it was because I'm out of shape. Well, there is that, but I do have breathing problems, too. Real breathing problems. My SO is constantly asking me if I'm "whipped out." His question, asked when he hears me gasping, also makes me angry.
Why the anger? I'm not sure. Maybe because I watched my mother die from lung cancer. And my grandmother from congestive heart failure. Both of them cause breathing problems. I try to take care of myself. I am not a svelte 20 year old and I see people my age who look better than I do, but I have never been sickly, in fact, have always hated to be sick. I have always been energetic. Nothing bores me more -- usually -- that to sit on my butt in front of a television, or to just sit doing nothing. That's just not me, never has been. I have to be busy, gardening, cooking, cleaning, even reading has become harder to do over the years, and makes me wish I liked audio books more so I could read and go. I am too young to get an incurable disease! I just am! But in my heart of hearts, I think this doctor may be right.
I joined an online forum. I've been reading posts other people with COPD have written. I'm encouraged that it is something that can be managed, but I still don't want it to be ME! I really do have a doctor's appointment with my old Texas doctor when we go back at the end of September. I thought I was just going for my yearly blood check so he would refill my blood pressure and cholesterol meds. But I guess I should probably call them on Monday with this latest news, because I think this doctor I saw Friday really is going to get in touch with him if I don't, or even it I do. She didn't seem like the kind who would make idle threats. Or diagnoses, for that matter. I'm not happy about all this, but I would like to know one way or the other.
Onward ....
I thought I would wake up the next morning feeling well, and call to cancel the appointment as soon as they opened. But there were some things that happened to change that plan. Namely my SO, who showed up here at 9:30 pm having driven straight through, 16 hours, from Texas just so he could be here to take me to the doctor the next morning. He had been worrying about me, and hated being so far away, and when I told him I had made the appointment, he drove like a maniac to get here to make sure I MADE that appointment. He thought I had pneumonia. He wasn't far wrong. This was the clincher -- him making that desperate drive. But the second thing that happened is that I was coughing so hard, really the hardest cough I have ever had, that I threw up. Literally. Right on the bathroom floor. Jeez! Did I need THAT to clean up. Answer -- no. But I realized that this cough is really a bugger-bear, not normal at all, or productive enough, and even my ribcage was starting to hurt from this violent cough. Maybe I had whooping cough -- I'd read where it was making a comeback. And besides all that, I really wasn't feeling good enough the next morning to call and cancel, so I let my sweetheart drive me the 26 miles into town, and I made the doctor's office.
They had a ream of papers for me to fill out that took over 30 minutes. Apparently, I gleaned from some of the questions and statements I had to sign, that there is a big narcotic drug problem in Las Vegas, NM -- ya think! Maybe that explains all the violent headlines in the local newspaper. I told the lady at the counter that I felt like I was applying for a mortgage. She said I ought to have to make all the copies once I was finished.
I liked the doctor. She was, I would say about 38, young, smart, straight-talking. She told me she believes I have COPD. What?!!!!! Aka Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease. No way, I said. She said that even though I have been a non-smoker for 20 years on my last birthday, I still have lung damage. I argued that the last time I'd had a chest X-ray, right before I had the breast biopsy in 2008, the doctor had told me that I had the lungs of a person who had never smoked, that you could not tell I had smoked 10 packs of cigarettes a week for 19 years. He said that! She just smiled, gave a head shake, and went on to tell me about how COPD presents itself in these bouts of acute bronchitis, and that I was not moving good air through my lungs. She said she thinks I have about 93% of my lungs at this stage, but that there is a test that will definitively diagnose COPD and that she would like to perform that test if I would like her to in about thirty days, once the infectious bronchitis I have now is taken care of. I liked her, as I said, but I got my back up about this. I refused to believe I have COPD. I said that I was going to be seeing my doctor in Texas on the 23rd of September and I could get him to do the test. She said that would be fine, and proceeded to take down all his information so she could forward her reports to him. How presumptuous of her!
Then she said that she was going to go get prescriptions she wanted me to take to clear up this bronchitis, and left the room. I laid there with my head spinning. I cannot have COPD. That is an incurable disease that can kill you! My SO had a woman he worked for who died from it about three years ago. She'd had a lung transplant and everything. I would go to my Texas doctor and together we would just decide that I had FINALLY developed asthma. I'd had an allergy doctor tell me I was borderline asthmatic back in the 90s.
She came back in and I attacked her with questions. She explained that asthma is usually something that begins in childhood. I gave her my whole history with allergies, shots, yada, yada. She sat down and listened. I said, "Can't this be asthma, or allergies, or what do you think?" She looked clearly at me. "I think it's COPD. But we need to do that test to get a definitive diagnosis." And I'm sitting there thinking, what do you have to gain from me having COPD? Are you being paid by somebody to prescribe COPD medicine? Is this just the designer disease of the year? Is there some ulterior motive for you telling me all of this? Why do you hate me?
She explained what she wanted me to do with all the drugs she was prescribing. Prednisone to get me through this bad bout of bronchitis -- which was caused, she said, by a viral infection that went into a secondary flareup, namely bronchitis. I have taken prednisone. It makes you feel like you can conquer the world. It's what the vet gave Trouser the last three months of his life. The next thing was an antibiotic, and amoxicillian combo to kill the infection. The third, and most important she said, thing was an inhaler, combivent. If this thing really helps you, she said, it will be a step towards us looking further into the COPD. Ah-ha!! Could this be the drug she was taking payoffs on? And then she gave me a steroid nose spray -- yeah yeah, been there done that. A million times. They make my nose bleed. But I've made my prescription drug deductible. I took it from her. She said go home, throw away the cough medicine I had been taking, and to take Mucinex without the D. And all this in addition to my blood pressure and cholesterol, etc etc. I really feel like a little old lady, now, with a pill despenser so I can keep track of what all I've taken each day.
Speaking of little -- I had lost 10 pounds. The only good side effect from all this. Don't mean to be so shallow. I celebrate any effortless weight loss, ok?
So we stopped off to fill the prescriptions, and I was really fading by the time we got home. My SO made me take a nap. I laid there on the bed and my mind was still reeling, but a little slower now. I remembered way back in 2000 when I had been admitted to the hospital emergency room with a BIG infection following my hysterectomy. The staff was more worried about the lack of oxygen in my blood than they were about my reddening incision area. The kept running test, took me to nuclear medicine, drew blood. And then I thought about how I cannot seem to get acclimated to this altitude, and we are coming up on one-year of being here full time. I walk the dog and come back so winded I can't move off of the couch for thirty minutes. Just bringing the groceries in from the car down in the carport takes the air out of me so much that I have to sit down before I can unload them into the pantry or the fridge. And climbing Mount Capulin when the boys were here last year, that seriously nearly killed me. Everybody was laughing at me, but I was in super distress. I tried to laugh it off, too, but it aggravated me how they would not take my situation seriously. They just thought it was because I'm out of shape. Well, there is that, but I do have breathing problems, too. Real breathing problems. My SO is constantly asking me if I'm "whipped out." His question, asked when he hears me gasping, also makes me angry.
Why the anger? I'm not sure. Maybe because I watched my mother die from lung cancer. And my grandmother from congestive heart failure. Both of them cause breathing problems. I try to take care of myself. I am not a svelte 20 year old and I see people my age who look better than I do, but I have never been sickly, in fact, have always hated to be sick. I have always been energetic. Nothing bores me more -- usually -- that to sit on my butt in front of a television, or to just sit doing nothing. That's just not me, never has been. I have to be busy, gardening, cooking, cleaning, even reading has become harder to do over the years, and makes me wish I liked audio books more so I could read and go. I am too young to get an incurable disease! I just am! But in my heart of hearts, I think this doctor may be right.
I joined an online forum. I've been reading posts other people with COPD have written. I'm encouraged that it is something that can be managed, but I still don't want it to be ME! I really do have a doctor's appointment with my old Texas doctor when we go back at the end of September. I thought I was just going for my yearly blood check so he would refill my blood pressure and cholesterol meds. But I guess I should probably call them on Monday with this latest news, because I think this doctor I saw Friday really is going to get in touch with him if I don't, or even it I do. She didn't seem like the kind who would make idle threats. Or diagnoses, for that matter. I'm not happy about all this, but I would like to know one way or the other.
Onward ....
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
Between the Flu & the Olympics
My SO left exactly a week ago on a work-trip. I had a list of things I wanted to get done during the ten days he would be gone, articles I wanted to start or finish, returned manuscripts to get back out, the endless novel, as always, my secret cat book. Within two hours of him leaving, I knew I was getting sick. My throat had been sore since the day before, not horribly sore, but naggingly so. By mid-day last Wednesday, it was beginning to feel horribly sore. But I did finish the gardening article. It was mostly finished anyway, just needed another edit. Raced to the post office to get it off, and that was the last of my productivity.
By day two, my list was not getting done, or was getting done in slow-motion. Throat really sore now, chest heavy, head aching like a hammer. By day three, the body aches began. I had run out of all my medications, so I ran to town. Well, drove -- it's 26 miles! I picked up a few groceries while I was there. Good thing, too, because this thing -- this flu -- was about to take me down! Seriously.
I had a date with some friends for Saturday morning. We were going to the Heritage Home Tour they were having in town, tours of 8 different historical homes -- my kind of thing. I had bought the ticket. I was really looking forward to it, wished my SO was here to go, but he would not have liked this as much as me -- just wasn't the sort of historical thing he really likes to do. But alas, twas not to be. I awoke on Saturday morning feeling like a sick, thick, snorty, achy, hoarse blob of raw flesh.
I staggered to the kitchen to make coffee. The HOT coffee might help my scratchy throat. I dug out the Robitussin. I drank it straight from the bottle. I let the dog out but didn't go with her. Hell with it. Let somebody holler. All she would do anyway was go hunt chipmunks by the wood pile. I'd get back to her when I felt less dizzy. I flopped down in the chair with my coffee, turned on the television, which I never do when the SO is not here. The Olympics were on. I stared slack-jawed at the picture. Zombie-like I dialed my neighbors to tell them I would be skipping the Heritage Home Tour. My neighbor didn't recognize my voice. "You sound horrible," she said. "I feel as bad as I sound," I said. I hung up and staggered over to the let the dog back in. She spent the rest of the day out on the deck while I slumped in my lounge chair with my coffee and the Olympics.
I watched every single event that day. And the next day. And the next. By then, completely hooked. I lost my voice, so it was no good going anywhere. My head hurt most of the time. I was so medicated I would fall asleep in my chair and wake up when the cheering crowds on TV alerted me that something wonderful had just happened. I dreamed about Olympic events. I was back in junior high school doing tumbling routines, or trampoline routines. Baton twirling had become an Olympic event, and I was trying desperately to remember the fundamentals. We used to get tested on those fundamentals during try-outs. I worried about being too old for the event. But I did still fit in my twirling outfits, a real dream if there ever was one. It was kind of cool, though, almost like hallucinating but not quite. I'm pretty sure I was really asleep. I woke myself up snoring a couple of times.
So here it is a week later. I'm feeling better but I still can barely talk. I still have a nasty cough, and I tire so easily. My body is telling me to take it easy and I am, with the Olympics, and my new Mac Book Pro. But my list is still sitting here unfinished. And my sweet man will be home on Friday. Wasted alone time -- between the flu and the Olympic Games. But hell, they only come around every two years.
Onward ....
By day two, my list was not getting done, or was getting done in slow-motion. Throat really sore now, chest heavy, head aching like a hammer. By day three, the body aches began. I had run out of all my medications, so I ran to town. Well, drove -- it's 26 miles! I picked up a few groceries while I was there. Good thing, too, because this thing -- this flu -- was about to take me down! Seriously.
I had a date with some friends for Saturday morning. We were going to the Heritage Home Tour they were having in town, tours of 8 different historical homes -- my kind of thing. I had bought the ticket. I was really looking forward to it, wished my SO was here to go, but he would not have liked this as much as me -- just wasn't the sort of historical thing he really likes to do. But alas, twas not to be. I awoke on Saturday morning feeling like a sick, thick, snorty, achy, hoarse blob of raw flesh.
I staggered to the kitchen to make coffee. The HOT coffee might help my scratchy throat. I dug out the Robitussin. I drank it straight from the bottle. I let the dog out but didn't go with her. Hell with it. Let somebody holler. All she would do anyway was go hunt chipmunks by the wood pile. I'd get back to her when I felt less dizzy. I flopped down in the chair with my coffee, turned on the television, which I never do when the SO is not here. The Olympics were on. I stared slack-jawed at the picture. Zombie-like I dialed my neighbors to tell them I would be skipping the Heritage Home Tour. My neighbor didn't recognize my voice. "You sound horrible," she said. "I feel as bad as I sound," I said. I hung up and staggered over to the let the dog back in. She spent the rest of the day out on the deck while I slumped in my lounge chair with my coffee and the Olympics.
I watched every single event that day. And the next day. And the next. By then, completely hooked. I lost my voice, so it was no good going anywhere. My head hurt most of the time. I was so medicated I would fall asleep in my chair and wake up when the cheering crowds on TV alerted me that something wonderful had just happened. I dreamed about Olympic events. I was back in junior high school doing tumbling routines, or trampoline routines. Baton twirling had become an Olympic event, and I was trying desperately to remember the fundamentals. We used to get tested on those fundamentals during try-outs. I worried about being too old for the event. But I did still fit in my twirling outfits, a real dream if there ever was one. It was kind of cool, though, almost like hallucinating but not quite. I'm pretty sure I was really asleep. I woke myself up snoring a couple of times.
So here it is a week later. I'm feeling better but I still can barely talk. I still have a nasty cough, and I tire so easily. My body is telling me to take it easy and I am, with the Olympics, and my new Mac Book Pro. But my list is still sitting here unfinished. And my sweet man will be home on Friday. Wasted alone time -- between the flu and the Olympic Games. But hell, they only come around every two years.
Onward ....
Saturday, July 28, 2012
Birds, Birds and More Birds
This morning, a black-headed grosbeak, with his Barbra Streisand nose, sat on a post cap on the deck and waited for me to bring out the seed feeders. We have the hangers placed in such a way that the squirrels cannot get to them, so it took me a while to fish for the hanger. I had to use a wire with a hook bent on the end to retrieve the one the grosbeak was waiting for. Before I could even get the feeder up, he was on one of the perches. I believe he would take a sunflower out of my hand if I offered it, which I may do next time. The other evening I noticed that he, or one of the others like him, has taken up residence in one of the bluebird boxes. Not what I had intended it for, but it has been unoccupied so I guess the grosbeak has claimed squatter's rights.
As soon as the grosbeak lit, but before I could get the second feeder hung up, two white-breasted nuthatch had joined in feeding on the first one I'd put up. These are the early feeders. Next come the pygmy nuthatches and the first wave of the pine siskins. Before the morning is over, the pine siskins will have taken over both feeders, occupying every perch and fighting with each other for position. There are even some pushy males who will fly at the feeding siskins, in hopes of scaring them from their perch. If the feeding bird is shy, this tactic works, but usually, they stand their ground.
By this time, the feeders are about half empty, and the level of the seed will have dropped below the upper feeding holes. Birds will continue to perch near these holes, and I have seen the pine siskin peck at the side of the clear feeders, as if they think if they try hard enough, they can get to the seed they can plainly see. It seems to frustrate them, and I usually try to keep the level above all the feeding holes. Often a pygmy nuthatch will just go right inside the feeder to get at the seed. They are small enough to thread themselves through the feeding holes, but sometimes they can't get out. More than once, I've had to fish the feeder in with my hooked wire, and open the top to let the pygmies fly out that way. So far, we have not had one die inside the feeder, but it's a concern.
As the day wears on, the hummingbirds become more active. We have rufous and broad-tailed hummers, primarily. Neither of these are birds found in Texas, so it delights me to have them here on the nectar feeders in New Mexico. They fight constantly for control of the juice. The rufous are especially feisty, as well as especially small. They are sometimes called Lucifer, and once you see them in flight you can understand why. They are flame colored, and look like little flying orange and yellow balls of fire. They have fiery personalities as well.
One likes to perch on the eagle tip of our flag pole. From that vantage point he can watch both the feeders we have hung from the porch rafters. One of the rufous got so controlling, that I was forced to hang a third feeder around the corner by the back door, so that he could not possibly guard all three feeders at once. Now he is constantly in flight in his efforts to keep the other hummers off of his "newest" juice source. Since I added the third feeder we have been overrun with other hummingbirds. We counted twelve on one of the small porch feeders. It only had four feeding holes, so there was a constant battle going on. They chatter and divebomb each other. They like the green glass feeder the best, which I find odd, since I don't put color in my juice. I had always been of the impression they are drawn to red feeders. Not so here. Although, the other day I was wearing one of my flowery house dresses and two hummingbirds apparently mistook me for a big flower. Both seemed to want to feed on my dress.
These hummers aren't interested in the pansy blooms. I have decided pansies have probably been so hybridized that the flavor, or maybe even the nectar, has been bred out of them. I have seen the hummers pierce the tomato blossoms, and the wild penstemon in the yard seems to be another favorite. None of the flowers, however, can compare with the juice in the feeders. They go wild for it.
In the evening, just before dusk, the crows, or more correctly ravens, began to fly up the mountain to roost. All day long they fill the air with their cacophony of calls. They have one that sounds like a quacking duck. I think that must be some kind of mating call, because one was doing it on a nearby limb with a female standing beside him. After making the call for a while, he jumped on her back. Jumped on and then off, immediately. It didn't seem long enough to do any actual mating, but perhaps it was a quickie. Anyway, in the evening there seems to be one bird who calls the others up the mountain. I fancy that one being the imam yelling "Allah!" It kind of sounds like that, a call to evening prayer. They respond by the hundreds, and take a full thirty minutes to all make the flight up the mountain to their mysterious roost.
The acorn woodpeckers have not been active lately, which suits me. They disrupt everything with their rude intrusions. They get on top of the hummingbird feeders and try to stick their bills in the holes. They don't succeed but they do cause the feeder to swing violently and spill juice out onto the ground below. We try to keep it as neat as possible around here to prevent bear incursions. We take in all the feeders at night. We have done this ever since a bear got to one of the peanut butter suet feeders back in June. The bear broke through the gate we have at the top of the spiral stairway that comes onto the porch. It took one afternoon to repair the gate, so we have not put out the suet feeder since then. I have another cake of peanut butter suet in the refrigerator, but think I'll wait until bear season is over to put it out again.
We also have Stellar's Jays, a gaudy bird with a Carmen Miranda topknot. They are a quiet bird, but I imagine that they can secretly speak Spanish. Their colors are beautiful, dusky blue and black. They're big but shy, usually choosing to feed on the millet and corn the other birds throw out on the ground. They will fly at an instant if either of us steps out the door. The other birds that feed on the ground surplus are the doves and the ravens, and also a half-tame doe we have named Crazy Sally. She seems to be an outcast from the neighborhood herd that roams around here.
I like to think we live in a bird sanctuary. It often seems that way. The birds don't seem to mind it when we join them out on the deck. They seem oblivious to the dog, too, and anyway, she's too busy trying to see squirrels in the trees. It's almost like the birds know this. One pygmy nuthatch who was perched on the waterer yesterday, even let the dog touch her nose to its tail before it flew away. I have had a pygmy take seed from my hand, just a touch-and-go that lasted maybe a second.
Some of the other birds we have that occasionally make forays through the mountains are red-wing blackbirds who come by the hundreds. Also little chipping sparrows who stopped here for a few months on their migration early last spring. We have had two or three mountain bluebirds, but they never seem to stay long on this mountain. We often see them in the valley, along with the meadowlarks and magpies. I wish they could come reclaim their boxes, but maybe there's just too much competition for them here. And anyway, we really do have enough birds to watch.
Onward ....
As soon as the grosbeak lit, but before I could get the second feeder hung up, two white-breasted nuthatch had joined in feeding on the first one I'd put up. These are the early feeders. Next come the pygmy nuthatches and the first wave of the pine siskins. Before the morning is over, the pine siskins will have taken over both feeders, occupying every perch and fighting with each other for position. There are even some pushy males who will fly at the feeding siskins, in hopes of scaring them from their perch. If the feeding bird is shy, this tactic works, but usually, they stand their ground.
By this time, the feeders are about half empty, and the level of the seed will have dropped below the upper feeding holes. Birds will continue to perch near these holes, and I have seen the pine siskin peck at the side of the clear feeders, as if they think if they try hard enough, they can get to the seed they can plainly see. It seems to frustrate them, and I usually try to keep the level above all the feeding holes. Often a pygmy nuthatch will just go right inside the feeder to get at the seed. They are small enough to thread themselves through the feeding holes, but sometimes they can't get out. More than once, I've had to fish the feeder in with my hooked wire, and open the top to let the pygmies fly out that way. So far, we have not had one die inside the feeder, but it's a concern.As the day wears on, the hummingbirds become more active. We have rufous and broad-tailed hummers, primarily. Neither of these are birds found in Texas, so it delights me to have them here on the nectar feeders in New Mexico. They fight constantly for control of the juice. The rufous are especially feisty, as well as especially small. They are sometimes called Lucifer, and once you see them in flight you can understand why. They are flame colored, and look like little flying orange and yellow balls of fire. They have fiery personalities as well.
One likes to perch on the eagle tip of our flag pole. From that vantage point he can watch both the feeders we have hung from the porch rafters. One of the rufous got so controlling, that I was forced to hang a third feeder around the corner by the back door, so that he could not possibly guard all three feeders at once. Now he is constantly in flight in his efforts to keep the other hummers off of his "newest" juice source. Since I added the third feeder we have been overrun with other hummingbirds. We counted twelve on one of the small porch feeders. It only had four feeding holes, so there was a constant battle going on. They chatter and divebomb each other. They like the green glass feeder the best, which I find odd, since I don't put color in my juice. I had always been of the impression they are drawn to red feeders. Not so here. Although, the other day I was wearing one of my flowery house dresses and two hummingbirds apparently mistook me for a big flower. Both seemed to want to feed on my dress.
These hummers aren't interested in the pansy blooms. I have decided pansies have probably been so hybridized that the flavor, or maybe even the nectar, has been bred out of them. I have seen the hummers pierce the tomato blossoms, and the wild penstemon in the yard seems to be another favorite. None of the flowers, however, can compare with the juice in the feeders. They go wild for it.
In the evening, just before dusk, the crows, or more correctly ravens, began to fly up the mountain to roost. All day long they fill the air with their cacophony of calls. They have one that sounds like a quacking duck. I think that must be some kind of mating call, because one was doing it on a nearby limb with a female standing beside him. After making the call for a while, he jumped on her back. Jumped on and then off, immediately. It didn't seem long enough to do any actual mating, but perhaps it was a quickie. Anyway, in the evening there seems to be one bird who calls the others up the mountain. I fancy that one being the imam yelling "Allah!" It kind of sounds like that, a call to evening prayer. They respond by the hundreds, and take a full thirty minutes to all make the flight up the mountain to their mysterious roost.
The acorn woodpeckers have not been active lately, which suits me. They disrupt everything with their rude intrusions. They get on top of the hummingbird feeders and try to stick their bills in the holes. They don't succeed but they do cause the feeder to swing violently and spill juice out onto the ground below. We try to keep it as neat as possible around here to prevent bear incursions. We take in all the feeders at night. We have done this ever since a bear got to one of the peanut butter suet feeders back in June. The bear broke through the gate we have at the top of the spiral stairway that comes onto the porch. It took one afternoon to repair the gate, so we have not put out the suet feeder since then. I have another cake of peanut butter suet in the refrigerator, but think I'll wait until bear season is over to put it out again.
We also have Stellar's Jays, a gaudy bird with a Carmen Miranda topknot. They are a quiet bird, but I imagine that they can secretly speak Spanish. Their colors are beautiful, dusky blue and black. They're big but shy, usually choosing to feed on the millet and corn the other birds throw out on the ground. They will fly at an instant if either of us steps out the door. The other birds that feed on the ground surplus are the doves and the ravens, and also a half-tame doe we have named Crazy Sally. She seems to be an outcast from the neighborhood herd that roams around here.
I like to think we live in a bird sanctuary. It often seems that way. The birds don't seem to mind it when we join them out on the deck. They seem oblivious to the dog, too, and anyway, she's too busy trying to see squirrels in the trees. It's almost like the birds know this. One pygmy nuthatch who was perched on the waterer yesterday, even let the dog touch her nose to its tail before it flew away. I have had a pygmy take seed from my hand, just a touch-and-go that lasted maybe a second.
Some of the other birds we have that occasionally make forays through the mountains are red-wing blackbirds who come by the hundreds. Also little chipping sparrows who stopped here for a few months on their migration early last spring. We have had two or three mountain bluebirds, but they never seem to stay long on this mountain. We often see them in the valley, along with the meadowlarks and magpies. I wish they could come reclaim their boxes, but maybe there's just too much competition for them here. And anyway, we really do have enough birds to watch.
Onward ....
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
I Think It's About Forgiveness
“There are people in your life who’ve come and gone,
They let you down, you know they hurt your pride.
You better put it all behind you; life goes on
You keep carrying that anger; it’ll eat you up inside.”
Don Henley, “The Heart of the Matter”
One of the hardest parts of life, I believe, is learning to forgive. But it is also one of the greatest gifts that you can give -- to yourself.
There’s that friend from high school who turned out not to be the best friend you thought she was, who when it came down to it, was more interested in her own well-being than in yours. There’s your mother who didn’t treat you the way you thought you deserved to be treated, who didn’t give you the respect you thought you had coming to you, whether or not you had earned it. There’s the uncle-in-law who looked down his nose at you, as if you were poor white trash, who diminished you with his contempt. There’s the husband who decided he didn’t want to share his life with you anymore, and the son who blamed you for all the things that are wrong in his world. If you just hadn’t moved him around so much he would be a better person.
Lying in bed at night, letting these things simmer, keeping you from sleep, wishing you could have those moments back. Oh, the things you could say to all these people, now that you have had the time to think it over, formulate the great comeback, the tear-down, the thing that would make them see how wrong they are to have done the things they have done to you, or said about you, or assumed about you, or attributed to you.
But then maybe there comes a time when you are able to take a step back, to look more deeply into the resentment, or just plain anger, that you feel, when you are able to see into another person, and realize that your mother wasn’t able to love you like you thought she should, that it just wasn’t in her to, that she did the best she could with what she had. Or you see that the friendship was only in your eyes not the other person’s, that it was your misconception of the relationship between you, and that people are fallible, often dishonest, and most of the time, self-serving. It’s easier for most people to shift blame away from themselves, but shifting that blame sometimes leaves a nasty void.
For me there came a time, a restless, sleepless night, when I was pouring back over the disappointments in my life, the trust I gave away, trust I felt had been betrayed. I was lamenting over the loss of so many years in a marriage that had fallen apart. It was oh woe is me, and how could he do that to me, and I gave him everything, and I didn’t deserve this. And maybe all of that was partly true, but there were also some deeper truths that I was having a hard time digging down to. I was focused on his shortcomings, trying to reason the whole thing along, how he had always been selfish, had given up on our life, had taken away the security I thought I had earned. And maybe it was that word “security” that finally opened a door.
I do believe that security, that feeling of rightness it gives us, is a fine thing, but it isn’t everything. While I working through all the things that had happened to get me to where I was at that moment, trying to find reason in the insanity that seemed to be my life right then, it struck me that, yes, he was weak. He had given in to his own desires, had fallen in love with someone else. And maybe he couldn’t help that those things had happened to him, that maybe he’d had a hard time working through the guilt of jerking the rug out from under us. But even while these things were crystallizing in my mind, it came to me that he was not the only one with weaknesses, and that the kernel that had spelled our doom might have been planted in our beginnings. Because I knew, had always known, that I married him for all the wrong reasons. That I had never been able to love him the way he needed for me to, just like my own mother had failed me with her inability to give me the love I thought I deserved.
And so the peace that comes from forgiveness of someone else is magnified tenfold by the peace that comes if we can forgive ourselves. We so often do all the wrong things for all the right reasons. I think it must be some deep-seated part of being human. That night, lying in the dark room reliving my past, I began to make sense of things, what had happened, and why.
I had a child when I was still a child myself. Yet the first time I held that child in my arms, a feeling of such utter responsibility for him swept over me. No matter what happened to me after that moment, I had this child to raise and I harbored a lot of self-doubt that I could do it. And when my first, rushed marriage failed, so predictably, I set aside my grief, didn’t even take a good hard look at it, or what it all meant for my own life. I was more determined to do the right thing by this child. I am not trying to rewrite history, this is simply the truth. And this determination coupled with self-doubt caused me to make some bad decisions. I married the first man who came along, the first one whom I thought would, and could, take care of me and my child. I thought he would save us. I liked him a lot; he had a good heart. I didn’t really understand him, or even try to. I was looking out for my own interests. I needed a daddy for my baby, and he seemed as good a fit as any.
If there was ever a recipe for disaster, there it was. I can look back more honestly and clearly at the scared little girl that I was then. I was more afraid to fail as a mother than I was to cast my own desires aside. The real surprise is that we were able to keep this tenuous life together for 34 years. We were never right for each other. He needed things I couldn’t give him, and I settled for less than I really wanted. We had no common interests. We lied to ourselves and to the rest of the people in our world that we were happy, until finally the security blanket I had wrapped around myself began to come unraveled.
As I laid there in that dark bedroom, I knew I had to forgive him for not being able to sustain the lie any longer. I had to do that so I could let go of the anger and betrayal I had been feeling with such intensity. I had to forgive him for me, for my sake, so I could move on with my life. But more importantly, and with even more difficulty, I had to forgive myself for the part I had played by settling for less.
Maybe this is on my mind now because of an article I’m writing for a gardening magazine. Or maybe it’s because of the company we owned together so recently closing down -- which has become almost a metaphor for the final ending to that part of my life, the last root pulled up. I’m eager to see what happens next, still scared, but eager.
There is much more self-forgiveness that I have yet to work through, some things that are even more complicated than others. We want to hold ourselves to a higher standard, and well we should. But we should also be kind to ourselves. Do the right thing, for the right reasons, and recognize what those reasons are. We need to do this to allow ourselves to find that path to wisdom and self-awareness. I can’t speak for others, but for me, these are lessons that I keep having to learn. And relearn
Onward ....
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
A Dog's Vacation
First of all, they had me groomed. Now, I like being clean, but I was at the groomer's for two whole hours. I thought they had given me away for sure this time. But my dad came to get me, and I was so relieved. I laid my head on his shoulder the whole entire way home. He kept smiling and saying words I didn't understand. He stuck his nose against my head and sniffed me. I think he liked how I smelled. I was a little bit too perfumed for my own taste.
At home, I watched Dad and Mom walk back and forth with bags and other things in their hands. I could tell they were planning to go somewhere. I hid behind the rocking chair. I thought they forgot me. But then Mom finally picked up my necklace and called my name, and I leaped up from my hiding spot, so happy, oh so happy. I WAS GOING! TOO! THEY WERE TAKING ME!
I was pretty sure we weren't going to the post office, probably to the store in the big town or someplace like that. But boy, it sure did take a long time to get there. And it was so hot. I couldn't believe how hot it was. I needed drink after drink. We got out for lunch at an empty place with lots of birds and truck going by, it was noisy, and I drank so much water. Dad gave me a pinch of his sandwich. It sure did taste great.
We got back in the car and drove for -- I don't know how long. I was really bored. We stopped at four different strange room places. I had trouble finding a comfortable spot to sleep in the first two, but the third one had a hidey-hole under a table by where my mom was snoring. I sure did hear funny things all night long. But each morning THEY TOOK ME WITH THEM, and I was so happy, for a little while, to be back in the car. I drove with them, watching the road. We got out at lots of places with odd smells everywhere. I'm pretty sure there were squirrels at most of them. One time I saw a rabbit and shot after it. I was with my mom that time so I didn't get fussed at for running hard. She laughs when I run. I like that a lot. Another place we stopped had lots of stones standing straight up and Mom and Dad kept stopping to look at each one of them. They seemed lost. And then a little dog with hair in his eyes ran over to play with me. He hiked his leg a few times, and I covered his smell with mine as soon as he moved. It was so much fun. Then we got back in the car and drove and drove and drove.
We finally stopped for a long time at a house with a crabby little dog that wanted all the attention. I let her have it for a while, but then I got tired of no petting for myself and started scooting in between her and the people. I tried very hard to make friends with her, even invited her to play one time, but she just snarled at me, and growled. For some reason she just did not like me. Except when we went for walks. Then we got along pretty well. She was good at synchronizing our steps, and we stayed out on the end of our leashes side by side. It was so much fun taking those walks, there just weren't enough of them.
Oh, one time while we were there, the people loaded us up in cars and we went to this neat park. It was full of squirrels. I kept forgetting I was on a leash and nearly strangled myself a few times going for those squirrels. I could have caught one, too, if it hadn't been for that leash. My dad usually lets me off the leash when we go to neat parks, but for some reason, he didn't do it then. I even missed running after a bunny rabbit that came out in an opening. We kept having to dodge all these tumped over trees, too. I couldn't figure out why those trees were all laying on the ground like they were. It was weird. Oh, I forgot to mention that one night we had all those horrible rumbles that shake the earth. I hate those like anything. They scare me to death. I wished so much to be home under my dad's desk. I couldn't find a good place to hide from those rumbles, and that other dog kept coming to bother me. She didn't even seem to see the flashes of light outside the windows.
After we had been at that house for a long long time, Mom and Dad started carrying bags again and going in and out of doors. I hid in a corner. I hoped hard that they were not giving me away to these new people and their little cranky dog. But then Mom jangled my necklace. I WAS GOING! THEY WERE TAKING ME WITH THEM! I was so excited Mom had to talk deep and loud to remind me to sit. I hate when that happens. I just get carried away sometimes. I did not even need my leash I was so excited to be leaving that place, even though they did have a nice backyard full of fast tree squirrels. I jumped right in the car when Mom opened the door.
We drove and drove again, and I figured out pretty quick that we were not going to the post office or even to the store in the big town. I got really bored. That back seat is not comfortable for sleeping, even though my mom had put a new cushion back there for me. I just couldn't sleep good in the car. Or in the two strange room places where we stopped. One of those places was just loaded with smells. I couldn't find a spot to lay where some other dog at some other time had already lain. I was pretty miserable all night.
Then we got to another place where I thought we were might stay for a while. There was a little curly haired puppy dog there that was just over the moon for me right from the moment I jumped out of the car. She raced around and around me, and I could tell she liked me. I let her smell me in places I usually growl at, but she was so little and cute, and fun to play with at first. We raced around with each other, and when I made my play moves, she just went wild for it. I liked that little brown puppy a lot. At first. After a while, though, she started getting on my nerves, always wanting to play, nipping at me. I finally had to snap at her to put her in her place. She just wouldn't take no for an answer.
This new place was out in the country and the new lady and my mom and dad walked all around with me and the bouncing puppy following. They had a pier with fish in the water, and gosh those fish were big. I wanted to jump in that water after those fish so bad. But then I saw two big dogs across the lake, so I raced over to meet them. My dad was hollering at me, but I just had to go see who they were. As soon as I got close to them, I knew I had made a BIG mistake. For no reason in the world, they both jumped on me and started growling and barking and biting me, and one got me in the water and was trying to grab my neck, and I really thought for a minute I was going to drown, but my dad came shouting and saved me. Except I could tell he was really mad. It scares me when he gets so angry and fusses at me. I didn't know what I had done. It was those mean dogs who had caused all the trouble.
I was covered with mud and my mom was crying. I felt so bad that she was crying. I let my dad wash me with the cold outside water hose. For Mom's sake, I tried to pretend I wasn't hurt so she would stop crying, but I was hurt, a little. I had some sore places around my neck, but Mom didn't feel them. She took off my collar and loved me and spoke something in her sweet babytalk voice, and took me inside to dry me off with a towel. I just love to hear her babytalk. It made me feel so much better. Boy, was I really glad when we left that place.
Then we went back to that old old house in the country where I used to live before Mom came. But I don't like it there anymore. I remember that there are snakes there and I hate snakes so much. I can't even relax when I'm there for worrying about snakes. I got bit once or twice and it hurt worse than anything. I thought I was going to die when I got bit. I stayed under the table the whole time. It seemed like we were there forever. The only fun time was when Mom took me with her over to the old man's house. I recognized his house as soon as we turned in the driveway and started whining. My favorite friend in the whole world lives there, and she was SO happy to see me. She's about the same size as me except she is brown and white striped and I'm just black. We ran and played and raced around the back yard until we were exhausted. Then we went inside for a big drink and took a nap on the cold floor. That was the only time while we were back in that hot old country place that I was happy. The next day Mom and Dad started carrying bags and things in and out of the door. I hoped they weren't going to leave me there, in that place where I am so sad and lonely and cramped. I was still sore from those mean dogs and I was not feeling too good. But then Mom picked up my necklace, and I was so happy. THEY WERE TAKING ME WITH THEM!!!!
We went back in the car and we didn't go to the post office. We stopped in a strange room place after hours and hours on the road. I really didn't like this room place at all. There were noises all night and I kept having to bark at things, which made my dad angry with me. I tried to let him know that I couldn't help myself, but he just won't understand these things. I hid under the table all night, and then Mom and Dad started carrying bags in and out of the door again. If they left me at this terrible place I just didn't know what I would do. But then Mom got my necklace. I WAS GOING!!!
I heard Mom telling Dad that I was the best-traveled dog she bet of all the dogs in the whole world. I didn't know much about that, or about the many many places we had been. I didn't know even why we had to go to any of them, and I wasn't too happy about a single place where we stopped. Except for the last place! HOME! We went home. I never thought I would see that place again, but there it was, and I could tell as soon as my feet hit the ground that all my squirrels were as happy to see me again as I was them. I chased them up and down the deck all afternoon. It was great to be home......
(Onward....)
At home, I watched Dad and Mom walk back and forth with bags and other things in their hands. I could tell they were planning to go somewhere. I hid behind the rocking chair. I thought they forgot me. But then Mom finally picked up my necklace and called my name, and I leaped up from my hiding spot, so happy, oh so happy. I WAS GOING! TOO! THEY WERE TAKING ME!
I was pretty sure we weren't going to the post office, probably to the store in the big town or someplace like that. But boy, it sure did take a long time to get there. And it was so hot. I couldn't believe how hot it was. I needed drink after drink. We got out for lunch at an empty place with lots of birds and truck going by, it was noisy, and I drank so much water. Dad gave me a pinch of his sandwich. It sure did taste great.
We got back in the car and drove for -- I don't know how long. I was really bored. We stopped at four different strange room places. I had trouble finding a comfortable spot to sleep in the first two, but the third one had a hidey-hole under a table by where my mom was snoring. I sure did hear funny things all night long. But each morning THEY TOOK ME WITH THEM, and I was so happy, for a little while, to be back in the car. I drove with them, watching the road. We got out at lots of places with odd smells everywhere. I'm pretty sure there were squirrels at most of them. One time I saw a rabbit and shot after it. I was with my mom that time so I didn't get fussed at for running hard. She laughs when I run. I like that a lot. Another place we stopped had lots of stones standing straight up and Mom and Dad kept stopping to look at each one of them. They seemed lost. And then a little dog with hair in his eyes ran over to play with me. He hiked his leg a few times, and I covered his smell with mine as soon as he moved. It was so much fun. Then we got back in the car and drove and drove and drove.
We finally stopped for a long time at a house with a crabby little dog that wanted all the attention. I let her have it for a while, but then I got tired of no petting for myself and started scooting in between her and the people. I tried very hard to make friends with her, even invited her to play one time, but she just snarled at me, and growled. For some reason she just did not like me. Except when we went for walks. Then we got along pretty well. She was good at synchronizing our steps, and we stayed out on the end of our leashes side by side. It was so much fun taking those walks, there just weren't enough of them.
Oh, one time while we were there, the people loaded us up in cars and we went to this neat park. It was full of squirrels. I kept forgetting I was on a leash and nearly strangled myself a few times going for those squirrels. I could have caught one, too, if it hadn't been for that leash. My dad usually lets me off the leash when we go to neat parks, but for some reason, he didn't do it then. I even missed running after a bunny rabbit that came out in an opening. We kept having to dodge all these tumped over trees, too. I couldn't figure out why those trees were all laying on the ground like they were. It was weird. Oh, I forgot to mention that one night we had all those horrible rumbles that shake the earth. I hate those like anything. They scare me to death. I wished so much to be home under my dad's desk. I couldn't find a good place to hide from those rumbles, and that other dog kept coming to bother me. She didn't even seem to see the flashes of light outside the windows.
After we had been at that house for a long long time, Mom and Dad started carrying bags again and going in and out of doors. I hid in a corner. I hoped hard that they were not giving me away to these new people and their little cranky dog. But then Mom jangled my necklace. I WAS GOING! THEY WERE TAKING ME WITH THEM! I was so excited Mom had to talk deep and loud to remind me to sit. I hate when that happens. I just get carried away sometimes. I did not even need my leash I was so excited to be leaving that place, even though they did have a nice backyard full of fast tree squirrels. I jumped right in the car when Mom opened the door.
We drove and drove again, and I figured out pretty quick that we were not going to the post office or even to the store in the big town. I got really bored. That back seat is not comfortable for sleeping, even though my mom had put a new cushion back there for me. I just couldn't sleep good in the car. Or in the two strange room places where we stopped. One of those places was just loaded with smells. I couldn't find a spot to lay where some other dog at some other time had already lain. I was pretty miserable all night.
Then we got to another place where I thought we were might stay for a while. There was a little curly haired puppy dog there that was just over the moon for me right from the moment I jumped out of the car. She raced around and around me, and I could tell she liked me. I let her smell me in places I usually growl at, but she was so little and cute, and fun to play with at first. We raced around with each other, and when I made my play moves, she just went wild for it. I liked that little brown puppy a lot. At first. After a while, though, she started getting on my nerves, always wanting to play, nipping at me. I finally had to snap at her to put her in her place. She just wouldn't take no for an answer.
This new place was out in the country and the new lady and my mom and dad walked all around with me and the bouncing puppy following. They had a pier with fish in the water, and gosh those fish were big. I wanted to jump in that water after those fish so bad. But then I saw two big dogs across the lake, so I raced over to meet them. My dad was hollering at me, but I just had to go see who they were. As soon as I got close to them, I knew I had made a BIG mistake. For no reason in the world, they both jumped on me and started growling and barking and biting me, and one got me in the water and was trying to grab my neck, and I really thought for a minute I was going to drown, but my dad came shouting and saved me. Except I could tell he was really mad. It scares me when he gets so angry and fusses at me. I didn't know what I had done. It was those mean dogs who had caused all the trouble.
I was covered with mud and my mom was crying. I felt so bad that she was crying. I let my dad wash me with the cold outside water hose. For Mom's sake, I tried to pretend I wasn't hurt so she would stop crying, but I was hurt, a little. I had some sore places around my neck, but Mom didn't feel them. She took off my collar and loved me and spoke something in her sweet babytalk voice, and took me inside to dry me off with a towel. I just love to hear her babytalk. It made me feel so much better. Boy, was I really glad when we left that place.
Then we went back to that old old house in the country where I used to live before Mom came. But I don't like it there anymore. I remember that there are snakes there and I hate snakes so much. I can't even relax when I'm there for worrying about snakes. I got bit once or twice and it hurt worse than anything. I thought I was going to die when I got bit. I stayed under the table the whole time. It seemed like we were there forever. The only fun time was when Mom took me with her over to the old man's house. I recognized his house as soon as we turned in the driveway and started whining. My favorite friend in the whole world lives there, and she was SO happy to see me. She's about the same size as me except she is brown and white striped and I'm just black. We ran and played and raced around the back yard until we were exhausted. Then we went inside for a big drink and took a nap on the cold floor. That was the only time while we were back in that hot old country place that I was happy. The next day Mom and Dad started carrying bags and things in and out of the door. I hoped they weren't going to leave me there, in that place where I am so sad and lonely and cramped. I was still sore from those mean dogs and I was not feeling too good. But then Mom picked up my necklace, and I was so happy. THEY WERE TAKING ME WITH THEM!!!!
We went back in the car and we didn't go to the post office. We stopped in a strange room place after hours and hours on the road. I really didn't like this room place at all. There were noises all night and I kept having to bark at things, which made my dad angry with me. I tried to let him know that I couldn't help myself, but he just won't understand these things. I hid under the table all night, and then Mom and Dad started carrying bags in and out of the door again. If they left me at this terrible place I just didn't know what I would do. But then Mom got my necklace. I WAS GOING!!!
I heard Mom telling Dad that I was the best-traveled dog she bet of all the dogs in the whole world. I didn't know much about that, or about the many many places we had been. I didn't know even why we had to go to any of them, and I wasn't too happy about a single place where we stopped. Except for the last place! HOME! We went home. I never thought I would see that place again, but there it was, and I could tell as soon as my feet hit the ground that all my squirrels were as happy to see me again as I was them. I chased them up and down the deck all afternoon. It was great to be home......
(Onward....)
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