Life now or in the past

One thing you get with a weeklong storm is down-time. Intermittent showers quickly turn into a downpour, which means taking a walk in the park is dicey. Driving anywhere is troublesome because of water on the road and the danger of a huge tree limb falling on your car. (Yes, that's a big personal fear. Call me crazy, but still.) There's lots of time for reading but even that gets old by the sixth day. Luckily, in my neighborhood the power has not gone out, so there's the dismal joy of too much TV, another thing I tire of quickly. And bottom line, how many on-line Scrabble games with strangers are really necessary?  

So, back to the concept of down-time. Alone time, for those of us who live alone. Time to think. At this juncture, the beginning of a new year, thinking carries the danger of deep and possibly insightful rumination. Rumination sounds heavy and bleak. Maybe pondering the past would be better. Or even pondering the future.

At this point in life, past when one can claim to be "middle aged" and has advanced into the category of "elderly" (and how the hell did that happen?) the ponderings are usually about life in the past. Not future plans, although that should be a factor, but more about "how did I get here?"  Especially, how did I get to be in this elderly category when my mind still pretends to be 55.  

It is baffling. Not the mind part but the age part and the past. Too much time is spent thinking about what happened when and why. You always think you will remember things, the important things, like the baby's first step or buying the first house (or the second or third) or the time, the only time, you won a game of Scrabble with your brother. You hope you will remember the first time you fell in love, the first time you had sex, the first (and hopefully the last) time you were in the back of a police car. The first time you went to Paris.** When you graduated from college, when you bought your first real car, not the junker you could afford, but an honest car, and the first time someone called you "Momma."

But we don't remember all that much and it is now becoming apparent that the fact is just that: our memories are falling to the side of the road, like melting ice chips: just there, look!  And then, gone.

Of course, most of the things mentioned above I do remember because how could I have listed them if I didn't? But so many years of my kids' lives are just a blur to me now. There are years in my life that I can't reconstruct time-wise and to try and reconstruct the reasons why I did certain things is impossible. 

We all know the Faulkner line:  The past is never dead. It's not even past."  We are a culmination of everything that has happened to us and thus our past is never dead, we are living it. We can't change it but we also can't unlive it. Our past is us.

It's almost like there are two parallel universes here, one that we live now, our day-to-day life and another, the life that we chose a long time ago and it is still walking next to us, every day.  What if we had chosen the 'other' thing, made an opposite decision?  Those options are still ranging around in my mind, probably because they were not the ones I picked at that moment.  Once you make a decision and your life takes that course, those other decisions don't simply vanish. They are still hovering overhead, tempting you, irrationally saying "hey, I'm still here, you can still pick me." And I believe they never leave.

This is not to say that I wish I had made different decisions along the way. Nope. Each choice made me who I am now. The things I remember, the results of those choices, are good. But all those other options are like a pillow case full of lofty air, not weighing me down but not letting me go either. I think they're there as a reminder: nothing is past. Everything is now, everything is present.  Live it.

** To be honest, I do remember the first time I went to Paris. As I stepped out of the taxi from the airport, and put my foot on Rue Cler, I was overcome with this thought: "I have been here before. I will be fine."  And I was.

More of the canines: Part 5

The past three Wednesdays have been good with the SPCA dogs. I finally figured out how to get the dogs I want and how to not be pressured into walking the really jumpy and large dogs. There have been a lot of small dogs at the shelter for some reason, and all of them are so, so cute.  But if they are there on a particular Wednesday morning there is no guarantee they will still be there the following week. The little guys get adopted quickly so one should not get attached to them. 

Yesterday at 7:00 a.m. it was pouring rain.  Taking the little dogs out in the rain was almost painful: they get soaked and cold very quickly and for most of them it wasn't how they wanted to spend their morning. Dry and warm and in their kennels sounded a lot better, but out they go to pee and poop and then to either go for a walk around the property or pop into an unused training room so they can play and run around inside. The big dogs cared less about the rain, they were happy just to have a 15 minute reprieve from incarceration. And to have a person dry them off and pet them. All the dogs are so needy for love and attention.

There are dogs at the SPCA that are simply too big and jumpy and thus it's almost impossible (for me) to harness them. After attempting to overcome the size and jump factors, I just gave up on walking these dogs. Since I am the only volunteer over the age of 60, it's easy to play the "old" card and that card seems quite acceptable to everyone. Honestly, the people in charge are so happy that I show up at 7:00 in the morning. There are only two (sometimes three) of us early morning volunteers and I let the other person take the dogs I don't want. No one cares. 

There will come a day when I fall in love with one of the dogs, I am already sure of that. Yesterday there was a small, adorable dog that I could have easily taken home, but I am not quite ready. When I return next week I am sure that this little guy will be gone to a good home. There is also a big dog who looks like a ceramic piggy bank, very round, white with large black spots, incredibly friendly and grateful for any and all attention. If I lived in a larger space he would be a contender as well. 

The greatest thing would be to show up some Wednesday and have almost no dogs to walk! To know that these needy pups found a good home would make me the happiest dog walker ever.

More to follow, I'm sure.....

  

Obituary: Bebe (2008-2022)

Bebe joined our family via Jenn when she lived in Texas. Bebe was maybe two years old, had already had two litters of puppies, was underfed, skinny and skittish. Jenn found her at a shelter, took one look and knew this was the dog for her.  Bebe took one look at Jenn and knew this was the love of her life. They were a perfect match.

A Pitbull mix. Dispel all the negative thoughts you might have about Pitbulls. Bebe was the antithesis of every one of those negative thoughts. She was gentle and happy and sensitive, playful and as cunning as a coyote. Bebe was good at the long con: look sad, turn your head away from the treat being offered and !!! More treats would appear! But a harsh word would make her put her tail between her legs and creep away, afraid she let you down. 

Jenn and Bebe shared many homes, careers, friends, backyards, glasses of champagne and treats. Bebe was up for whatever was next. She was a protector of kittens, small puppies and very young children.  She loved a party, she was the perfect hostess. If someone came knocking at the door, Bebe was quicker than a doorbell to alert you that someone had arrived. She loved walks, romps and most of all, just sitting on the couch, cuddling. Bebe was the Queen of  Cuddles. 

Take Bebe to the beach and she was ecstatic! So much room to run, so many smells, so much love in the air. At this moment, I am sure she is on a beach with her dog pals, digging holes in the sand and basking in the sun. Bebe knew how to make a day at the beach the best adventure ever, rain or shine.

There are so many who loved her, so many who will miss her and so many who have great stories to tell about her. Bebe made people happy, that was her greatest gift. She was ruthlessly charming: it was impossible to know her without having a crush on her. She knew how to get into your heart and she knew how to stay there. 

We all miss you, Bebe. Carry on, my friend.

Old, older, close to oldest?

 Here's an example of false reality: you're watching a movie, an older movie, and you think: "Wow, this is a good film but it's been a while since I originally watched it.  Maybe 20 - 25 years?"  And you look up the year the movie was made and it was  36 Fucking Years Ago!  25 years is bad enough but 36?  That's half of my lifetime! That's ridiculous and terribly depressing and shocking. 

There is nothing to say about this other than it happens more and more. I am always prepared for an older movie with older stars, like Audrey Hepburn or Burt Lancaster or Cary Grant to be old.  I am never shocked when I watch movies with actors like that and see that they were made 50 or 60 years ago, in the 1960's, for example. For some reason, that seems appropriate. But a movie with Tom Cruise and Paul Newman?  Tom Cruise isn't dead and it was still made 36 years ago.  He should be dead by now.  But wait, he is younger than me by 12 years so I give him that benefit.  And Paul Newman has been dead for 14 years but for some reason I think of him as just a couple of years older than myself.  But NO!  He was a contemporary of my Mother, who was born in 1920.  Newman was born in 1925!  That fact alone makes me sadly crazy.

OK, I know, I know....I am on the cusp of being oldest. But it's a hard reality to accept, especially when you're watching a film that seems part of your past and you realize it's part of the way-way-back past. When you were a kid. Hardly a grownup, even though you already had a ten year old daughter.

YIKES!  The harsh reality never stops.

Back to the movie. I hope Paul Newman gets younger and Cruise gets older.  It's fiction after all.

Going to the Dogs, Part 4

 The second shift of walking SPCA dogs was last Wednesday, a brisk morning of about 30 degrees. Leaving my tiny, warm cottage at 6:30 seems ridiculous, of course, until I get to the site and start visiting the dogs in their prison cells.  I could be Jack the Ripper and they wouldn't care, I'm a body with a leash and with a pocketful of snacks!  I'm going to let them out into the cold morning air to pee and poop and run around and pretend to be free for a few minutes. Needless to say, these dogs are excited to see me.

There must be a better way to get these pups harnessed up than my method which is leaning over, chasing them around, bribing them with pieces of turkey hot dogs in my attempt to get them to calm down so I can secure the harness. By the end of my two hour shift my lower back was screaming at me from the leaning over the dogs. Walking them is one thing: some are over 80 pounds and are very strong but I am fine with that. It's the harnessing that's killing me.

But I will return in two days to try again. The temp for Wednesday morning will be below freezing again but the dogs keep me moving so it doesn't seem so bad. 

There are dogs who have been at the shelter for a couple of months and there are some I have enjoyed who have been adopted in the few weeks I have been there. It's always a joyful moment when I look at the board of about 30 dogs and don't see one that was there the week before. The beautiful three-legged husky, Selene, found her home two weeks ago and I truly hope it works out for her and her new guardians.  

Cross your fingers that my back holds out. I am buying stock in an ibuprofen manufacturer pretty soon.  

Woof.

Floundering with the dogs. Part 3.

I think I won a reverse lottery: my time slot for volunteer dog-walking is before sunrise!  Seriously, 7:00 a.m. means leaving my house by 6:30 and it's dark!  And too early to make coffee, something that my dogs today seemed to intuit. Caffeine-free, not quite alert, rather cold, a bit nervous about this adventure, but there I was at the allotted hour, trying to get a 70 pound ball of white fur into a dog harness when all the dog wanted was to be left alone. 

As reported previously, the dogs at the shelter live in 10 x 10 concrete rooms. The rooms are cleaned regularly and the temperature is fine, but I don't care if dogs have zero aesthetic sense: these boxes are depressing. No art on the walls, no cute bookshelf holding their favorite toys, no soothing music. A bed, two bowls. That's it. Is it any wonder they look at us volunteers as interlopers? Especially us new volunteers, which they (the dogs) understand can be easily intimidated. And intimidated I was.  Look at this dog:  how cute does this guy look?  Keep in mind that he is part Irish Wolfhound.

His name is Gandolf. He has been at the shelter for a while, was "adopted" three weeks ago and then returned to the shelter for reasons that I do not know.  But how bad must he feel?  Loved for a few days and then scorned. It's no wonder he doesn't want me to try and put a harness over his head.  However, once harnessed, he was fine. We walked, he peed a lot, I gave him pieces of cooked chicken I brought with me. We went back to his prison cell and he went back to being depressed.

My next dog was Selene, a tri-pod (what they call a dog who has had a leg amputated.)  Now, one might think a three legged dog would be easy to handle, but one would be mistaken. Selene is beautiful, large and quite energetic and jumpy. While Gandolf was simply disdainful, Selene is quite wily. She hates anyone leaning over her and can spin around 360 degrees faster than you can say "Siberian Husky."  Getting a harness on her took about five minutes of alternatively giving her sliced hot dogs (also brought with me) with one hand and trying one-handed to snap her into her harness.  Once done, we went out to the yard and she raced around like crazy, chased a ball, played tug and acted like the two-year old dog she is. 

Whew.  Now my two hour shift was almost half over and I looked for another dog I could walk and I picked Sunny. The notes I read on Sunny said he was a bit jumpy and somewhat difficult to harness but a sweet-heart and was learning to "Sit" upon command.  OK, into  his room I snuck, after throwing hot dog slices to the far side so I could sneak in without him bolting out the door.  Again, I spent at least 5 minutes with him, never once getting anywhere near putting on the harness because all Sunny did was jump on me. Not forcefully, but just jumping up and down, on his back legs, over and over. He wanted more hot dogs but even the hot dogs couldn't get him to quiet down enough to harness him. I finally admitted failure and left him for someone else to take out.  He looks like such a good dog.... and he probably will be one day. Just not today, at least not for me.  

I still had time on my shift (not that anyone would care if I left early, but a commitment is a commitment.)  I chatted with two other walkers who had been there a while and told them my sad Sunny story. They suggested Marshall, an older dog, who they said was a bit jumpy, but in an older dog way. Fine, off to get Marshall.

Seriously, look at this guy.  He's about 8 years old, weighs about 60 pounds and looks like such a good guy.  It took me another five minutes and tons of hot dog slices to get him harnessed and he was such a puller on the leash!  When we got to the big yard and I could unleash him, he ran like his tail was on fire. He peed on everything and did that digging-marking thing dogs do. He chased the ball (but wouldn't bring it back) and then proceeded to just dig a huge hole. Then more running and more peeing.  Finally, after about 20 minutes he hopped onto a large wooden structure and let me pet him. And that was the best part of my day. Marshall wanted to be petted. He wanted someone to tell him he was a good boy, that he was such a good dog. I petted Marshall for about five minutes and it was clearly the best part of his morning as well. He was as calm as a daisy as we walked back to his cell. He let me take off the harness easily and he got more hot dogs.  

Marshall made me realize that all the labor involved in trying to get the dogs ready to go outside, ready to go the the field or walk around the property is worth it for one reason: the dogs need attention and love. That's it. If we struggle to leash them up, it's ok. It's worth it to see them calm down, look at us like we might be alright because we are petting them. 

Whew!!!  It was an eye-opening morning, a lot of frustrating moments, a lot of self-doubt (can I actually do this?) and some satisfaction as well.  Next Wednesday will be better. I will get better at this. It's all about the dogs, not about me. 

And I haven't even mentioned the cats and guinea pigs and bunnies! We don't walk them, of course, but they are also looking for homes.

Think about it!

.

Walking. And talking. And talking, talking, talking......

Call me a grumpy old lady, I don't care.  I'm walking quietly through the regional park, listening to the birds, enjoying the meditative quality of an early morning walk when a screech like a screaming eagle shatters my reverie and sets my teeth on edge. Three people walking together, talking in loud voices that could probably be heard a half mile away, having no respect for the calm, tranquil morning. I don't get this. You are right next to your walking partner, why use your Alpine ski voice?  No one within the half mile circle of your voice cares about your friend Sandro and his chickens.  No one in the park on a beautiful morning wants to hear about your husband's cholesterol count. (Seriously, I heard about both of these things within 90 seconds.) No one in the park even knows Sandro or your husband and if we did, we would want them to vanish off the face of California (they could still stay on the earth, just far away) so you wouldn't scream about them while walking along with your really sad and embarrassed dog. 

The park is for everyone. It isn't just for you and your spandexed friends. Lululemon doesn't care that you are advertising her (?) clothes while you shout out your love for the guy who did your Botox work. Shut the fuck up.  

I had to actually turn around and walk away from these three people, out of the park, back to my car. Walking is lovely. Talking and shouting and ranting loudly is not lovely. Made me want to chug down a shot of cheap whiskey but I didn't because it wasn't even 8:00 in the morning and I never drink before 8:30 a.m. 

Kidding.  But not about the noise. 

Hawks screech.  People should not.  Just saying.

.