Tag Archives: Emotions

Was It Just A Year Ago?

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Sad Elke in October 2011

It was a day much like today, weather wise. Mid-40s, maybe a bit warmer, gloomy and damp but not raining.

I was going to meet a cattledog pup today.  An older pup actually. IF Elke would be OK with him, maybe we’d adopt him.  I owe a debt of gratitude to Tisha A. for helping Elke as well.

She’d lost her anchor, Jesse Ann and she had actually gone into a bit of a depression.  She slept a lot and moped. As much as I loved so many of the dogs I’d worked with, my heart (and even the SU’s heart too) were a little void. Jesse and Winger had gone to wait for us at the Rainbow Bridge. 2011 was a tough year.

A friend of mine, Becky L. had posted on FB!

“Check this out, Mia!” and there was a picture of an older cattledog puppy.  My heart fluttered a bit, and I contacted the foster mom whom I knew from the Humane Society: Jen Mauger, the owner and trainer of L’Chaim Canine.

Megan with her soon-to-be doggie nephew

I was worried because Elke isn’t the most dog friendly dog and I haven’t helped to improve that, really. But Jen assured me that we’d test her out with Jen’s uber-friendly collie, Shay. (This wonderful, silly dog is, by the way, my Hero….Love that dog!)  Elke did too.

But first, Jen wanted me to meet The Dog Called Bandit.  I might not click with him.  I agreed. By the way….why folks name dogs with no facial mask “Bandit” is beyond me but that was his intake name. He was saved by Humane Officer Shannon at the Humane Society of Greater Akron.  She is another one of my Heroines!

Jen brought the bundle of cowpup into our yard, he seemed very friendly and curious.  I picked him up and he still had puppy breath, just the last vestiges of it, and soft puppy fur.  I held him to me heart, nuzzled my nose into his neck and I started tearing up. I love Elke (our Schmooby-Do) with all my heart but I’m a sucker for a blue cattledog. After Elke’s successful meet and play with Shay, we introduced the pup into the mix!  They got along just fine.  Thank you, Shay!  We brought the little guy inside the house and all was still well!

The Spousal Unit meetsthe pup for the first time.

Of course, I’m a sucker and my Spousal Unit knew it.  He met him the next Sunday at one of L’Chaim’s classes!

Yep, we’re sold on a little blue dog.

Marty immediately christened him “Artie.”

“Why Artie?”

“He looks like an Artie!” And WAREHOUSE 13 is the SU’s favorite show!

He became officially ours, adoption paperwork and all, on Dec. 22nd, 2011.

He was a HUGE trial in many ways.  House-training, chewing, mouthing, biting, etc. etc.  Etc. I cursed my friend Becky many-a-day! I spent hours often wondering what the hell I was thinking…..

He started growing……and Elke started to prick up, get some energy and life back,  play, growl, get after her new little brother and lose weight!

His first Christmas and New Year’s came and went.  Puppy classes! Still working on the house training thing…..

And growing…..despite his often less than enthused big sister…..

And his color was still very light….but he was growing….This is Art on Jan. 1, 2012

And he was growing…..and getting tons of nicknames!

Art, Artie, Artie Blue, and most often BLOOBY!

March 11, 2012 (below)

…and growing…and his color was beginning to darken……and he learned to LOVE to play Fetch!  After first he had NO idea he was supposed to bring it (the ball, Frisbee, toy) BACK!

…and growing…..late May (below)!  Finally he’s “gotten” the House Training thing and can really hold it!

July 2012 (below)

Dog Classes and fun!  He learned what “water” was all about, thanks to his new doggie friends, Oreo and McKinley! (July 2012)

July 2012 saw some BIG milestones…..he is now taller than his big sister…..

AND…..

Blooby get his Canine Good Citizen!

Fall time comes and we need to decide on a birthday for him…..

The SU picks Sept. 21, 2011 as his birth date.

“Why?”

“He told me that’s when he was born.”

“OK then….” (First birthday picture)

Fall 2012, he’s beginning to mature….little by little.  We still need to work on NOT reacting to seeing kitties and meowing, being gentle around little, little kids…although he’s good with older kids….but he loves to meet other dogs and play!

He has his first overnight with Auntie Gayle, Uncle Ray and Oreo and McKinley…..

He has fun swimming and socializing at the dog park, going for off-leash walks and learning new things!

Picture with Santa at the Humane Society, where he gets to see people who saved him!

And now it’s a year.  A whole year has gone by…..

We love you, you crazy, nutty, smart-as-a-whip Blooby Boy! And we thank all the people (and dogs) who brought you into our lives…..Tisha A., Becky L. Jen M. Kristen B. and Officer Shannon….

(However, when he’s bad, we still blame Becky — it’s all her fault.)

Artie Blue 

Truhart’s Find The Artifact, CGC

A Blessing

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So often we see, hear and experience cruelty, injustice and unkindness in our own lives, never mind around us.

It is enough to make a sane soul jaded and embittered.

Never let it be said that small miracles do not happen.

I never in a million YEARS would have expected, more than a decade later, to find kindness, redemption, the truth about a very painful episode in my life and an apology (quite unnecessary, truly, but gratefully and humbly accepted.) Thank you!

I can only pray that I will prove worthy and that the creative Light will shine through me so that I may perform to the best (and beyond) of my ability.

I must have done something good at some point, for the good stuff came back ten-fold today with the words I received.

As I reflected on what I had heard, I got teary!

Blessings to all, esp. the person who gave me this gift.

The (Longest) Bike Ride

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For a better view of this blog, go HERE!

My jersey, new gloves and…hey, wait a second….

those aren’t biking shoes!

Findlay, Ohio, Sept. 9, 2012.  The Horizontal Hundred.  I don’t know why but I want to call it The Harmony, which is in May.  In Indiana.  And spelled differently. Oh, well.  This is great “first” tour for anyone as it has 4 distances: 20, 40, 62 and 100 with very few hills. It’s pretty darn flat.

After the totally suckazoid cancelling of the Spousal Unit’s Ohio Gran Fondo 3 days before the event, I think he really wanted to do the HHH. (I almost told him not to wear that GF jersey beforehand. He did! I have a shirt superstition about things like that!)  I’m still kind of pissed about the GF cancellation.  He worked so hard, tweaked his Bianchi, logged hundreds of miles on hills, spent a bunch of money, changed this and that and after all that — cancelled?  I couldn’t do so many things I wanted to do this summer because we had to keep “things open” so he COULD train.  I was not happy. He was livid!

This will be the SU’s second hundred, should he choose to do it. He can always do 62, which is a “metric century.”  I’m thinking, you so do not need to ride 100 miles when you really haven’t been training that hard.  But he is: A) stubborn and B) a Marine and that combination can equal Stupid. Hey, it’s your bod.  Don’t complain to me! I am going to attempt to do my longest distance, 35 miles.  I had originally signed up to do 40 but they changed the course and shortened it to 32.  I’m pretty confident I can do that but I want to best my longest distance which was done (maybe) last year: 34.5 miles.

Green Lady, the Bianchi bike.

This year, I have a lovely, spiffy new-to-me bike given to me by my brother.  It’s his green Bianchi whom I’ve dubbed Green Lady.  How unoriginal. She is most definitely a FEMALE bike!  We’ve been getting to know each other all summer.  I am not worthy of her, truly.  She is light, fast and agile.  None of these attributes are me.

I’ve graduated to the “Bigger Girl Stirrups”, the cages for your feet. I’m still not ready for Clip-Ins.  I like the thought of getting undone and off that sucker — fast.  The SU has had 2 spills with those damn things.  Not for me, thank you very much! I’ve gone from the “Comfy Big Bike Xtremely Padded Seat” into a (still-padded) racing seat.  I’ve gone from a girl-specific bike to a man’s bike, with the bar.  Which I caught my pubic bone on during a rapid stop.  Once.  Hurt for days!

All week long, I’ve been watching the weather.  I am not a Hot Weather Exertion Gal.  The SU is a lizard.  For the past 4 years he has battled extreme heat and pouring rains to ride for MS in Ohio’s Pedal To The Point.  It’s in August.  Seventy-five (Yes, 75) miles, two days.  Ain’t no way.  That’s not my idea of fun, even for a great cause.  That’s my idea of 4-H Hell: heat, humidity, heat-exhaustion and/or stroke and going to the hospital. Maybe if it was at a sensible time of year.  Like early May.  Late September?  My idea of Hot Weather Exertion is walking into a pool.

Now, having been in more than my fair share of walking/running (not that I run) events this bike thing is a different critter. The biggest difference between a bike tour, event, whatever-the-heck you want to call it and a foot-anything is TIME.  When you do a race or a charity run, there is a time limit and it’s not that long.  Most Half-Marathons have the course open for 3-4 hours, period.  Then they roll it up and your on your own.  Even charity 5Ks are open for maybe 2 hours.  Maybe. So you have to:

A) start at a specific time, with the maddening crowds. Which admittedly, is a rush.

B) try to stay the hell away from a bunch of semi-pro racers along with yahoos and hooligans who think they’re in an Olympic sprint.  Which is how people get hurt!  Mary Louise’s little girl has more than a few brain cells left.  I know I’m not going to set any land speed records.  “Ya’all go ahead, I’ll wait for a few minutes!”

C) Hustle your arse as fast as you can! Every second counts once you set your foot over that timing plate.  Even untimed races, you still have to move it along.

D) End by a specific amount of time. The goal is to finish.  Upright.  Unharmed.

Breaks?  (Insert sarcastic laughter.) There are none.  Oh, in the big races there are port-a-potties and drink tables with volunteers (Bless their hearts, truly!) hollering, “Water!  Gatorade!” so you know what you’re grabbing, drinking and flinging.  You have a timing chip on your shoes, the seconds are ticking away.  The person who invents a timing chip that pauses while you’re in the port-a-potty is going to make a FORTUNE! You feel this urgency to do the fastest drop-trow & pee in your life in those damn stink holes.  The timing chips mocks you.  You can feel its little inner metronome, clicking away. If you need nourishment etc., you better carry it with you!  If you go down, in short races, you better hope one of your competitors takes mercy on you and stops.  I’ve been the merciful one, helping someone, as dozens run merrily by.

But a bike event?  You want to start at 5:30 in the morning or at 10 am, go right ahead. There is an “official” start time (7:30 am) but they have support for TEN-TWELVE hours (depending on the event).  Damn, they even give you LUNCH!!!  Unless you’re doing the shortest distance (20 miles), they feed you LUNCH!  Even at the 10 mile break there is (are you ready for this?)

A port-a-potty

Coffee!

Water!

Gatorade!

Doughnuts/Bagels — some kind of starch!

Fruit!

At least one nice person who can help with you with a bike problem!

Such a deal!

The weather looks like it’s going to perfect, 50s in the morning going into the 70s with moderate humidity.  Rock on!  We arrive in Findlay, get our packets (oooh, we get numbers, mine is 314) and go shopping.  The SU gets two jerseys (most of his are so boring) and t-shirts.  I get a pair of socks!  We haul our bikes and gear up to the hotel room (very nice), eat dinner and settle in to (hopefully) sleep.

Hindsight Note To Self: Have the SU do a dummy check of what we really need to bring.  That would be:

Your Bike.  (Duh!)

An Extra Tire And Small Tool Kit. (Like I’m really going to change my own damn tire.  I’m going to bat my eyelashes behind my sunglasses and pull my best Southern Belle imitation, “Oh, you big ol’ strong ma-yan, kin ya’all fix mah little ol’ ty-er!” Yep, I’m on that like white on rice, baby.)

Your Bike Shoes (hard soled, highly uncomfortable to walk in)

Your Bike Helmet (hated but necessary equipment)

Gloves.  You’d be surprised how much you need those padded suckers.

Bike Shorts.  Again, padded and you would be surprised how much you need those suckers! It’s not necessarily my legs, knees, back, shoulders, numbing hands that give out.  It’s my butt!

Chamois Butt’r. Your butt deserves the best. Chafing is NOT your friend!  Think about it.

Glasses: For me, it’s sight, glare etc. and for all cyclists they are Bug Shields! Getting a bug IN your eye sucks.  It’s bad enough when one of the little suckers gets in your helmet, ear, mouth, down your jersey or UP your nose!  Faugggh!  Bleech!

Sunday morning dawns dark and cloudy.  The SU does one more weather watch on his Tablet, we load up and get to the departure point at the U. of Findlay.  We change in our cycling togs.  I notice that most of the people are dressed like we’re cycling in Antarctica! Long sleeved jackets, scarves, leggings, balaclavas, full gloves.  I have on my shorts, a sleeveless jersey, a neckerchief and a long sleeved cotton shirt over all. “It’s 55 degrees, people. It’s AWESOME!  It’s not 35!  Sheesh!” I think.

We go out to the car to get ready.  I find my black Skecher’s walking shoes, my tennies and…and…..and….I have an “Oh, Sh*t” moment.

“Uh-oh….where are my cycling shoes?  Crap!”  They are not anywhere in the car!  I guess my cycling shoes were NEXT to the Skecher’s and I grabbed those instead.  Sh*t.

Skecher’s and Bike ShoesYou can understand how

I got them mixed up.

Can’t you? Can’t you?

Tell me you can….

But wait, there’s more.

Neither the SU or I had done the Dummy Check for GLOVES!  Oh, he is HOT and not in a good way!! I’m pondering whether I can ride without them.  Highly irritated, he clamps his way back into the hall. We find one vendor still vending and buy 2 pairs of Pearl Izumi gloves.  He is NOT happy with me.  In a spirit of fairness, he could have double checked our equipment. (Grumble….)

I look at my Shoe Situation. It is at this time I am more than grateful I do not have Clip-In pedals or I would have been Sh*t Out Of Luck.  I have 3 choices of footwear: running tennies, the Skecher’s and flip-flops.  Those are out although the SU has seen people in other events biking with sandals.  I put on the Skecher’s thinking those soles are probably the stiffest.

We finish kitting up and we’re off; he in one direction and me in another, following the little “HHH with arrows” symbols painted on the road.

I am bee-bopping merrily along on Green Lady, feeling pretty good about myself, hoping it won’t rain.  There’s not a ton of storage room on a road bike, two small bags and the pockets in your jersey is all you’ve got.  It’s a lovely, quiet morning and I’m looking at all the pretty historic houses flanking Findlay’s main drag.

“Bump!!! Thwack! Clatter-Clatter-Clatter!”  These are never  good sounds. I look down at my handlebars and see that my cell phone has fallen out of its bracket and is missing.  Braking and muttering curse words, I get off and go back to retrieve my phone.  Trepidatiously, I pick it up, fearing the worst.  It is not only clocking my mileage (good old Runkeeper) but it’s my sole means of communication and it has The Map stored in there.

“Phew, thank God!” The hard case and Zagg screen have saved the day.  As aside note, this is about the fifth time I’ve dropped this phone and it still works.  Teenagers and twenty-somethings, take note. Remounting Green Lady, we continue on.  At about Mile 8, according to Runkeeper’s nice lady voice, I think, “The first rest stop is coming up.”  I come to an intersection, still following the arrows.  Alas, in my best Directionally Challenged way, I have made a wrong turn.

Now, in some respects, I’m a blithering coward; in others I’m rather adventurous.  It hasn’t dawned on me yet that I’ve made a wrong turn.  There is something blissful, quiet and soothing about moving with no sounds except the wheels spinning on the pavement, the soft swishing brush of your legs as you pedal and your breathing. It’s flat, so there’s really no intense labor. There are no cars.  It’s a quiet, country, rural road. The sky is big, with dark, bristling brooding clouds.  The soy and corn fields pass by.  There is no car noise.  Nothing but your sounds and the wind.  I’m doing a bit of thinking with part of my mind focused on what’s ahead.  There’s no one pushing, no competition, no trying to keep up with another cyclist.  It’s just me, Green Lady and the straight road ahead. I could stop if I wanted to.  It’s my ride. I keep going, take a drink from my water bottle. The road continues past fields and clumps of trees with the big sky all around me….

Suddenly, it dawns on me.  There is no one around.  I haven’t seen a single cyclist since leaving downtown Findlay.  That’s not that unusual but it’s really solitary.  And the road is getting narrower and narrower.  Hmmm.  I start looking down at the road’s surface for the little directional arrows.  I’m feeling a bit like a secondary lead in the sequel to the film Children of the Corn: Children Of The Soy.

“Oh, wittle ar-whoas, ” I say in my best Tweety Bird imitation, “Where are woo?”  (Yes, she’s gone over the edge, she’s talking out loud to herself in a Warner Brothers cartoon voice.)  Finally when my road comes to a sharp curve and turns into gravel, I think, “Hmm, maybe I better turn around and head back.  I made a wrong turn at Albuquerque!”  I’m not panicking.  As a matter I’m thinking this will add mileage onto my ride.  No worries.  It didn’t dawn on me that if I broke down, I was screwed in the middle of nowhere. (This was pointed out to me later on by Mr. Killjoy.)

As I stopped to turn around, a ray of light shafts the deep gray, brooding sky, highlighting the dark curtain of rain in the distance.  Rain?  Oh, OK, not good but it looks far way, I should be fine. Suddenly, the shaft of light moves to spotlight the road back. Right on the road, not the fields or berm of brown grass. I know a Sign when I see one.

“OK, I get the message!  Thank you very much!”  I head back, arrive at the intersection and finally find the “Wittle Ar-Whoas” on the pavement.  I arrive, 12-some miles in, at the rest stop.  Lovely!  Some water.  A glazed doughnut! Coffee with sugar!  I’m on my way to lunch, keeping some other folks in eyesight.  I am somewhat amazed to find myself pedaling past folks.  I am not a speed demon by any stretch, but I glance down at my odometer and discover I’m doing 16 MPH.  Taken aback, I slow down somewhat.  I don’t want to “blow up”, to lose my steam.  It’s not a sprint, it’s about distance.

I arrive at a small town school where I’ll have lunch and get to use a REAL bathroom.  That flushes!  With a sink!  This is civilization!! There is FOOD!  I have a PB&J half-sandwich and chocolate chip cookie.  I loathe peanut butter and jelly but I’ve heard it’s good energy food. I could have any of a wide variety of sandwiches, chips, cookies and drinks. I talked to some nice people when I have my “Vick Moment.”

Nice older lady sitting with other folks: “Too bad about so-and-so getting hurt.  He’s in the hospital with head trauma. They say he may never play again!”

Me: “Oh, that’s too bad, who was it again?”

Lady: “It was _____, a baseball player.”

Me: “Too bad it wasn’t Michael Vick.”  General laughter!

I run into Mary M. whom I had met and ridden with last year.  I decide to pedal with her and her friend.  We go along until the rest stop (10 miles from the finish), having a nice chat.  After the rest stop, I keep finding myself ahead of them.  I’m still not in bad shape.  I haven’t hit any physical walls, I’m feeling pretty good and a check of my odometer reads 16 MPH. They are way behind me. I can’t even see them! I never did get to say, “Good-bye and I’ll see you later, take care,” and I feel bad about that. I keep pedaling along and even the big hill going over the freeway isn’t too bothersome.   Green Lady is cruising along!  I guess she must thinking my brother is riding her!!

As I’m cruising into Findlay and towards the finish line, my Runkeeper chirps, “Time: three hours and so many minutes and seconds.  Distance: 38 miles.” Hey, I know I’m beaten my longest distance.  I heard the 35 mile mark come and go.  I can add on 2 miles and make it 40.  So I spend the next 2 miles tooling around Findlay, trying to NOT get lost.  If I make enough left hand turns….I should be OK.  I finally hear the time and distance: 40 miles!  I did it! I can quit now!

Runkeeper says this. My odometer, which is probably more accurate said: 40.76 miles in 3 hours, 24 minutes, 18 seconds as I recall. I think that’s more accurate.

The Spousal Unitat the

end of his ride!

100 Miles!

A Triumph!

What’s more important is I had fun! I felt confident too!  I hit both my goals for distance. I stayed upright.  It was a good adventure.

My butt was sore. I won’t lie.  I do have a 40-mile-on-the-flat butt.  I wonder if it could go longer. That is not a surety. I met some nice folks especially Corey while I was waiting for my SU to finish his 100 miles in 7 hours, 5 minutes (as I recall). My poor SU had to change his flat, which sucked for him, at about Mile 70-something.  The problem with stopping at that point is your body gets all pissy on you and doesn’t want to start up again. At all. And, another bummer, he never rode much with anyone.  He was by himself most of the time. He rarely got to draft anyone (pedal close to their back wheel, less wind) and get a break.

I think I’d like to try to do 62 miles someday but the weather is a huge factor for me.  It would have to be perfect, on the cool side and low humidity.

Now on to those foot races……

Animals In Need: A Facebook Failure

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Bitch of the Day:
 
I am getting horrifically pissed at seeing completely inadequate “Dogs/cats/horses/animals in need postings.”
 
Contrary to popular belief we are NOT psychics.  Gosh, hate to disillusion you and, oh, guess what —-FB is international.  Which means people are going to read your posts everywhere!  
You want to help —- BE SPECIFIC!!!!!!.  Here is an example.
Picture(s) of animal than say: (for example)
Dog, Urgent.  Can only be released to a Rescue Organization (if that’s the case.).
8 year old medium-sized female  17-19″ tall, a very slim 45 pounds.  (Better than saying she’s scrawny and needs a lot of good meals and has tits hanging down to her knees.)
Since so many pictures are crappy (another bitch of mine), a detailed description please:
 
She is a pit bull mix type dog, not spayed.  Now use some adjectives! She is a stunning dark tiger brindle with white markings on her chest and cute little white toes. Her eyes are a deep brown and her teeth are good but they might benefit from a cleaning and good diet. She’s Vet checked, has kennel cough which is treatable etc. UTD on all shots.  (Whatever medical issues  are needed to know, be honest.)
Here’s another colossal failure with posters.  Where the hell is the dog located?  Some missle base?  On Mars?  Like I really know where in Brooklyn, NY?  Oh, wait…..let me get out my Ouija broad and see if I can find it?
 
Try this instead:
Available at Barks-A-Lot Shelter,
2668 First Street, Ipswich, Ct. 60008
Durham County, Near State route 22 and cross street X.
Open M-F 8-5pm etc.
Phone number: 800-555-1000 email contact: susieQ@ email. net
Passed her SAFER test with all 1s.  (Post any temperament test results or assessments if you’ve got them.)
Volunteers write:  “blah-blah-blah.”  Some kind of personality assessment!
Do not give me that malarky about “we don’t know weight or height.”  The vet or tech who checked in the dog knows the weight or an approximation.  
Height is easy to determine, you can self-measure that dog.  At home, get a yard stick and have a friend  tell you what inch is the bottom of your knee cap, the top of your knee cap, the middle of your shin and the middle of your thigh.  That pretty much takes in most dogs and you’ll have a ballpark figure.  Where do the dog’s withers come on you! Duh.  Don’t need to be a brain surgeon for that!  And if you don’t know what a “wither” is on a dog, google it!
And stop, for god’s sake, saying she’s a Pit Bull.  The likelihood of her being a UKC Registered American Pit Bull Terrier is so slim you’d be more likely to win the mega-millions.  At least give her half a chance by saying she’s a Pit Bull mix.  Or if she’s low and wide, an AmStaff mix. And that would be the truth!

Need To See A Specialist? Good Luck With That.

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Arrrrgh! Doctors’ offices!
You think they could expedite a visit to a specialist.  but, nooooo.  Of course not.  Fluid in your ears? Vertigo? Again? That cough that won’t go away?
Well, one of the doctors (not your doctor) in our practice can see you today.  (Well, whoopee-dee-fkg-do!)  What’s he going to do, stick a band-aid on his ear?  Prescribe more stupid antibiotics?  Yeah, like that’s helped already.  Not.  All it does is keeps the SU off his meds that help with his pain and make him crankier than a crocodile.
“No, I need the Doc to get my SU into a SPECIALIST.  An ENT doctor.”
“No, uh, I/we can’t do that.”  (Are you kidding me? It’s a fkg phone call.  You pick up the damn phone.)
“No, I/we can’t do that.  You could go to the ER.”
“Oh, yeah, so they can bill us $1000+ to tell us (DUH) we need to see an ENT?  But, hey, can THEY get us in today, tomorrow?”
At the ER: “Uh……no…….you have to make an “follow up” appt.  What the hell is that???”
So to circumvent this continual loop of stupidity, I start calling ENTs.  “We’re booking 6 weeks out.”
“This is important.  Vertigo.  Fluid in the ears. Person should NOT be in car driving with vertigo…..”
“Well, we can put you on our cancellation list.”  Who do I shoot today to get an appt.?
I called every ENT office in the Akron area.  Even Children’s Hospital. Not one can see anyone today, tomorrow or for weeks.  I even cried on the phone.
So now, I’m in the Cleveland Clinic loop……
This has nothing to do with nationalized health care or any of that other political crap. because trust me WITH nationalized health care, what you all don’t realize that if it’s something big or requiring a specialist, you’ll be put on a waiting list.
And it has nothing to do with going to the ER, which by the way unless you’re bleeding, sucks too.   Broken arm, broken leg?  It hasn’t punctured the skin?  Have to wait to see a bone guy, to have it set.  And why do you not have an orthopedic surgeon on call so you can get your bone set?
It has EVERYTHING to with scheduling. Over-scheduling.
I am so pissed.
The SU says, “It’s no big deal.”  If it was no big deal, it would be GONE!  MEN!!!!!!
If our doctor’s office thinks they have heard the last of me, THEY have vertigo.

A Cattledog’s Gift, Part 2

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Part 2


Jesse Ann continues from The Bridge:

We animals have it good here.  We have fun, we have treats, we drink from rainbow colored waters.  Angels, like my Auntie Kaya touch us, hold us, cuddle us, pet us as we will.  I have friends who are cats, horses, dogs, rabbits, birds….

Sometimes we feel a pull to go to the bridge, to help another animal who was pulled from their earthly body by murder, cruelty, starvation, neglect.  The Presence helps us to tell these animals, “Here you are safe, here you are loved.”  Sometimes one of my horse friends goes beyond the bridge to carry a weary human, whose soul just can’t seem to make the journey or one too young to know the way.  Sometimes my dog friends run over the bridge, in two or threes, in whole packs, to welcome a human they knew in earthly form, tails wagging furiously, dog-voices singing.

“Welcome! Welcome home!  Here we are!  We love you!”  (The cats, being cats, wait, purring, for their human to arrive.)

One day, one moment, one eternity (for time has no meaning here and it’s all good), Winger says to me, “I’m worried about Mom and Dad.  They have Elke, of course and That Cat and Mom goes to That Place and comes back smelling of Other dogs and cats but they don’t have one of US!”  I look at Winger like he’s crazy (nothing’s changed).

“What ARE you yapping about NOW?” I grumble into his face.

“You know, a cattledog!” says Winger.  “I went to see Mom in that place the humans call a hospital. her body was so still. I sat there and watched her.  I told her to come with me, that I’d show her the way.  It was before you came here to the bridge. I know she saw me. She told me it wasn’t her time to come here. I heard her say it.  But…..she needs one of us, she needs a cattledog!”

“Oh, come ON,” I say scornfully. “We have lots of dog friends here.  You know doggy love comes in many shapes and sizes!  Why look at all those square headed dogs, the ones the humans call “pit bulls.” The ones that came from that awful human place in the mountains; the ones we had to help cross over the bridge?  Just the other day?  Remember?”

“Yes, yes, yes, I KNOW,” says Winger, “But I think they need one of us, a cattledog!”

“Do I have to do EVERYTHING?   Fine, there is a cattledog who needs a foster home, will that do you?  Quit bugging me.”  That’s when Buddy came for a week to live with Mom and Dad.  He went to a good home; thank doG.  But, if you know Winger and I do, he can be the most noisy, annoying pest.  So sometimes a dog has to take things into her own paws.

I went before The Presence, head bowed.  “Divine Love, my brother Winger and my Older Siblings who came here before, The Cattledogs Hart and True, are bugging me also.  They think my humans need a cattledog.  A young annoying one like Winger, but smart and trainable like Hart….Wingie is kind of a dope, you know and I, well I….was admittedly a little pig-headed.  Oh and one that will grow into a solid, smart dog like True. One who loves walks in the woods and rides in the car and swimming and chasing balls!”  I had to stop myself.  I was getting a bit excited, so beneath my dignity.  I bowed my head again, “We humbly ask you, Divine One, if this would be possible?”

The Presence called Winger, True and Hart.  “Dog-Children, purest of souls, Love who existed in earthly form, Our “Dog-ter”, Jesse Ann has asked that one of your type be put into the path of your humans.  Do you all concur?”

“We do,” said Hart and True.

“IdoIdoIdoIdo!” barked Winger.  I barked in his face, “SHUT UP!”.  (Nothing has changed.)

“Are you willing to give a part of your Spirit to do this?  This is a great request and not often granted.  We think that dog souls find their way to have an earthly experience and to teach humans lessons, in whatever form they may take.  Your cat sisters seem to understand this.”

“Yes, but they ARE cats.  You know how cats are.”

“Very well but this shall be a test of your humans and those whose paths they cross.  Do you agree to each give something of yourselves?”

“Yes, Divine One, for we love our humans still and feel they need, well, HERDING!”

“There is a cattledog litter in utero in the state in the country where you lived your earthly form.  There is one embryo, a male, whom no soul has chosen in reside in yet.  This one may have a hazardous journey on the earthly plain without human help.  Are you willing?”  We all agreed and I felt the Presence within me.  If I had a body still, some of my essence would be missing.  I still FEEL like me, but yet now part of my heart is a part of something else.  I believe that True and Hart felt this as well. Winger, being Winger, I’m not so sure!

I watch over the embryo from my home at the beautiful bridge.

One night in the month of September 2011 a little male cattledog pup, all white, is born.  Because we all gave of our essence, because we blended ourselves, he won’t have eye patches as we did. He’s breathing, he’s suckling.

Now look, quite frankly, he is in the earthly world and I have things to do here! The Divine has said that human things will fall into place. But, Winger is worried. (Nothing has changed.)  “Will he find our humans? How? When?”

“Oh, DO shut up!  I’m playing ball!  You asked, we all gave, it’s out of our paws.”

“But LOOK,” Winger barks, “He’s in a crate!  He’s just a little guy, no one is paying any attention to him! That’s not a happy place! Not like our home was!!”

“Look, you bozo, you slept in crates you whole life!  We traveled in crates.  We ate in crates so you wouldn’t eat all my food. What’s the big crate deal?  You know what The Presence said.  We got to let it unfold.”

But Winger barked and barked.  He yapped, yipped and barked!  He barked and carried on so much that the angels thought the stars would collide. Earplugs were used.  The sound of his frantic barking crossed the bridge and spread through time and space and dimension until it was filtered and honed into a sliver of thought. It traveled like radio waves, zapped here and there like a laser beam, filtered through to the human world like smoke signals, anything trying to get the message through to just the right human.  The band of white noise was widespread, seeking a human who would receive the message.

Maybe it was the way Humane Officer S. woke up that morning.  Maybe it was the flicker of thought, the impulse to turn down a certain street. Maybe it was suddenly on her List of Things To Do. Go To This Place.  However it happened, the message arrived whether consciously or in a dream or a decision. She saw the young plain-face cattledog boy and she had to bring him some place safe.  Safer than where he was, that’s for sure!

I looked over at Winger who had finally shut up, for a moment. “See there, you knucklehead, the little guy is in a safe place.  It’s the same place Mom goes to where she got all the Other Smells, how about that? Why look there?  There’s a nice lady, Miss Jen, she helps teach doggies, she says she’s going to foster him.  She looks nice. So can you chill out now? Please?” Some of our angel friends, hoping Winger would be quiet now, dared to take the earplugs out.

“But how will Mom and Dad find him?” Winger whined.

“You’ll see,” The Presence spoke in our hearts, “Hush now, Our Dog-Son, the human wheels are in motion.  Rest, wait, go play ball and chase squirrels.  Until it is your Mom or Dad’s time to go to the bridge, your job is done.  You and Jesse Ann and Hart and True have placed the paw prints of your hearts into a new dog heart on earth.  Let Me help the humans should they ask.  And they will.”

My spirit was there on earth the day Miss Jen brought the puppy over to meet Elke.  A silly angel in a dog suit named Shae brought Elke the message that it’s OK to play and it’s even more OK to to play with the plain-face cattledog puppy.  My spirit soared for this little guy. He’ll be a trial just like some of us were.  Not me of course.  I was perfect. But he’ll be a good dog just like we all became. Our hearts and spirits are with him and we bless the human footsteps that brought them all together.  Our humans have a cattledog now. Winger can relax and I can get some sleep.  But we’ll occasionally check out how it’s going.  Winger wouldn’t have it any other way.

And many, many human years from now, when it’s time for the new guy’s spirit to soar out of his earthly body, we’ll be there to greet him.

“Welcome Home, Little Brother!  You are a part of all of us, the cattledogs who went before! Welcome Home, Artie Bloo!’

To Read Part One, it’s here at WordPress or go here:
http://miaharted.blogspot.com/2012/07/a-cattledogs-gift-part-one.html

A Cattledog’s Gift, Part 1

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Jesse Ann (Truahrt’s Rescue Remedy, CGC)
August 18, 2011
I left my body on earth today in soft grass with my dad and my mom and my Aunt Megan. I could feel them petting me, feel their tears falling on my fur.  I could hear their voices saying that they loved me, that it was all right for me to leave my old, frail body.

In the distance, I heard the echo of a familiar bark. At first it’s a whisper, than it grows more distinct. I know that bark, it’s Winger.

“Come on Jesse! There are balls to chase and angels to throw them and lawn mowers to bite that won’t hurt us!  And Squirrels!  And food!  And vacuums to attack!” he barks in his shrill yap-yap-yap.

I feel my spirit soar towards him.  For a moment, I see my humans holding my old, frail body, crying. My spirit, on a breath, flies across roads, valleys, summer plains, coloring trees, rivers, the big lake where we played to where my Aunt Jamie is.  I touch her with my nose-that-is-not-a-nose-of-flesh lean into her body with my body-that-is-not-a-body anymore and my heart, which is overflowing, caresses her heart.  I love my Auntie Jamie and she loves me.

“I am with you always, My Other Mother, ” I whisper to her heart and soul.

I feel the Presence of Love and Life touch my spirit.  “Come, little one, sweet Princess Jesse Ann. You were The Boss to the other dogs, all who came into your home.  You were the calm one.  Now it’s time to play and rest until it’s time to guide your human to their joy and bliss.”

I know S/He is right, this Divine Love. I have known for a while in human terms, that my body was failing me.  I knew when Winger did not come home that winter afternoon this past February that my time on earth would end. Something told me I had to stay long enough help Elke to not be afraid of the things that Winger was afraid of: the thunderstorms, the fireworks. I think I’ve done that.

I remember going into the car for the ride to the vet today.  Mom had to pick me up, my legs were so weak. I was so exhausted, it was hard to walk. I was glad to be outside in the sunshine with my humans as Dr. Mike gave me a shot to make my eyes grow dim and then dark. I did not feel in my soul that second shot, the one that stopped my heart from beating but never stopped it from loving.  I want my humans to know that. I think Mom knew that Winger would be calling me to join him.

I see meadows and forests and a glowing bridge of shimmering rainbow colors over fields of stars. I finally see Winger now and another I had known in earthly form, my Auntie Kaya.  She is all glowing with love for me and she surrounded by dogs. She laughs and hugs me.

“Bienvenue, mon petit!” She was so loving in earthly form that it is not surprising that she is filled with Love, Light and Laughter. I run to Winger and bark in his face, “See, you bozo, I’m here and nothing has changed!  I’m still the boss of you!”

We dogs have it good here……

End of Part One, please see Part Two here at wordpress or here:
http://miaharted.blogspot.com/2012/07/a-cattledogs-gift-part-2.html

Dog Classes: The Great Melt-Down

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(Elke Louise, the Schmooby-Do)

Dog classes tend to bring out the worst in me! Guilt, tension, performance anxiety, guilt. Did I mention the guilt. But they DO matter! They are important! These latest ones are NOT my first rodeo, by any stretch of the imagination.

Let me back up a bit here.

Ladies, did you ever have one of those days where you are little “weepy?’ (I’d like to assume that men have days like these, but they suck it up better than I certainly do.) Those lovely days where it seems like your hormones are in wacko, weep-er-ella mode. Because let’s face it, ladies, we ALWAYS blame our emotions on hormones these days. (Insert winking emoticon here.)

Seeing as I am spayed and beyond the PMS years, I supposed I could blame my emotional state on Menopause. The Change as it is euphemistically known is not for sissies. “Yeah, I’m changing all right,” you growl, “My bullshit-o-meter is in the red! How’s THAT for change, m—-r-f—–r!” 

It has also made me at times emotionally fragile, insecure and very depressed. This charming trifecta seems to leave my poor Spousal Unit somewhat befuddled or saying stuff like, “YOU’RE depressed? Look at ME! Now I’VE got reasons to be depressed!” My darling Marine sometimes acts as though emotions are the “Hoo-rah” equivalent of struggling up a hill with a 60 pound pack on your back in the pouring rain. “My feet hurt worse than yours and my pack is heavier.” 

“It’s not the Who Feels Sh*ttier Competition!” And then the guilt sinks in. I feel bad that I feel bad.

One of the “good” things I guess (the jury is still out on that one) is I’m writing more. My typing hasn’t improved. I’m still a bit grammar-challenged at times. I write in short spurts; I don’t think there’s a novel lurking way down inside of me. I have cousins who do that sort of thing. 

http://www.amyatwell.com/ and http://www.williamsknerly.com/

I tend to think in moments in time, not sweeping vistas covering days, weeks, years. I’ve been published in print which is very exciting! I tend to think sentimentally. I am very sentimental. I get weepy at movies, TV shows, reading stories, blogs etc. I got a little teary seeing the squished, cartoon-flat squirrel on my bike ride Tuesday. I’m a softy with a fairly good front. 

But I digress as usual.

This past Monday was one of Those Days. I woke up emotionally charged. I was nervous about Elke taking her Canine Good Citizen test that night. For reasons I don’t understand I started blogging about Jesse, Winger and how they conspired to bring Artie into our lives. Maybe because I need to pick a birthday for Artie and I think he was born soon after Jesse died.
http://miaharted.blogspot.com/2012/07/a-cattledogs-gift-part-2.html
It’s fictional, of course, but I do wonder if there might be a spattering of inspired Truth somewhere in there. After hours of emotional writing, I had whipped myself in a bawling mess of tightly strung Me!

We get to class at L’Chaim Canine (www.lchaimcanine.com) and by now I’m a semi-controlled mess. I’m nervous and my Spousal Unit is patiently forbearing. Elke and Artie know where we were going and started whining in the car. All I can think is Artie might very well pass but Elke is going to have a really hard time. She is anxious already! What a great combo we four are.

Guess what? The test isn’t until NEXT week! Well, shoot, I’ve lathered myself into a frenzy for nothing. I feel the adrenaline beginning to drain out of me as we walk into the class room. There is a new person there, a nice fellow. Artie does bark, but he’s giving wiggling happy signals. Elke on the other hand, goes into total freak mode. She is in the corner of the room, growling andshrieking! Poor Clark, our other doggy classmate, a lovely Bull Mastiff has this “What the….who the….huh the….Duh?” expression on his big black mug. The guy, who is really nice, must wonder what in the world he’s gotten himself into now. I’m sure being a friend of Jen’s he’s used to Doggy Nutsville. Artie is starting to get upset because Elke is upset. I’m starting to gt upset and pissed that Artie is turning into a little jerk and I’m starting to yell at him, a big no-no in Positive Training. The whole thing is turning into a Mulligan Stew of semi-pandemonium. I am devastated!

Mary Ann, an instructor-in-training takes me outside. “Let’s work Artie on his meet-and-greets,” she says cheerfully. That goes fairly well but I am starting to get really anxious and teary eyed. I’m trying to suck it up and I just can’t. Suddenly visions of struggling dog classes at the Humane Society dance in my head. I abysmally failed those dogs, which is why I don’t go any more. The dogs I got never seemed to like me at all or they were indifferent to me. Wow, that’s was a real ego buster. I can’t even help a shelter dog. I really do suck. 

I can’t seem to take the pressure and now performance anxiety has kicked into high gear. I’m a sucky dog owner, a sucky dog volunteer. Who am I kidding? What was I thinking? 

Now the guilt hammers in. I’ve made my husband take me to these damn classes and it’s all for naught. He’s pissed at me because he doesn’t want to be there and I can’t blame him. I’m interfering with his biking. I hate not being able to drive. I hate missing out on stuff I want to do because I don’t drive. The whole thing sucks! This all happens in a matter of seconds, as I’m hearing a muted Elke voice from the inside of the training room, shrilly barking. 

My little girl dog, what IS wrong with her? What did we do to her? My sweet little dog is being an absolute a**hole! Her head is so far up her butt, it’s never coming out. I crack, physically and emotionally. My body folds to the ground and I start crying. Artie is confused. 

Thank heavens for Mary Ann and then Kelsey, another instructor. Between the two of them, they managed to get me calmed down. They both seemed to understand that I needed a back pat, must be the dog training thing! The guilt was still there. It’s there now, at this moment. Between Jen, Mary Ann and Kelsey, we did finish class. I felt bad for Clark and his owner. I’m sure she couldn’t wait to get the heck out of Dodge! 

I get that dog classes are a process. I vaguely recall this from the dim days of classes with Pat Piazza almost 2 decades ago. I need to recollect that Hart, my first cattledog, failed beginners twice. I am not a “natural” trainer. Clicking and treating is a co-ordination thing that I have yet to master. I’m still on the fence as to its efficacy. I believe that my Spousal Unit also doesn’t see it as “All Positive” either. It does go against Marine Corps Policy. 

But I do believe that dog classes are very important and these “Positive” folks are the best in town. You expect your kids to get an education so they go to school and graduate. Why not your dogs? I tend to think of my Dogs Past in their older years, when they were really good, well-behaved dogs. Jesse Ann passed her CGC test easily, even putting up with a very rude Golden who got in her face. True was a breeze too, but he had been a big time show dog. I forget that Winger was terrified of men when we got him but he did pass his test in Canada. But all that was at least 11 and more years ago. 

I guess I have to view next week’s class, which is when they’re actually giving the test, as a training exercise. It’s all training. It’s continuing education. I wish I could get over all the guilt.