Four decades of red shoe regrets, resolved

I've had a love hate relationship with red shoes for so many years ... stalking them, loving them, lusting for them, even buying them again and again, only to find myself unable to wear them because they're just way too red. There are at least three pairs stashed away right now in a box in the garage that I've never worn, even though part of me still loves looking at them. I even get them out to try on every once in awhile.

Anyway. Today I break my long blog silence to announce that the curse has been lifted: I've found some red shoes that I love, that I can actually wear. Check 'em out!

OK, so maybe they're not the height of fashion ... I actually worried as I was ordering them that they might look like clown shoes, or children's shoes. But they don't (well, maybe a tiny bit, but in a good way). I'm happy with them. They're red enough to be red, without being TOO red. I love the slight platform, the soft thick leather, the comfortable strap. And you can't tell from this picture but they're very wide across the toes, just like my feet. I plan to wear them all summer.

What else? I still think about blogging every day, but so much of what I think of saying seems kind of unnecessary to say. That's a spell that seems to have been broken lately too – my decades-long compulsion to document my experiences, rather than simply living them. I think that practice helped me, more than anything else I've done, to learn how to really inhabit my own life. Writing it all down – and paying close attention to myself, so I can be accurate in my account – has taught me to love it all. I read something the other day that rang true to me:

The great Japanese film director Akira Kurosawa once said, "An artist is someone who never averts his eyes." In 1923, the Great Kanto earthquake killed 100,000 people and destroyed Tokyo. Kurosawa was just 13 years old and walked amongst the devastation of human and animal corpses. When he tried to turn away, his older brother instructed him not to avert his eyes. As a result, Kurosawa came to believe that looking at the whole of life was a way to defeat fear.

That's a big part of what I've been doing until lately with this blog, and with journaling in general. Learning to defeat my fears. I can't say they're totally defeated, or that I expect them ever to be, but I do feel safe in my life and in the world right now, and that makes me feel generous and strong, like I have more to offer than this inward-turning exploration of my own ego. I guess that's why I'm not writing much right now. I'm feeling more like expressing myself in other ways.

While I'm quoting people, here's another quote I've been meditating on for awhile, that I feel I've finally internalized to the point where it's truly how I see the world. I have it on a little card on the refrigerator and have been painting it in calligraphy on little cards to leave around town ... just for fun, and maybe to share the blessing it's been to me:

Hm, what else? It does seem like a long time since I've written anything down. Just for utilitarian purposes, I'll go ahead and document some highlights, in no particular order.

1. I'm about half way done winding down with the antidepressants. They did their job for me again, and I'm grateful. Once again however they did cause me to gain weight – about 20 lbs since August – and that is not good for me. Actually, I don't think they directly caused the weight gain; what seems to have happened (again) is that they make me sleepy and hungry, and hungry specifically for carbohydrates, so that it's very hard to exercise and eat like I know I should. So I'm weaning myself off them and forcing myself to do what I need to, even though I really, really don't feel like it.

2. The job is still going great. I don't think it's possible to overstate how much I love it. This, too, I think, is a huge part of why I'm feeling so good these days.

3. Not that everything is perfect. I don't feel like cataloguing everything I don't like, though. It's all just normal stuff, no different than what most people have to deal with in one way or another.

4. We found out last week that Tater has diabetes insipidus. It isn't the same thing as diabetes mellitus ("sugar" diabetes – the kind I have) – it's caused by a deficiency of a different hormone, and isn't life-threatening; it mainly just means his kidneys can't concentrate urine properly so he needs to drink a ton of water, and pee a lot (that's how I realized something was going on; he was just drinking soooo much water). We're starting him on a medication that should help. Other than that, he's still doing great, enjoying his food, toys and walks, and even inviting Bea to wrestle with him every once in awhile, just like a big puppy. He'll be 13 on June 1.

5. Bea is just a wonderful, wonderful little dog. We're doing an agility class together, and she's also evolved into a major ball hound. That's fun for both of us and makes it easy to exercise her – I just throw the ball for her for 20 minutes a couple of times a day and that about does it for her.

6. I think I am officially turning into the nutty middle-aged dog lady. And I'm pretty much OK with that.

7. My latest obsession is finding the perfect underwear to wear under summer dresses. I'm pretty sure I'm going to have to figure out how to make it myself, and I have a plan. It's based on a pair of ladies' old-fashioned silk combination underwear from the 20s that I found at a vintage shop a few years ago, and is basically a full slip with a camisole top and a long-ish split skirt at the bottom, and possibly some kind of drop flap at the crotch (this is the part I'm still working out, how the crotch needs to work in combination with the longer legs. The piece I have is more like tap pants on the bottom, but I wanted something that will work better on a bike). The goal is to create something that is loose, cool and comfortable, with no clinging waist band or straps to fall down, and with two legs so you can ride a bike without worrying about the whole thing flying up over your head.

8. We've been putting up birdhouses all over the property this spring and as of this weekend we have over 90% occupancy.

9. My early morning yoga experiment lasted exactly one day, at which point I pulled a muscle in my back (in an un-yoga-related incident) and was out of commission for almost two weeks. By that time I'd basically given up on the whole idea of my spring practice period, and decided to just do what I can, when I can. I'm still going to my class at the gym and practicing a little bit at home each day. I want to do more and when I can, I will!

10. The early rising thing was not a total loss, however. I'm learning how to go to bed earlier and gradually it's getting easier to wake up earlier without such a struggle. Part of the problem, I've realized recently, is Mr. A's schedule – he's up between 3 and 4 a.m. every week day, and even though I sleep in my own room, with ear plugs, I always seem to wake up at least partially whenever he's up and about. Synchronizing my sleep schedule with his, at least a little, has helped some; instead of going to bed at 11 or 12, I've been trying to be asleep no later than 10 p.m., which gives me a chance to get into and out of one good solid cycle before he wakes me up at 3. It's not a perfect solution but I think it's better than before.

11. I got through the whole winter without knitting a single thing and am now getting involved in summer sweaters, and tiny little pink sandals for newborn babies in Japan. This is not just any baby, but the baby of my first true love from high school, who's lived there for almost a decade now and is having a daughter in just a couple of weeks with his adorable Japanese wife. Apparently nobody does baby showers or shares baby clothes over there, so they are having to outfit the entire enterprise alone ... Except, they're not really alone – I'm crocheting furiously .... Wishing I had had the time and inclination to do more of this kind of thing when my own nieces and nephews were being born, but I guess better late than never.

12. Speaking of family, I've been more homesick for my brothers and sisters and parents over the last several months than at any other time I can remember since I left home at 18. I'm not sure why. I just love them so much, and miss them so much, and wonder sometimes why I'm still living out here so far away ... except that I love my family here – Mr. A and the dogs, and my friends – and I love my job, and the landscape, and the plants and trees and beautiful clean fresh air ..... Anyway, I'll be traveling to Utah at least once or twice this summer, and possibly to a few other places too. Looking very, very forward to that.

P.S. One more thing – I'm on the lookout for an extremely wide-brimmed straw hat, for gardening. The biggest one I have right now is about 18" across and I would love to have one that is at least two feet across, or even wider. Almost like a parasol for the head! Oh wait – maybe this? I'm actually picturing something more a little rougher, more rustic ... Let me know if you see something like that, won't you?

I had a dream / the river

It happened last week. I meant to write it down that day, that very morning, so I wouldn't forget any of it. Then I got busy, and a few days passed ... and now all I can remember is that it featured my ex-husband introducing me to his new family, including several kids he's had with his new wife (this was just in the dream – I have no idea if he's actually had more kids with her), and ended with me feeling happiness and compassion for him, suddenly somehow completely cured of that last lingering smudge of resentment and/or contempt that's been dogging me ever since I left him, whenever I happen to think of him.

It seems to be lasting, too. I still don't want anything to do with him, but I no longer have any real negative feelings left toward him. It's a huge relief. Those feelings take up so much space in your heart, when you let them.

Another wonderful thing that's happened this week is that the creek behind our house is finally flowing again. Last Friday it started to rain, and it rained pretty steadily all day weekend. Saturday night on my way home from an awesome restorative yoga class (a gift from my old roommate S., whom I've been enjoying reconnecting with lately) I stopped to check the creekbed and it was still empty. By ten o'clock the next morning it was as full as I've ever seen it, except when it's flooding. I took both dogs back there and we spent over an hour playing at the edge of the water, in the pouring rain. It was Bea's first time ever to experience that kind of water and she loved it.

I love it too. People have written more eloquently than I ever could about the healing properties of water ... so I'll just say, yeah. It works for me. Watching and listening to that creek flow is one of the most calming, affirming and happifying things I know. Every year I wait for the day the flow begins. And every year there it is again.

I've had two job interviews and calls for two more since the last time I wrote. I'm still a little ambivalent, but less and less so as I get more used to the idea of working full-time again. Late this afternoon I got a voicemail from the manager at the job I think would be best, and when I call him back tomorrow I suspect he's either going to ask me back for a second interview or offer me the job. This is the one where I would be driving ten miles, but you can take dogs to work. I've also had several calls from the manager from the other interview, the low-paying one that is closer to home, who is waiting for budget approval from her boss but seems to want to not let me get away in the meantime ....

So – to summarize – still no official offers yet, but things seem to be starting to move. Take it as it comes, I suppose. Even if I don't get any of these jobs, I'm getting a lot of great feedback from people and that always feels good.

And finally, since I seem to be incapable of writing a post that doesn't focus in some way on my anxiety, I'll close by saying that it seems to be mostly pretty manageable lately. I've sort of recommitted myself to cutting way way back on carbohydrates, especially processed sugar, and have been doing well with my exercise "routine," such as it is – basically, two to three yoga classes a week, plus walking the dogs about two miles a day, plus the occasional running on the treadmill (a great way to burn off extra adrenaline and blood glucose, all at the same time). I've had a few bad mornings in the last week or so, but nothing too disabling. It will be interesting to see how the transition back to work affects my chemistry .... I've decided to assume it's going to be just fine, however it all rolls out. Again: Take it as it comes.

What else? I think I might have run over a cat today. I didn't see anything, but I heard a little thump on the side of the car and when I looked in the rear view mirror I saw something (a cat? a possum?) sort of jumping and leaping in place by the side of the road. I turned around at the end of the next block and went back to see if I could help, but by the time I got there, whatever it was was gone. It's sort of been haunting me all day. I've only ever killed three other animals with a car, that I know of – one rabbit, one squirrel, and one bird – all completely unavoidable. Just another reason I'd love to never have to drive.

Don't know why I'm even mentioning that. It seems kind of gloomy. I guess I just don't want to forget that it happened; the life of that little animal, whatever it was, deserves to be acknowledged.

My favorite place: an update

This is where I've been spending as much time as possible lately. It's a tiny little beach but because you have to hike a bit to get there, and probably for other reasons too, it's never all that crowded. I've been swimming as much as I can, just floating and diving and letting myself be carried by the waves. We saw dolphins doing the same thing a couple of weeks ago ... probably they were hunting too, I suppose ... anyway, it was cool to see them.

I appear to be entering perimenopause. The infamous fuzzy thinking has definitely taken hold, and I'm considering it one of the blessings of this time of my life that I'm not presently encumbered with a job that would make fuzzy thinking a detriment. When it takes over, I'm mostly able to just go with it. Which is not to say that I'm not getting anything useful done, just that I'm doing it at my own pace and timing rather than feeling bound to work by someone else's guidelines. It's actually pretty great. The hot flashes, not so much. I'm fine tuning my diet this month though and am expecting to be able to continue just riding them out when they happen. So far they've been few and far between, and uncomfortable, but not unbearable.

We missed the window of opportunity to live outdoors for a month or two while redoing the entire house, so have been focusing instead on doing other stuff that doesn't require emptying all the furniture out into the yard. The carpets have been shampooed and re-shampooed to within an inch of their lives, and amazingly, they look almost new again – so much so that I'm a little embarrassed at having waited to so long to do them. I really thought they were beyond hope. We now have the whole winter to look at flooring, cabinets, lighting and fixtures and make some well-considered decisions about what will work for the rest of our lives – since I never want to have to do this again – instead of rushing into a quick choice that may or may not end up making us (meaning, me) happy.

I've been looking at pictures of places I used to live in, and remembering things I liked and didn't like. The good news is, I still like a lot of the same stuff I've always liked, like unpainted solid wood doors, wood floors, checkered tile in the kitchen, certain colors and patterns ... If I've already liked it for 45 years, it's a good bet I will continue to like it. So we'll probably end up going with that. With some variations just for fun, of course.

Yoga is going great. I love, love, love my practice and my teacher. I'm riding my bike a lot more again now too, now that Bea is old enough to be left alone for more than just a few hours at a time. That's been really wonderful. Mr. A took me to test ride a few full-suspension mountain bikes and I'm thinking maybe I'll get into some off-road riding this year, in addition to my usual riding-for-transportation. It was amazing to ride off a curb on a bike so springy I hardly felt the bump. Also, I've started running, very tentatively, and swimming at the gym every once in awhile. And walking the dogs two to four miles a day. For all the work I've been doing, strangely, I haven't lost much weight ... I still look about the same as I always have. I feel good though. The depression seems to be fading too, for which I'm very grateful.

Not much is happening on the job front, though I am starting to look more seriously again. I sent several resumes last week, including one where an old friend is at least partly in charge of hiring (so, fingers crossed for at least an interview), and received a rejection notice from a barista position at Whole Foods. Hrmph. I've been working 10-20 hours a week on various web projects, and starting this week will be working one day a week at my friend's froufy home furnishings shop again, the same one I worked at last time I was grievously underemployed. She is sweet and the shop is beautiful, and I'm looking forward to getting out of the house and interacting with actual human beings on a more regular basis again.

As for school, I'm contemplating whether I want to reapply to that program now or not. I still don't have the experience they want, and not really any prospect of obtaining it, so it seems kind of pointless. There are other programs, though. In the meantime I'm looking for a place to start learning Spanish. Seems like a good thing for anyone living and working in California to know, and I've got the time. And I like languages. So there's that.

The dogs are great. They're a huge part of my life right now. Is that pathetic, or wonderful? I choose to think of it as wonderful. Bea is 45 lbs now and won first prize in the games at her graduation from puppy school, for mastering and demonstrating the most tricks and commands. She has several puppy friends that we meet at the dog park every once in awhile, and is turning out to be a complete and utter sweetie pie. She's still breaking in her big girl teeth on everything she can get a hold of, and she loves to dig in her water bowl, but the incessant frantic barking is finished and she's finally starting to enjoy snuggling and snoozing without constantly chewing on our hands and faces.

Yesterday we found out she's now tall enough to reach things on the kitchen counters – for example, the 3/4 lb steak that was cooling on a plate, waiting to be sliced over salads. I thought Mr. A had put it in the fridge, and he though I had, so it took us awhile to realize that the puppy snoring away on her back in the middle of the floor was not just sleepy from playing all morning, but from the aftereffects of a very large protein snack. I still don't know how she did it without pulling the plate off the counter, or leaving some tell-tale greasy mess somewhere ... But I know it wasn't me who ate it, and it wasn't Mr. A, and Tater can't stand up on his hind legs like that anymore, even if he wanted to – which he never has done in his life, anyway. What with him being the world's most perfect dog and all.

It was actually pretty cool to imagine her enjoying that steak though. I wish I could have seen her. Especially because it will (must) never happen again. I'm working with her now to make sure she understands the counter is not a place for dogs to eat, ever, ever, ever. Kind of sad, in a way, but probably best for everyone.

In other news, I just looked into a little mirror I have here on my desk and saw that I seem to be growing some new little nose hairs I never noticed before. Oh dear.

And finally, fall is time to dream of boots ... I haven't decided yet if I'm going to spend any money on boots this winter. It turns out I don't really love the ones I got last year, and have hardly worn them. Possibly I will sell them on eBay ... they're seriously almost brand new. I even still have the box. Anyway, in closing, here are a few that I've been looking at for 2010-11.




What are you wearing on your feet lately?

Day 6

I've been on the meds for six days and so far all that's changed is that I have a constant mild headache and am so sleepy I can hardly keep my eyes open. I thought it was just my usual exhaustion until I went on the message boards this afternoon and found that almost everyone who mentioned side effects said intense drowsiness was the main one they'd experienced. Most people said it only lasts a week or two and then it lifts and they start noticing the therapeutic effect.

If I'm having side effects I guess that means the meds are starting to do something. Aside from being tired and having no interest in anything but sleeping, I'm feeling OK – about the same as usual. This time around the depression seems to be taking a more physical form than it has in the past; before, the emotional symptoms have always been the most upsetting for me. Anxiety sucks. Exhaustion sucks. Any way you look at it, this illness is no fun.

Whatever. I'm ready to start feeling better, and am glad I'm finally back on the drugs. I'm hopeful they will help.

Maybe because I've not been well, I've been missing my family a lot more than usual lately too. I haven't really told anyone about this latest round of blah blah blah; what is there to say, except that it's happening, and I'm doing my best to deal with it? I do need to keep in closer touch though. And to start planning my next visit. I'm way overdue for another shot of family time.

Other than the health stuff, things are going well. We just found out that because of the continuing state budget crisis Mr. A is back to a four-day work week, which we're both very happy about. I'm hoping they'll find a way to let people opt into keeping that schedule – it could be a great, creative way to save the state some cash and I'm sure we're not the only people who would rather have a little extra time than a little extra money.

Same as I reported last week, the house and yard are still good, yoga's good, the dogs – also good. This is what my life revolves around at present. Bea is recovered from her surgery and her belly fur is growing back. She's also teething now and will be for the next several months. Her two middle teeth on the top and bottom have grown in and they're at least three times the size of the baby teeth next to them, which gives her a funny little buck-toothed smile. I've given her a bunch of teething toys of all different textures, shapes and flavors, and so far they've been working – she hasn't chewed up anything important except the heel strap of one of my sandals, which luckily the manufacturer is going to replace for a mere eight bucks. I still don't leave her alone with full run of the place, but she's essentially house trained. Puppy school starts this weekend. She's great on walks. And we're gradually evolving some very satisfying rituals together – the after-dinner walk with the Taterman, the bedtime snack, the morning snugglefest. She's a sweet little girl and it's been a real blessing to have this time to be with her while she's still a puppy.

She does this cute thing when I'm working at the computer where she runs in through the dog door and then jumps up with her paws on the edge of my chair to announce herself – smiling up at me like she's saying, "Hey, it's me! Bea!" Her happy, enthusiastic energy is a nice counterbalance to my lethargy; between the two of us I'd say we're just about normal.

I decided not to see the ex-husband. He doesn't know how to contact me directly right now – he sent me the message through his friend's Facebook account – and I didn't want to give up my contact info to call or email him, even to say I didn't want to see him. I messaged back his friend and gave my PO box address. In my perfect world I would be infinitely flexible and forgiving, loving and gracious and grateful ... But I'm not there yet and right now I need to focus on things that make me feel well. And the thought of seeing him does not do that.

I keep having these dreams about packing up to move into a new house. There are a few different versions; they all have in common the theme of reviewing past possessions and choosing which ones to keep and which to discard, and a feeling of cautious optimism and acceptance. A feeling that I'm moving in a good direction, that everything is going to be OK.

Bumps in the road

I swear I never set out to make this my online catalog of complaints ... But. I do need to record that I'm sort of taking a nosedive right now. So much so that my therapist is insisting I get back on meds, at least for awhile. Which I am going to do starting this week.

Depression sucks. I still have such a hard time accepting it as an illness that is not my fault; symptoms like hopelessness, feelings of worthlessness and guilt, anxiety, complete and total physical and mental exhaustion all feel like things I should be able to "get over" with positive thinking, exercise and a healthy diet. The fact that I can't only makes me feel like more of a loser.

So I hope the medication helps.

Other than this one big black spot on my heart, things are going OK. The house and garden are looking good, the dogs are awesome, I'm exercising every day and getting out with friends and eating mostly pretty well. Bea went in for her spay surgery this morning, which I've been having very mixed feelings about. Not that I want her to have puppies, because I definitely don't. It's just that she's my little girl, and this is major surgery, and I've never had a girl dog before and I really hate the thought of anyone cutting into her poor sweet little puppy belly for any reason. I dropped her off this morning and cried all the way home.

I also stopped by my old house, which happens to be just across the street and down a bit from my vet's office. The property has been on the market for at least seven or eight years and it finally sold, so right now it's sitting empty and as luck would have it the doors were open so I let myself in and spent a half hour or so walking through and remembering how much I loved the place when I lived there. I was lonely there a lot of the time, but it was such a sweet little house, all French doors and windows and a little stone fireplace, with flowers and vines and roses everywhere and beautiful trees all around. It's been sadly neglected, and painted some pretty god-awful colors, but the plum tree I planted ten years ago is doing great and so is the lemon verbena, and the fencing I built when Tater was born is holding up well too. I don't know who bought it but I'm guessing the whole place will probably be bulldozed before too long, since nobody who could afford to buy it would ever consent to live in it, and it's too far gone now to offer as a rental. So that was kind of sad too, though I'm glad I got a chance to see it one last time, empty, instead of full of ugly crap "antiques" for sale like the last time I stopped by. It will always stay in my memory as one of my favorite houses I've ever had.

It feels weird to be here with just Tater and me. Bea is staying at the vet clinic overnight. It's a foggy, cold morning; the fog never did really burn off yesterday and maybe it won't today either. I really should get out and go for a long walk, try to metabolize some of these stress chemicals ... or maybe I'll just go back to bed for awhile and walk later.

The dog stays

So. A cryptic series of emails between Mr. A and me yesterday caused me to believe he didn't actually want a puppy at all ... which caused me to freak out and decide she had to go back, for the sake of my sanity ... which caused him to freak out and say he couldn't believe I was getting rid of the dog ... blah blah blah. It was probably the worst fight we've ever had, and in the end it turned out it was all over a misunderstanding. We both want the dog.

It's really the only way this could ever work for me. I would never, ever, ever in a million billion years get a dog if I wasn't 100% sure he wanted one too. I just don't need that kind of stress in my life. These tv shows where the husband keeps showing up with a new 200 lb. mastiff every year or so, to the dismay of his wife and little daughter ... Or baby-hungry women who get pregnant on purpose even though they know the man doesn't want a baby -- I just don't get that at all. I'm nowhere near secure/stupid enough to take on that kind of responsibility with an ambivalent or hostile partner. It would be easier and feel safer just to do it alone.

ANYway. Today I'm feeling a lot more of the joy and excitement I've been wanting to feel about having Bea in the family. She's more like a dog than Tater, who's actually kind of more like a person -- have you ever known a dog like that? You can see it in the way he looks at you, like a person trying to understand someone speaking a foreign language. He's intensely sensitive and motivated to connect with humans. Bea seems to be more independent and she's definitely more into other dogs than Tater is -- she wants to follow him around everywhere and do whatever he does, whereas Tater mostly only wanted to sit in my lap and interact with people. In two weeks she'll be able to go to puppy socialization class, and later in the summer she can start puppy school. I think she's going to enjoy both of those activities a lot more than Tater ever did.

The house training is going OK. She's still a little too young to have a lot of control so I'm taking her out to run around in the yard every couple of hours -- necessary for her, good for me, not so good for my statistics class. I don't think I mentioned I found out I actually have a bit more time to finish than I had thought, but I still need to wrap it up in the next few weeks. It's definitely do-able. But it's been hard to concentrate. I'm hoping to get a lot more done this weekend after it stops pouring rain, and we get a puppy run built that I can put her in while I'm working. There really isn't any place yet in the house or yard where she can wander around safely on her own, so right now she has to be either in her crate or under my direct supervision. Burning off energy by running and playing with me (since Tater isn't really interested) -- this is what allows her to be relaxed in her crate, so I really can't skimp on that part.

I'm also seriously considering puppy daycare, at least occasionally for awhile. Or maybe we'll make some new friends in class and can meet them to play sometimes. She already likes other dogs, and I want her to grow up feeling comfortable with them so we can go do dog things together without worrying about whether there will actually be other dogs there.

I can't wait to take her swimming! The creek, the river, the beach -- she seems to love water and it's such great exercise for a big dog. We'll get her a puppy pool for the summer and see how that goes.

One thing I've noticed is that she doesn't seem as snuggly and cuddly as Tater. I have mixed feelings about that. I do love to snuggle with dogs. But I don't expect Tater would be very happy about sharing the attention. Right now it isn't much of an issue, because if we're inside she's mostly in her crate. But eventually she'll be housetrained, and big enough to jump onto the couch and the bed. Glad there's plenty of time to figure out how we're going to deal with that when it comes up.

Did I mention how soft her fur is? You can't even believe how soft.

My brain is so full I could go on and on ... but I'm too tired, and I have too much to do. Just wanted to report that my ambivalence has resolved itself. Everything is A-OK.

Her pupness

My alternate title for this post was going to be "More than I can chew?" I'll get to that shortly.

So, we got the puppy. We named her Beatrice (Bea). What can I say? She's very cute, but that wasn't why we chose her; in a nutshell, I've been feeling like I need to start getting another dog trained, and I don't want to wait too long to do it. Tater isn't going to be thrilled about any new dog we introduce into the house but every expert and dog person I've talked to has said he's likely to have the fewest issues with a young female pup.

The part I was downplaying to myself until we got her home was the part where a young pup creates more issues for us. For me, specifically. It's not that there's anything wrong with her -- I think she has the potential to be a really nice dog. She's sweet and confident but not pushy, medium energy, smart, not skittish or fearful at all. Tater was pretty shy as a puppy, which at the time sort of endeared him to me, but his anxieties have been hard to deal with at times; for the next dog we wanted one who can actually go do things with us away from the house sometimes. But despite the difficulties, one thing I will say about Tater is that he was extremely easy as a puppy. Maybe too easy. To the point of seeming pretty much effortless. I have a feeling this one is going to be more of a challenge, and now that we've had her home for a couple of days I'm wondering if we're really up for it.

I feel terrible for not being all joyous and excited about our new girl! Part of me is, of course. She's a new puppy, for godsake! It doesn't get much more joyous than that. I keep waking up every morning all super-adrenalized, though. Not in a good way. I'm so nervous I've hardly eaten since Sunday. The dog forums call this "puppy blues" -- similar to the baby blues or post-partum depression women get when they start settling into the idea that this baby is really here to stay. The feeling of "OMG, what the hell have I done?!" The worry that I'll somehow ruin this sweet trusting little blank slate of a dog, and end up with a jumping, digging, barking brat of an animal that nobody can stand to be around. The sleep deprivation and exhaustion from taking her out to pee every 3 hours around the clock (although it seems to be working -- no accidents in the house so far). The constant scanning of the environment for potential hazards, even though at this stage of life she's still in her crate most of the time.

The greatest of those potential hazards is Tater. So far he mostly just pretends to ignore her, though he sniffs her sometimes and lets her follow him and run circles around him in the yard. He's gruffed at her several times when she got out of hand, which is to be expected. He seems much more wary of her in the house than outside, and also much more likely to act jealous inside, especially when toys are involved. Basically, I have to keep them separate in the house, which I knew I would have to do ... I just didn't think about it until now, that we've never really restricted his access to any part of the house before. I need to find a way to make it a positive experience for him. For example, if I have to put him in the bedroom for awhile with the door closed so I can exercise Bea without him jumping in to take her toys away and make me play with him instead of her. Maybe give him an extra-special treat only when he goes in there? I don't know! I've never raised a puppy in a house with a jealous older dog before.

A lot of this will resolve itself after she's had her second set of immunizations in two weeks, because then I'll be able to exercise her by running her on the road and vineyard paths. Getting her good and tired three or four times a day is going to be a huge help. Even as small as she is, it's hard to run her hard enough to really tire her out when we're not supposed to leave the yard.

I'm also worried about Mr. A. He has a huge fear of dog fights, and gets very tense -- beyond tense -- whenever he sees any sign of tension between dogs. They can tell when he's upset, which makes them upset, which makes him even more upset ... We'll need to figure out how to get a handle on that. He was totally on board the day we got her, at least. After we found her online on Saturday he went out for his usual game night and came back with a new puppy bed. It's possible he really does want her too, and is going through his own adjustment to the idea. God knows he's had some pretty major life changes to get used to over the last few months ... So maybe this isn't the best time to add one more thing. Or, maybe it's the best time to do it. I don't know! I'm just really trying to live by my hopes instead of by my fears -- to say "yes" to life!

However. At this exact moment I'm feeling about half and half on this thing. If he came home and said he'd changed his mind, I'd be OK with sending her back. There, I said it. Maybe it makes me a terrible person but I'm more sick-to-my-stomach anxious over this than I've been in many, many months, and if he's not going to be into it, then now is not the time. I can't deal with anxiety issues, dog issues and Mr. A issues all at the same time. On the other hand, if he really wants to do this, I think it could be great.

As usual when I'm nervous my thoughts are all zooming around worst case scenarios, even though I know it only makes me feel worse to think that way. It's also possible for good things to happen, right? Getting a new puppy is supposed to be fun! Still, it's OK to acknowledge mixed feelings about it too, isn't it? Yes, puppies are fun, but they're also little babies that need to be taken care of and trained and watched out for constantly, and that's a huge commitment, and it isn't something you should do only halfway. I seriously don't know how I ever would have handled having an actual human baby. That's something I'm grateful I had the sense to forego; I'm just not cut out for it.

Every time I hear that piercing little bark my stomach just about twists itself into a knot.

Then when she quiets down I start believing again that it's all going to be OK.

I would love to learn how to relax more about stuff like this, and enjoy life more and worry about things less. This is something I think you learn by doing, and I am trying, but it doesn't seem to be happening very fast. Since the beginning of this year I've been making more of an effort than I ever have before to stretch my boundaries, try new things, be more of a "go for it" type of person. I've seen the kind of life I end up with by being cautious and passive, and I want more than I've been getting. I guess it shouldn't surprise me that I'm feeling totally out of my depth a lot of the time -- because I am out of my depth.

Maybe a better title for this post would have been "Sink or Swim." Or "Leap of Faith." Or "Courage of My Convictions." Or "Nothing Ventured, Nothing Gained." Or "Scared Shitless, and Still Shitting."

I'm watching this little gopher walking back and forth over a pile of rocks out in the yard right now and wondering how it feels about its life. I read somewhere that rodents are naturally anxious all the time -- it's how they stay alive, by intense and constant hyper-vigilance. I can relate to that. It would be nice, in a way, to have no other worry in life but simply staying alive. Eating, sleeping, reproducing -- I'm sure they don't worry about whether they're screwing up their kids with substandard parenting techniques, or bemoan their unfulfilled potential, or wonder how they're going to take care of themselves when they're a hundred years old and no longer able to work.

OK, enough of this. It's a beautiful wet green day, super rare for this time of year, and I think I've succeeded in downloading enough of my stress to be able to get to work. So that's what I'm going to do. And then I'm going to take my dogs out in the yard to play.

Bad news / good news

The bad news is I just got an overpayment notice from the unemployment people. Apparently I forgot to report some income I had back in February – despite my sincerest efforts at accurate record-keeping and reporting – and now I have to write them a check for the amount they paid me, that I wasn't entitled to. Plus, they "may" add a 30% penalty. Not to mention they "may also assess a penalty denying future benefits that I might claim for up to 23 weeks." Which would really suck.

I know it doesn't do any good, but man, I'm so mad at myself about this right now. I don't know how I could have overlooked it, but looking at the check stubs, it appears I did. The worst part is knowing that it doesn't matter that it was an honest mistake – when I call them on Monday to ask them to please not add those penalties, I fully expect them to think I'm a liar and a cheater trying to rip off the system, and to treat me as one. It's so maddening. I didn't do it on purpose! Also, anyone who knows me would know that the anxiety I feel at the very thought of possibly getting caught in a lie is more than enough to keep me in line.

So I'm just going to have to try and let this go, accept whatever they decide, and write the damn check. But for the record, I do want to state: I am not a liar!

On to the good news. We may have found a puppy. There's a litter of golden retriever / black lab mix pups at a rescue up north of Sacramento that we're going to look at tomorrow. I'm nervous and excited. I just found out about them this afternoon, and am feeling a little overwhelmed at the idea of having an 8-week-old baby dog to look after on only 24 hours' notice. With Tater it was so natural and easy; I knew his parents, and visited several times a week starting as soon as the pups were born. My friends and I spent that entire summer in puppy mode, so by the time he was old enough to come home with me I was totally in sync with the energy and routine of taking care of a very young dog.

I knew even at the time that it was about as perfect an experience as anyone could hope to have, and I appreciated every minute of it. It would be so great if I could do it that way again this time. There's something kind of weird about walking into a room, spending a few minutes with a dog, and then having to make an on-the-spot decision about whether you're going to invite that dog to be an intimate partner in your life for the next twelve to fifteen years.

Normally I would expect someone from the rescue to be intimately involved with each of the dogs, so you could get a more informed impression of each dog's temperament, energy level and personality. The lady I talked to on the phone today sounded like kind of a dingaling, though. She just kept saying how "sweet" the puppies were – which I didn't find very useful, since pretty much all puppies are sweet. I guess there's really nothing to do but drive up there and see for ourselves.

(Out the window: A small gopher standing at the edge of a garden path, chewing something.)

What I would like to Not do is spend every weekend for the rest of the summer driving all over the state to look at puppies that either aren't there anymore by the time we get there, or that turn out to be not the dog we want. Or, adopting a dog and then finding out that she's totally insane, untrainable, or otherwise incompatible with our family. Or, waiting too long, and ending up with a broken heart and an empty house utterly devoid of dogs.

I think I mentioned recently that Tater will be 12 years old on June 1. When he first came home with me I remember thinking, "This dog will be with me until I'm almost 50." I still really hope that happens, and it could. His health is good and he's happy, energetic for his age, and always up for a walk. Still. There's that saying about eggs and baskets. Going from two dogs to one was hard. Going from one to zero would be unbearable.

It's impossible for me to imagine loving any other dog as much as I love the Taterman. Is this how parents feel when they contemplate having more than one child? Maybe I'll be surprised to find I'm capable of more love than I realized. I hope so. Actually, I suppose I do already believe that's what will happen – it's kind of the whole reason we're getting another dog. Our family feels smaller these days, because it is smaller – by two members in the last year, with more to come – and we need to renew ourselves.

With all the hospice work and other death-related stuff I've been doing, this has really come home to me in the last few months – the need to renew. The older I get, the more I seem to see what it looks like at the end of things. Sickness, old age, death – they're all inevitable. If you don't make a point of mixing it up a bit with people who are still just starting out (babies and kids, in other words), it's easy to start feeling kind of fatalistic about things, like why even try when it's obvious it all ends the same way for everyone?!

The trouble is, I don't know many kids around here. I have 18 wonderful nieces and nephews but I only see them a few times a year. The kids I know here, I can count on one hand. One finger, if you want to know the truth. In this whole entire town I have exactly one friend who is a child.

Bizarre, eh?

So – a perfect time to start re-balancing my life in the direction of youth, growth, and puppies. And maybe start thinking about signing up with the mentoring program; it might be nice to know a few more kids, too.

A few thoughts about my dog

In my flusteration in the last post I guess I forgot to mention another cool thing about this class: it feels SO good when a certain concept or formula actually sinks in, and I realize that hey – wow! – I actually do KNOW this stuff! I didn't know it before, and now I do. I learned it!

It's been a long time since I've challenged myself with something this difficult, that does not come naturally to me or flatter the image I have of myself as someone who is capable of learning challenging material provided it is sufficiently interesting or self-referential ..... Not that I expect ever to become a statistician, even if the statistics are specifically applied to the behavioral sciences ... It's just cool to see myself taking on something hard, and succeeding.

Also: I've been meaning to write something about my dog lately, and keep putting it off. Here's the thing. He's getting old. Not just senior dog old, but really, truly old. The kind of old that makes him sleep on the couch all day, and not be able to take a long walk every day but more like every other day, with shorter walks in between. The kind of old that grows white fur along his snoot and up around his eyes, that causes him to hesitate before jumping up into the car, or down off the bed, and to grunt and groan with pleasure when being scratched or given his dinner. The kind of old that makes me realize how precious every single day with him really is.

I thought about it again today when we were walking to the end of the road and back. Our turnaround point is at the place where the road dead ends on the creek, and since it's still running I always hike up the little embankment, through the nettles and weeds, and stand on the overlook, watching the water moving over the rocks and listening to the sound of it flowing and burbling on ... Truly, this sound is the saving grace of my days and nights during this time of my life when I feel like I don't know what I'm doing at all, or what I'm going to do, or what is going to happen, or where I'm going to be ... Listening to that water running along its happy little course does more to calm my mind than any other kind of exercise or therapy I've ever tried. So I do it every day, and every single day my dog goes with me, and waits for me as long as I want to stand there listening. He never says a word, or looks to see if I'm done yet – he's just there, intensely tuned in to Me, accepting of whatever it is I want or need to do.

I love to watch his feet on the grass by the side of the road as we walk back home. I love to watch his ears bounce up and down, and his tail moving from side to side. I love the interested look on his face when he looks me in the eye – not with any agenda that I can see, but just to see what's next. He's the most open, connected and present being I think I've ever known.

It's really profound for me, a person who uses words for everything whether they're appropriate or not, to be able to spend so much time – almost all my time lately, really – with someone who doesn't use words at all, yet manages to communicate so clearly about so many things that really matter. With Mr. A being gone these couple of weeks it's become especially clear how beautiful and calming it is to connect emotionally with someone who knows how to make me feel safe and loved in the world, to feel like I belong, all without telling me anything. Human beings being what we are, I don't know if that would be possible with another person – unless it was a baby; I suppose what I'm trying to describe is kind of the same as what parents talk about when they try to express how they feel when they're connecting with their babies.

The difference is that a dog is not a baby, or a human being, either. With another human I can see how it would feel familiar, in a way, and sort of magical to be able to connect without language ... but knowing that eventually language would come, and be part of the relationship – that would have to change things, I think. With a dog, you know absolutely that it's never going to happen. A dog will never learn to talk the way people do, and that seems like kind of a good thing. Liberating.

I've read essays by dog enthusiasts imagining what their dogs would say if they could speak. Somehow, that just doesn't interest me. What interests me is the mystery of it....

Hrm, losing my train of thought. I just really, really love this dog, so much. The older he gets, the more grateful I feel for the opportunity to know how it feels to love someone that way. Here's a great line from Mary Oliver:

To live in this world, you must be able to do three things: to love what is mortal; to hold it against your bones knowing your own life depends on it; and, when the time comes to let it go, to let it go.

I'll always be grateful to my beautiful dog for helping me learn how to really truly live in this world.

Happy birthday, Taterman!

Today is Tater's birthday. He's eleven years old. Celebrations include games with Kongs, cheeseburgers and a box of original flavor Frosty Paws.

We've been sort of sporadically looking at puppies, though still have no official plans to step up the search. A shelter not too far from here has this little beauty available – a baby pit bull with very human-looking eyes. I swear I did not Photoshop her picture. Isn't she great? The tiny little claws and everything?

In other news, in the last week I finished two huge projects – the summer issue of my huge quarterly work project, and a new website and blog for one of my freelance clients. As if that weren't enough excitement, I am also on the verge of beginning to shop for a replacement for my 30-year-old folding hair dryer. Not that there's anything really wrong with it – it still works just as well as it did the day my mom said I could snag it from my brothers' downstairs bathroom, to take with me to college. That was in the fall of 1983, and it was already several years old then. But the other day we were in one of those bedroom, linen & shower curtain stores and I somehow managed to become mesmerized by all the different kinds of new hair dryers they had ... cool colors, mysterious and scientific-sounding new "hair drying technology" and a guarantee that they no longer need to fry the hair in order to dry the hair .... which in a roundabout way is probably the reason my 30-year-old dryer has lasted so long – because it gets so hot I've rarely used it. It's also very noisy and has a tendency to suck my hair into the motor, which causes the hair to snarl and burn. And sometimes, when I look inside, the coil is glowing red.

So yeah. Lots going on at chez tinarama. Stay tuned.

Pending

We're probably putting the Jeeps down tomorrow.

He's been having trouble with his hips for a year or more, and all winter it's been getting harder and harder for him to get back up when he falls. Now, in the last month or so, it's gotten suddenly worse. And today for the first time he can no longer stand or walk at all, not even if we help him.

Tonight we were holding him up to eat a little dinner and noticed a horridly infected gash in his leg. All I can think is that he must've cut himself on one of his falls in the yard. I cleaned the wound as best I could, and held warm compresses on it for a half hour, which seemed to feel good to him. Then we laid him down on some towels in front of the fireplace.

He's sleeping now. Not like his usual sleep – he's clearly out of it.

Maybe the wound is the reason he can't stand or walk. It's definitely possible. What if we treat his leg, and he gets better, and gets to have one more summer? Would that be a good thing?

I don't know. Summers here are so brutally hot. He's almost eighteen years old. An astounding age for any dog. Even if by some miracle he does come home from the vet tomorrow, we've always said we wouldn't let him suffer. Until now, I don't think he has been. Today he clearly is.

We'll see what the vet has to say.

Food fight followup

Just wanted to report that the injury to the Jeeps's nose is not nearly as bad as the blood caused me to believe. It's sort of like biting your tongue, I think – even a small cut just bleeds and bleeds and bleeds. But Mr. A didn't even notice the wound, and in fact by this morning I could hardly see it myself.

I did still tell him about what happened, though, and we decided that feeding them in totally separate rooms is probably not really necessary as long as we stand firm in watching them the whole time they're eating, and pick up the bowls as soon as they're finished.

I called it a food fight, but I think "fight" is the wrong word. To me, "fighting" implies that they're both engaged in an ongoing, violent struggle, and both trying to win, and that isn't what happens. None of these incidents has ever lasted more than one or two seconds, and this was only maybe the fourth or fifth one in five years. Basically, all that happens is that the Jeeps tries to steal or in some other way shows what Tater believes to be inordinate interest in some food item that Tater considers his, and Tater makes a show of flashing teeth to chase the Jeeps away, and the Jeeps backs down. It's not fighting, and it isn't even really what I would call an "attack." It's just one dog defending his food from another. All dogs do that. Jeepies, too – although Tater has never been so presumptuous as to approach the Jeeps when he's eating.

If it sounds like I'm trying to minimize what happened ... well, I don't know if I'd say that. I'm just trying to see it for what it was. The blood scared me, but I don't think it means we have a vicious dog on our hands. Clearly not. We just need to do a better job of controlling their access to food.

Food fight

Something happened tonight that's never happened before – the dogs got into a fight over food, and blood was shed.

I'm not sure exactly how it started, even though I was standing right there when it happened, but from what I saw it looked like both dogs had wandered away from their bowls and Jeepers was trying to check out the remains of Tater's meal, and when Tater saw that he decided he wasn't done eating after all.

I was standing at the counter eating my own dinner when I heard them scream, and when I turned around they were both on the floor and Tater was trying to get the Jeeps in a headlock. I took a step toward them and said (did not yell), "Tater!" and he backed off right away, so it wasn't an all-out ferocious attack or even what I would call a serious fight ... But then I saw the blood and realized that he had chomped a little fang-sized notch out of the middle of the Jeeps's nose.

Mr. A is not going to be happy about this when he gets home. He gets very upset when there's any tension at all between the dogs. Usually I can kind of take it in stride as just the way dogs work thing out, but this one has kind of upset me too. The Jeeps is so old and frail – he really can't afford to be getting wailed on by a bigger, stronger dog. And what was he doing on that side of the kitchen anyway? His own bowl was still full of food! Did he think there might be something better in Tater's bowl?

And I know it's just in a dog's nature to protect their food, and that it's my responsibility (not theirs) to make sure this kind of thing does not happen – but I still wish Tater could just chill the hell out about stuff like that. It wasn't like he wasn't going to get to eat! There's always plenty of food for everyone. And he wasn't even interested in his food tonight in the first place! He'd walked away from his bowl – that was why the Jeeps thought it was okay to take a sniff.

So I guess the time has come to start feeding them totally separately – not just on opposite ends of the kitchen, as we've been doing for as long as we've all lived together, but physically separated into different rooms where they can't see each other. No more wandering over to see what the other dog might have left behind when dinner's done ... they'll each have a given amount of time to eat, after which the bowls will be picked up and put away until the next meal. Not left empty on the floor anymore to drop an occasional treat into – too bad for them, but it just doesn't seem worth the risk.

It seems like kind of a hassle to have to make such a production out of it every time they eat but I've been reading about food aggression online all night and now I'm thinking maybe we're lucky nothing like this has happened before. All the major dog people recommend dogs should never be put in the position of even thinking they might have to defend their food against another dog – you're supposed to feed them separately just as a matter of course, even if they've never fought over food before.

Anyway. The Jeeps's nose bled a lot, as those kinds of wounds always do, but it isn't a deep cut and I hope if I keep it clean it will heal quickly. I keep looking at it to see how bad it really is ... it might be possible that Mr. A would not notice the injury, and I would never have to tell him what happened.

I really wish I didn't have to tell him. Mostly because I feel like the whole thing was pretty much my fault. It would never have happened if I'd been paying attention to them as I should have been doing. But my shame as a negligent dog guardian has to take a back seat to his need to know, because we're both going to have to be even more structured and vigilant about their food from now on.

I'm also starting to think maybe we shouldn't get another dog when the Jeeps finally goes. Some dogs, they say, are better suited to be the only dog in the house; maybe Tater is one of those dogs. I hate to think of him all alone all day while we're both at work, but I also hate to think of more blood on the floor, or coming home to a dead puppy. That happened with some friends of mine about 12 years ago and it was way beyond awful. I don't want any of us to have to deal with that kind of stress and horror.

A couple of hours have passed since "the incident" and neither of the dogs seems fazed at all. Amazing.

Million dollar dog

Foxtail season is here, and it arrived this year with a bang – the sound of my jaw hitting the floor at the vet's office when I went to pick up my darling yesterday and learned that the total would be a whopping eight hundred dollars. True, I did also get just about everything else done that has been needing to get done for the last year or so (in addition to removing the foxtail from his sinuses we had his teeth cleaned and a little dental surgery performed, plus feet, butt, heartworm testing and meds, not to mention three different kinds of anesthesia, post-operative pain relief and not one but two kinds of antibiotic treatments) – so all in all I guess it shouldn't have been such a surprise.

Still. Eight hundred bucks. That hurt.

He's worth it, though. I know I must've said this before but I'll say it again: My feelings for this dog are the most clear and uncomplicated feelings I've never had about anyone in my life, and I've never had a millisecond of regret or a single second thought about him. That kind of clarity is so rare for me; usually I see so many different angles on every relationship.

We went for a long walk tonight and it was glorious. It got suddenly so hot this week, so unimaginably and unbearably hot (after just last week having to wear my winter long johns again and put an extra blanket on the bed), that I haven't done much of any kind of exercise for five days. Tonight as the sun went down though the air finally started to cool a bit and since the moon was out and the mosquitos were not, we walked up and down the road until it got too dark to see (no street lights out here).

What else? I'm still busier than I like to be at work, but I don't expect that will last much more than a few more weeks. We went to the community garden this morning and picked up three new varieties of tomato plants to try – Mortgage Lifter, Anna's Noir and Black Prince – plus a jalapeño, some red onion starts, a yarrow and a few more strawberry plants. I also went by my old garden plot and took some starts from a favorite old salvia of mine that is still growing there. I don't know what it's called but it gets about 6 feet tall and has the most beautiful sky-blue flowers – kind of unusual, and reasonably drought-tolerant, which is a must for any ornamental plant we grow on the property, since water's so scarce and expensive these days.

On week three of the leg-waxing experiment I finally broke down and waxed them again, on my own at home this time. The little hairs that were too short to get caught in the wax the first time were finally long enough to both drive me insane AND get caught in today's application of wax, which I applied rather messily while standing on a mat of old newspapers with my leg up under the spotlight above the kitchen sink. The results ... I can't tell yet, but I think they should be about as good as the salon. It is a very hot and sticky proposition to wax your own legs though, so if I do continue to go this route I might end up going back to the nice lady who did them last time.

I also forgot to mention that during week two, there was a period of several days during which my legs were itching so badly I thought I might scratch myself to death in my sleep before those little ingrown hairs finished growing out. If it happens again I might have to give up on waxing altogether. I am a little bit hair-obsessed, but I also have a very low tolerance for itching of any kind, especially when the whole point is supposed to be increased comfort and ease.

And finally: Yesterday I was walking up and down the aisles of the grocery store looking for the cottage cheese (the doctor-recommended meal for dogs coming out from under anesthesia, which makes them groggy and nauseous) when suddenly I heard a familiar song on the PA ... The Hustle! I don't know why but that song makes me so happy, and it was all I could do to stop myself from breaking out into a little dance right there in bulk foods. I kept walking, and when I turned a corner I saw two people dancing – and then in the next aisle, another person was getting down to the music! And then a little girl! And then – me! It was a great little community moment right there in the dairy aisle.

Not that cute

Not when they're crawling in your walls. I sat down just now to book a flight for a press check in couple of weeks and heard – hear, am hearing at this moment – the sound of tiny paws scratching inside the wall right next to me. Damn.

Just yesterday we were talking with a neighbor about the various issues that come up when you live out here with all the creatures – skunks, coyotes, raccoons, rats – and she remarked that it's been awhile since everyone had all those rats a few years ago. We all agreed it had been a huge relief when that infestation finally ended. And now this.

Well, maybe it's not another infestation. Maybe it's just a sign of spring – new baby animals and all. Everything is blooming like crazy right now, or getting ready to. Our peach tree is covered in the most beautiful bright pink flowers, and one of the roads I ride to work on is lined with plum and almond trees that have been showering me with sweet pink and white petals every morning.

Even after living here for almost 14 years, I still haven't gotten used to it arriving so early in the year. Just when fall seems to be turning into winter, it's like the world skips ahead several months and I find myself suddenly in springtime again. I know that's how it works here, but it still feels like a surprise every time.

We've been getting a lot done in the yard lately, laying the groundwork for some bigger projects that will be completed gradually over the next few years. I just finished a big project at work so my schedule there should be back to the new normal again starting tomorrow – basically, a four-day work week now instead of five, which is turning out to be exactly perfect for the way I like to work.

The dogs are good, or as good as can be expected, which I guess maybe is not as good as I would like. Actually, Tater is fine; it's the Jeeps who's not doing so well. Today he fell down at least 20 times – it seemed like every time I turned around he was on the ground again – and could not get back up without help, not even one time. He's been falling for awhile, but today it felt different. Usually he either manages to haul himself up somehow on his own, or patiently lies there until one of us helps him. Today for the first time I got the distinct feeling that he was really hurting, and that he's ... well, it felt like he's getting tired of living like this. He just seems worn out.

Mr. A and I are both traveling for work in the next few weeks and I don't know what we're going to do with him on the one day when we're both away at the same time. Usually we just have the sitter in twice a day, but I don't feel safe leaving him alone for that much time in his present condition. It's possible we may be able to get someone to actually come stay at the house that night.

His appetite is still good and he still wants to go with us on walks, though I'm starting to think that might not be such a good idea anymore. Even a walk to the mailbox and back seems to exhaust him. On the other hand, I don't want him to feel rejected or excluded from the activities he enjoys the most, if he still wants to do them. I guess if he ever stops trying to come with us, we'll know he's done having fun. Until then I'll just plan on continuing to accommodate him as well as I can for as long as he's here.

He's never been the most affectionate or companionable dog – that's more Tater's role – but the more attention he needs just to get through the day, the more I get used to thinking of him, trying to anticipate what he might need, looking for him whenever I enter or leave a room, wondering whether he's warm enough, hoping he doesn't fall when we're not there to help him get back up again .... It's sure going to feel strange when he finally isn't here anymore.

Taming the Jeeps

Julie commented that in yesterday’s picture of Tater, he looks almost human. And I just wanted to confirm: he really does! It’s something I’ve always loved about him – this way he has of looking at me when I’m talking to him, as if he actually understands, or is trying to understand, what I’m saying. And actually, he does understand a lot, at least about things that concern him. He often surprises me by doing something that shows he’s been listening, even when I wasn’t even talking to him – for example, I’ll tell Mr. A I’m ready to go somewhere, and suddenly there’s Tater standing at the door, even though I haven’t gotten up from the couch or started putting on my shoes or anything.

The Jeeps is totally different, and not just because he can’t hear anymore. He’s never taken any interest at all in what I say to him – all he wants is Milkbones. When I talk to Tater, he makes eye contact, and there’s an intelligent, alert expression in his eyes. He has a million different facial expressions and even little sounds he makes sometimes, that make it seem like he’s trying to communicate the same way I do, even though I have no idea what he’s trying to “say.” Jeepers mostly just stares with the same dull, determined expression, no matter what I’m saying. He doesn’t care what i’m trying to tell him. He only wants to know: “Can I eat it?”

I don’t think this is because Tater is smart and Jeepers is not. I think it’s because I met Tater when he was only a few hours old, and have been holding, petting, and talking to him almost every single day of his life ever since, whereas the Jeeps spent the first ten or so years of his life with Mr. A’s uncle, a curmudgeonly gentleman of the old skool who loved him in his own way but (reportedly) rarely even talked to him and certainly never threw him a birthday party, took him to restaurants, taught him how to find the stairs in a swimming pool, or let him sleep on the bed with his head on his own down pillow. The Jeeps was never socialized the way Tater was.

Although this seems to be changing somewhat, a result of my civilizing influence in the household, I think. For three and a half years I’ve continued to talk to the Jeeps whether he responds or not, and have even succeeded (very slowly) in turning him on to the pleasures of heavy petting and super-snuggling. One of the first times I had the opportunity to be close to the Jeeps in the house we now share, I made a sudden movement he didn’t approve of, and he bit me in the face and gave me a huge black eye. Since then I’ve managed to socialize him to the point where he smiles and puts his ears up when I get home, and the other night he actually came to me and asked to be snuggled – something he never used to do. Once recently he even kissed me on the chin while I was snoozing on the couch, so gently I almost didn’t feel it. But when I opened my eyes, there he was, grinning at me.

“Do you need a Milkbone?” I asked.

He didn’t run to the kitchen. Instead, he burrowed his head under my hand and asked for a pet. That was a cool moment. I’m good at taming wild creatures.

Lately I’ve decided that more touch would be good for him, so in addition to his arthritis medicine and supplements, he’s now getting a good ten to twenty minutes or more a day of gentle massage (I’ve been doing this already with Tater, all his life). It’s heartbreaking to feel how atrophied some of his muscles have become, especially in his hips and thighs – on the right side, there’s basically nothing left but bone, skin and fur. And he’s very lumpy and asymetrical, as lots of elderly dogs are. But I have to say, it’s very gratifying to see him stretch out into position when I sit down on the floor next to him, and to hear his groans of pleasure when I smooth out an especially stiff spot.

The photo above is of the Jeeps standing on the bank of our flooded creek during the New Year's storm of 2006. I love the way the grass and sand are swirling around his feet. The piece of land he's standing on is about ten feet above the usual level of water in the creek.

Again

My brother just emailed me to let me know that this guy, one of his best friends from high school and my friend too, died of a massive heart attack over the weekend while walking along a Manhattan street with his wife and two little kids (5 and 6). He was carrying his little boy on his shoulders, got dizzy and set the kid down, then just fell down and died. It happened across the street from a hospital, so response time wasn't really a factor – there just wasn't anything that could be done to save him. He was 40, the same age as my brother. A year younger than me.

My brother always had nice friends, but Tom was my favorite. I don't know if anyone ever knew that. He was one of the sweetest guys I remember from high school. Funny, smart, adorable, etc. etc. etc. I would've allowed myself a major crush on him if he hadn't been my brother's friend. I found this picture of him online. He was some kind of amazing analyst in the financial industry. Lots of quotes, forecasts and interviews when I googled him.

So, yeah. How many friends is this now who have died this spring? I hadn't seen him in almost 25 years, but my brother used to have dinner with him whenever he was in New York. I guess I always thought that out of all the people from high school that I never bothered to keep in touch with, he was one I might actually see again, and be glad to see again. It makes me realize there are still more people in the world that I would be sad to hear had died, and that I ought to track them down and say hello. At least one person comes to mind ... my friend Angie, who I still hear about via her mom's Christmas letter to my parents. She would probably love it if I emailed her out of the blue one day.

Sometimes I feel so exhausted by my relationships. Even the people I love the most, I don't keep in touch with very often. I still haven't told my father about this blog. Now I'm thinking maybe I will do that on this trip next week – the Mesa Verde trip. Still, opening parts of my life up to the world online is not the same as really being In Contact with people. To do that, I would have to live there. Wouldn't I? Or would I? How do people keep their relationships strong over distance and time? How did I develop this disconnected way of loving people?

I've written elsewhere about this feeling I have of having grown up in some kind of exile – my mom's longing to be in Utah, closer to family and the sense of support she thought she would feel there that she didn't feel (I guess) in Moscow. I always had the feeling that the life we had there wasn't our "real" life – it was just where we lived, because my dad's job was there, but it was never our real home, the place where we were meant to be. That sense of distance has been with me everywhere I've ever lived. For a long time I thought it was because there was something wrong with me, that it was somehow my own fault for not being a good enough person. These days I'm more inclined to think it's just a way people feel sometimes, part of the normal spectrum of human emotion – the feeling that something is missing. Lately it seems like it's been a major theme of this blog, too. Kind of a bummer to some people, I suppose, but something I'm interested in exploring.

The other part is interesting too though – the part where you feel real, whole, alive. I've spent so much of my life focusing on the stillness, trying to cultivate calmness, equanimity, a sense of inner peace. People actually say it to me now – "You're so grounded, so peaceful." Once every couple of weeks or so, probably, someone makes that comment to me. I always used to take it as a compliment (I think usually it's meant as one) but lately I'm starting to wonder. Are other people's lives or souls really all that much less peaceful than mine? Am I really peaceful, or am I just boring? I know that at least one person in my life (Mr. A) sometimes feels, when I fail to freak out over something he thinks is freak-worthy, that I'm either not understanding the situation or not taking it seriously enough, or that I don't care as much as I should (not true, but maybe others see me the same way?). And is that the best thing I can think of to want out of my life? Peace and quiet?

I think for several years my life was in such disarray, at least emotionally, that my answer would have been "yes." Not so much anymore, though. Stillness and quiet are still what I find myself naturally settling into when there's nobody around to influence me in another direction. That's why it was so stressful to have my friend's child around – she's all about noise, movement, chaos, exploration. But it's good to shake it up a little too, every once in awhile. On the other hand, enthusiasm and excitement about life are not the same as drama. Drama, I've had my fill of. Drama I can do without, mostly. (Re. my friend & kiddo: "a couple days" at chez moi turned into a week and a half, at which point they moved into a new place here, without the husband, who remains in Arizona. I don't know if he'll be back or not. Speaking of stress.)

I guess what I'm getting at here is this: I want to live while I'm alive. Right now it feels like I'm wanting a little more activity, vitality, connection, creation, color, flavor, fire. I need to stretch more, maybe even sweat a little. Doesn't it seem like I'm always saying this?

Anyway. Tonight I'm going to help a friend hive a swarm of wild bees that's hanging on a bush in his back yard. That oughtta be good for a little excitement.

P.S. Since I'm already writing about death (that sounds so harsh, even though it just is what it is. Should I say "end of life?"), I will report that the Jeeps is continuing to decline at an ever-increasing rate. The latest development is that he's starting to have real trouble standing, walking, or doing anything else that requires the use of his back legs. Last week I took him in for a cortisone shot and we've started him on Rimadyl twice a day, which seems to be helping somewhat, at least for now. He's still in good spirits though, enjoying (demanding) his dinner and attempting to leap and cavort in his usual fashion whenever Milkbones are in view. I've rarely met anyone with such joie de vivre. It's kind of an inspiration.

Hand to heart

Since I'm online anyway, researching remedies for post-operative dog swelling, I will report that I've spent the better part of the day today kneeling on the floor in front of the couch, with my hand holding warm compresses against Tater's chest, feeling his sweet little dog heart beat, beat, beat. All day long. It's been nice.

The swelling isn't bad, and the incision doesn't look infected, but his licking woke me up this morning – I had thought he wouldn't be able to reach that one – and the area was starting to look a little angry. So I applied warm cloths for a half hour at a time, every hour or two, and it really brought the swelling down AND seems to have stopped him from wanting to lick so much. I'm glad I still have one more day to keep an eye on him before I have to go back to work; I'm hoping I won't have to make him wear one of those horrible Elizabethan collars during the day. If he still feels inclined to lick tomorrow, I may try having him wear a t-shirt instead and see if that discourages him enough.

Other plans for the holiday include spending some time in the yard again (this time in the sun), washing the dishes again, and installing new front and rear tubes on my bike. They were a Valentine's day present from Mr. A, along with some fancy silk lingerie – well, lightweight silk long johns – which are my kinda lingerie. I'm excited about the tubes most of all – my front one has been going flat every couple of days or so, and the back one is okay but it has a Presta valve and I'm always worried it will go flat when I'm out and about, because I can only pump it back up again at home, where I have the Presta adaptor. So now I'll have new Schrader tubes on both wheels (plus Mr. Tuffys). Such an exciting life I lead!

In the background right now I am watching the Science of Sleep, which a friend at work recommended to me. Visually, I'm enjoying it very much. Right now the guy is dressed in a furry brown bear suit – only with a long tail – and playing drums with a pair of paintbrushes, with a band doing some unknown version of my favorite old Velvet Underground tune (the one where Mo Tucker sings "If you close the door, the night will last forever"). Now he's in his neighbor woman's apartment and it's all full of strange toy animals, bird cages, a stuffed fabric telephone and typewriter – all these are reminding me of the stuffed toys I used to make when I was a kid. There was a tiny blue fleece elephant, which I still have somewhere, a green cat made out of an old wool cable-knit sock, dolls with long dresses and funny little felt shoes with real laces ... I used to love making that stuff.

Seeing it in a movie makes me want to start sewing toys again. But what to do with them when they're done? Sure, I have a large supply of nieces and nephews ... that would be one place to send them. Or I could sell them, I suppose. Or just give them away. I've been stalking all these craft blogs lately, and am constantly surprised at how madly people seem to love even just the most basic handmade things. It seems like a very supportive community, but I've been avoiding entering it because ... hmm. I guess because ... well, hmm. Why? Because what if people are mean to me? Or don't like my stuff? Or do like it, and steal my designs?

I have set myself a goal, however, of stepping over all these "what ifs" and putting at least a few little things into a shop at Etsy, which, if you don't already know about it, is a nice place to start sharing artwork without having to deal with any kind of pressure to produce more or faster or better than you want to, or can. I will post a link here when I have something to show.

Finally, I'm still thinking about this Lent thing. Ash Wednesday is this week – this Wednesday – and the closer it gets, the more nervous I feel about getting up early. I never felt this way when I gave up chocolate, or even sugar. I knew those would be hard, but I never worried that I wouldn't be able to do it. Getting up early scares me, though. Maybe because my only real experience of waking up very early took place during the years when I was having depression and panic disorders, when I would wake up at 3 or 4 in the morning in a deep, sweating, nauseous panic and feel absolutely terrified to open my eyes ... But this is not going to be like that. For one thing, I'm not planning to get up at 4 a.m. Mr. A and I have discussed it and I think it's going to be something more like 6:22, which is still early, but very doable. Possibly 6:44. I'll unveil the actual plan as soon as I decide for sure what I'm going to do.

But for now, I have at least one more day to sleep until I wake up naturally – tomorrow, Presidents' Day. And Tuesday, too, except that on Tuesday I think I'll be going in to work early, hoping to get a jump on a deadline I'm afraid is going to bite me on the back later this week. I'm not going to think about that right now though. Right now, all I have to do is get Tater comfortable, get me comfortable, and get to sleep. So I'm going to go do that.

Patchwork puppy

Tater had surgery yesterday to remove a few of those weird little lumps that dogs get. The vet said it wasn't really necessary to do anything about them, but because of their location (right up under his armpits) they would've gotten in his way if they ever got very big, and by then it would be much more difficult, painful and dangerous to take them off. Since he had to go under anesthesia for the surgery anyway, I figured we might as well do all the other things he hates to have done – so they scaled and polished his teeth, removed a couple of little warts (one on his elbow, one on his back), shaved his feet, gave him a pedicure and cleaned his, um, glands ... the ones you know need to be cleaned when your dog starts to skootch his butt across the carpet. All this came to a grand total of just over eight hundred bucks, and worth every penny, I suppose, for the peace of mind of knowing he has a totally clean bill of health, though my heart did sink a bit when I heard the total.

He was still a little out of it when I picked him up, and he cried all the way home in the car, whether from pain or anxiety or relief I couldn't tell. As soon as we got home he went straight to my bed and tried to jump up, but couldn't quite make it all the way. I lifted him in and he collapsed into a pile of pillows with a deep sigh, so happy to be home that it almost made me cry. I stretched out next to him on the bed and he leaned back against me and fell asleep instantly.

Mr. A, as usual, took the utmost good care of both of us, opening the windows for fresh air, pulling the curtains closed to darken the room, turning on the little Christmas lights so we could still see, cooking up a special "dog hospital" dinner of cottage cheese and chicken (on the vet's recommendation), and holding a little cup of water for him to sip (he hadn't been allowed anything to drink since early that morning, but our post-op instructions said to limit his food and water until the day after surgery).

Today we are all feeling much better, though his shaved spots and stitches make him look a little scary. We spent most of the day lounging around in bed, and in the sun, and then inside on the couch. I'm having some of the worst cramps I've had in my life, so it's been nice to be able to be at home instead of hunched over my desk at work. Speaking of which, I've been totally swamped at my office for a couple of weeks, still doing all of my regular work as well as (now) my new art director stuff. There are a lot of frustrations right now but overall I'm enjoying the change.

Enjoying it, but also feeling kind of surreal and overwhelmed, and not much like doing any writing about any of it. Last week I had a major meltdown (PMS-driven, of course) in which I arrived home from work hungry and late, expecting dinner, found no dinner and the dishes undone, and imploded into a hideous rage/despair that was only calmed by stalking up and down the yard for twenty minutes, then sitting in my big blue chair for another twenty minutes, all in the dark, in the rain (after first washing the dishes, which only took about five minutes to do – certainly no task worthy of my reaction to it). Sometimes I swear my hormones can make me feel like a totally different person, one I'm glad doesn't come around very often.

Tonight I am watching a strange old black and white movie on PBS, in which Marlene Dietrich has her trousers leg ripped off (exposing one truly amazing gam, va va voom) by some sex-crazed soldiers in a seedy post-war waterfront bar – all while playing the accordion and singing. She's pretty fabulous.

Scene of the crime(a tale of two dogs)

This morning just before dawn I was awakened by someone touching me gently on the cheek. I opened my eyes and in the gray stillness a dark shape loomed over me ... It was the Taterman, sitting next to me on the pillow with his paw on my shoulder and an unusual alertness in his posture. When he saw I was awake he leaned in and licked me once on the chin with just the tip of his tongue. That's when I heard it: a muffled crash, followed by the sound of someone quietly rummaging around in some other part of the house.

Now that I was awake and aware, Tater felt free to hand over his role as protector and climb into my lap, quivering. But early morning is not my most lucent time of day, and as I lay there listening and assessing the situation it took a few moments to come up with three possibilities. Maybe Mr. A had forgotten something he needed for work, and was trying to find it without waking me. That didn't seem likely, though, since he knows I sleep with earplugs most of the time so he doesn't have to tiptoe around when he's getting ready to leave at 4:45 each morning.

The second possibility, which seemed somehow more real for at least a few seconds given Tater's obvious anxiety and stress, was that someone had seen Mr. A leave and thought the house was empty, and had broken in and was robbing us.

(An aside: The last time my house was robbed, I walked in through the front door just as the thieves were running out the back, and my first thought when I realized what had happened was to find my precious dog – who was hiding stock still and silent under the bed. People have criticized him for this behavior, for not defending my few poor possessions with ferocious fangs and claws ... But people willing to kick in a door might also be willing to kick a frightened animal, and I've always thought he did the only sensible thing to do under the circumstances – since he wasn't able to keep them out of the house, he did his best to protect himself until I got home. In his defense, he did become a much better watch dog after that – for weeks I didn't sleep through the night, thanks to his constant barking at any little sound from outside.)

Whoever was making noise in the house this morning was not trying very hard to hide it, though, and the sounds I was hearing were all concentrated in one area: the kitchen. I listened for cabinets and drawers opening, or the refrigerator, but the perpetrator only continued rummaging around. Then there was silence.

I slid out of bed (briefly considering whether I ought to put on some pants before venturing out), grabbed the little canister of professional-strength pepper spray Mr. A bought at a safety seminar at his work last summer (just in case), and crept toward the kitchen. The rustling started again just as I reached the door, and as I parted the curtains ....

Well, it was the Jeeps, of course. He had turned over the garbage can and distributed its contents the full length of the kitchen in order to reach whatever slimy goodness he hoped to find at the bottom of the trash can liner, which he was burrowed into up past his shoulders. When he heard me yell he tried to pull his head out without letting go of his prize, got stuck partway out with the bag bunched up around his ears, moonwalked back several steps, then made a dash for the dog door with the inside-out bottom of the bag still gripped in his teeth.

URRRGH! That's all I can really say when this happens. Because of course, it can only happen when one of us (who shall remain nameless) forgets to secure the garbage can under the sink. It really isn't the Jeeps's fault if he can't resist those delicious treats we ungrateful humans thoughtlessly toss in the trash – dogs are scavengers, hard-wired to sniff out and make use of the leftovers we discard.

Still, I will note: Tater has never once taken part in this time-honored canine ritual. He doesn't get into the garbage, counter surf, chew furniture, bark endlessly for no apparent reason, or do any of the other annoying dog things I worried about when I was thinking about getting a dog. When – after booting the Jeeps out of the house and cleaning up the mess – I headed back to bed for another hour of sleep, Tater was still there, curled up in a ball under the comforter with his head on my pillow. Mr. A likes to say this is proof of his general wimpiness and lack of robust dog-like qualities (which the Jeeps possesses in such abundance), but to me it meant only one thing: my spot was still warm.

Postscript: I didn't have the heart to punish the Jeeps for long. I let him back in after the mess was cleaned up, gave him his breakfast and fluffed up the blanket in his new heated dog bed. Merry Christmas, Mr. Jeeps!

Also, I am babysitting the editor's six-month-old yellow lab puppy under my desk at work this week. She's very cute, as well as a good reminder of what it's really like to live with a baby animal who's still just learning the rules of being part of human society. Tater was so easy as a puppy – I didn't even have to house train him, he already knew! I only hope our next puppy is as good as him.