Friday, April 18, 2014

Never Too Old

The number left on my “missed call” message was unknown, but something in me said “go ahead and find out who it was”.  I had just that morning, re-recorded my voice mail to say:  “sorry, this gal is retired, you may leave voice mail or call back and text for quicker response, blah, blah.”

You see, I really mean it this time.  I’m quittin this gig. The recent loss of a client was the last straw. No more. I’ve had too much sorrow and the last thing I want is to stay with another client until that final last kiss on the nose sends me into hysterics.

With that new found philosophy taking root in my mental file cabinet, I dialed the number.  “Hello, this is Gert (names changed to protect the well- meaning) at Alaqua Animal Refuge.  You are listed as a reference on an application for Mr. and Mrs……my heart sank.  I couldn’t believe they were at it again.

My octogenarians, two of my favorite senior citizens were trying to fill the void of their own recent loss.  Their Ms. Gigi died in 2011 and I had the privilege of caring for her during those days when “Papa Bear” and “Ms. Gloria” were tasked out of town, or had doctors’ appointments, or most likely on the bus to Biloxi for a little casino action.

We had just been through a near adoption of a lovely Toy Poodle girl (whom they named GiGI II). After 4 months, they gave her back to the breeder, with the excuse that the puppy was too much for them.  I was really angry with them over this and I’m sure that Gigi II wondered what SHE had done.

Oh, the conversations in my head while listening to the questions from this adoption counselor prevented me from answering truthfully.  I  heard myself saying things like: “yes, they are very caring people and the SENIOR companion will have a lovely home with fenced yard, daily walks, scheduled vet appointments…..”

What was I saying? I know, I was trying to be positive. I was trying to be helpful and if answering in the affirmative would help one animal leave the shelter, then I had to say “absolutely yes”.   

Now I just wonder if a dog is placed with them, how soon my phone would ring. This time Ms. Gloria would be on the other end asking me to come meet the new guy. I know I would and this is the reason why: My Grandmother.

Let’s see, must have been in my teenage years that my mother, decided HER mother needed a companion of the four legged kind.  We already were to capacity at our house when Mom learned from a friend that a sweet (they always begin with “sweet”) miniature dog, who was living in neglect, needed a forever home.  My grandmother (already in her late 70’s), lived alone right next door in her own 3 bedroom w/basement home and had NEVER owned a pet. I guess it was her Methodist upbringing…she couldn’t go dancing or play cards either.  

“Missy” came to live with Grandma.  That lady who had been single nearly forty years and kept a spotless home and came and went when the spirit moved her became the owner of a blonde Toy Poodle. Not a puppy, but middle age with signs of neglect and soft brown eyes.

“Bammy” (my nickname for Grandmother), was resistant at first, but my mother rather insisted and so the newest member of our family was welcomed by all. 

That first snow storm had my Grandma shoveling a path for “going outside” in the cavernous fenced back yard.  I spied her from my bedroom window in her nighty under coat, booties over slippers and watched her clear a 10 by 10 spot at the edge of the patio for Missy.

I watched the transformation from someone who was not good with dogs or comfortable with them near her, to someone whose entire world centered around a 6 pound best friend, secret keeper, and lap companion during the evening’s newspaper reading time.

If the temperature fell, Missy would be found sandwiched under Gran’s apron (to keep the newsprint from her dress) and the electric heating pad on her lap.  Miniature marsh mellows, dried and kept in a gold and burgundy tin canister were the approved treats; one for Grandma and two for Missy.

I don’t remember any bag, can or box of dog food in the pantry, so I’m guessing they enjoyed the same cuisine. I do recall Grandma telling me that their evening dessert was a dish of vanilla ice cream. Her water dish was kept in the back hall bathroom.  It was a favorite room of mine; tile, sink, toilet and counter top were a mint green.  There was a plaque hung on the door which read “Missy’s room”. 

Dog beds were in every room, purposefully placed where the sun’s rays would find her.

Grandma was a changed woman. Her outlook brightened. She gained friends, who upon being invited for supper, would ask about the little dog. She was less fearful in coming up the hill to our house and had a new self -confidence when confronted by our much larger family pets.

I believe that Bammy was the eldest pet owner to frequent our family’s vet clinic. She wanted to learn as much as possible and would have samples and brochures in her purse after every appointment. 

And in that last day, she laid Missy to rest under a bed of pink petunias in the sunniest spot of the north border of the patio.

My Bammy is long gone and her house is under new ownership.  I had the occasion to re visit the house and the woman invited me in and she asked me about my grandmother. She felt a benevolent spirit present and was aware of aromas of freshly baked bread and ladies cologne.
I smiled and said “yes, that would be her”.  She took me to the patio and said, “See that pink rose on the north side? It comes up each summer around mid-June. I didn’t plant it” I replied “Her birthday was June 13th”.  I felt a tear welling in my eye, but chose not to share my secret.


Those years Grandmother shared her home with Missy gave me a new appreciation and acceptance of the eventuality of old age. My friends, Papa Bear and Ms. Gloria, are looking forward to welcoming home their chosen companion. I am expecting their call.  

Joy in the Cemetery


Sometimes, I didn't know the backstory. Pet sitting involves being in the moment and going forward.
Interviews did not include a background check into the circumstances which brought the animal companions into the family. Sometimes, general conversations led to the family pet(s) history, but it was, generally, the exception.

Those of us who seek to continue relationships with loved ones who have died will understand this.  Those of us who are fatalistic and unbelieving will not.
Once you have clearly defined which category you are in, read with an open heart…

Thanksgiving calls us to the family table. The family table may have sprouted leaves of its own in different cities and over the state lines from where we sat as children. This is certainly what happened here.

My friends traveled across state lines (many state lines) to reunite with mother and sister for a traditional dinner.  The number seated around the bounty this year was two less than last year.  Her brother in law passed just a year ago and my friend’s father has been gone more than two.

The week didn’t start well as stated in an e mail to me.  Mother and sister were tense, the air was tense and the holiday shopping hadn’t even occurred to the sister who was hosting the dinner.  A promise had been made by her husband, at the table last year, that they would take their turn in the new home in which the family had not seen.

Mother who is aging was in a snit and felt a cough coming on the morning of Thanksgiving.  She would be just fine if they would make up a plate of left overs and bring it to her later.  This sent the sister into a tirade and hurt feelings were evident.  My friend was directly in the path of both sides and couldn’t seem to reason with either one.  Don’t know how dinner turned out. Haven’t asked…

Well, sometime during that precarious day of planning, a trip to the cemetery was scheduled.  Flowers had been ordered and received and my friend, husband and sister drove to the small country church and family cemetery somewhere in the back woods of the great state of Louisiana.

Let me interrupt a moment.  My reply to the previous e mail had been thoughtful and helpful and I told my friend that she should speak to her Dad and she would hear his answer.  She had been feeling that he was calling mother home and was deeply saddened at the eventuality.

Now all three were tasked to placing the floral arrangement just so on the headstone and my friend was just kneeling and from her side view glanced at the presence of a little yellow dog.  He came directly to her, circumventing the other two and sat and looked at her. Upon a closer look, he was obviously hungry and had a flea problem, but his eyes were shiny bright and his tail wouldn’t stop wagging.

An announcement to the husband and sister came without hesitation:  “Looks like he’s coming home with us!” she said.  She hadn’t even considered that he belonged to someone.

Hasty decisions were made. Frantic calls were placed to the mother’s veterinarian just 15 minutes from closing. It took them 5 minutes to get there. The dog was weighed, dewormed, treated for fleas and released to the custody his new mom and dad.

A collar was purchased and follow up meds were tucked into her purse.
And three plus one got back into the car and drove to mother’s house for an introduction.  The dog was maybe a year and ½ old, 19 pounds and quite possibly a Corgi mix.  At least the “mix” part was right!

He didn’t have a name and yet, it was obvious.  He had been gifted to her by her dad in the Wimberly family cemetery.

Wimberly is coming home soon and I can’t WAIT to meet him. 


Tuesday, April 8, 2014

The Troll Within

The unsung heroes of our childhood fairytales have gotten a bad rap.  Take in point the troll in the story “The Three Billy Goats Gruff”, one of a collection written between 1841 and 1844 in the book “Folk Tales of the Norse”.  The bad guy lives under a bridge, is constantly hungry and after being fooled by the trio is butted into the river and never heard from again.  Life just isn’t fair…

Let’s consider his reasons for his rather abrupt, even to the point of being rude, behavior.
Perhaps his Troll mother wasn’t particularly efficient in her kitchen and the creamed rutabagas and cod (with a side of buttered pasta) had worn out its appeal.  That would certainly lend to his wanting other food choices.  Maybe he was the only wage earner and collecting toll provided the means for their meager existence. In the story, maybe the “wet paint” sign had blown off the rail and he was tasked to deny access for crossing the bridge on that particular day. And the list goes on and on…

I’ll never quite understand his purpose either. This is all background to get you to help me diagnose what “Dallas”, the miniature poodle, has against the people who cross her bridge.

She lives in a small condo, with her mistress, on an island community. It has an appropriately sized back yard with double deck, potted annuals, and waist high picket fence.  At the north border of the downstairs deck is a permanent bench which she jumps onto in order for her to monitor the walkway leading from a gated neighborhood to and across the main street on the island.

Foot traffic, sometimes two feet (times the number of people) and sometimes four feet (again times the number of dogs)…sporadically crossing “her section” of walkway throughout the day and into the late evening.  All sorts of activity requiring the parading of strangers by her house; sometimes, the activity occurs to either end of the walkway, but still she feels duty calling and audibly investigates whatever is happening.  She is incensed in the realization that they are trespassing without having invited her participation.

Some try to stop and talk with her, their dogs stop and try to communicate.  She would rather have the first and last words and the pairing just continue their walks.  It’s just like the before and after of a wild roller coaster ride through a tunnel.  You are visibly changed when exiting the ride.  She always leaves them in a different frame of mind.  Dog owners just smile and mime (because I can’t hear them over her barking) “Hi, how are you two today?  I see Ms. Dallas is on duty…does she ever stay INSIDE?”

Well, yes, she stays inside, when the weather is challenging or I’m not there or it’s nap time. And yes, I lower the blinds to block her view on the downstairs French doors. But on the upper level, in the master suite, she has a permanent window at the bottom of the door, because her owner feels that her stress level will be considerably less if she can see and ward off any intruder.

I have worked with her, but she has been unwilling to offer a compromise.  Even if I tuck her under my arm and greet whomever, she always has the last word.  So, what, sets her off?

Unlike the troll, her cuisine is enhanced by sprinkles of parmesan and her treats are regular throughout our days together. So nix the bad cook theory.  We have decidedly more lap time than I usually allow. She is not the sole provider for her family of three and the boardwalk hasn’t been painted EVER.

It’s not only her “mouthiness”, she also jumps right to the tip of the fence post but does not feel the need to clear it. Well let’s revamp and state that she has cleared it only once to chase a cat and having lost the race has not attempted a second escape.

If I am inside and she is out and she is alerted, it’s a comical attempt on my part to grab her and wait for the intruders to pass. She has sand rather than grass at the borders of the deck and I don’t like sand attached to the soles of my feet.  But if she is wedged between fence line and deck, I have no other option than to stand there with her in arms and just allow her frustration to resolve itself and the fidgeting to cease and her focus to return to the chameleon running atop the adjoining picket fence.

She is warning me. She is warning them. There is no need to apologize.

I’ve been with her for years and the snow bird population that dots the island during the fall and winter seasons knows that she’ll be forever the troll (in poodle clothing) at the foot of the bridge.


The Porch Swing

Casey is not particularly recognizable as any one breed of dog.  Her shortness of stature could be the lineage of a Basset and her face to resemble that of a Labrador retriever.  She is a pedigree mutt with very high self-esteem.

Her home is spacious with a double garage, swimming pool and acres of colorful, well-appointed rooms for her to claim as her own.  The decorating is an ongoing love affair with the lady of the house and every room is a visual delight to all who are invited in.  Casey has the run of her home and there exists no “off limit” spaces inside or out.  Afghans, throw pillows and newly upholstered sofa cushions beckon her to join them for a snooze.

She comes and goes and is often found meandering down Country Club Road in the early, cooler mornings.  Often she spends her days visiting neighbors, chasing squirrels, bunnies and yes, armadillos! Her mistress leaves fresh water out for her and finds her in the shade of a favorite tree when they reunite at the end of a work day.

Her advanced years have earned her the right to discriminate.  She’s not a “touchy feely” mutt and our introduction was formal and distant.  She didn’t trust my well intentioned overtures and I was stumped as to how we would bond…and then her owner said “she loves cheese burgers”.

My first day with her was relatively uneventful except for her unwillingness to eat.  Her mound of kibble remained undisturbed through lunch and dinner.  “This will change tomorrow” I said, and the following morning, breakfast consisted of scrambled eggs and kibble. The aroma of melting butter piqued her attention.  “Great, she’s hungry”. I thought to myself and gave my well deserving back a pat of congratulations. I found a heavy custard bowl and scooped ½ cup of the brown bite size chunks and steaming eggs into it.  I mixed wet with dry and carried it onto the front porch.  Back inside to get her water dish, I invited her out with me. “Come on, Casey, GOOD GIRL, aren’t you hungry”? Balancing on one foot (the other holding open the storm door) and trying not to tip the water dish, she broached the threshold and found a sunny spot, curled up and ignored me.  Her breakfast cooled from hot to warm, not a good beginning.

While waiting for her to eat, I made myself comfortable on the porch swing. (I will argue the point that the seating accommodations resembled a glider, but the poignancy of this story is better suited to the reader’s vision of an old porch swing). I sat alone and waited.

Finding no competition from me, she dined until the bowl was sparkling clean. Normally, it would be proper to follow a good meal with an invigorating walk, but not today.  I invited her to sit with me on the swing; of course I needed to scoot down to make room.  She jumped up and moved as far away from me as the seating would allow.  No problem, we’ll just sit. And we did.

Her neighborhood was waking: joggers, bicyclists and other people with their animal companions in tow passed down the street, all going the same direction as if their path had been pre-determined. The quiet of our morning gave way to the shout of “fore” from the golf course just behind the homes across the street.

We sat. I patted her head. We had a lengthy conversation, mostly one sided, but that didn’t seem to matter.  The food bowl had attracted an ant or two and the slats of our swing had worn out their welcome by the time I needed to go.  I’d be back for lunch and dinner, bed check, too.

She was free to roam for a few hours and I knew that I would find her content, hidden from view, somewhere in the back yard.

We’ve been companions for 3 years now.  Many, many mornings have begun on the front porch swing.  An occasional lunchtime has been highlighted by a fresh hot burger, plain for me and extra cheese for her. I’ve talked and she’s listened and there we’ve sat, not a care in the world; her head in my lap and my hand keeping the occasional inquisitive insect from disturbing two old friends.



Wednesday, April 2, 2014

The Legend of "Moo"

The chimera is bound in legend and myth from ancient Greece; the blending together of dissimilar animals. The original version was described as beast with lions head, goats body and serpents tail.

Modern definition is much less gruesome and now user friendly.  The phenomenon is a popular internet topic.  I’ve recently viewed photos of dogs with asymmetrical coat patterns defining two distinguishable breeds.  We know what happened, but we don’t understand the “how”…

Well Mother Nature must have the original blue print; bless her heart!
Today, on the radio, I tuned into the “Ted Hour” on NPR and listened in on a discussion of genomic testing.  Fascinating!  Designer pets and children?  What?? I doubt the masses will question their collective faith enough to actually tamper with imperfection.

We are meant to be imperfect.  It is a subtlety woven into our DNA and mirrored in our environment.

Whose standards are we questioning?

Anyway, I got a little ahead of myself…

I am presently acquainted with a very distant relative of this apparent legend.  She is fifty plus pounds of canine energy wrapped in black and white pattern of short coarse hair.  Her nick name is “The Moo”.  Good choice.  Nothing else would so aptly describe the outer her.  She sports a coat of designer Holstein hereford and we could leave it at that, but closer examination might reference the standards of an American Boxer.

This is a first for me.  The vast majority of my clients’ companions are easily recognizable as either close to breed standard or fall in to the “over the fence” category.

“The Moo” is unaware of her celebrity status.  I shan’t tell her. The pressure would simply be too much.

I hope to be her designated sitter for a long time.  I look forward to keeping company together; eat, play and share a bed in the guest room on occasion.

And…

When we walk and she is somewhere way ahead of me at the strained end of her leash, I’ll smile knowing that I’m sharing my journey with a legend.


A New Day

I am in a rut. Comfortable, predictable, familiar…well you get the idea. So it may be time for an attitude adjustment.

This realization came to me yesterday, while walking a 13 year old four legged companion around her neighborhood for the umpteenth time this visit.  Once before breakfast and again in the cool of each evening, we journeyed around the circle drive of this middle income tract development.  Saw the same cars, cats, neighbors, flock of birds, blah, blah, blah…

Only my charge didn’t see it as routine or hum drum for that matter.  If her tail was any indication, she was excited and joyful at the frequent encounters found at the end of her leash. She stopped now and again, and because she is such a large dog, I had no choice but to stop along with her. (If she dug her front paws into the ground, there was no moving her).

I wonder why she had this viewpoint. As soon as she left the threshold of the back door, her tail started the dialogue and was quickly followed by hurried prancing down the front lawn and west. I allowed her to trot on the lawns of neighbors, always under my vigil (just in case).  Some dog walkers stay to the middle of the street, but paw pads are tender and thick sod is cool, wet grass delights.

As I kept aside of her, the leash would extend and contract.  Sometimes, if I wasn’t paying attention, the leash would jerk ME to a sudden “in the moment” and I would wait patiently until her curiosity was sated. I admit to not getting on my hands and knees to share in the excitement. I could imagine, however, that the samples were irresistible and she kept a mental filing cabinet of the chain of events.

She was learning about her world. Her points of reference are exactly the same as mine: sight, smell, hearing, taste, touch.  The five senses all firing at maximum efficiency.

She is aged (91 in people terms) and a lifelong student. I am decades younger and yet my curiosity is lessening day by day.

OMG – my “ah ha” moment…in retrospect, I have been going about this the wrong way.

If I could just immerse myself, soul, spirit, (whatever) in the moment and linger, my senses could fill with perfection and sustenance. I could join in the energies of the universe and appreciate my role and garner my purpose with a deep, cleansing breath. Heavy stuff, huh?

Well, I mean that following in her example, could lead to unexpected renewal of me. If my combined senses could experience the moment like a symphony in the midst of Rachmaninoff, I would more than exist. My life would extend beyond my thoughts and restrictions.  I could live joyfully.  I could welcome greatness in a single blade of grass. It’s worth trying. In fact, I am already piqued with anticipation…

I’ll have to thank her for teaching me.  I never expected such wisdom from a sweet old dog. As I place her collar gently around her neck and open the door, we’ll both go prancing down the front lawn and head in a westerly direction.  If we come across other dog walkers, a new unspoken conversation will ensue.  I’ll just wink knowing that they are in class too.


“Come on, Fergie, it’s time for another walk”.