It takes three nights to finally get a grip on RELAXING.  Puppy sitting for my daughter’s new Golden Doodle  brings moments (long moments) of youth versus old age mostly because I’ve brought along Jack, my ancient Beagle/Springer Spaniel mix with whom I am quickly identifying.

Since being asked to puppy sit at their beautiful, peaceful home, I have had apparitions of quietly cooking,  watching the new pup,  sunsets, a glass of wine, hot baths,  peace, and tranquility.  I envisioned myself meditating and practicing my yoga (I had borrowed Eat, Pray, Love from the library). All this evaporated like a salt-filled lake in the desert after the very first day.

My first day consisted in a one-on-one with the most adorable golden doodle puppy, Mo’Peds, who I fell in love with.  Jack didn’t seem to adore him quite as much, though I’d catch him looking at this energetic pup with a bit of a smile on his senior face.  Now, a Golden Doodle is half Golden Retriever and half Poodle (Mo’s father was a Standard Poodle) and Mo is the cream on each half.  My kids chose an alpha male with the intention of having a large breed dog who is bold enough to weather at least four feet of snow, 40 mph winds (on a nice day) and coyotes who  might devour him for lunch.  This was no quick decision.  They’d been  married ten years, given this choice a year’s research, consideration and deliberation.  Mo’Peds was it!

This little pup could be a stuffed toy in your arms, cuddled on your lap like a lop-eared bunny at Easter with brown eyes that deny any mischievousness known to man.  Live with this little darling, and you remember he is a PUPPY, ALPHA-MALE, HIGHLY INTELLIGENT, ENERGETIC and will worm his way into your heart and soul while you are fighting your better judgment not to give in to his wiles.  He has already decided at 12 weeks he IS the boss and you ARE his way to get what he wants.  He has only to look at you with those  little brown eyes and mop of caramel colored hair, feet as big as a jack rabbits and nose as black as a calamata olive.  I had my work cut out for me.

I prepped ingredients of food stuffs on Tuesday.   I made re-fried beans from scratch, guacamole,homemade corn tortillas, and corn chowder as well as a raspberry pie.  The dogs and I took long walks in the snow and worked on commands the kids were reinforcing as well as housebreaking.

By the second trip up the icy stairs and into the house, Mo was blocking Jack’s way and giving him grief. This is after Jack had TAUGHT Mo to go up the stairs, pee properly and behave like a respectable dog.  Stairs are Jack’s weakness and Mo takes every advantage as I pull Mo into the cabin giving Jack a chance to climb the stairs and enter on his own.

Now, if you haven’t met Jack in a previous blog, he is 13 years of age and ailing.  He is what is termed a “senior citizen”.  So when Mo cuts him off and blocks his climb to the landing on the stairs, Jack’s look is one of disgust just as an elderly man would look at a youngster who cut in front of him.  After observing this a few times and seeing Mo’s disregard for the elderly, I began intervening earning a grateful look from Jack.

Now, Mo is of the realization that the “Parents” aren’t coming back for a bit and “Oh boy!”.  I catch on to this as the night wears on.  He chews wood, books, furniture and my library book, Eat, Pray, Love, which now bears his teeth marks on the jacket.  I sleep on the floor and Jack sleeps nearby.  Mo crashes in the crate and only wakes once to go out and again at 7:00 a.m. upon which we take a long walk towards the wood.  Now Jack seeing a small watering spring, iced over, becomes Daniel Boone crashing into it, mud up to his belly, lapping away furiously.  I’m figuring it is the wood heat as Mo looks on in awe and then attempts to follow.  Jack then is struggling to get out of the pond as I’m thinking how to clean him up.  Mo heads toward a weed he sees to devour forgetting about Jack’s predicament.  This pup, underweight for starters, seems determined to eat everything in sight:  weed, wood, burdock, snow, paper (especially paper!) or whatever is about .  “No people food” and “a bit of chicken broth on his crumbles” are the orders strictly followed.  Except when he dove headfirst into a bowl of Parmesan Goldfish Crackers grabbing a mouthful as I pulled him away, spilling wine on my library book which he immediately lapped up.   Two for Mo, zero for the puppy sitter.   I spend three-quarters of my time with my fingers in his mouth removing whatever he attempts ingesting.

My “no, no, no” and repetitive commands after biting, chewing wood, shoes, as well as my hands were met by an irritated look by Jack as I caught his eye time and again.  Mo had enough fun with me and proceeded to begin pawing and jumping on Jack.  I think Jack was just waiting for this moment, actually.  Mo’s antics were quickly quenched by “ARRGGG!”.  Mo not only stopped but ran and cowered, but only for a minute.  After a minute back at it he got the same response, “ARRGGG!!!“.  I think Jack made his point and I also got a lesson – say it like you mean it!  It worked much better that way though repetition was the rule.

Mo, Jack, and I traipsed around  on the snow and we are blessedly fortunate it has a crust,  so the walk is long, gorgeous, and fresh.  Once inside, I begin the day picking up and greeting my daughter who visits from up north.  She is so sweet, the puppy picks up on this immediately and shows his best nature to her.  He never ceases to amaze me by his intelligence and devilish persistence.  My daughter is right “no” and “Mo” are too close.

Mo’s design:  The Poodle is the brains in this  mix and it might even come to brilliance later in life.  A Golden Retriever is Jack Johnson on the beach, a poodle, on the other hand, is Jack  Nicholson at his best.  Mo, I fearfully suggest, is mostly Poodle.  He is cunning, intelligent, deceptive, effusive, winning, clowning, and drama all the while looking like a show dog at Westminster.  Just as I adore Jack Nicholson this little pup has won my heart with his fun-loving ways and adorable antics.

Hang'in Out Jack and Mo

Within three months time Mo is towering over Jack though he may be a bit under Jack’s weight since Jack is on the portly side.  Mo is now not only learning, but OBEYING commands, excuse me, “safety commands” such as ” sit, stay, down” and, oh yes,  we are still working on “no”.

Mo’Peds sense of humor emerges as he grabs Jack’s leash while walking on the trail acting as if he is the one walking Jack and not I.  Jack simply looks at me with a pleading look for his dignity and  I quickly rectify the situation snapping the leash from Mo’s mouth and placing both leashes at the back of their necks.  Jack never needs a leash, unless law requires it or coyotes are around.  He has always minded (unless he smells cat food  – his great weakness)  however, since his hearing has diminished entirely, and he is partially blind now in his 14th year, we do hand signals and leash occasionally for his own protection.  I will admit to slacking off on the rules and Jack does take liberties.  I feel those liberties are earned considering his age and impeccable history.

Once on the trail, Mo’Ped acts like his batteries are dying, speeding up, slowing down, speeding up, slowing down always with a bounce to his step.  And I mean a BOUNCE!  The fluffy golden hair jumps as he walks and he springs along missing nothing.  If a person appears, the bounce then becomes pronounced.  Mo is in elevation mode focused on the new friend he just can’t wait to meet.  If there’s a dog along, so much the better.  Compliments abound and his tail wags almost off as Jack takes this opportunity to sniff at a post and leave his scent in return apparently disregarding his show stopping sidekick.  Jack knows what is important, tracking  scents, adoring your owner, and winning over the cute little white dog next door.

If there is a burdock within a mile, Mo will find it so I’m on my guard.  He doesn’t shed, so it is like pulling burdock from a child’s head.  Back we head toward home, Jack appearing dignified and wise picking up on the scents and tales they tell.  Mo bounces along head turning at every distraction like a kid in New York City for the first time.  If he has a break in meeting his “fan club” he follows Jack to a scent to check it out, but today he is barraged with compliments, questions and affection.  If he could write, he’d be signing autographs!   As we near the house, I release Jack to wander up through the yard and Mo and I continue on to the house.  He looks at me and pulls and jumps about begging to be unleashed also.  I just pat his head and we continue on.

Fast forward:  Brilliant and incorrigible Mo is now seven and one-half months (that’s three and one-half years in dog age)  The poodle must  dominate nine to one in his genes.  His easy going manner, smiling face and gentle nature has won everyone over.  Not to mention his star studded looks!  He has the instant appeal of Ashton Kucher only with a giant black nose.  Mo still is smarter than the average dog.   He has attached himself to my daughter knowing full well she is the weaker of the two new pet owners.  His devotion is only surpassed by his desire for manipulation.  She keeps saying he is “in training” but I’m beginning to think it is she that is being “trained”.

Mo has moves like Beckham with his paws, head, nose and mouth  moving, feeling and tossing whatever he is curious about.  Now we’re talking BIG PAWS.  At seven months his adorable shaggy, golden head comes to her chest and his feet are the size of scuba fins with fur.  Get hit once with one of his paws and you’ll feel it.  He loves to “mouth” people real nicey nice but if he gets excited or frustrated, the teeth are felt quite sharply.  When my daughter yells at him, he stops, looks at her as if to say, “What!  I didn’t feel a thing!” and then snaps his jaws almost saying “Well!”.  He knows how to soften her up the minute he upsets her, weaving figure eights between her legs, wagging and bumping up against her until she hugs and forgives telling him how wonderful he is.

I’d give her a blue ribbon for dog training due to the lengths she goes to encourage, teach and reprimand but the end result is that Mo does what he wants to do when he wants to do it!  This becomes apparent when I mistakenly thought I’d “assist” with the training while puppy sitting.  Both my daughter and son-in-law would take Mo far in the fields, unleash him and then toss the frisbee.  This was great exercise for all involved.  Mo did not seem to want to drop the frisbee when the retrieve was over.  Well.  Not owning an alpha male myself, Jack being the obedient, docile, gentleman that he is, I volunteer to teach Mo to “drop”.  Left to doggy sit I had plenty of opportunity.  Once in the field, Jack in tow, I tossed the frisbee and unleashed Mo.  Granted, my throwing consists of worm burners and  misguided aim but none the less, Mo was a sport and ran off happily in pursuit.  He’d come back to me when I called,  frisbee in the mouth and drop it five plus feet from me.  At first, I was pleased thinking, “He dropped it!”  Then it occurred to me I was walking for the frisbee almost as far as he had to run.  With every toss he dropped it  just a bit further out so I’d have to walk further.  Silly me, I didn’t catch on right away.  It wasn’t until I was throwing it AND retrieving it myself with him just lying there and watching me, that the light bulb went on.  At first thinking “Oh poor Mo, he must be tired” and then realizing he was enjoying it.  There was a look of glee to his furry face he just couldn’t hide!  Well, one for Mo and zero for the doggy sitter.

The  middle of the night I found myself woke up to loud barking.  Jack slept peacefully since he can no longer hear and was exhausted from walking in the field watching frisbee fiasco.  Okay.  My first thought is Mo must have to go out.  Well no, that wasn’t it.  Water!  how about fresh water?  No.  Ice cubes – I was sure it was ice even though my daughter said he usually stood by the fridge and barked for ice.  He just looked at me and let the cube melt as I checked outside to see if he’d heard anything or one.  No, that wasn’t it either.  As I was checking his food bowl, he walked up the stairs and laid down on his bed with a thud.  I won’t repeat what I thought at that moment but I envied Jack’s deafness.  As I lay awake at 3:30 a.m. unable to fall back asleep, I glanced over at Mo sleeping soundly seeming to have a grin on his furry face.  By 4:30 a.m. I simply got up and began to prepare for the day turning the light on hoping to wake Mo.  It didn’t phase him in the least.  He slept until 5:00 a.m.

I felt very confident of success this morning having spent an hour simply handing a ball back and forth to Mo telling him to drop it and then handing it back to him.  Doggy treats worked like a charm.  Jack got a treat too when Mo did it right.

Out we all went for frisbee again.  A pocketful of treats spurred Mo to retrieve the poorly thrown frisbee.  He tried dropping it four feet from me.  I was not to be suckered in by that again so I hit the palm of my hand  with my other hand  and firmly demanded “drop”.  Drop he did and tiny treats were passed.  I proceeded to throw the frisbee again and again with Jack sharing in Mo’s success.  When the treats ended, so did the retrieval and Mo was letting me throw and retrieve again.

Mo & Me

The next time I watched him I was excited to try the new red halter my daughter had bought him.  She said he walked beautifully when wearing it.  It wasn’t quite an hour before he jumped on his crate, grabbed his halter and chewed it.  All the time I thought he was chewing the bone with the peanut butter I had prepared for  him.  I shamefacedly called the company Fosters and Smith where they bought the halter and asked to purchase another and told what had happened to the first one.  This wonderful company sent another halter to replace the first at no charge.  I was indebted to them and couldn’t wait to sing their praises to anyone with a pet.  No halter, no walk, no exercise without it.   It wasn’t two weeks later, when the NEW halter came in that my daughter left Mo with me.  Mo looked quite dapper  proudly wearing his new halter.  She said to just leave it on and he would be fine. Innocently I believed the halter would be safe.   Imagine my horror when I realized he had chewed the halter right off his body proving my incompetence again at doggy sitting.

Mo is so loving and affectionate, I can’t help but smile while I’m with him.  A great sense of humor, easy going personality, his joy, bravado, fearlessness and fur makes him Jack and my new best friend just as we are his.  He appears to be a large man in a dog suit fitting in perfectly wherever he goes, spreading joy and lifting hearts wherever his paws take him.  Catch a glimpse of him with his head out a car window or bouncing down the canal trail, or hanging out at his home, and spirits are lifted, smiles are shared, joy is passed from his heart to yours.  Just like Jack, Mo teaches people are to be loved, life is to be  lived and the moment is to be seized.

I was drinking my coffee on the deck one morning, pot close by for refill, reading my bible and just as Solomon was building his temple to house the Ark of the Covenant, I poured another draft of coffee: Expectation, routine, caffeine deprivation, and… nothing.  I unscrewed the top, assured there was more there and, nothing… not a drop. A beautiful sunny, warm and bird-song filled morning and what comes to my mind? That must be what it is like to die suddenly, unexpectedly, without warning or drama or fanfare.   All the reading of theology, all the dogma of philosophy was never so riveting as that empty pot. It can happen just like that with people. We are creatures of habit moving on to the next task. My abrupt lesson at that moment was to live well, live with purpose and live what I believed – just like that! It’s ironic and a bit humorous how God uses the mundane and trivial to teach us and guide us. People who know me would know my morning caffeine is a good place to get my attention.

Less than two weeks later, I’m told that my sister who is a breast cancer survivor and was preparing for a kidney operation had cancer spreading uncontrollably throughout her body.  Her brain was clear, thank God, but there was no hope.  One chemotherapy session only served to confirm that.  She was to come home on Hospice.

I had just been through supporting two of my dearest friends who were battling cancer  on different levels  in their lives.  Somewhere inside a strength emerges from the deep and I go through the movements doing everything possible for my sister on any level.  The physical moving of her body is not an option for me, but all her  medical information, visiting, supporting, caring for and advocating,  I try to do to the best of my abilities.  Sitting and standing gives me great pain (more than I usually have) so what should be taxing emotionally is also grueling physically.

My mind doesn’t comprehend doing any less than what I am doing and prods me that I could do something more.  Tears are a luxury and grief of any kind is tucked away in a locked box for another time.  It is not the tragedy in life that makes me cry but the kindness shown to myself or others that catch at my heart and move me to tears.  I have borne my share of crisis and heart wrenching sorrows, haven’t we all?    The most difficult classes at Harvard could never teach me what I have learned during those brief days.

My sister had a most difficult life overburdened with crisis, tragedy, poverty, and sorrow.  She was able to find joy in life through family, friends, art (which she was great at), housekeeping, and life’s little pleasures.  The sorrows in her life would fill a lake yet whenever we think of her it is always of her smiling.

I never connected her imminent death to my morning lesson from the Almighty until much later.  She was not ready to die – not prepared – and hoped for a miracle.  Even as she was planning her funeral at my parents’ home where she stayed on Hospice, she said, “If, I should die, then…”.  Where do you draw the line between faith in answered prayer and God’s plan for us (which may not be ours)?  How do you help someone prepare for death when they don’t want to leave?  Cancer ravages the body, depletes  strength, and robs life from its victims.  It does not negotiate or placate.  Cancer, however, can not erase hope or faith as I saw by watching my  sister pass.  As she slipped away, she never acknowledged death or accepted it as far as I could see.  I believe her spirit reluctantly moved on to the spiritual world with trepidation and wonder.  I believe  also that she was chosen to get things prepared for the rest of us to follow:  to tidy up and decorate as she loved to do and after meeting everyone there who had gone ahead, await our arrival ready to greet us.

Death is so natural, predictable, and inevitable.  Why then do we not wake each morning in awe that we are given another day?  Dying is the natural state and end-stage of living.

Within a few weeks I witnessed my father-in-law’s “passing”…  The  man was a genetic miracle of good health and longevity.  A 92 year old Italian who lived a life enviable of most senior citizens.  He was retired and collected a fine pension longer than he worked at Remington Arms.  He was always surrounded by loving family and friends and loved by all.  He was famous for turning feminine heads throughout his life and the woman he was married to for 71 years was the finest lady he could ever have hoped to wed.  He was blessed with wonderful health and no pain right up until he injured his back trying to move a chair (with himself in it at 245 lbs!)  Hospitals do not belong treating specimens of health at that age.  His brief stay in the hospital and nursing home damaged his health and when he caught a virus, he ended up in the ER with a damaged heart and organs.

He said he was ready to die, said his prayers, ate breakfast, and lunch the first day then prepared to pass which he did.  “What do we do now?” he asked.  His saintly wife of 71 years  followed shortly ready to spend eternity in Heaven after a wonderful life filled with family and friends.

Yes, life is short.  Even my father-in-law at 92 said many times, where did the time go?  The rest of us, myself especially, need to treasure our days, live in the present, take care of ourselves and our loved ones and listen to God when He chooses to speak to us…   or even if He doesn’t.

Citation Access ***
(Pay-Per-View)

Australian Journal of Social Issues, The

Volume 39 Issue 2 (May 2004)

Single Parents and Paid Work

I’m in agreement with the above author in some respects, but what is wrong with raising our children by their own mothers and elevating that job to the level it deserves?  There is no job more deserving of prestige than child-rearing, no job which has such impact on society, environment and our future.

With all the depressing statistics surrounding us, failed banks, failed economy, failed car dealers, and a jobless rate to depress even the most educated among us.  I would like to offer a tiny spark of hope into this mix that just may light up the country.  I would like to offer women in this country a way to make a difference that only they can make.  I’m speaking of women who are in the trenches of this country, impoverished, unappreciated, and ignored. Some of these women are on “the system” of welfare and trying to raise children who are the seed crop of this nation while others may be treading  close to it.   I am suggesting we support the role of these women to raise their children as a high level job with the importance it deserves.

Our system at present has single moms working two or more jobs to support their children leaving their children to raise themselves or be left in shoddy day care.  I’m not knocking day care, but we all know that the better day care is afforded by those who can best pay for it.  Some mothers are on welfare, living at the lowest income level, a hand to mouth existence, with not much hope for their future or their children’s.  This is not productive to the future of our country.

I’m no expert, but common sense tells me a country is only as strong as its people and its families.  I believe women are the heart and soul of this country – I also believe raising confident, healthy, compassionate,  intelligent children is one of the most important contributions we make to this world.  Single moms need to be allowed to do this without the world upon their shoulders and no hope or help.  A handout does not elevate or educate; it moves you to tomorrow bringing the same problems and fears.

Let’s have a program which is a paid salary for single moms (not welfare) to raise their  children and stay home.  AND do it in such a way that will bring forth young, respectful, educated, mannerly, and considerate young people into the world.   A two week paid vacation in the summer could be afforded to mothers just as in any job, and allowing them to rest and refresh themselves.  When their last child leaves home from high school, the mother will be heading to college paid for by the government for a job making her a productive cog in the wheel of the economy.

I would go a little bit further and install many classes,  at the local level of government, on important skills such as nutrition, health, shopping, financial skill in pertinent areas, child rearing, cooking healthy and locally, first aid, and this could go on.  Some women may think this is a step backward when we have been moving more towards careers and away from homemaking skills.  However, in so doing, we have left out some of the most important nuggets of knowledge handed down to us through the ages.  Think, if people knew how to budget, save, conserve, recycle, cook, shop wisely, eat healthy, navigate their children through  the school systems so they get the  most from it, make wise decisions in their children’s health, honestly, would that not make our country stronger?  There were many illegal and dishonest actions on behalf of financial institutions and government that brought about our recession, but we citizens also need to take responsibility for poor choices in living and financial planning.

All this would be done at local levels.  This is no place for federal government control.  The state and county levels would be best knowing what each area needs and its resources.  Basic foundations for the program but flexibility for different states with various needs and available resources.   I would draw on skilled educators from all levels of walk:  home economic teachers, grandmothers, mothers, financial planners, business teachers, various chefs, assemblymen and women, librarians, nurses, and doctors, elementary teachers, high school and college educators.  Learning to live with health, wisdom, frugality, common sense and joy is lacking today.  These skills need to be taught because for the most part the ball was dropped by a generation or  two ago regarding basic domestic skills.  Care must be taken to look at the educational value of a grandmother who successfully  raised five children and maybe never went to college or the successful farmer who has a wealth of information on gardening, local produce, and work ethic.  These pearls of wisdom live in our communities but are untapped.

This is a program not to be man-handled by federal government officials anxious to put their hands into the pockets of funds or grants  dedicated to vital grass-roots efforts to elevate the standard of living for the poor and bring forth pride and advancement for the underprivileged.    This is a program to be run at local levels with integrity, morality and decency.  When children’s lives and futures are at stake, no cost is too high.  We have forgotten the strongest link in our country is the family and it begins with the mothers.

Families today are not the “traditional mom/pop variety.  It is wonderful to have a strong two parent home with financial stability, but I think we all know that is the exception rather than the rule.  That is no excuse to give up on the family, whatever form it may take.   We need to tap back into the domestic wisdom and thrifty ideals from generations ago.  The environment demands it and our children deserve it.  We, as women, have the power to shape lives, futures, and the world simply by placing the value of raising our children to the level it deserves.   “The hand that rocks the cradle rules the world…” is more than just a poem, but a phrase with power and truth.****

There is an alternative to dead-end welfare, despair, and hopelessness for poor women struggling against all odds.  Community support, respect for the position of mothering, utmost respect for our children, and programs to support, educate, and elevate our struggling women and their families.  We have spent billions to save big business – let’s  save our children through their moms instilling wisdom, values, and pride.

What do you say?  I say, “Yes, we can”.

***To cite this article: Howe, Brian and Pidwell, Ruth. Single Parents and Paid Work [online]. Australian Journal of Social Issues, The, Vol. 39, No. 2, May 2004: 169-181. Availability: <http://search.informit.com.au/documentSummary;dn=837892544476376;res=IELHSS> ISSN: 0157-6321. [cited 20 Apr 10].

****”The Hand That Rocks The Cradle Is The Hand That Rules The World” is a poem by William Ross Wallace that praises motherhood as the preeminent force for change^{[clarification needed]} in the world. The poem was first published in 1865 under the title “What Rules The World“.^[1] The title of the poem is a commonly quoted phrase.^[2]

I remember hearing my “older” relatives saying, “You know, when you get older the time goes so much quicker, it just flies…”  Well flies is not the word for it!  It is space shuttle speed and for heaven’s sake, please  slow down!  When did this happen?  I noticed my contemporaries looking a bit aged, then I would take a quick glance in the mirror in the a.m. or p.m. (a very quick glance… and all the mirrors are antique and broken – I’m not much of a narcissist; just a women who likes antiques) and I’d think, dear God I am there too!  Or I may walk by a mirror in the store and think, okay, now, I know her, she’s older but… and “Oh my God, it’s ME!”  Yes, I did say it – “It’s me!”  I’m on that speeding train along with the rest!

At the  expense of sounding “old fashioned”, I must say, take this fast paced technological age, please.  I used to be excited by new technology but now I am exasperated by it.  My computer has become a source of frustration rather than awe.  I feel I can’t keep up with technology even if I were a marathon runner in software shoes.  I am embarrassed to say I have (had) a degree in computers (word processing) which now is simply in the “archives”.  As I type this my computerized alarm clock is going off  and I’m unable to change the alarm regardless of how many times I try. The time reads as military time and I have to ask my husband how to decipher it (granted I didn’t get the manual with this).  I yearn for a computer that is easy to use, and an alarm clock that simply does what I tell it.  I truly am sounding rather Amish, but simplicity is fast becoming my mantra and I don’t mean the “Bill Gates” type of simplicity.  I am a visual person.

Magazines herald the paperless home, sterile environment of speech activated appliances and technology.  I wonder what they would do when I begin swearing vehemently in the event of complications?  I confess wanting to dismantle the voice activated computers answering my every call for credit cards, insurance issues or bills as I shout into the phone my information only to have my husband shout back, “What?  What did you say?”.  As I repeat my information over the phone moving to another room, I hear, “Are you talking to me?  Why do you insist on talking to me from another room!  I can’t hear you”, or “You’ll have to speak up!”  Simultaneously, I hear through the phone, “I’m sorry that information does not register, you’ll have to call back.”  I am ashamed to say I was undoubtedly rude to a lady on the phone because I was sure she was a computer.  I still am unsure of whether she WAS human or not.

Women, we age faster and more obviously than men.  Let’s face it ladies, things aren’t quite what they used to be.  While men look more “distinguished” we look older. No, we don’t get that wonderful “patina” that men have; we get the varnished look and that’s if we’re lucky.  I think I first noticed my earrings were not going in like they should.   When it began to take me four minutes to get one earring in, I began to think – then to notice… my ear lobes had changed!  They weren’t the  tight smooth little things from the past; when did they become flaccid and disobedient when ordered to allow an earring  placed within?  That’s when it struck me – even the ear lobes age!  Dear God, what next?  I try not to think what next.  The hair is whiter, the skin drier (much drier!) and  the bones creakier ( a definite!).  I may be speaking entirely for me.  There may be svelte 50 year- olds running around out there with youthful figures and features, energy bursting out all over and feeling like they’re eighteen again… but that’s not me.

And that’s okay.  Aside from the back thing which is pretty bad, I’ve traded youth in for wisdom, creativity, empathy, acceptance, love, and gratitude.  Wisdom I honor from experience and faith, creativity in food, art and craft, empathy to all living things, acceptance of what I can not change, with  love to my most precious creations, i.e. my children and grandchildren. I gladly acknowledge gratitude for the gifts God has bestowed upon me without envy for what he hasn’t, and love to all, my friends, family, even enemies and God.  Each lesson placed upon me was one I would never have chosen for myself (I’m not a massachist)  but has honed me to become a better person than I would have been.  The lessons have been brutal at times, but I am a slow learner and must have needed those brutal kicks.  Then there are the unforgettable  lessons so beautiful I cry upon reflection.

Some people cry when they are in pain, when they suffer or when they are sad.  I cry when I see kindness or a kindness is shown to me that was unnecessary.  The pain and suffering is something I accept and take for granted;  I know no different.  It is the simple kindness, the gentle giving, the loving remark, that can bring tears to my eyes, and an ache to my heart.  For I know, that is what is rare and infrequent in our voyage through life.  A kind deed from someone is the double rainbow with an arrow at the end to pierce the heart with its poignancy and simplicity.  A morel in the woods – rare, treasured and precious.

I’ve gotten on the sentimental side of aging, I apologize, but we have some compensations to our years.  I don’t want to think of sitting in a nursing homes in the future with Led Zepplin playing as the  “music of our youth”.  I’ve always thought, how cruel to play sentimental songs of someone’s youth when they are locked away from those they have loved and lost.  When  it is our turn (the “baby boomers”), the artists of our youth i.e. Stones, Petty, Beatles, CCR,  Bob Dylan, or one of the many others, may just be what pushes us over the edge.  Mick is the one of the few who can get away with tight pants and singing rock and roll into the sixty-somethings; although Petty did do us proud at the Superbowl – classy. Still, not what I want to hear drooling in a wheel chair in my last years.

Is aging a landslide you unknowingly step on and shake your head at the bottom of it wondering what the hell happened and  how long have you been sliding?  Does it just creep up on you when you’re busy living your life, going about your business?  I’m not sure, but one  thing I do know, is we all get there – IF we’re lucky.  When we get there, we need to have more class, more style, grace, empathy, contrition, and wisdom than we had when we were young.  It is a journey and when I reach the end I want people who have known me to stand up and say I was there for them, a great friend, parent, spouse, the kind of person who inspired them to be better while  I was  here.  I hope for them to say I was there when they needed me and that they were glad to have known me.

So, when I glance in that mirror and notice an older me, it’s just a reminder how much hard work is ahead  with  less time to get it done – so GET TO IT!  Our report card for life, the final grade, is what our friends, family, and enemies think, pray and say about us as they kneel at the side of our coffin (or urn).  We don’t look like much at that point, but then our grade determines how great we’ll look afterward.

in memory of CL

Now, I should say everyone, that is, except Congress and Senators among our other dear representatives.  They have their own healthcare plan which we, the citizens, pay the majority of.  They have the Federal Employees Health Benefits Program the top tiered one.  In politician land there  is a multiple choice of plans, no waiting period, no precondition clauses,  only immediate coverage.   Decisions, decisions, just what plan to choose for themselves and their families.  No coverage is denied due to preconditions and coverage is effective immediately – no waiting period.

Do they need dental work?  Cosmetic dental work?  No problem! Eye coverage – even laser surgery if they don’t want to wear glasses.  Only the very best facilities and doctors for our hardworking “public servants”:   anywhere they choose to go.  I know hair plugs are included, and I wouldn’t doubt plastic surgery is also.  The botox keeps them from looking worried; I’m sure that is for our benefit just so we think everything is fine.  If a politician has cancer or heart disease, they aren’t worried about not being able to afford their medication or treatment.  This is a Utopia unknown among the masses.

What should we as a nation do?  This may be a novel idea, but why not grant all of us,  citizens of this great country, the same healthcare afforded by our politicians?  We are paying for it…  Why shouldn’t we also be treated equally when it comes to healthcare?  To play the devil’s advocate, if we can not have the healthcare plans offered our politicians, I believe they should have to take whatever they vote on for the uninsured masses.  What do you think?  The one thing no one has talked about is fairness, true fairness.  From Hillary and Bill to Barack and Michelle, let’s all be in this together.  Only when people are choosing for themselves is the choice the right one.  If these politicians who are drawing up these plans for us KNOW, without a doubt, they will be using the exact same plan for themselves and their families, how long do you think it would take them to finalize a healthcare package?  Don’t you think it would be the RIGHT plan when finished?  And if it needed tweaking, I’m sure they would see to it.

Another issue I have with our dilemma is the fact we are not treated as individuals.  In our Constitution we are treated as individuals with respect, rights and freedoms.  Reading it, we are filled with pride and say, hey, I want to be on board, include me, YES!  People need to feel this way with the healthcare reform before they jump on board.  We need to be included as individuals and not crunched as numbers or statistics or data.  It may be a good idea, but they are going about it all wrong.

For information on Healthcare for our Representatives check out:

http://public-healthcare-issues.suite101.com/article.cfm/health_care_for_the_us_congress

Plan was to meet at the Ilion Marina at 6:30 a.m., but George had to bring his wife to work and Vern was fishing off the shore when George showed up at 7:00 a.m.  Vern wastes no time.  Fishing is serious business, as our nephews, Mark and Steven will attest to when they forgot the worms fishing with Uncle Vern.  It wasn’t pretty. These men are now nearing fifty and you can still see the fear on their faces when they talk about it laughing sheepishly.

As George pulls up, both went to get George’s fishing tackle out of the truck.  While they were putting the equipment in the boat, Vern was surprised at the condition of George’s tackle; it looked like it had not been used in ten years.  George’s boat was permanently docked on the Ilion Marina in the canal  (George had his own spot between two boats, one being a house boat).  They took off the boat cover, got the boat ready and started the engine.  It was now 8:00 a.m.

Vern militarily wants to  be on the water by 5:00 a.m.  “Best fishing early in the morning!”  Vern would tell anyone casting about for tips.  George must have  had a dispensation with the 6:30 a.m. time  since he had just retired.  Vern pushed the boat off into the water  and the fishing trip began.

George said how the boat was tuned up and running fine, but that wasn’t quite true.   George would put the boat in neutral and kicked it in gear, put it in neutral and kicked it in gear, while trying to fish with Vern.  George became nervous about the boat engine.   The boat kicked in gear so HARD, George decided to slow it down.  When that didn’t work, he decided not to fish and just drive the boat.  That left Vern fishing.

Vern was standing on the edge of the boat and casting, then calling, “Okay George, move it up a bit!”  Well, the boat kicked so hard, more than once Vern came near to falling into the water.  And so  it continued, to the amusement of those on shore and to Vern’s fear and aggravation.   The canal is NOT the place you want to fall into with snapping turtles the size of garbage can lids and aggressive water snakes  bigger around than large hoses.  These images were flashing in Vern’s head as he lurched towards the murky water at every engine thrust.

Shouting to George over the engines:  Vern  yells, “There’s a nice spot on the shore…”  nodding his head towards the spot.  George would mosey over to the spot, slow it down, well, as slow as he could.   Vern threw out and reeled in once, barely twice, and they were past the spot.  It didn’t matter how fast he cast, George’s boat was faster.  It was quite the workout.  Vern began breathing hard and his shoulder began to ache.  He was actually sweating.  Fishing of this magnitude was never detailed in Bass Masters or Field & Stream which he religiously read.  He couldn’t recall in all of his 50 years of fishing ever fishing quite this fast – it was like Hank Parker in fast forward.  When he finally did hook into a fish,  obviously blind and deaf to the noises, loud gas engine, and shouting,  it was like fighting  against a current reeling it to the boat because George couldn’t stop.  The hapless fish sped along beside the boat hooked by a lure only to be tossed back into the water once again and obviously the laughing stock of all marine life nearby.

Noticing a guy on the shore working some plastics (rubber worming and such)  Vern shouted, “Hey!  Any luck?” Vern didn’t quite get the answer since they were out of hearing range as they chugged by.  Next, they came to a little cove – Vern shouts, “Hey, George, that looks like a good spot to fish!  Just take it in slow”.  It was real shallow and before they knew it, they were partially  beached. “Taking it in slow” wasn’t such a good  idea.

Vern asked, “Do you have any poles or oars to get us out?”  George produced a tiny paddle.  While Vern pushed with the paddle, George put it in reverse.   And he put it in reverse again, and again, until finally the boat lurched off the shoal.   Needless to say, the fishing was shot in the cove by then and the water muddied up.  That’s okay because George was already in motion.

On they mosyed down the canal, Vern casting ahead and reeling like a madman while George ran the boat without stopping.  A few fish were caught but a lot of fast casting and reeling made it an Olympic sport for stamina; not the relaxing fishing trip Vern had envisioned.  Vern asked, “George, have you ever thought about taking the boat out of the canal and  fishing the lakes?”

George, “Well, I paid a good price for keeping it on the canal and this way I don’t have to tow it and launch it somewhere else.  That’s funny you should say that, my son suggested taking it on a lake also”.

When they were done fishing, they had to bring the boat back and put it in the dock.  By now, the wind had picked up pretty good.  Driving it out was easy,  parallel parking it back between the two boats and with wind was not easy.  It took five or six tries until they finally got it in.   Docking was the success of the day.

Vern just gave me a look when he got home and I asked the proverbial question, “Well, did you catch anything?”  The look was a bit like the one Mark and Steven got when they forgot the worms.

Fishing with George was quite the experience.  Vern’s never been back fishing with George since.  He’s not sure George really wants to go fishing or just likes driving the boat… but it was one fishing trip Vern will never forget.

As a young mother I found solace and peace in gardening.  My inherited flower beds were like nomads moving on my whims.  Some flowers were more than fifty years old and adding when I could, vegetables and herbs were incorporated into the mix.  Bouquets  filled my home and my daughters’  memories:  hostas, peonies, Stars of David, Jacob’s Ladder,  iris, old fashioned roses, lilacs, hydrangea, violets, poppies, lilies of the valley, among others.  I brought in ferns, trillium, wild ginger, bloodroot, myrtle, daisies, and Black-eyed Susans from the woods.  My girl friends  shared and we traded spreading perennials.   I frugally tended to my daughters and gardens.   Mistakes were made and horticultural lessons learned.  Rocks were chosen to line the beds and I always wanted to expand.

Gardens have an effect on other people.   Women especially are drawn to gardens.  One,  in particular, found consolation in the garden on east side dedicated to the Blessed Virgin, she a woman who suffered and loved greatly.  Poorly constructed, she stands in the forefront of her garden and the flowers next to her are always the first to bloom in the spring and the last to give in to the frost.

I learned more from my children than they ever learned from me and it is so with my garden.  The weeds  grow right along with the flowers, spring will always follow winter, be patient and nature will take its course, plants (and people) need light, water, warmth and nourishment; they give more than they receive, and death brings  with it new life.

Gardening is now a time for sharing and reflection.   My joy now has been to give my flowers to my daughters.  Seeing the delight and wonder  on their faces as the flowers return in the spring, watching them work the ground,  finding satisfaction in their labors, and fragrant rewards as birds and bees visit their yards to share in their yield is now “my” garden.  I will have a smaller, more meaningful version.

This is a time for reflection.

Circumstances change, and circumstances are temporary whether good or bad.  Pulling weeds and transplanting flowers, my thoughts turn to my life, my daughters and women everywhere.

Women everywhere have trials, sorrows, persecution, abuse, sufferings, and misery.  We are the caretakers even when we can no longer physically care for those we love.  We care for our loved ones with our prayers whatever our religion.  We can’t help ourselves when we cry, when we feel so deeply and when we love.  It is in our nature to defend, nurture and tend.  We work for the betterment of others.  We have been downtrodden, left behind, neglected, and misunderstood.  Around the world women are at the mercy of men; bearing children makes us vulnerable, not bearing them leaves us feeling empty.   We are expected to have the strength of ten men and yet not the rights of one.  We rarely unite or defend each other as a whole.  If we are disabled, life becomes that much harder but we become that much stronger.

My garden is a tribute to women who have suffered, loved, and survived.  In it they will find hope, faith, and strength.  They will see the beauty and wonder and be consoled or they may smell the fragrance and remember life still can be good.  It has  much to offer.

I believe women are the flowers in the garden of life.  I believe God will tend to us with the love and kindness we all deserve, if not in this world then in the next, as we tend to each other.

In Spring romance abounds for turkeys as well as all nature.  The males are out to collect females to mate with and strut their stuff by displaying their beautiful tail feathers loudly puffed out in a fan, dragging their wings, gobbling, and literally getting red in the face to win their ladies over.  Males will fight with each other using their spurs, size and intimidation tactics with the jakes (younger males) usually on the loosing side of the Toms (the older birds).  The hens may either be impressed or ignore these handsome fellows, but one thing is for sure, they will warn them if they see anything out of the ordinary.  Their hormones must be more in check than the male’s since they keep their heads about them.  Obviously, you don’t want to tick your lady off, since she may just let you get your head blown off.  This makes for a difficult hunt when you are in the woods trying to bag a bird with observant hens around.

Now, the gist of turkey hunting is to make the male turkeys i.e. gobblers or jakes, believe you, the hunter,  are a hen (female turkey),  in heat, in the woods, by the skilled use of  decoys, calls, and camouflage.   Turkeys have incredible eyesight which make them a deer’s best friend.  If the turkeys don’t see it, the deer’s keen sense of smell  will alert them to any danger in the woods.  There are box calls, diaphragms  (yes women, that’s what they call them)  slate and glass calls, yelpers, owl hooters, crow calls, etc.  As you can see, it is quite the art.

For a large gobbler, a man will gobble, purr, cluck, and rise at the crack of dawn.  He will actually shop, yes, voluntarily and happily, for the perfect outfit to camouflage his entire  body and his scent.  He will paint his face black and green.   He will sit for hours watching videos of other hunters bagging the most obscenely enormous birds and ecstasy of ecstasies,  accomplishing the “Grand Slam” bagging the Osceola, Rio Grand, Easterner, and Miriam.  These birds are from Southeast, Southwest, Northeast,  and Midwest respectively.  Vern lives, breathes and eats turkey hunting in the northeast the entire month of May when you can hunt from sun up until 12:00 noon.  Suffice it to say, Vern has gotten his share of birds.

Vern is a turkey hunting addict.  On his walls are turkey fans (made by him), a collection of  spurs strung on rawhide and turkey beards.  He even went so far as to keep the legs when our girls were young.  The girls ended up baiting each other with these turkey legs slipping them under the other’s  pillow before they climbed into bed only to have her sister find them and promising revenge after waking up the entire house with a scream.   Retaliation resulted with the injured party hanging them off the attic light which had a pull chain.   Ear piercing screams were heard throughout the house when the light was turned on with laughter following.  Having a man who hunts definitely livens up the home.

Not all turkey hunters are die hards, take George for instance, a novice.  Vern enjoys calling in Toms (adult male turkeys) for other hunters.  Now, his friend  George had never gotten a turkey.  George had never gone turkey hunting at this point, but relished the idea of the hunt and enjoyed talking with Vern about his many conquests;  so Vern invited George for a hunt.  George was very excited and the hunt was planned and executed.  Rather than use his own shot gun, Vern offered his, which had camo tape on it and had proved itself more than once.   He had turkey loads which were especially effective ammunition.  George would use the gun and Vern would simply call a bird in for him.  The day and time of the hunt was set.

George was on time at 4:30 a.m. coffee in hand as they set out for Vern’s favorite hunting spot.  Vern reminded George that this is a sport where you sit motionless, silent, and totally alert for any sign of wildlife especially a turkey.  Only your eyes would move under the mesh netting over your face.  Upon arriving Vern familiarized George with his gun and they proceeded up the steep hill to the top of the ridge to the flat plateau on top.

It was about 5:00 a.m. when they crested the hill.  The sun hadn’t quite risen, so Vern set George up against a tree in front of a logging road and then proceeded to set the decoy in the road quietly whispering that the birds usually roost in the side hill above where they were setting up.  Vern has been known to “put the turkeys to bed” the night before, paying attention to their roosting spot the day before the hunt.  He noticed George fidgeting, upon second look, the net meshing was up over his head.

“George!” Vern whispered loudly, George glanced over, and Vern motioned to put the netting down over his face.

“Allergies!” George whispered loudly, “Can’t breathe with that over my face!”  He sniffed loudly apparently quite stuffed up.   He proceeded to fidget and once the mosquito netting was up,  he was free game for the hundreds of hungry mosquitoes ready for breakfast.

Vern stationed himself 20 yards behind George and settled in with his calls.  When it started to break daylight he noticed George swatting at mosquitoes while still fidgeting, trying to get comfortable; every now and then, Vern would hear a loud sniffing.  Soon, a couple gobbles sounded on the hill and Vern proceeded to call in the birds using a mouth call (diaphragm), a little yelper and box call mixing up the purrs, putts, and cackles.  Glancing over at George,  Vern began to doubt the success of the hunt, all his vast knowledge he had relayed to his protege seemed lost on George.  If the turkeys didn’t spot him they would certainly hear him.

As luck would have it, the gobbles came closer and the volley of calls rallied back and forth. Three jakes (young male turkeys) came in together toward the decoy from  George’s blind side, they were thinking this was going to be their lucky day, upon hearing this hot to trot “hen” even though she didn’t look so grand.  George was  still was fidgeting, but listening intently, not yet seeing the birds.  Vern finally got his attention without spooking the birds, and pointed to the three jakes which were now 25 yards and closing in, in front of  George.  Vern sat quietly, not wanting to call anymore because the birds were now close enough and he waited for George to raise the gun and shoot.

The birds are still walking past the decoys at a mere 15 yards and George  hasn’t shot one of them or even  raised the gun.  Seconds pass, now they are 15 yards beyond the decoys and still no shot.  Finally, Vern removes the diaphragm from his mouth and says, “George shoot!”  George picks up the gun and aims at one of the jakes and fires.   Nice shot!  It went down!

They ran over to the downed bird and George could barely contain his excitement.  Vern heartily congratulated George then asked him, “George, why did you wait so long before you shot?    Any bearded bird is legal!”

George replied “Yes, but I didn’t see any beards hanging down.”

Vern said “All three had six inch beards ” as he held up the beard coming from the jake’s chest.

George broke out in a grin, ” I was looking at their heads not their chests!”   Both hunters had a great laugh over that and the  bird was carried triumphantly  down to the car.

There’s nothing quite like bagging your first turkey!  “They’ll never believe this at work!” crowed George explaining how he wanted a picture taken so he could put it in a frame at his workplace.  Upon arriving at Vern’s house, our daughter Janelle  happily snapped a few shots of both of them triumphantly posing with the bird.

At George’s house, Vern showed him how to dress out the bird and his  family was happy and excited for him.   It was unanimous that the bird tasted delicious and the hunt was a success.  The film however vanished, but the memories remain.

Jack

There’s always been something about Jack. After scouring the humane shelters and reading up on breeds of various dogs, I stumbled upon a box of puppies someone had graciously picked up at a garage sale, mother and all. There was something about the red and white pup who quietly sat looking at me with the white heart on his head while the others were chewing on my shoelaces and jumping on my feet. It must have been the heart or his telepathic message, “pick me, pick me, pick me…” Home we went together. I’m thinking, free, small, quiet, and can’t possibly shed that much. When he house trained for me within the hour I didn’t care if he shed a ton (and he did). If Jack had only one fault it would be that he shed like crazy. It’s a constant reminder of him wherever I’m at.   I’ve had other dogs, three to be exact, but none quite like him.

I got him right before I had serious spinal  sugery so I had some time to train him to obey commands, and do tricks.   He was a quick learner acing a trick within thirty minutes and loving it – always one to please. He was part beagle and part springer spaniel so walking on a leash with any grace was beyond him, scents drove him nuts.  My daughter Janelle got the brunt of this since she had to walk him the first six months, dutifully being pulled this way and that. We walked a lot for physical therapy and Jack was delighted. Janelle had the patience of a saint while her arms grew a bit longer. We finally tried a “gentle leader” and then a harness which worked the best by tightening at the chest if he pulled. He was bred to hunt and his nose was keen. He found my daughter, Jennifer’s  cockatiel three times when it got lost in the woods, and he was known to flush a partridge or two or prettily set up a point at a robin in the yard.  He had a vendetta against any squirrel in the yard or on the feeder and raced them to the spruce tree standing against the tree as if the next step was climbing it while the squirrel chattered loudly.  As he got older, the squirels had carte blanche and knew it.  Unless they caught his eye they had free run of the yard almost sauntering to the tree if spied.  Jack’s  senses in his ” golden” years  would have qualified him for spectacles and a hearing aid.

Jack’s decorum only slipped when he was very young.  But boy, he did slip.  The priest would visit me while I was still  pretty much at home and barely walking and we would sit and chat.  Usually, Jack would be great and hop up on the bed and sit behind my legs and sleep.  Well, not when Father Jim visited…  It was then he chose to confess his sins and shamelessly act out in detail his new found lust for a certain blanket  laid upon the floor.  Shamelessly, I must add, until Janelle, horrified and blushing would have to drag him and the blanket out of the room since he refused to let go. Having heard much worse in the confessional,  Father Jim, God bless his soul, acted like nothing was amiss, and the conversation would continue.

Jack was more than devoted;  he was attached to my legs and you might say he had radar.  He knew how I felt or any of my family at any time.  His consolation was timely and always well received.  I still get a bit annoyed when he  whines at me to lie down when I don’t feel well or have done too much.  He can be a nag at times but it is  out of love.  My daughters and grandsons he adores as well as the  neighbors.  I must say, he is a bit of a coward though for when we have walked together, I have had to protect him from dogs and a cat that came after him.  I’m honored to do so because he is a gentle soul who has so much to teach  about love, consideration, and kindness of heart.

My husband  kept saying, “he’s not going to get any bigger is he?” when Jack was a pup.

“No, no”, I would answer knowing he was not the dog lover I was.  However, Jack ended up to be about 55 pounds with short little legs and the sweetest face you ever saw.  His  expression could go from  regal to silly, to wise in a flash depending on circumstances.  He drew you in – you just wanted to hang out a bit with him.  My three sons-in-law were always busting his chops calling him “feminine”, or a “manatee” or “flash” (Jack only had one speed), but they all grew to love him.  He didn’t create the best impression on Ronny when my daughter brought Jack to his house when they were dating.  My daughter, Jenn, kept calling him “Pookies” out of love, but “Pookies” soon became “Pukies” to Ronnie when Jack got nervous with his new surroundings.  Where WAS his owner? He always was the sensitive type.  Try as he may, he is still living that one down.

Because of his size, I couldn’t walk him out on a leash in the winter since the spinal surgery didn’t go well and had to train him to go “potty” by himself and knock when he was done.  I thought ringing sleighbells on the door was a nice touch and attempted to teach him that method of asking to go out.  He preferred his own of just coming and telling me.  Our cat, however, observing the training of the dog, still rings the bells whenever she wants to go out.  She is too smart for her own good.   Jack was wonderful about house rules  until they  put a bike trail behind my house.  We live on a highway, so The Rules with Jack are more than strict  – they are unbending.  The bike path was another thing.  It went through “his” turf.  There was a leash law on the path but when he went out in the morning or evening he was always down checking it out.  Who had left their scent today? People were very understanding of the gentle white faced older dog.  I’ve had more than a few ask me about him if they haven’t seen him for a while to make sure he is okay.  I’ve never met some of them, but Jack had.   He just has that way about him.

He never hunted, but my husband who was always hunting game of every sort would  toss it down and Jack would respectfully sniff as a gentleman with a fine cigar, and savor every odor.  He would then station himself next to the game whether it be partridge, turkey, pheasant, deer or fish and “guard” it while we went in the house for the camera.  He got in on more than a few trophy shots.  We submitted his photo for the local newspaper’s pet calendar guarding a pheasant (the colors were gorgeous) and Jack was as proud as if he had caught it himself.  I added on my submission that he was not a “hunting dog”  but only appreciated the sport.  The picture got returned with the note that hunting photos are excluded from the  calendar.  It was their loss.

Now that he is a senior, the rules don’t apply and aren’t hard and fast.  Heeling means a leisurely walk along the path stopping at any arresting scents; when I tell him to “come”, I’m not sure if his hearing is poor or selective, but he is given the benefit of the doubt.  Tossing a treat usually means we find it together now, and riding in cars is heavenly when we can  get him up into the front seat.  We both need a good day for that one even though it is a Ford Focus.  His days of jumping into the back of the jeep are past but the rides are just as enjoyable.  I can’t help but think highly of the people I see driving with their dogs accompanying them.  Having been unable to ride in a car for three months myself and being left home on numerous occasions while the family drove off, there’s something to say about the considerate dog owner enriching his best friend’s day.

Yes, Jack is a breed apart.  He is the “poster child” of the humane shelter mongrels and a fine one at that.  People could only be so lucky to adopt a dog of his caliber.  What do you say about a dog who leaves such a lasting impression on people?  A life well lived, friends made, family treasured, nature studied, and a lasting impression on those he meets.  Hopefully, I can live up to Jack’s expectations.

Our little skunk is now digging frantically at the bottom of this wire cage.  The small hand occasionally grabbing at a flower stem as if reaching for something to pry its way out of there.  I am amazed at the concentration of this creature as I sneak up to spy on it from my front porch.  No, I am not bold, I think rather a fool, for when you are standing alone to do a task that no one else steps up to do, you have to question yourself.  I guess it was the little arm grabbing at my Bleeding Hearts (yes, he truly did)  that won me to his  case.  He never looked up, determined to make his escape.

Studying the top of the cage, I couldn’t make heads or tails on how it worked, how it released, or anything else.  I went inside and gave John a call, whose cage it was,  to find out how to release this skunk.  I had hoped to find a more sympathetic ally since John was a retired teacher.  John, upon hearing my story, admitted to trapping a skunk himself albeit in error, and had released it to head back to its’ den at the neighbors’  (I’m sure they were needing it back).  He very kindly offered to come and open the cage for me and I accepted.

Knowing we were at the mercy of whatever happened, and being Catholic, I did what any Catholic would do- threw some blessed sand over the cage of this poor creature.  It certainly couldn’t hurt and who knows?  The skunk never noticed a crazy woman tossing sand over him as he was too busy digging furiously tossing his own dirt into the air.

Over the hill came John in his Jeep.  This gallant gentleman came prepared:  rain suit, boots, gloves and a plastic bag with eye holes to cover his face in the event our skunk decided to release his scent.  I had a raincoat on, bandanna, boots, and a gray sheet to go over the cage…

We crept quietly up to the cage and John opened the latch on the top.  The skunk simply waited patiently and then exited quietly and quickly back under our porch and to his den.  We breathed a sigh of relief and backed away.

“They can really be a nuisance, digging holes all over the place.  He may even dig into your foundation”, says John removing his skunk gear.  “This really didn’t solve your problem,” he observed.  I agreed, but asked him to sound positive when Vern would call him that night to converse about the encounter.

“I really don’t want the skunk killed, if at all possible.”  John just had a small smile when I said that so I was hoping he’d sway the opposition just enough to keep the skunk safe.  Then again, he could be thinking I’m a bit crazy.

Wikipedia notes “To have a skunk around is not necessarily a bad thing, skunks are placid, retiring and non-aggressive. They try very hard not to get in trouble. They eat mostly insects, many of which are pests so they are beneficial to have around. In winter and spring they may eat mice…  They will not spray in or near their homes if they can avoid it either.”  (perhaps explaining why we were fortunate not to have been sprayed.)   “… They are primarily nocturnal and usually solitary – except when mothers are raising their babies. They are active throughout the year, but in northern areas, they spend the coldest parts of the winter in their dens.”  It goes on to describe how to evict a skunk which sounds all but impossible.  You need to be a mason and architect (extremely QUICK one too) while the skunk is out meandering.  And should you inadvertently enclose a skunk, there will be spraying for sure.  Ammonia-soaked rags near or inside the burrow may drive  him out or may piss him off.  They are not sure on that one as it could go either way.  Mothballs are another option, but of course you need to go into or near the den to place them there.  “Oh, excuse me skunk let me know when you leave so I can send a ‘moth ball eviction notice’ your way”.  It doesn’t quite sound like an option.  Warnings abound on many measures with the words  odor defense” and “undesired outcomes” following.

The local Humane Society supposedly provides traps to catch skunks and accordingly to Wikipedia the Humane Society will pick up this cage and release the skunk into the wild.  The Humane Society must not be aware of the laws of the DEC that state you may not release the animal off your own property. I highly doubt our local Humane Society would be offering services of that sort since they will not venture out to pick up a stray cat.   Wikipedia also suggests letting the wild animals get away “on their own”.  Yes, that would be ideal but we cohabit so well,  that this skunk sees no reason to leave.

Well, fodder for future reference.  Everything will depend on what Vern decides to do and what I can coerce him into.   I tried to pick up the cage to remove it, but it was filled so full of dirt I couldn’t lift it.  There could be worse things than a skunk in my flower garden.  I survived, John survived unscathed and so did the skunk.

Shortly after John left, my son-in-law showed up on his motorcycle, Janelle’s husband, another gallant gentleman.  “Well, where’s the skunk?” he asked as he looked into the empty cage.

“The man whose cage it is and I released it and it went back under the porch” I replied.

“You didn’t kill it?” he questioned.

“No, and I don’t want it killed.”

He thought for a moment and then said as he started his bike “Well, you’ll have to name it then.”

Petals.  The skunk’s name will be Petals.  You can’t possibly kill a skunk with a name like Petals.