Go Gently Into That Dark Night - In Memoriam

I killed my beloved friend today.  I guess we are fortunate in this instance that animals are legally considered nothing more than property so I could humanely end his life before cancer slowly and painfully stole it from him.  Thank you Tobias for almost 12 years of unconditional love and faithful companionship. 

When I emailed friends, family and colleagues to tell them Toby had been diagnosed with cancer and would soon be leaving us, many asked
to come by and say their goodbyes.  And so many did.  I am not the only one who is mourning his passing.     

My administrative assistant at work is NOT a pet person.  She is an extremely well dressed, well groomed, well coiffed, well put together and classy lady and she does NOT understand why people like to live with creatures that shed, and have bad breath and slobber and stink, etc.  I frequently brought Toby to my office but I always kept him away from Helen, respecting her right to not have to have her workspace invaded by my dog.  But after a while I noticed that when he came in she would talk to him.  And then I would see her walk by him and dip down as she passed to pat his head or scratch his back.  I teased her saying that I kept catching her secretly liking me dog and she responded, "You know, I DO secretly like him!"  Soon it was no longer a secret.  She joined the number of people at the office who kept treats in a drawer for him and would let him eat a treat straight out of her palm.  She learned that he loved to have his butt (lower back just above the tail) scratched and would scratch him there.  She would hold his face in her hands and talk to him.  Saliva and pet hair on herself or her clothing seemed not to be of concern when Tobias was around.  I had been absent from work for several weeks following some surgery during the time I found out that Toby had cancer, and when I returned to work Helen asked me about how I was doing.  After we engaged in the normal social pleasantries she turned to walk away, but then turned back around and asked with tears in her eyes, "How's our boy doing."  Many people at work had asked after him and I managed to control my emotions and respond to their queries without tears.  But when Helen asked about "our boy," I lost the battle.  Such was the loving, funny, playful nature of my Toby that he had won her heart when no other animal ever had.    

I considered spending the extra $120 to have a private cremation so I could get his ashes back and honor him by spreading them someplace beautiful that we loved going to together.  So many places came to mind.  But Toby was a rescue dog.  And he loved other animals (except puppies, he always hated puppies).  This was a dog that would patiently wait while the cats ate from his bowl poaching his food before beginning his meal.  This was a dog that let kittens jump on his tail when he walked past them and then let them hang on for a short ride.  An animal rescue agency rescued Toby and gave us a chance to have almost twelve years together.  I decided a better way to honor him was to donate the money to an animal rescue organization, to give others the chance to have the type of loving companionship we shared. 

I know what many people think.  I know what many of them are probably saying as they witness my grief.  I am single and childless by choice but I can hear people saying that for single childless people our pets are substitutes for the "real family" they feel we lack.  Tobias was funny and fun and clever and playful and intelligent and mischievous and joyful and most of all loving.  If I had a husband and ten children he would still have been worth my love and my tears.

Family, friends, colleagues, my vet.  Everyone who cares about Toby or me or us both told me letting him go was the right thing to do  And intellectually I know it was.  But my heart feels differently  I killed my beloved friend today.

Drink Responsibly

Three cats share my house and my life. My cat is named Buddy Boy Beignet (he is a Katrina rescue, hence the Beignet). I let my dog Toby also rescue two cats, although not from Katrina (he is a rescue himself and has the biggest heart of almost anyone or anything I have ever known). One of Toby's cats is named Lizzie Beth (who is so naughty my Brother calls her Lizzie Borden). The other cat is named Mia Sarah.

Beignet is a perfect cat. He is never naughty. He is sweet and playful and always up for a cuddle, never scratches the furniture, plays sweetly with the other animals, and rarely misbehaves. His only remotely naughty behavior is that he likes to turn the simple household chores of changing the sheets and/or making the bed into a challenging game.

Lizzie Beth and Mia Sarah, on the other hand, are the cutest feline terrorists you are every likely to meet.
They scratch the furniture,

have

have ruined a blind by turning it into a kitty hammock,

lay belly up in the middle of the floor and then act indignant when you trip over them,

inexplicably get muddy paw prints halfway up the wall,

bully each other and Beignet and Toby, get on furniture where they know they don't belong. . . .

But worst of all?  They LOVE to play drinking games.

Lizzie's drinking game goes like this. She wants to have a taste of whatever is in your glass. She is not discriminating. It can be water, or a soda, or wine, or a beer, or a milkshake, or milk or . . . . However, she realizes that lapping up a puddle is easier then drinking from a glass. So if you are not paying close attention to your glass, she will simply knock your beverage over so she can lap up the ensuing mess.

Mia Sarah's drinking game is less messy but more insidious. She is a dipper. She sticks her paw in your drink and then licks the beverage off of her paw. Dip, lick, dip, lick, dip, lick.  This means that if you ever leave a drink unattended at my house, upon returning to it, you should just pour it out and start afresh. For in your absence it is highly likely that a paw has been inserted into your beverage in order to provide Mia a taste.

There has been a lot of debate in America in recent years about racial profiling and what a terrorist looks like. The two biggest acts of terrorism committed against my country in my lifetime were committed by persons of different races, different ethnicities, different religions and different nationalities.  For me the debate is ludicrous.  I know that terrorism knows no single, race, religion, gender, ethnicity, nationality or national origin. 

And there is little need for debate or profiling in me house.   We know what the face of terrorism looks like:

No, I am a postive person. YOU are like Santa Claus on Prozac, at Disneyland, Getting Laid

A few weeks ago I was walking with Toby around Liberty Park (before it was closed due to the oil spill).  He did his business and I bent over to bag it up so I could dispose of it in an appropriate receptacle.  Realizing my ample booty might block the path, I stepped off to the side to accomplish the task.  An older gentleman walked past, smiled and said in a rich, Slavic accent, "You nice lady!"  I thought he was thanking me for stepping out of his way, but as he passed by he went on to say:  "Your dog hurt to jump, you buy ramp.  You nice lady!"  I realized he must have seen me unloading my seemingly suddenly geriatric dog from my vehicle with the new ramp I'd bought to make getting in and out of the car easier for him. 

Then last evening it came to me as I was cutting strips of carpet runner to line the wooden stairs that Toby now has trouble climbing, slipping on his way up or down.  I AM a nice lady!

Let Us Make a Joyful Noise

I've been enjoying immensely the cracking good new BBC America reality series, The Choir.  The first series features Gareth Malone, choirmaster, trying to start a choir at a high school in a blue collar community that has never had a school choir, and then getting them ready in a few short months to compete in the Choir Olympics in China.  The back stories of the students are often as compelling as the story of the choir. 

Gareth is infectious with his absolute passion for music and choirs and the role they play in bringing people out of themselves, in helping them find self-confidence through self-expression, and in the unifying power music has to bring people and communities together through song.  It brings to my own experiences with choirs; our church youth group going into nursing homes and singing at Christmas time and having the residents join in the singing; the timeless melodies and familiar lyrics joining strangers previously separated by generations, now united by song.

And I watch feeling thankful for my high school choir teacher, Andrea Lyman, who made our school choir open to all.  She shared Gareth's passion for the power of music and performance and community.  Our school's show choir was competitive, but she encouraged me to try out.  And even though I didn't make that choir (I have a range of about five notes and have been known to render people sterile with my singing), the period of thinking I MIGHT be good enough to make it was worth it.  I;m sure that is why she encouraged all members of the choir to try out for the show choir.  She wanted each of us to believe we just MIGHT be good enough to make it, to believe in ourselves.  Teachers like Mrs. Lyman and like Gareth understand that teaching is as much about building the character and confidence of their students as it is about conveying information on a particular subject matter.
                                                                                      

The Choir is drawing inevitable comparison to the cultural phenomenon that is Glee.  I LOVE Glee for its often poignant stories, for Jane Lynch, for it sometimes awesome 80s pop songs, and for the chance to hear Kristen Chenoweth sing.  I LOATHE Glee for its often ludicrous stories, for its contrived musical-dance numbers, and for its sometimes awful 80s pop songs.  So on Glee?  I am a solid meh.

But I am not at all meh about The Choir.  If you haven't already, CHEQUE IT OUT!  Wednesday evenings on BBC America.  And if you don't have BBC America, are you MENTAL?!

She Dresses Like A Super Hero With No Budget

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No adventures in bicycling today.  I had a medical appointment 15 miles across the valley, and I wasn't up for biking the almost 30 mile round trip.  Plus, I am less than fast on my bike - we are both built for comfort, not speed - and it would have taken me all day to ride there and back.  So I scooted instead.

I ride my scooter in the far right lane, referred to by police officers as the number one lane, but known colloquially as  the "slow lane."  I prefer scooting in this lane because I ride at the speed limit and vehicles in the other lanes are inevitably going faster than that.  The problem with the this lane is that it is fraught with obstacles:  animals entering the road, general road debris, vehicles creeping along looking for unfamiliar addresses, vehicles stopped to load or unload passengers, sprinklers overshooting the lawn into the roadway
 . . . . 

As I scoot along, moving around obstacles or sometimes switching lanes to avoid them, I find myself feeling like I am my Avatar, JRo, in Mario  Kart. 

Objects in the roadway become the dreaded turtle shells.   Animals entering my view become the interminable owls.  Other vehicles are now perceived as competitors.  I scan the road for speedy mushrooms or mystery boxes to help me to victory.  And of course, in both worlds, I avoid thunderstorms. 

All of this is just a figment of my imagination you say?  S'Okay.  Figment and I are old friends!

So go ahead pigeons. Laugh it up. I'm getting in my car now and the last time I checked, we had no deal!

Last week I mentioned a family of quail traipsing through a wedding I was performing. A few weeks before, a family of quail ran through the bike lane as I was headed to work, pulling a hundred pounds of dog and trailer behind me. I had to come to a complete stop to avoid them, which I don't like to do because it takes a lot for my bone on bone, arthritic knees to get me and Toby and the trolley started again from a complete standstill. This weekend, I was riding home from a movie and two quail ran in front of me. They did that panicky thing where they stopped, darted one direction, then the next, in an apparent attempt to decide which course of action was best to avoid collision (or maybe in a parody of the classic "serpentine! serpentine!" scene from the original The Inlaws). I again had to come to a complete stop to avoid running over quail. Additionally, my parents live in a neighborhood (750 miles from me) so full of quail that the street is aptly named Quail Run Drive. When we visit, Toby considers it his job to keep the backyard free of quail and other feathered and furry visitors. I am now wondering if this regular appearance of quail in my life, especially as I live in a very urban environment, is some sort of message to me from the Universe. If it is, I'm missing the point.  But it does bring to mind George Constanza. Because last time I checked, the quail and I? We have NO DEAL!

Adventures in Babycycling

Today's bicycle commuting adventure comes to you courtesy of an unidentified child who shared the bike lane with me on my way to work, along with a woman I presumed to be his mother.  He was riding along ahead of me but behind her, most the time working the insouciant, hands free maneuver so familiar to me from my own youth.  His riding seemed so joyous and fun, and I remembered this technique as being so easy, so I decided to try hands free riding myself.  My short-lived, wobbly attempt made me reconsider relearning this skill whilst riding in a lane where a mishap would place me in the path of oncoming vehicles. It would appear my balance is not what it was as a twelve year old athlete.  I'll try it out at the park instead where I only risk being run over by the less lethal dog walkers, roller-skaters, joggers, or fellow cyclists.