Toodle-oo 2011

Oh yeah, what a year. And I don't mean in a swell "let's do that again!" kind of way.

Without rehashing the details let's just say it's been a challenging year, from the death of one beloved dog, a terminal cancer in another, and the discovery of an extremely rare blood disease in myself.

Sometimes I've felt like the locusts must be right around the corner.

But around that same corner are people who have provided love and support during trying times: such as the countless expressions of sympathy I received when Lucy died, and the sincere concern and dismay expressed over Elvis' battle with cancer. My friends understand what my dogs mean to me.

There's my best friend, Pam, who took precious vacation days so she could sit with me during my own chemo treatments. Deb, who felt so helpless across the country in her new North Carolina home and downloaded books on her personal iPod so I'd have something to listen to during the five-hour sessions. My beloved "baby" sister Jennifer, who accompanied me to doctor appointments, holding my hand and reassuring me that everything would be okay.

Not to mention all the others who checked in constantly when they learned of my blood disorder and subsequent treatment; Calling, emailing, texting, asking how I was and what could they do for me. Not realizing they were already doing the most important thing:

Reminding me that I am loved.

And so, on this final day of 2011, this is what I want to remember: not the sadness, stress and tears, but the warm glow of love that emanates from my family and friends. This is what matters. This is what makes me strong. Happy. Blessed.

To you and yours, a very Happy 2012.

Love,
Eileen, Elvis & Olivia

Elvis Fights the Good Fight

This past Thanksgiving weekend, when Elvis was diagnosed with an aggressive tonsil cancer, my vet consulted with U.C. Davis School of Veterinary Medicine Oncology. After all, if anyone would know anything about anything, it would be them. And he was told that despite the seriousness of this particular cancer, chemo might buy my beautiful boy some quality time.

That was all I needed to hear. Quality time? Let's do it.

And so, I scheduled a three-hour drip chemo for Elvis that following week and he responded beautifully. Not only did he dodge potential side effects, but he appeared to be feeling better than ever. He was excited about walks, enthusiastic about food, and was traipsing around the house with a playfulness I hadn't seen in months. I was over-the-top delighted and encouraged.

Maybe my boy would be sticking around for awhile, after all.

And so, I was feeling pretty good this afternoon when I picked Elvis up from his second chemo treatment at my vet's office. We were fighting the good fight, doing all possible to delay this cancerous spread and, by all counts, we appeared to be holding down the fort. That's why I was blindsided by Dr. Arnott's news.

The tumor was back.

Already the size of a walnut, the cancerous demon has returned to the same spot where he excised a fist-sized tumor just three weeks ago. The chemo isn't helping, he told me. If it was, the tumor wouldn't have returned so quickly.

Dr. Arnott is calling U.C. Davis for further advice when they reopen after the holidays, but he warned me: there's not much else we can do to treat Elvis. As we were having this dire discussion, my sweet boy just stood there looking at me, anxious to leave and eager for a walk.

I took him on his walk and observed how deceptively healthy he looked. I admired his gentle beauty and thought about the little things he does that have become so entrenched in my life; the way he taps my face with his nose every night, when I'm in bed, before retiring to his La-Z-Dog Recliner. His happy little dance when I say the word, "cookie." The way he tucks his needle nose between my knees so I can scratch that spot between his ears.

I tried to imagine a life without Elvis and couldn't.

Our walk over, I brought him home. Held him. And cried.

Who Needs Reindeer?

Who needs those reindeer slackers when Santa Paws has ex-racer greyhounds that clock in at 45 miles per hour?

Season's Greetings,

Love, Eileen, Elvis and Olivia

A Decision to Live With

I always thought that when the dreaded time came to say goodbye to Elvis, I'd let my sweet greyhound go peacefully. Gracefully.

I would recognize how lucky I was to share all those wonderful years with this special dog, kiss my beautiful boy on his needle nose, and hold him tight as he embarked on a new journey. One that would entail racing off to join my mother who, I know beyond a shadow of a doubt, will be eagerly awaiting his arrival on the other side with arms outstretched. Anxious to once again embrace her beloved "grandpuppy."

But I now realize that what I think I'm going to do and what I'm actually capable of doing are two entirely different things.

I can't let Elvis go. Not yet. Not without a fight.

Not while he's still the happy, affectionate dog he's always been: eager for walks, anxious to eat and ready to play. That's why I've decided that so long as his quality of life isn't compromised, I will do whatever it takes and whatever it costs to fight his cancer and extend his life.

I can't live with myself if I don't try.

This is why I've scheduled Elvis for his first chemo session on Tuesday. If he tolerates it with no ill side effects, he'll have four more sessions, spaced three weeks apart. This treatment could buy him several months of quality time. Every new day I get with Elvis with be a precious gift, accompanied with the knowledge that I'm doing the very best that I can for my boy.

And at the end of the day, I can live with that.

Post Feast

You have your Black Friday and I have mine.

Happy Thanksgiving 2011

Wishing everyone a joyous Thanksgiving Day filled with the love of family and friends.

~Eileen, Elvis & Olivia

From Joy to Despair

I had planned on using this post to introduce my new ex-racer greyhound, Olivia. I was going to describe her sweet disposition, beautiful, brindle coat, and her four dainty paws that look like they've been dipped in milk. Not to mention the impressive fact that she hasn't yet had an accident in the house or chewed one single shoe.

I was going to boast that the lovely Olivia is a canine dream come true. But I can't write any of that. Not today, because my heart is breaking.

This morning I took Elvis to the vet to treat what was diagnosed last Friday as a mild case of doggie bronchitis. He appeared to be getting worse, so I thought another check-up before the offices close for Thanksgiving might be a good idea.

But instead of bronchitis, both Dr. Arnott and I were shocked to discover that, just since Friday, an ugly mass the size of a plum had sprouted on my pup's neck. Emergency surgery revealed it was just the tip of an even uglier tumor inside his throat. Dr. Arnott removed as much of the beast as he could, but said the roots extended far too deep to get it all.

Then he phoned with the news.

My beloved boy has a terminal and very aggressive tonsil cancer. Chemo and radiation aren't viable options, not for this type of cancer and certainly not for a 12-year old dog.

This afternoon, I returned to the clinic to visit Elvis since he has to spend the night hooked up to an IV. I laid on the floor near his crate and held his head against my chest until his agitated breathing slowed down and he started to relax. Through my tears, I stroked him, kissed him, and told him what a good boy he is and how much I love him. Oh, how I do.

And in his weakened, groggy, doped up state, Elvis managed to lift his paw and lay it across my arm. Letting me know, beyond a shadow of a doubt.

My boy, my precious boy. He loves me too.

A New Face a Comin'

The cat's out of the bag. Or rather, the dog that is. If you read my November 9th Pet Tales column in The San Francisco Chronicle, you know that I caved in. The clean house, free time and extra money just got to be too much. I couldn't stand it any longer.

I had to get another dog.

So I got on the horn with Stu Homer of Golden State Greyhound Adoption and submitted my request for an ex-racer greyhound. Other than requesting a small dog, since Elvis is already a big boy, I had no idea what I might be getting. That is, until Stu phoned last week to tell me my new dog had been selected. I'm pretty sure he said it was a female and I know he said it was brindle-colored and coming from Florida. I don't remember much because only his last words made a real impression:

"She's Lucy's cousin."

Now, I know that this fact doesn't amount to a hill of beans. And yet, it matters. I'm thrilled that my new dog is related to the sweet pup I lost to a wicked liver disease this past July. Even if it's nothing more than invisible doggie DNA, a little piece of my beloved girl will continue living in my home and soon, in my arms.

Because she arrives today. Stay tuned....

Hunting Season

The other morning I was making my usual pre-dawn drive through a windy, woodsy canyon when, through the early morning mist, I came upon a breath-taking sight: A majestic buck, grazing in a field with a doe at his side. Had there been a spot to pull over, I would have done so, just to absorb and enjoy the tranquil moment.

I drove on, but the lovely image lingered in my mind, as did a gruesome thought: What I had appreciated as a snapshot from God would be seen by some as an opportunity for venison on the plate.

And I mused...how can anyone take pleasure in killing these beautiful creatures and call it a sport?

Karma, baby, karma.

A Different Kind of Scary

There I was, watching that new creepy TV show, American Horror Story on the FX channel, when a commercial break began. And so I did what I always do: Channel-surfed. I was flipping through channels faster than a Kim Kardashian marriage when, oooooh, pretty lights, pretty lights!

Backtracking, I found myself on the infamous home-shopping network, QVC. Quality! Value! Convenience!

The pretty lights were a set of four, 16" battery-operated window candles with timer in an attractive brushed bronze base. Hmmm, I could use those. Couldn't I? Not really. Well, maybe. Considering that I'm cut from the coupon-clipping, sales-seeking, gotta-save-for-a-rainy-day cloth, I can't explain what compelled me to reach for my phone and dial the 800 number.

But I did.

Immediately, I was welcomed by a cheery attendant who asked for my phone number. When I recited it, he greeted me by name and asked if I still lived at the same address.

Uh, yeah.

Was I looking at the set of four, 16" battery-operated window candles with timer in an attractive brushed bronze base?

Uh, yeah.

And would this be on the same credit card?

Uh, yeah.

He then advised that my order would arrive on November 26, thanked me for shopping at QVC, and hung up.

Stunned at my impulsiveness, coupled with the speed and simplicity of what just transpired, I flipped back to the FX channel. The commercial break was wrapping up and the program was about to resume. I couldn't help but note the irony: American Horror Story?

Uh, yeah.

A Clear and (non) Present Danger

I see him every day when I walk my greyhound, Elvis; a big, brawny, bowl-legged Boxer that greets us with angry, deep-chested growls as he slams his massive body against the fence. Each day I note, with just a hint of apprehension, that one of the planks in the fence is loose. The very plank that the Boxer targets, mind you.

No dummy, he.
But there's no way to avoid this house if I want to take Elvis to the park. And so, I walk my boy as quickly as his elderly legs will allow. Which, trust me, isn't fast enough for my comfort.
One day as we approached the house, my heart skipped a beat. There was no growling, no barking, no body slamming. Instead, I saw a gaping hole where the plank once was and noted the ominous absence of our nemesis, the Boxer. Uh oh.
Then I saw him--across the street on a neighbor's lawn. He was upright and alert, staring straight at me and Elvis. Panicked, I looked around for help, but the neighborhood was completely deserted. I had nothing to protect Elvis or myself, and doubted I could do much harm to the Boxer by pummeling him with the bag of poop I was carrying. I had no choice but to continue in the direction of the Boxer.
Slowly, I led Elvis forward.
And immediately, the Boxer reacted...by bolting in the opposite direction and hiding behind a hedge! I could see the whites of his eyes as he peeked at us through the branches. Then, when he heard his owner calling his name, he raced across the street and into her open arms.

Since that day, the fence has been repaired and the Boxer still greets me and Elvis with angry, deep-chested growls. But I'm no longer afraid and pay no attention. And after a few seconds the Boxer recognizes us and stops barking. He just stands there, watching us walk by. The jig is up.
We both know the truth.

Soul-Searching in the Chemo Ward

Went into my second round of chemo today with a bit of apprehension after last week's episode. The nurse said reactions are typical the first time out and I'd probably be fine, but I did note that she sat me next to her station, "Just in case."

So I crossed my fingers and nestled in for the long haul, the IV of toxic sludge hooked to my right arm and a stack of books and magazines piled to my left. Not an ideal way to spend a crisp autumn morning, sure. But any doubts I had about treating my blood disorder with something as potent as chemo were laid to rest earlier this week with a reminder of what MGUS is doing to my body.
I was sitting on the sofa,watching one of my favorite shows, Parenthood, when I noted that my feet felt like blocks of ice. Lacking any ready volunteers to heat them with a massage, I rubbed one between my warm hands and realized, with a jolt, that my foot didn't feel a thing. Nothing.
It felt like I was holding someone else's icy foot between my hands.
I've been warned that only one third of people with MGUS respond positively to chemo. But that night, holding "someone else's foot" in my hands, confirmed my decision to proceed with treatment. It's my only hope. If I don't respond, nerves will continue to be destroyed and, well, I'll just cross that bridge when I come to it.
But really, I'm one of the lucky ones. MGUS is not terminal. It's only, as Dr. Bee Gee expressed, "a major drag." As I looked around the chemo ward, I saw people of all ages fighting real life-or-death battles: Shrunken frames, bald heads, and sunken eyes filled with nausea, fatigue and despair. Spouses, partners, families and friends sitting by their sides, holding their hands and hoping for a miracle. While I'm reading Budget Travel magazine and dreaming about my next vacation, these people around me are dreaming about survival.
Puts things in perspective. Because at the end of the day, a numb foot might be a "major drag," but it sure beats the alternative.

Round One in the Ward

Chemotherapy. The very word sounds lethal, conjuring up painful visions of cancer patients suffering through nausea, and hair and weight loss in their fight for survival.

The only treatment known for MGUS, the blood disorder I've been diagnosed with, is chemo. But the good news is that it's a "chemo-lite" called Rituxan. No nausea. No hair loss. The only long-term casualty is my immune system, which will be seriously compromised for at least one year. This means I'll need to avoid air travel, crowds, bubonic plagues, things like that.

So there I sat in the chemo ward as the nurse prepped me about what to expect and things I should do. I may experience flu-like symptoms for a day or two after each treatment. Okeefine. I should drink at least 32 ounces of water to help flush out my system. No problemo. Oh, and speaking of flushing:
"Be sure to flush your toilet twice for the next 48 hours," she told me. "This stuff is bad for your pipes."
Pipes? PIPES? What about my pipes? If she saw the look of horror on my face, she ignored it as she inserted the IV tube and exited stage left. The slow drip had begun.
And it was fine for the first four hours. When my best friend, Pam, learned I was planning on doing the treatment alone, she took the day off work and insisted on accompanying me. Yeah, she's that kind of friend. I hadn't wanted to bother anyone, but found myself grateful for her company. We were discussing diets, men, work, fashion, flipping through store catalogues and stuff like that. We might have been enjoying a conversation over an espresso at Starbucks, if not for that bag dripping the toxic sludge into my arm. Then the nurse came by.
"Just 15 minutes left," she chirped. "You're doing great." Hey, I was!
Her words were still floating through the air when I felt a back ache developing. Probably from sitting in the recliner-type chair for so long, I figured. So I stood up and stretched, and noticed the ache was extending down my legs and up my torso. Then I started to shiver, first a little, then a lot.
Ruh roh, Scooby Doo. Something wasn't right.
Can you get the nurse? " I asked Pam and sat back down. Suddenly my entire body started shaking uncontrollably, like Lindsey Lohan in front of a judge. When a nurse tried taking my temperature, she couldn't find one. Another took my blood pressure, which had dropped to 80/50. I started worrying I might see that infamous "bright light" as a flock of nurses rushed to my side. They heaped heated blankets on me, yanked out the IV and began flushing my veins with a saline solution to cleanse the chemo while pumping me with drugs to counteract the reaction.
Me? I semi-conked out.
And when I awoke a short while later, all was dippity-do-dah-dandy. The shaking had stopped, my temperature was normal, and the chemo was resumed to completion. Almost six hours later, I was done.

Until the next round, that is. Every Friday for three more weeks. It'll be fine. Really.
Let's just hope I can say the same for my toilet.

The Very Nerve

Leave it to me to strike that one-in-a-million jackpot. Although in this case, I'm not sure it's a prize that anybody wants.

A couple years ago, I complained to my doctor that my toes were numb. She blamed it on poor circulation and said it was nothing to worry about. Okeefine.
But when I noticed that the numbness and tingling were spreading up my legs, I made another appointment with Dr. Ravishanker. This time I caught her eyebrows raise in concern as she referred me to a neurologist. Have you ever been in the office of a neurologist? They keep scary tools that involve safety pins, cables, water and electrodes. All of which he used on my feet and arms.
I felt nothing.
What followed next was a bone marrow biopsy and CAT scan, a plethora of blood tests and weeks of worrying. Was this Leukemia? Myeloma? Lymphoma? Cooties?
Try MGUS.
Not a very sexy name. It sounds like a fungus or the name of some military SWAT team deployed to the Middle East. But MGUS Antibody is actually a rare and incurable blood disorder in which my blood is producing proteins, little Pac Mans if you will, that are eating the sheaths of my nerves. Considered a high-risk precurser to Myeloma and Waldenstroms, it's a slow-moving disorder that typically strikes older people in their late 60s and 70s. MGUS isn't thought of as especially serious, since seniors won't usually live long enough to experience repercussions that can include the inability to walk (due to lack of feeling in the limbs).
But as a mere "child" of 53, I will live long enough. God willing. And that's the problem.
To be honest, I'm still not quite grasping the severity, or lack thereof, of this diagnosis. Initially, I didn't tell many people because a health announcement is usually made when there's something serious to announce, like cancer. I'd feel pretty stupid making this grand dramatic statement that, "Oh fiddle dee-dee, I'm withering away from MGUS," and worrying all my friends, only to find, ten years down the road, that my right pinkie is a bit numb, but hey, other than that I'm fine.
Uh, sorry for the needless concern, folks. My bad, ha ha.
That's why I asked my neurologist, who bears a startling resemblance to Bee Gees brother, Robin Gibb, if I should be worried. "Give it to me straight, doc," I said. Just like in the movies. He hesitated and then shrugged. "It's not terminal," he finally replied, "but it's definitely a drag."
And there's no treatment for MGUS, except for one: chemotherapy, which only boasts a one third success rate. Chemo won't cure the disease, but if I respond, it might slow the progression and possibly even regenerate damaged nerves.
Which means I had a decision to make: with just a 33% chance of success, did I want to pollute my pesticide-free-organic-vegetarian body with such a toxic treatment? I wrestled with the decision for several weeks.
And have my first treatment this Friday. Stay tuned for details.

Forgive Me, Bessie

So I did it. Pulled the plug. Finally succumbed to the siren song of high-def TV and threw out my TV of 16 years, Old Bessie. The guys from Video Only installed my new flat screen amidst a plethora of cables and wires, promised me I'd be ecstatic with the enhanced picture, and tossed Old Bessie in the back of their truck.

"Be careful with her," I told them. "She's been good to me." They looked at me like I was nuts. And off they drove, leaving me with my slick new 32" inch Panasonic flat screen high def TV. Whoohoo, party time! I nestled on my sofa, turned it on and awaited nirvana.
Or not. Colors were muddy, faces were orange, and every program on every channel looked like it was filmed in the the dark and dank cave of Saddam Hussein. What the heck?
After making a few panicked phone calls, I learned that a high-def TV is not enough to provide a high-def picture: I must have a high-def cable service as well.
Don't I already have that with DIRECTV? Uh, turns out no.
Okeefine, fine. So I made an appointment for the installation of a new high-def receiver and high-def satellite, all at an additional high-def monthly cost, mind you. But hey, to express their thanks for my customer loyalty, DIRECTV threw in free HBO for three months. This will enable me to watch premium classics such as Police Academy IV, The Wedding Singer and more recent favorites like Knocked Up and Dude, Where's My Car?
After suffering through Oompa-Loompa-colored faces for three days, the DIRECTV technician arrived and made the necessary swaps. Finally, the moment I'd been waiting for! I nestled on my sofa, turned on my slick new 32" inch Panasonic flat-screen high-def TV, and awaited nirvana.
Or not. There they were, the same muddy faces, same dark and dank colors. My slick new 32" inch Panasonic flat-screen high-def TV obviously needed adjusting. Okeefine.

But when I retrieved the TV remote to look for any buttons that might provide a clue, I winced and gingerly set it back down. The damn thing resembled the cockpit of the Colombia Space Shuttle. To touch anything on that remote would be to invite hell's fury.
Which might be an improvement. Because right now, in some electronic recycling center, it appears that Old Bessie's having the last laugh. She's reminding me, "If it ain't broke, don't fix it."
Sigh... Amen, Bessie. Amen.

The RCA That Wouldn't Die

Where's a poorly made appliance when you need one?

That's the problem I'm facing with my 16-year old RCA TV. A relic from the previous century, the clunky 600-pound heifer still works fine. Oh sure, channels are slow to change, colors are muddy, and all ethnicities sport an orange complexion, but other than that, Old Bessie keeps pluggin' along.

Damn such fine workmanship! Because I want a flat screen.

But how can I justify buying one? I can't just toss Old Bessie out on the street. I mean really, what kind of thanks would that be for all her years of service? And so, I've been patiently waiting...and waiting for her to go gently into the night so I could make my coveted purchase. However, much like Dick Clark and Cher, I don't think Old Bessie is going anywhere, anytime soon.

To make matters worse, the Panasonic high-definition flat screen I'm lusting after is now on sale. This means that with one quick swipe of my credit card, I too could be privy to every single lurid, detailed aspect of an actor's face, where facial pores look like craters and wrinkles resemble sand dunes. Cool.

And so, I'm bidding a fond farewell to Old Bessie. She's been a grand old dame, but sometimes in life we have to recognize when it's time to hold 'em, fold 'em, and pull the plug.

In this case, literally.

A Diet to Die For

It was going so well. My appointment with the nutritionist, that is. Since my diet leans pretty much toward vegetarian, I thought it might not be a bad idea to meet with a nutritionist and make sure I was eating healthy. You know, getting all my vitamins and minerals, stuff like that.

She reviewed my food diary, taking notes, asking questions here and there, smiling and nodding with each of my answers. "Good, good," she'd murmur, saying things like, "Fish oil? Excellent!" "Wild blueberries, flax seed and almond milk with your oatmeal? Wonderful!" and "Tofu, salmon, brown rice? Great choice."

This nutritionist was loving me. I was her dream client, the kind they must fantasize about in the classroom. "How about snacks?" she asked.

"I don't really snack and when I do it's mostly almonds and raisins," I replied, watching her head bounce enthusiastically like a Bobble Head doll. "Sometimes carrots, sugar snap peas or plain Greek yogurt. Oh, but I often have wine with dinner," I admitted, expecting a slap on the hand.

"Red?" she asked. When I nodded, she advised that red wine was an antioxidant and actually good for the heart. "You've got a very healthy diet," she said with obvious delight. "I wouldn't change a thing."

But wait, there's more.

"I do have a couple vices," I confessed. "I eat two homemade chocolate chip cookies after dinner almost every night."

"Just two?" she asked. When I said yes, she laughed and said that was nothing. Nothing! "Two cookies are perfectly fine." I figured she didn't need to know that each one was the size of a pie plate. Obviously, I could do no wrong with this gal. Or so I thought.

"And one more thing," I added as she was preparing to close my file. "I eat raw chocolate chip cookie dough."

The smile on her face faded faster than a Seattle suntan. In the silence of her office, you could almost hear the needle scratching across the vinyl.

"You WHAT?" she asked, her gaping jaw almost hitting her knees. "With RAW eggs?"

Ruh roh, Scooby Doo. I couldn't backpedal out of this one. The toothpaste was out of the tube. "Uh, yeah," I confessed.

Thus our nutrutional lovefest came to a screeching halt as she admonished me with threats of salmonella and listeria. I may only have one vice, but apparently it's a whopper.

Sigh. And things were going so well.

'Cause I Wanna

So there I was at this party with a most unusual theme: it was a celebration of the autumnal equinox, which not only marks the beginning of fall, but is also known as The Witches Thanksgiving. It's considered a day of thanks for Wiccans.

How could I resist? Besides, I'm sure I've been called a witch at some time or another. Or at least something that rhymes with it.

The evening also supported a good cause, hosting three large bins to collect "the bounty of the harvest" for the Alameda County Food Bank. Excellent company, tasty hors d'oeuvres, festive decorations. Oh yeah, and did I mention the psychic?

That's right. My friend Sue hired a psychic named Rabbit and generously scheduled readings for each guest. Her intent was that we not just have a good time, but that we walk away with "something memorable, deep and meaningful."

Mission accomplished.

During my private session, Rabbit identified that in the course of grieving the death of a loved one, I'd forgotten how to be happy. How to appreciate those little moments in life that add color, meaning and joy. "I don't mean hopping on a plane to Paris or buying a new car," she explained. "I mean doing little things that make you happy, like indulging in a hot fudge sundae or taking a mid-afternoon nap even though the floor needs mopping. Do it 'cause you wanna."

That should be my new mantra, she advised. 'Cause I wanna.

"If that feels too self-indulgent, look at others around you and do something for them," she continued. "And do so in the name of your loved one. Make someone else happy in her name, 'cause I wanna."

Now I know that sceptics might argue that this is verbiage straight from any Grief Therapy 101 manual, and I might agree. Except, how could I explain how Rabbit knew very specific details about my mother's death? Details that I didn't confirm or deny, but most definitely hit the mark.

This weekend, I remembered her words when I popped off a check to the East Bay SPCA even though I have bills to pay. Enjoyed a leisurely lunch with my sister when I should have been working on a writing assignment. Took time to notice the beautiful sunrise from my bedroom window. And last but not least, I asked Stu Homer, of Golden State Greyhound Adoption, about available fosters. It may be time to find Elvis a companion.

'Cause I wanna. And you know what? It felt good.

Such a Good Boy

This morning, after feeding Elvis, I offer him his usual cookie for dessert, but he ever-so-politely declines. What the...?

Instead, he looks out the sliding glass door and then looks back at me with a worried expression on his gentle face. Out the window again, back at me, back and forth, back and forth. Clearly, something is bothering my dog. What is it, Lassie? What are you trying to tell me? I follow his gaze and look out the window towards my small yard, half-expecting to see an intruder of some sort, maybe a roaming rat or rabid raccoon. Nothing.

Then I notice that his doggie door is locked. And with a jolt, I remember that when I was power-washing the windows, I had locked his doggie door to prevent leakage -- over 15 hours ago. Despite having two meals since then, Elvis had "held it" without a single accident in the house. Not an easy feat, which was evident when I unlocked the door and he immediately bolted outside.

The boy's getting extra belly rubs and kisses tonight. Not to mention a few strips of roasted chicken with his dinner. I think he's earned it.

Read it Here First: Why Women Shop

I get it. Now I know why women enjoy shopping for clothes. Even if we hate the actual physical act of being inside a stuffy, claustrophobic mall, we can shop online to our heart's content and voila! Instant gratification: "Heather grey, size six, bootcut, click, send." It's why God and Al Gore invented the Internet.

Ah, but household goods are another story.
For the first time in many moons, I have a little financial wiggle room. I've prepaid my estimated taxes and Home Owner's Association dues. No vet bills. A freelance assignment paid off the hot water heater I had to replace and the car is running fine. I actually have a couple extra dollars to do some upgrades around the house. Nothing major, just swap out a few fixtures, like that generic white ceiling fan with an elegant cherry wood fan. Simple, right?

One would think.
The current fan hangs near the staircase on a 20-foot ceiling. And apparently my home is the first and only home in California to have 20-foot ceilings because I couldn't find an electrician with a high enough ladder. Really?
By the time I finally found one, I was so grateful, I didn't care that his installation fee was three times the cost of the fan. He was supposed to come out last Saturday, but called to apologize. Someone had borrowed his ladder. We rescheduled for Wednesday evening. Again, someone borrowed his ladder. We re-booked for Saturday morning and--take a wild guess--someone borrowed his ladder. We have now rescheduled for next Saturday, but don't hold your breath folks. Apparently there's a run for 20-foot ladders.
I would also like to swap out my patio sliding glass door with a grid door. I found just the one I want at Home Depot and, at $460, it's within my budget. Should be an easy enough project--just slip out the old and insert the new, right?
Dream on, Kimosabe.
First, Home Depot had to schedule a contractor to come out and measure my existing door because apparently amateurs don't know how to use a measuring tape. Never mind that my measurements ended up matching his. The official numbers had to come from the official Mr. Contractor measuring tape. At the tune of $50. Non-refundable, of course.
Eight days later, Home Depot called to advise that the half-day project would run a whopping $1600. Why so much? They had to tear out the frame, remove the floor around the door, insert the door, rebuild the frame, re-do the floor, do the Hokey Pokey and haul away the old door.
Okay, so ixnay on the new oorday. I still have the fan to look forward to, right? Which was purchased one month ago and is still sitting in my garage.
This is why I'm turning to the Internet. Forgive me, but I'm in dire need of instant gratification.
"Heather grey, size 6, bootcut, click, send."

Words to Live By

"The guy who invented the first wheel was an idiot. The guy who invented the other three, he was a genius."

~Sid Caesar

You Can't Make This Stuff Up

"A boozed up moose in Sweden ended up getting stuck in an apple tree in an attempt for just one more taste of the fermented fruit that put the animal in its condition.

The elk most likely got stuck while reaching high to get more apples at the top of the tree. After it was freed, it passed out out on the ground for awhile , but emergency services ascertained it was still alive.

By morning the animal was gone, most likely out buying painkillers and coffee."

~Abbreviated from the 9/8/11 edition of The Long Island Press

The Golden Years

Elvis is sleeping more these days. Deeper, too. Used to be when I came home from work, he'd come racing to the door to greet me, doing a little happy dance that translated as, "She came back, she came back!!!"

Now, he often doesn't even know I'm home. Not until I lean over his snoring figure, stretched across his La-Z-Dog recliner, and stroke his velvety neck. "Hi baby," I greet him. "Let's go bye-bye!" After all, he's been indoors for almost ten hours. With access to the yard, of course, but still, there's nothing like a walk to the park, right? Fresh air, exciting new smells, and hanging with his peeps, like Gus the pit bull, Mandy the chihuahua, Apollo the golden retriever and Sadie the lab. Yep, our park is quite the canine social scene.

Most days Elvis is ready and willing, but lately I'm getting a new look. One that says, "You go on ahead, we'll catch up later." And back to sleep he goes.

I'm not surprised. After all, my boy is 12. Since most large dogs have a life expectancy of 12-14 years, I'm all too aware that every day I have with Elvis is just a little more precious than the last. He's healthy, thank God. Much slower, but hey, aren't we all?

This is why I'm relishing our time together and trying to not think about how long that may be. I'm lavishing him with more attention than usual, such as our new evening ritual: every night, I lie alongside Elvis on his La-Z-Dog recliner. I hold him in my arms, stroke his silky face and pepper his needle nose with kisses.

And he closes his eyes and leans against me, tucking his knobby little head under my chin. His gentle face literally vibrates from his chattering teeth (this is an endearing trait unique to the breed called "greyhound chatter" in which their teeth chatter when they're happy or excited). He just eats this up. As do I.

I look at my beautiful boy and hold him tight, tighter. As do I.

Black Bean Brownies

Really, a brownie made with black beans? I had to try 'em. I'm always looking for healthy alternatives, although some desserts are sacred, such as chocolate chip cookies. Fudge. Cheesecake. And yes, brownies.

But what the heck. If I liked 'em, I'd end up saving myself a gazillion calories because trust me, when I make brownies, I enjoy the fruits of my labor. And so, I followed the recipe down to the low-fat sour cream and sugar-substitute, Splenda.

How did the they turn out?

I'll let you know. Just as soon as I'm done rinsing out my mouth.

Cock-a-Doodle Who?

In my world, Saturday nights usually consist of a glass of wine and a hot date with Alex Trebek from Jeopardy. So I'm a trivia geek. Sue me.
But last night I ventured out. My best friend, Pam, invited me to a bon voyage party her mother Anita, and stepfather Walt, were hosting to kick-off their three week vacation to Colombia next month. Held on their large deck overlooking the serene Delta waters, it was a festive catered affair complete with a Mariachi trio.
Now as far as I know, Mariachi music is Mexican, not Colombian, but perhaps Shakira wasn't free. Then again, my mother was from Colombia and she absolutely adored Mariachi music, so maybe Colombians have a soft spot for Mariachis. Who knows.
Anyway, that's why I was invited. Anita and Walt thought I'd enjoy the music my mother so loved. And much to my surprise, they were right. Because as a kid, I couldn't stand the stuff.
My sister and I grew up listening to Mariachi music. Almost every Sunday afternoon, Mom and Grandma (who was from Nicaragua and lived with us) would play their favorite Los Panchos Trios albums on a stereo the size of a Winnebago. They'd crack open the vino, which in the early 70s was Gallo Wine, a perennial supermarket favorite. Today Gallo has been rebranded as the moderately decent Turning Leaf, but they can't fool me. I remember Gallo when it came in a green gallon-sized jug and tasted like a cross between vinegar and rubbing alcohol. But Mom and Grandma liked it.
With the volume cranked up, they would stretch across the sofa with their vino, laughing, talking, and singing along for all the neighbors to hear. I just criiiiinged, wishing they liked the same stuff the other moms were listening to, like Tom Jones or Mac Davis. There was one song in particular that I couldn't stand -- The Rooster Song, I called it. So coined because in the main chorus, one of the trio warbled like old Foghorn Leghorn himself was being massacred.
But last night, that was the song I wanted to hear. Every tune by the Mariachis was like an invisible hug, bringing back a flood of warm memories. When I requested that song, I couldn't remember the name, but I sure knew how to describe it.
I crowed like a rooster.
With a knowing grin, the Mariachis nodded and began serenading me with The Rooster Song. And I closed my eyes and reveled in the moment. Missing Mom. Missing Grandma.
And grateful that the Mariachis weren't Mac Davis.

The Baby Gene

There I am, reading this book about how to train the perfect puppy in just seven days, and I am absolutely salivating. Not that I'm thinking of getting a puppy, mind you. After losing my sweet Lucy, my heart is still healing, plus I don't think my little old man, Elvis, could handle the stress of a newcomer just yet. No, this book is for an article I'm writing for The San Francisco Chronicle, about, well, how to train the perfect pup.

But oh, the pictures are getting to me.

I lust after puppies the way most women lust after newborns. Never have I stuffed a pillow under my shirt and admired my profile, pretending to be pregnant. Never have I conjured up fantasy babies with fantasy names, like Oliver or Tara. When menopause kicked in and I lost the ability to conceive, never did I bid a sad farewell to the ghost baby I'd never know, the one with my eyes and his chin.

I'm pretty sure there was a happy dance about no more periods, and perhaps a Kotex-shredding party, but there were definitely no tears. Seems I was born without that baby gene.

Not so for pups.

I find puppy breath intoxicating. I love their soft little growls, their sweet fuzzy fur, and even their weak attempts to bite me with their microscopic needle teeth. I can't resist the charming, clumsy, innocent antics of a puppy, and I'm not alone: there's a reason why Animal Planet's Puppy Bowl, held each Superbowl Sunday, is such a resounding hit.

But when I'm ready to open my heart to a new dog, it won't be a pup, but another ex-racer greyhound. Because, as my sister consoled me while I was sobbing over Lucy, "Somewhere out there is a racing greyhound, living in a crate, neglected and unloved. And on the day this dog retires, he is destined for the best life ever when you adopt him."

She's right. When that day comes, I'll be charmed by my new dog's discovery of life outside the racetrack. I'll be enthralled by his newfound delight over squeaky toys and treats, and will melt under the tidal wave of instant affection that greyhounds are known for. I'll overlook the inevitable accidents in the house, exhibit a patience hitherto unseen when he chews my slippers or climbs on the sofa, and will glow with excitement, adoration and pride over the new love that has entered my heart.

Just like a typical doting mother. Which makes me think, maybe I do have the baby gene. Even if my preference leans towards the four-legged variety.

For Love of Dog

So there I am the other night, watching the season three finale of AMC's brilliant series, Breaking Bad. I'm absolutely riveted to the murky screen of my 16-year old RCA, holding my breath while waiting to see if Jesse kills Gale (I'm one season behind because I watch it through Netflix, so don't tell me what happens!).

Suddenly, I sense I'm being watched.

I turn to my right and there's my greyhound Elvis, lying on his La-Z-Dog Recliner next to the sofa, just as focused on me as I am on the TV. He's watching me with such intent adoration, I can practically see little hearts shooting from his eyes. This pup deserves a kiss.

So I stop the TV, lay on the pillow next to him and hold him tight, peppering his needle nose with kisses. It occurs to me that if I could get a man to look at me the way my dog does, I'd be the luckiest woman on earth.

Then Elvis tucks his knobby little head under my chin, leans against me, and heaves a sigh of contentment. And I realize, I already am.

Saying Goodbye

I was dreading this day.

Oh, I knew it was coming, but really thought there would be a change of heart and at the last minute my dear friend, Deb, would tell me that she and her husband weren't moving to North Carolina after all. "We've decided to stay in California!" she'd announce. And we'd crack open a bottle of our favorite Chardonnay, Wente Riva Ranch, and celebrate the good news.

No such luck.

And so, on Friday, I said goodbye to the woman I call my "there-there" friend. So named because of her amazing ability to make me laugh and believe that, "There, there, things are going to be all right."

Over dinner at a quaint little outdoor bistro, we each brought the other a farewell gift. Ironically, both hearts. I gave Deb a necklace with two small silver hearts to represent the heart of friendship and she gave me a beautiful glass paperweight. Perhaps to symbolize our heavy hearts over the miles that would soon separate us.

Oh sure, there's Skype. Email. Postings on Facebook and specials on JetBlue. But it won't be the same. Nothing is the same as sitting on the porch alongside that special friend on a lazy Sunday afternoon. Sharing deep thoughts, light banter and a giggle or two over a glass of wine.

And for the moment, really believing that, "There, there, things are going to be all right."

Making Peace

There she was. My nemesis. My arch enemy. The bitc...er, woman I had the shouting match with that I wrote about in my July 10th post. I'd concluded that post with the hope that I'd see her again one day so I could apologize for my behavior. 

Now, apologizing might sound like a really gracious thing, except deep down I'm not an especially gracious person. Wish I were, but nope. And while I might have liked to apologize in theory, the reality is that I never thought I'd see this woman again and damn, here she was, walking up the hill right towards me.
Gulp. Countdown to graciousness.
I did it. Stopped her and apologized. Explained that I had just learned that my other dog, the little white greyhound I was walking that morning, had a terminal illness and I was raw, upset and emotional. She asked how my dog was doing and I teared up when I told her that Lucy had died just days later. Her sympathy appeared sincere and profound.
Then she apologized too, explaining the reason behind her rude behavior. Just a couple years ago she and her dog were attacked by a stray. It was a vicious, bloody attack, she said, landing her in the hospital and her dog in emergency, both with multiple bites and required stitches. Now, when she hears a dog barking, she panics and freaks out.
Can't say I blame her. As I'd known for myself and suspected with her, driving forces had been behind our behavior during that first encounter. Sort of a Perfect Storm, if you will.
Her name is Ruth and I told her mine. We chatted a bit more, apologized again and then parted ways with a friendly, "See you 'round."
And I meant it. I think she did, too.

The Baffling Case of the Dog's Limp

-Treatments, pain pills and therapies: $2,000
-Specialists, X-rays, ultrasounds and MRIs: $2,500
-Removal of a corn wedged in his pad: Priceless

All My Children

"What we have once enjoyed we can never lose. All that we love deeply becomes a part of us."

~Helen Keller

Missing Lucy

In August 2009 my beloved mother was diagnosed with Ovarian cancer. And I remember coming home from that horrible appointment with that horrible doctor (Alrighty then! We have Cancer! How are we feeling today!) and going into some type of manic-cleaning rampage.

I swept, mopped and dusted. Took out the trash, polished figurines, rearranged knick-knacks, changed the linen, pulled weeds. Only later, after reading books about grief, did I learn that this type of reaction is typical. It's the subconscious desire to restore order in a life that has suddenly been turned upside down.

After euthanizing my sweet Lucy on Tuesday, I found myself again going through similar motions. Only this time I realized what I was doing. Throughout my home there were too many painful reminders of the dog that was no longer there, so I started cleaning. And cleaning.

I washed and stored Lucy's ceramic food and water bowls with the cute blue paw-print decorations. I took off the Fosters & Smith sofa-saver cover and the multiple blankets I'd added underneath as extra protection. I removed the Fosters & Smith bed scarf that she would lie on while resting her head on my chest as we slept, and put away the spare doggie-pillow that she used on nights when she didn't hog my bed. I collected her squeaky toys, the ones that Elvis doesn't like, to give to a neighbor's dog. I swept and vacuumed, white dog hair flying everywhere.

In the backyard, I removed several pots and artifacts that had been strategically placed to keep my naughty girl from digging holes. I took a bucket of bleach-water and scoured the yard, removing all traces of the toxic diarrhea that her disease-ridden body had spewed during her final hours. I scrubbed, hosed and sanitized.

Hours later, I was done. The house smelled like lavender, floors shone and tabletops sparkled. Rooms were now airy and spacious without the second set of beds, bowls, blankets and toys. There was no evidence of the many accommodations I had made when Lucy joined me and Elvis in my tiny townhouse after my mother died. The house was immaculate, order restored.

And I cried. Missing the chaos, missing the dog hair, missing the mess. Missing my little girl.

RIP Sweet Lucy

"Don't be sad because it's over. Smile because it happened."
~Author unknown

And Lucy made me smile more times than I can ever begin to count. Read about my little girl in the July 2011 issue of Northside Magazine.

My heart breaks for this sudden loss.

A Confirmed Diagnosis

"Save your money," Stu Homer told me. As the founder of Golden State Greyhound Adoption, he's almost as knowledgeable about dogs as a veterinarian. Over the past 15+ years, with over 1,000 adoptions under his belt, he's certainly seen everything from corns to Cancer.

"If it's a liver infection, you'll know in a few weeks when the antibiotics start working," he advised when I told him about Lucy's recent diagnosis. "Don't bother with X-rays or a biopsy because if it's anything else, it will be terminal and there will be nothing you can do."

Harsh, but true.

I couldn't stand not knowing though. And so today I took my sweet Lucy to see Dr. Arnott for a liver ultrasound and biopsy. Turned out he couldn't do the biopsy. The ultrasound showed a liver so shrunken and hardened, a biopsy was impossible. Without any symptoms whatsoever, my happy, spirited, mischevious little girl had been ill for at least six months.

"She has end-stage hepatitis," Dr. Arnott told me. "It's just a matter of time. I'm so sorry."

And once again, the tears are flowing in my household; for what was and what is about to be.

I Didn't Heed the Warning

This sign, posted on the front door of the way cool Vine Cinema, in Livermore, should have told me all I needed to know about the new epic movie, Tree of Life.

Don't say I didn't warn you.

A Good Walk Spoiled

"Grace under pressure" is a quality I've always admired in people who face adversity. Somehow, they manage to rise above their difficulties and become even kinder and better human beings.

I am not one of those people.

I fold like an umbrella in a hurricane. I get angry, confused, bewildered and stressed. Especially stressed. Last night my sweet Lucy, diagnosed with liver disease just two days ago, vomited black bile and has been having massive diarrhea. She's not eating or playing with her toys, and I am sick. Sick with sadness, sick with fear, sick with stress.

Which might explain why I snapped at that woman near the park this morning. I was taking Lucy and Elvis on a very slow, brief outing when this young woman, walking her dog, came barrelling down the sidewalk behind me. When my dogs turned around and started barking at hers, I saw that she wasn't about to slow down. So, I pulled Lucy and Elvis across the bushes and we waited on the street so the woman could pass. And pass she did, with nary a word of thanks. God help me, the words came out before I could stop myself.

"You're welcome," I said.

Ah, then she found her voice. "Why should I thank you?" she turned around and snapped. "You're the one with the vicious dogs!"

"And you're the one without any manners," I snapped back. "Just because you own an animal doesn't mean you have to behave like one."

Off we went. After a few foul exchanges, I finally crossed the street because at that heated moment, I felt capable of acting like an animal myself-a rabid wolverine to be exact--and biting her damn head off.

Really, folks, this is not me. And I suspect this may not be her either. As I resumed my walk, now crying, from across the street I observed her making a U-turn and returning home. Clearly upset, she never made it to the park to use the Ball Launcher she had intended to play with her dog.

I hope I see this woman again. I want to apologize and explain why I snapped at her. She has no idea what's going on in my life and--concurrently--I have no idea what's going on in hers. She could have lost her job the day before, fought with her husband minutes earlier, or hey, maybe she's just the animal I accused her of being.

If she rejects my apology, fine. At least I'll have tried. My best friend Pam likes to say that we can't let other people dictate how we behave, and she's right.

It may not be a shining example of grace under pressure, but I'm trying here folks, really. The best that I can.