Fresh New Year

Finally, a year that I can look back on and say, "Hey, that wasn't so bad."  In fact, compared with previous years, 2013 could almost be called stellar. 

Because for the first time since 2009, I didn't lose any loved ones, be they two legged or four. No deaths, diseases, or disasters. Biopsies came back negative, paychecks arrived every two weeks, and I found myself smiling a genuine smile again--inside and out. 

Nice. 

Here's hoping 2014 is just as uneventful. I no longer care about losing weight, winning the lottery, or finding Mr. Right. Exercise keeps me fit, I make enough money to keep a roof over my head, and if I need someone to gaze upon me with adoring eyes, I've got my lovely little tiger, Olivia. 

May you be just as blessed. Happy New Year!

Greetings from Santa Paws

"With a dog in your life, Christmas is going to be that much better."
                       ~Author unknown

Wishing a very Merry Christmas to all my friends, be they two-legged or four.

Love, Eileen and Olivia the Greyhound 

Are You Gladys' Daughter?

So there I was at Macy's yesterday, shopping for my "Secret Santa" office gift exchange, when a sales clerk approached me. 

"Excuse me," she said. "Are you Gladys' daughter?"

I glanced at her name tag and instantly recognized the name. Prior to my mom's death in 2009, she had been a sales clerk at Macy's, a job she continued long after she was ready to retire, partly -- I suspected--because she and her colleagues had too much fun on the job. She talked about her friends often, especially Rahima, the woman before me.

I had never met Rahima, but she must have recognized me from my occasional store visits. She told me how much she missed my mother and the good times they shared. She asked, "Gladys had a dog named Sabrina, right?" 

I wondered why she would remember such a minor detail, but confirmed that yes, my mom's German Shepherd had been named Sabrina. 

"Your mother always got confused and called me Sabrina because our names sounded alike," she explained, smiling as she dabbed at eyes that were welling with tears. "Oh how that woman made me laugh. I miss her so much."

This reminded me of a similar incident that took place just a couple months ago. I was in a crosswalk with my greyhound Olivia when a passing car suddenly swung a U-turn and parked along the curb I was approaching. The woman jumped out of the sedan and said, "You're Gladys' daughter, right?"

Uh, yes?

"I'm Julie, her hairdresser. I recognize you from the photos your mom would share with me and remember you have greyhounds," she explained, petting Olivia. She went on to say how shocked and sorry she had been to learn of my mom's sudden passing. "She was my favorite client," she said, hugging me as she started tearing up. "My God, that woman made me laugh. I can't tell you how much I miss her."

Friday would have been Mom's 78th birthday and I've been thinking of her even more than usual. Missing her, but comforted by these two chance encounters. They reminded me of the wonderful legacy my mom has left behind--a legacy of laughter and love.

We should all do so well. Happy birthday, Mom. 

It's Going to be a Long Winter

It would seem I am determined to kill myself. Not all at once, mind you, but slowly, in increments.  
It started two weeks ago when Daylight Savings Time ended and we were plunged into darkness at 5pm. As a dog walker who gets home at 6pm, I hate walking Olivia in the dark because I have extremely poor night vision. When the sun sets, the world around me morphs into ambiguous shades of black and gray. Is that a shrub or a trash can? A fire hydrant or a child?  A motorcycle or a maniac wielding a machete? I usually can't tell until I've practically tripped over it.

And that's what I did a couple weeks ago when a "shadow" turned out to be a curb. I stumbled over it and did what could pretty much be described as a belly flop on the pavement. I landed so hard that people halfway down the block heard the impact (or maybe it was the F-bomb I dropped). In spite of my potty mouth they came running to help me. I just laid on the ground as Olivia hovered over me, probably wondering why her human was strewn across the sidewalk. I was shell-shocked, afraid to move for fear I'd discover something broken or cracked. My right palm had two gaping bloody wounds and my left knee was bruised and swollen, but I was lucky: incredibly, nothing was broken.   

So no sooner had the swelling gone down and the wounds healed before I did it again. Last Wednesday I was working out, which you'd think would be a good thing, right? Well, think again. In my enthusiasm I incurred a stress fracture (tiny cracks in the bone caused by the repetitive application of force) in my left foot. I'm now hobbling around like the 90-year old woman I thought exercise would help me avoid becoming. 

Evenings now find me walking Olivia in a half-blind state, feeling my way through the neighborhood while limping along with my swollen foot encased in one of those medical dork shoes. 

Maybe I should just stay in bed. Call me when it's spring.

Class of '76

Met up with several friends for dinner the other night and immediately, upon setting eyes on each other, we picked up right where we left off the last time we got together. Seamlessly, casually, not skipping a beat in the conversation.

The only thing is, we hadn't seen each other since our last high school reunion, which was seven years ago. Sporadic emails have been our only thin connection throughout the years. And yet, just like that, over Midori margaritas, we resumed the friendships forged back in the 70s, chatting like we'd just seen each other in Mr. Peck's yearbook class or Cassvan's period 5 biology. 

Yes,  our faces are a bit more lined, our bodies a bit more padded, but I don't see any of these things when I look at my friends. Instead, I still see the youthful face of the gal who used to sneak us off campus at lunchtime and drive us to Swensen's for peanut butter milkshakes. I see the well-meaning classmate who encouraged me to keep walking during a grueling 20-mile March of Dimes Walkathon, and then erred about the pick-up arrival time and made us miss the bus. I see the feisty girl who asked me to drive her past Baskin Robbins so she could drop her drawers and moon Linda Sue who was working that night. 

These days it seems our lives are consumed with putting kids through college, saving for retirement, juggling multiple workloads, and caring for aging parents. But maybe that's why we were able to pick up right where we left off in 1976.  Because when we look at each other, we see the people we used to be. And for just a few hours, we are the people we used to be.

Carefree teenagers who drink peanut butter milkshakes without worrying about calories; walk 20-mile marathons without special shoe orthotics; and stick bare butts out moving car windows without modesty (or cellulite).

Liver Toothpaste, Anyone?

Olivia and I were taking our usual afternoon walk through a tree-lined neighborhood when I sighted two little girls up ahead and knew what was coming next: sure enough...

"Mommy, look, a dog! Lady, can I pet your dog?"

I looked to the mother for approval and she nodded with a smile, so I invited the girls, around 4 and 6, over. But first, I gave them instructions. I always like to use these interactions as a teaching moment for young kids.

"Always let the dog sniff your hand first," I told them. "This way, she knows that you're a little girl and not a cookie!" 

The girls giggled and extended their tiny fists. Olivia sniffed the younger one's hand, then moved closer and gently nuzzled the child's chubby cheek. Immediately there was a reaction of a different kind.

"PeeeUUUUU!" the child squealed, backing up and wrinkling her button nose. "She has bad breath!" 

"Well," I laughed, "she hasn't seen the dentist in awhile." And sensing that the child was no longer interested in an up-close canine moment, I turned to leave. But not before I heard the mother, in her lilting Indian accent, use the interaction for her own teaching moment.

"You see?" she gently chided the girls. "This is what happens when you don't brush your teeth!"

Happy Endings

So Shayna and her mom met the homeless kitties at Friday's adoption fair, held at my workplace, and I'm happy to say it was love at first sight. 

After engaging with the playful pair in an empty office for about an hour, both daughter and mother knew that Tuna and Mya were coming home with them. They were going to rename their new pets, but Shayna decided that Tuna was a cute name for a cat. And the other cat's name is Mya, which is an anagram of her mother's name, Amy. Was this destiny or what? 

I'm just so glad that what started out as a painful week, losing Chloe, ended on such a happy note.  

Farewell Chloe

Today I was talking with Shayna, my young co-worker, complaining about how I can't get my new Kindle Fire to work and it's not that it's defective, it's me, I'm stupid, when suddenly, out of the blue, she switched gears and said, "We're putting Chloe to sleep today." 

Huh, what?

She said it matter-of-fact, as if we were talking about the weather and she was noting that it looked like rain. But her lower lip trembled ever-so-slightly. 

"She's our family cat," she continued. "She's 20 years old and in failing health. She can't eat, can't walk, can't poop. It's time."  Shayna kept her stoic face, but I noted that her eyes were a bit watery and although she was smiling, it looked forced. I did some quick math: "If you've had Chloe for 20 years, that means you were just..."

She finished my sentence for me. "Yup, four years old. I've had her my whole life. It's time though," she repeated. "She can't eat, can't walk, can't poop." I knew she was reciting the litany to convince herself, and told her she was doing the right, the humane thing and she nodded reluctantly. But still, I recognized all too well that look of pending loss and my heart broke for her. God knows I've been there. As animal lovers, we all have.

I shared my own experience of losing Elvis and what a blessing it was to have Olivia while I was grieving for my sweet boy. Never did I think of Olivia as a replacement for Elvis, but she was a new life, a new spirit, a homeless dog that needed love and needed me as much as I needed her. Olivia helped fill that cavernous hole in my heart. Might Shayna consider another cat one day? 

"Absolutely! she said, her sad face growing bright at the thought. "My mom and I would like to adopt a bonded pair."

Then I remembered that the SPCA is holding a pet adoption at our workplace on Friday and a little light bulb went on over my head. "It might be too soon, but I know the director of the SPCA. Would you like me to shoot him an email and ask if he has a pair of cats that need to be adopted together?"  I asked. Sure, she said with faint enthusiasm. Then she whipped out her cell phone to share pictures of her sweet Chloe. "It's time," she repeated under her breath. "It's time."

The second I was free, I shot an email to the awesome Scott Delucci of the Peninsula Humane Society/SPCA. He answered within minutes. As a matter of fact, he did have a pair that needed to be adopted together and this was such a rare request, he was thrilled with my email. If my co-worker was interested, he would send the young pair to our adoption fair on Friday so Shayna could meet them. He included their photos with a video link of the cats romping and playing. 

I shared this with Shayna, who smiled for the first time that day. As she watched the video, she mentioned that Chloe had been so old and so sick for so long, she had forgotten how playful cats could be. She forwarded the links to her mother who confessed that she had already been perusing adoption websites. For the rest of the afternoon, I could hear Shayna simultaneously straddling sadness over losing Chloe and stifling joy over the possibility of opening her heart to two new lives. On Friday, her mother is joining her to meet the homeless kitties. 

And so goes the circle of life. Fingers crossed for a happy ending.

You Go On, I'll Stay Home

Poor Olivia. Yesterday, when I asked if she wanted to go "bye-bye," I'm sure glorious visions of Central Park or Iron Horse Train danced across her little canine mind. She probably wasn't figuring she'd accompany me on a visit to Scout's House for an article I'm writing about the rehabilitative center for animals.

And I'm doubly sure she wasn't counting on sampling their equipment, such as the underwater hydro-therapy treadmill specially designed for dogs and cats. 

She doesn't look too thrilled, eh?

But upon our return home, I made it up to her with a nice two-mile walk--during which, at the point of no return, the clouds burst open and drenched us with a "last-day-of-summer" rainstorm. We were soaked to the point of soggy.

All of which may leave my girl thinking that some days "bye-bye" ain't all it's cracked up to be. 

Date with a Bad Boy

Yeah, I've been absent from blogging lately, but there's a good reason. Really. 

I've met someone. He's handsome, smart, shy, a bit quirky, and just about the most interesting man I've ever met.  And he's a serial killer but hey, like your fella's perfect?

Yes, I've discovered Dexter, the Showtime series about a guy who holds a day job with the Miami Police Department as a blood spatter analyst. Oh, and he kills people in his spare time. But Dexter is a serial killer with morals, mind you. He only offs those who deserve to die. Rapists who are free because of legal loopholes. Pedophiles who are careful to cover their tracks. Murderers who fly under the radar. Bad people, bad bad people.  

Still, the premise has never appealed to me in spite of its popularity over the past eight seasons. Because c'mon, how could anyone sympathize with or like a serial killer? What does this say about society when a killer is our hero?

But for years, every morning on my hour-long drive to work, I've been listening to Vinnie on Alice Radio talk about his favorite television show, Dexter. Dexter this, Dexter that. Dexter, Dexter, Dexter, that's all he's talked about. How great is Dexter. How riveting is Dexter. Did you see Dexter last night? Such a great show, Dexter. And finally, I caved in. I had to watch at least one episode of Dexter so I could then mentally chastise Vinnie for his lowbrow taste and commend myself for favoring more classy fare like Downton Abbey. Besides, Bates the butler was kind of hot as a jailbird.

What is it with me and bad boys?

Anyway, I ordered Dexter through Netflix. And plowed through Season One. Season Two. Season Three. At the shocking season finale of Season Four I practically tripped running up my stairs to get to my computer so I could change my Netflix orders from one disk at a time to two. My mental apologies to Vinnie. He was right. The show is THAT good, although it does concern me a bit that I'm so enamoured with a serial killer.  But really, his victims are getting their comeuppance. And Dexter Morgan, well, he's just so gosh-darn cute.

I have issues, yes.  Not to mention only four seasons left before Dexter permanently signs off with Season Eight. Sigh. What will I do without my favorite serial killer?

Hmmm...I hear there's this dude named Walter on a show called Breaking Bad.

Puppy Love

I suppose these expressions on my face (see above) encapsulate what most women feel like when they hold a baby--a human one, that is. Me, I'm missing the mom-gene. Never longed for children, never imagined myself pregnant, never stuffed a pillow under my blouse and pretended I was carrying precious cargo.

Oh, I like kids. Other peoples' kids.   

But show me a puppy or kitten or calf or doe or any other baby animal and my heart absolutely positively explodes with a ferocity of seismic proportions. Like this baby pygmy goat I'm holding in the first photo: three-month old Queenie. She was a part of the petting zoo that came to visit our preschool last week. As I held her, she nuzzled her little head under my neck and I could feel the two rough spots where her horns would one day grow. I inhaled her delicious scent of milk and hay and found myself contemplating, "She's not that big, she could play with Olivia and fit through the doggie door, plus I have nice patio garden...."

Seriously, folks. What would I do with a goat? Holding Queenie made me lose all perspective.

As with Bella, the puppy Mt. Bernese in the second picture; she was doing her best to teeth on my necklace and I was so enamoured with her sweet puppy breath and velvety fur, she could have been trying to devour diamonds around my neck and I wouldn't have noticed. I didn't care that Bella would eventually weigh 150 pounds and have the potential to take up roughly one third of my living room. All I could think was, "I SO want this dog."

On second thought, maybe I do have the mom-gene. Just for the four-legged variety.

Words To Live By

"Today me will live in the moment unless it's unpleasant, in which case me will eat a cookie."

~Cookie Monster

Retirement and Tomatoes

If I spent as much time studying and monitoring and pruning and observing and tending to and fawning over and checking on and obsessing about my retirement fund as I do my tomato plants, well....

I could have retired when Duran Duran was still a Top 40 band.

My neighbors must think I'm a nut job. I'm on my bedroom balcony morning and night, following the progress of my four plants no less lovingly than if I'd birthed them myself.  I'm making sure the heavy vines have adequate support, pinching off dead stems, and watching for invasive bugs or hungry birds. The cherry tomato plant is already producing, but it's the heirloom ones that I'm lusting over. Come to mama, babies, come to mama.

As for my retirement fund? Gulp. According to the slightly crazy financial guru Suze Orman, I'm about 20 years behind the eight ball and can retire around the same time that North West is old enough to legally change her name. And so I've given Robin, my financial advisor, full reign to manage what chicken feed I've squirreled away. She's been a busy gal: I'm getting almost daily notices alerting me that she's trading here, swapping there, selling this and buying that. 

I just hope she's better at managing my meager monies than I've been these past few years, otherwise I'll have to plant more tomatoes. 

They may be all I have to eat. Come to mama, babies, come to mama.

Taking a Break

Back in July!

Dog Day Afternoon

So yeah, I'm back in the chemo ward for another dose to treat The Blood Thingie--a blood disorder that my doctors describe as "a major bummer, but it won't kill you." 

They suggested another round of chemo in an attempt to halt the progression of nerve damage that has numbed my feet and is gradually creeping up my legs. They're even hoping for possible nerve regeneration as some patients with similar conditions have recently experienced through an ongoing, low-level chemo maintenance program.

Whatever it takes, folks. Whatever it takes.

After my first infusion Friday, I returned home not feeling all that great. Rituxan isn't the hair-loss-sick-as-a-dog type of chemo, but I did have to take a few drugs to prevent a possible reaction and the cumulative affect of everything left me a little queasy, lightheaded, and exhausted. Now would be a good time to take a nap.

I had just closed my eyes when Olivia came to the side of my bed and stared at me. She never joins me on the bed despite my encouragement that it's okay, girl, really. Jump! Jump!  Instead, she prefers her oh, so deliciously smelly pillow on the floor. 

This time though, to my surprise, Olivia jumped on the bed, towering over me and still just staring. She methodically sniffed my body up and down, up and down, sniff sniff sniff. Then she circled two or three times and spooned my side, resting her knobby little head across my chest. With my arms wrapped around my dog, smelling of oatmeal shampoo and froggy breath, we drifted off to sleep until a ringing phone woke us up three hours later.

Olivia's nose, that canine marvel equipped with more than 220 million olfactory receptors, told her that something was off. Something was coursing through her human's veins that didn't belong there. Something had to be done to comfort her human.

And that's just what my sweet girl did.

Remembering Elvis

Even now, 15 months after losing my sweet Elvis, I still hear from readers who loved a dog they only knew from my newspaper column.

This week, a reader sent me a photo of one article (see left) that he's kept posted on his refrigerator since it was published in 2007. He wrote:

"Today, I re-read your article about Elvis for the first time since 2007 and it made me smile once again, just as it did then. I decided to contact you to see how Elvis was doing and of course, upon searching for your contact information, came across the article about Elvis passing last February. Needless to say, I started crying right at my desk...."

And yesterday, on Facebook, somebody else posted: "Just got swarmed by greyhounds at the GG Meet & Greet. Love love love. Thinking of Elvis, the one who made me love them."

Everybody thinks that their dog is special. And everybody would be right because in their eyes and their hearts, their dog is indeed special. But there was something about Elvis that enabled people to see what I saw: a sweet and gentle spirit who came to represent the face of racing greyhounds.

How I miss my lovely, loving boy. And how proud I am of his legacy.

Footsteps Part Two

If you read my Pet Tales column in the San Francisco Chronicle on Wednesday, you know that lately I've been hearing "footsteps" behind me when I'm walking Olivia.

After being stumped and confused the first few times I heard these footsteps, I've come to believe they belong to my mom. She's with me, walking alongside me just as we used to do when we'd walk our dogs together before her sudden passing in 2009. Oh, how I miss her. 

Now I know what you're thinking: maybe missing my mother has me hearing things, right? Well, let's ask the dog.

Yes, the dog. Because I walking Olivia around our quiet neighborhood last week, doing the usual woolgathering about really important stuff. You know, like what to have for dinner and if "Nashville" was a repeat tonight, when once again I heard the footsteps. As always, not thinking about it, I stepped aside to let the person behind me pass before I realized that--yet again--there was no one there. Nothing but air, just like the other half dozen occurrences.

This time, however, Olivia reacted. With her perked ears looking like two little pup tents, she put on the brakes and stared behind us. She clearly saw something that wasn't visible to my myopic eyes. I crouched down on one knee so my face was level with hers and followed her gaze. Was there a flirty squirrel somewhere? Maybe a stray dog, injured bird, or crazed stalker hiding behind a bush just waiting to slash my throat?

What was holding my dog's attention?

Nothing. At least nothing that I could see. The only movement was the leaves gently rustling in the soft spring breeze. No cars. No people. No animals. I waited a few minutes to see if something--anything--materialized, but it didn't, so I tugged at Olivia's leash. "C'mon girl," I said. "Let's go."

But our walk was interrupted because Olivia was intrigued by whatever she was seeing. For the next half mile, she kept stopping and twisting her neck to look behind us. This dog couldn't have been more preoccupied if there was a barbecued pork chop trailing us. Each time I followed her gaze and again each time--nothing.

Nothing to the naked eye, that is. If I questioned the footsteps before, Olivia confirmed that I'm not imagining things. Call it what you may, but one thing is for sure: we are not alone on these walks.

And What Have I Been Up To?

April was a busy month, what with working a couple extra weekends at my "day" job and new writing assignments with the San Francisco Chronicle. But it's all good, no complaints. I mean, too much work is better than none at all, right?

Plus, I'm really enjoying these new writing gigs. Of course, "Pet Tales" is my baby because what better project for an animal-loving writer than to write about animals, eh? Hard to believe that the column is going on 10+ years now.  I still love it though and truly feel a bond with every pet that appears each Wednesday, such as the beautiful Abby spotlighted in today's column. Next week, stay tuned for my girl, Olivia (please, humor me with the occasional nepotism).

But more about these new features. They're of the human-interest variety and turning out to be a lot of fun. I've always believed that if you ask the right questions, everyone has a story to tell.

My first article was about Riley Quinn, a high school teenager who was born with one arm, yet the kid's a star athlete on his high school's basketball, football, and baseball teams.  Talk about inspirational: I'll whine for weeks when I sight a gray hair.

My second piece caught up with former Golden State Warrior great, Joe Ellis. What a nice guy. Humble, gentle, modest, and a wonderful example to the children he now teaches in basketball clinics. My next article will be about The Challengers, an amazing baseball league specifically for children with special needs.

Of course, anyone that knows me will appreciate the irony that someone who eschews sports now has articles appearing on the front page of the sports section.

Life's just full of surprises, isn't it?

Twenties From Heaven

A few weeks ago, I thought it odd when I found a neatly folded, crisp $20 bill at the bottom of my purse. Odd because I'm not one to throw money or loose change in my purse. Ever. I immediately insert the flat (never folded) cash in my wallet, taking care to even file the bills in order of value.  I also hang my house and car keys in the exact same spot every day. Yes, I might have a few OCD habits.

Still, I didn't give the rogue $20 bill another thought. It was a nice surprise, even by way of its mysterious appearance.

But the other day I was rummaging through my handbag and whoa,whoa, whoa! There it was again. Another crisp $20 bill lying neatly folded on the bottom of my purse, underneath my wallet and sunglass case.

Now this time I was perplexed.

Bear in mind, I keep an incredibly tidy purse (okay, OCD habit #3). No balled up of wads of tissues or expired coupons. No crusty powder compacts, ratty notebooks or spare readers. No rancid lipsticks, fuzzy Lifesavers, stale perfume samples, crumpled maps or faded photos. I take what I need and need what I take: wallet, iPhone, sunglasses, lip gloss, small bottle of hand sanitizer (OCD habit #4) and that's it. Period.

Plus, my purse is never left unattended (gulp: OCD habit #5). And why would someone randomly drop money in an unattended purse anyway? It's not like I hang out with benevolent rich folk who go around doling out $20 for the heck of it. Besides, my pals are more likely to spring for sushi, a nice Italian dinner, or a chocolate martini. They aren't ones to flick a bill in my direction and drawl, "Go treat yourself to something purdy."

Mind you, I'm not complaining about these mysterous cash offerings, I'm just stumped. If not a little richer.

Shop or Walk?

It was a beautiful spring day, albeit an unusually muggy one, which is so not good for curly hair. The other day I went to a new hairdresser for a slight trim and ended up getting bushwhacked. And so, coupled with the humidity, I'm currently sporting a less-than-flattering Afro. Attractive on Beyonce maybe, not so much on me.

Which is why I felt the rare need to go shopping, a task that I normally eschew. I wanted to pick up a new lip gloss, maybe a new top, earrings or burqa. Anything to make me feel better about this rat's nest that I'm stuck with for the next few weeks.

But in grabbing my car keys and heading toward the garage, I did something I shouldn't have done: I made eye contact with Olivia.

Big mistake.

Immediately she jumped up from her pillow and began dancing in circles around me, bursting with joy at the prospect of a walk. When I tried ignoring her, she started doing her playful downward dog position, bony butt in air and long skinny tail spinning like a helicopter propeller. I had to admit, she looked pretty darned cute, but really, mama felt like a troll. Mama needed to feel good about herself. Mama needed a little retail therapy.

"Sweetheart," I said with just a teeny bit of guilt. "We'll go for a walk later, I promise." And I grabbed my purse and started to leave.

But then I thought about my playful dog who spends weekdays alone while I'm at the office. My adoring dog who lives and breathes for my presence. My sweet dog who asks for nothing but my company. My devoted dog who loves me unconditionally, bad haircuts and all. I looked at the light in her eyes, thrilled with the promise of a walk. With me.

I set down my purse, hung up my keys, and put on her leash. And as we began our three-mile walk it dawned on me that maybe mama didn't need retail therapy after all. Because it was a glorious sunny day and the park was bursting with spring flowers and falling cherry blossoms that floated through the air like pink snow. Olivia was at my side, prancing with joy and looking up at me every now and then with happy, loving eyes.

Soon, I forgot about trivial things like bad haircuts. Instead, I was relishing this interlude with nature, this precious time with my dog. And I was feeling pretty good.

Turned out my solution wasn't retail therapy, but "tail" therapy--something Olivia was happy to provide.

Saint Olivia?

Did you know there was a dog saint? And that it was a Greyhound? Yeah, me neither! This is a rather timely revelation, considering that the new Pope has named himself after Saint Francis, the Patron Saint of Animals. Here's the scoop:

"Saint Guinefort was a 13th century dog that received local veneration as a saint after miracles were reported at his grave.

Guinefort the greyhound belonged to a knight who lived in a castle near Lyon [France]. One day, the knight went hunting, leaving his infant son in the care of Guinefort. When he returned, he found the nursery in chaos - the cot was overturned, the child was nowhere to be seen and Guinefort greeted his master with bloody jaws.

Believing Guinefort to have devoured his son, the knight slew the dog. He then heard a child crying; he turned over the cot and found his son lying there, safe and sound, along with the body of a viper. Guinefort had killed the snake and saved the child.

On realizing the mistake the family dropped the dog down a well, covered it with stones and planted trees around it, setting up a shrine for Guinefort. Guinefort became recognized by locals as a saint for the protection of infants."

According to Wikipedia, the cult of this dog saint persisted for many centuries, until the 1930s, despite the prohibitions of the Catholic Church.

Maybe the new Pope will "paws" for thought about this because hey, if ever a creature deserved sainthood, it would have to be a dog.

Can I have an "amen?"

Unplugging One Cord at a Time

So Friday at sunset marked the start of National Day of Unplugging, a 24-hour period in which our wired society is encouraged to unplug and recharge.  Stop and smell the flowers, so to speak.

I love this idea. During my 13 days in Israel, one profound and memorable experience was observing Shabbat (the Jewish Sabbath) during which observant Jews abstain from labor of any kind. Even our hotel in Jerusalem featured one elevator designated specifically for Shabbat; it was programmed to automatically stop at every single floor so guests wouldn't have to go to the "work" of punching their floor's button.

That may sound a bit extreme, but the concept of Shabbat resonated with our group.  We agreed with the advent of hand-held devices that fit in our pockets, we're now too plugged in and, as a result, tuned out. I have to confess while I'm sitting here, typing these very words, I'm simultaneously playing Words with Friends on my iPhone (nice play, Don). Okay busted, I'm checking email too. On two different accounts, no less.

Celebrating Shabbat made me realize that I don't know how to relax anymore. Be in the moment. When I'm not sitting at a desk in the office, I'm sitting at my desk at home writing columns, meeting deadlines, or I'm racing around doing errands: cleaning house, grocery shopping, paying bills, getting gas, doing laundry. Oh, which reminds me: excuse me one moment while I move my wet linen from the washing machine into the dryer.

Okay, I'm back.

I can't remember the last time I crashed on the couch in the middle of a Sunday afternoon with a book (and reading "The Accidental Creative" for my marketing job doesn't count). The last time I watched I Love Lucy reruns in the middle of the day. The last time I sat on my sunny balcony and enjoyed the stunning valley view without checking my iPhone.

The last time I did nothing.

Instead, every minute is accounted for. When it isn't, I find my head spinning and looking for the next chore to cross off my list: aren't there bills to pay? Tubs to scrub? Weeds to pull, statements to file or drawers to clean?  I've become so wired to work that I've forgotten how to live any other way.

Given my career, maybe I can't totally unplug for 24 hours but I can take baby steps and, as I mentioned above, try to stop and smell the flowers.  Maybe I'll do just that during the beach walk I'm taking this afternoon with Olivia and my good friend Sue and her greyhound, Stella. 

And the phone will stay home. Well, in the car at least. Okay, in my pocket, but I won't take it out. More than once, anyway. Okay, twice max.

Like I said, babysteps. 

Writer's Block

I'm under deadline for an article and not feeling very creative, which makes this the perfect time to:

• Dust window blinds
• Crawl on floor and dust baseboards with old toothbrush
• Launder dustrags
• Walk Olivia
• Brush Olivia
• Post a picture of Olivia on Facebook
• Ding Jenny, Terry and Don that it's their turn to play "Words with Friends"
• Balance my checkbook
• Remove all plates from dishwasher and manually wash instead
• Walk Olivia again
• Visit Netflix website and give Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter a "liked it" rating. Who knew the Civil War was won because of silver bullets?
• Scroll through 600 photos of Israel and search in vain for one, just one, picture of myself in which I look better than the camel
• Blog about being under deadline and not feeling very creative.

Sigh....

Shabbat at the Wailing Wall

In my previous post, I mentioned there was one particular experience in Israel that will remain forever etched in my brain. It's the same type of moment I had a few years back when I was in Venice and my family wanted to take a gondola ride.

How corny, I thought. What a tourist trap, I snickered. Wouldn't be caught dead, I vowed.

But I didn't want to be left behind while my mom, sister and brother-in-law floated away, so I reluctantly joined them. As we glided through the still waters, I realized that the evening hour masked the graffiti and litter lining the canals that I'd noticed earlier in the day.  Instead, serenaded by an accordion player no less, the beautiful lights of Venice sparkled in the crisp, clear night sky above and shimmered in their watery reflection below, lending a surreal, dream-like quality to the hour-long ride. It was one of the most magical and ethereal experiences of my entire life.

And now, to that very exclusive list of memorable moments, I'm adding Shabbat at the Kotel (Western or "Wailing" Wall).

The day before, on a bright sunny Thursday, we had already toured the Old City of Jerusalem. And so, I wasn't expecting anything different when we returned on Friday, right before sunset, to celebrate the Jewish Day of Rest, Shabbat.

Our tour guide, Sharon, escorted our group of 15 to a rooftop centered in the middle of the holy Jewish, Christian, Muslim and Armenian Quarters.  Below we could see people beginning to gather at the Western Wall.  As the sun set, the day's 68 degree weather quickly dropped to the high 40s. We wrapped our coats tightly as we sat cross-legged in a circle and discussed the meaning of Shabbat. 

It's a festive day, Sharon explained, in which both religious and secular Jews take a break from the tasks and chores of everyday life. It's an opportunity to unplug, mediate, and recharge while reconnecting with loved ones and contemplating the spiritual aspects of life. As she spoke, the Islamic Call to Prayer sounded over the speakers and echoed through the crisp night air, rendering us silent. There was an otherworldly beauty in the sound and I knew the goosebumps on my skin weren't because of the dipping temperature.

"Now let's celebrate Shabbat at the Wall," Sharon concluded. With a quick reminder that photography isn't allowed during Shabbat, we went down the winding stone steps to join the massive crowd. 

By now it was dark, but nearby lamps provided a soft, well-lit golden glow. I made my way through the women's section, wiggling through packed bodies like I was at a Springsteen concert and not at one of the holiest spots on earth. Many people were socializing with giddy joy while others were rocking in silent prayer. Earlier, Sharon had mentioned, "...if ever there's a direct line to God, this is the place," and now, standing here, just feet from the Wall, I believed her. I couldn't deny the palatable charge in the air. There was an electricity like I'd never felt before.

And to my surprise, I felt compelled to pray. Something I haven't done in years, not since losing my mother, which had a profound and shattering affect on my faith.

I prayed for a dear friend who is fighting prostate cancer. I prayed for the health and well-being of my loved ones. And, not wanting to push my luck but just in case the Big Fella was still speaking to me, I closed with a prayer of my own: help with my blood disorder (nicknamed The Blood Thingy because it's so rare it doesn't even have a name). 

After several minutes of meditation at the Wall, I made my way back where it was less crowded and I could silently soak in the bustling activity around me: Joyous schoolgirls laughing with their friends. Hasidic Jews rushing to and fro. Singing circles of dancing men, individuals in silent prayer, and parents chasing after roaming toddlers. I took mental snapshots, never wanting to forget these sights and sounds. I also took one very specific mental note: that of my time at the Western Wall.

A time when I realized I might still believe.

Israel, Anyone?

You might recall that a previous post mentioned I had returned home after spending two weeks in January traveling throughout Israel. It was a once-in-a-lifetime journey, although at the time of writing I was still too jet-lagged and traumatized from my flight home on Delta (who left us stranded in Tel Aviv) to think about the trip itself. 48 hours with little food or sleep, not to mention lack of showering or clean clothes, tends to dampen one’s enthusiasm about ever traveling again.

Amazing how a hot shower and good night's sleep can change one's attitude. 

This trip came about when I was invited to join the San Francisco Jewish Community Center’s Israel Staff Seminar (read our travel blog). Each year, the excursion takes 15 lucky JCC employees to enjoy two colorful weeks learning about Israeli life and culture. Never having been to the Middle East, every day was an adventure that revealed wondrous views of this fascinating country.

We hiked through the Negev Desert. Rode camels led by our Bedouin guide who warned, "do not pet the camels!" Trust me, I won't. We hiked a very steep Masada that revealed just how out of shape I am. Floated in the Dead Sea, slept in a Kibbutz, and pulled beets on a farm run by Leket, an organization that feeds local needy families. We visited an army base where we took part in simulated target practice with M4s, machine guns and bazookas, and I hit an impressive 7 out of 30 targets. And on my first attempt, mind you. It was loud, fun, and entertaining, until I remembered the true intent behind any such weapons and suddenly I felt a bit uneasy about having such a good time.

And to answer the one question everyone has posed about visiting a country that constantly faces political strife and turmoil: I have never felt safer. I feel more threatened during my daily 60-minute commute, battling idiots behind the wheel who think rules of the road only apply to other drivers. In Israel, everywhere we went, we were welcomed, fed, embraced and educated. This was, indeed, the trip of a lifetime

But when asked if there's one experience that stands out the most, I don't hesitate to respond. It's something that is burned in my brain and will stay with me for the rest of my life, until I'm on my deathbed and reliving certain priceless moments. It's the kind of memory that truly makes travel something that can't be described in books or purchased through material goods.

I'll write about that experience in my next post. Stay tuned.

Another Day, Another Birthday

Had a birthday this week and was once again reminded of how lucky I am to have so many thoughtful friends. I  received many beautiful cards and greetings--thank you, one and all.

However, one card in particular popped--and I mean this in the most literal sense.

My manager Sharon is a skilled photographer who often uses her artwork to create unique and personal greeting cards (check out her work). A few months ago, when I mentioned that I needed pictures of Olivia for future Pet Tales columns, Sharon offered her talents and spent a brisk November morning taking pictures of my pup.

Well, creative minds never sleep; Sharon used one of these images to create a special, three-dimensional birthday card that made me gasp with delight when I opened it on Wednesday.

This card, which now hangs on my cubicle wall at work, warms my heart every time I look at it. Reminding me that whatever stress the day may bring, at home awaits the perfect antidote.

No Place Like Home

If I haven't blogged in a couple weeks, it's because I've been busy riding camels. Oh yeah, and floating in the Dead Sea, hiking Masada, sleeping in a Kibbutz and discovering that hummus isn't just a food, but a lifestyle.

Yup, I'm back from an incredible, life-changing two weeks in Israel, and I'll write more about that once my jet lag subsides. Right now, I'm still not thinking straight. As if the 20-hour trip home wasn't grueling enough, Delta Airlines initially cancelled our midnight flight from Tel Aviv without warning, leaving 400 angry, tired and confused passengers to frantically scramble about Ben Gurion Airport searching for replacement flights. My travel companion and I went about 48 hours with little food or sleep before I finally crawled home at 2am Saturday morning. 

No wonder my brain feels like it's been through a swimsuit spinner.

But barring incompetent airlines, Israel was an amazing experience. It is, by far, the most diverse, beautiful, and fascinating country I've ever had the pleasure to visit. Still, it's good to be home. After two non-stop weeks I missed my peeps.  My morning latte. My bed. The Big Bang Theory. And yes, Olivia.

Because no matter how scenic the sights, engaging the people and fabulous the food, there's nothing that compares with the pure and simple joy of holding my sweet pup.  Which might explain why I returned home knowing just two words in Hebrew:  Todah for "thank you."

And Kelev. For dog.

My New Sleeping Companion

Recently, I had the pleasure of dog-sitting my neighbor's Chihuahua, Mandy for one week.

I say "pleasure" because Mandy is quite possibly the most polite dog I've ever met.  A tad needy, perhaps (now I know why they call them LAP dogs), but overall, she's adorable and a joy to be around. 

As for Olivia, she pretty much just tolerates Mandy, but I really do enjoy having the little lambchop as my guest.

And I'm happy to say that the feeling must be mutual, because, as this picture will attest, Mandy made herself quite at home.

Quite. At. Home.  

Week One of the New Year

It would seem that the New Year is off to an ominous start, given this nasty chest bug I've been battling for ten days now. But I'm getting better and besides, it's almost been worth it to experience what happened with Olivia.

I was dozing on my bed when,  even through my NyQuil-induced coma, I felt like I was being watched. Sure enough, I cracked open a heavy lid and saw Olivia standing at the foot of my bed, just staring at me. All I could see were her eyes and --as my friend Sue calls them-- "big ass ears."  Olivia looked so darned cute I snapped a quick shot with my iPhone and then resumed my nap.

But minutes later my eyes flew open when my 70-pound girl took a flying leap and joined me on the bed. Now bear in mind, this was significant because Olivia doesn't sleep on my bed. Oh, I invite her all the time, but she's made it perfectly clear that she prefers her pillow. Her nice, cushy, stinky, stained-with-god-knows-what pillow. Okay, fine.

Today was different, though. Today, her canine intuition told her that I wasn't feeling well and it seemed she wanted to comfort me. And so, planting her Oatmeal shampoo-scented body alongside mine, Olivia snuggled up against my chest and tucked her knobby little head under my chin, indeed comforting me in a way that resonated deep within my hacking, cough-ridden soul.

Again, I used my trusty iPhone to capture the moment. And then, with my arm embracing my sweet girl, we both took a nice, long nap.

On second thought, maybe the New Year isn't off to such a bad start after all.