Merry Christmas

My sweet girl is still with me, limping on occasion, but she seems to be comfortable thanks to pain medication. I won't lie; the past two months have been extremely stressful trying to come to terms with the fact that I'm going to lose my lovely "little tiger."  I keep second-guessing myself, wondering if deciding not to amputate is the best decision. Is it? 

But then I remember what the vet at UC Davis told me when I took Olivia there three weeks ago for a second opinion. She said that Olivia's bone cancer is most likely the very aggressive osteosarcoma, and even with amputation only 50 percent of dogs survive up to 12 months. 

I can't pursue such an invasive procedure with such poor odds. I can't carve my girl up just so I can have her a few extra months. I just can't do that to her. And so, I'm focusing on pain management and quality of life.

So far we're good. Her tail is still wagging, her appetite voracious, and she still gets over-the-top excited when she sees me grab her leash. Our walks may be slower and shorter, but I'll keep taking her "bye-bye" as long as she wants to go. 

Olivia is doing as well as I could possibly hope for, given the circumstances. Honestly, when she was diagnosed on Halloween, I didn't think she'd still be with me for the next holiday, let alone walking and playing with Hazel. That in itself is the best Christmas gift I could ask for this season. 

And a Merry Christmas to you and your loved ones, be they two-legged or four.

Olivia Update

It's not a pinched nerve. That's what we thought, remember? 

But when Olivia's limp worsened after two months of anti-inflammatories and pain killers, Dr. Arnott finally referred me to a specialist. This guy took one look at her limp and said immediately that she wasn't limping from nerve pain. He suspected either a torn or injured ligament in her right rear leg.  He studied Dr. Arnott's x-rays from September and then took new ones to confirm his suspicion.

When he returned to the waiting room though, his face held a stunned expression. 

"It looks like a tumor," he said. "I'm so sorry."

What? But it could be a shadow, right? Or benign? Or a fungal infection, which can mimic the symptoms of a tumor? Or a mistake, or anything, anything....

But when the surgeon performed a biopsy four days later,the report confirmed my worst fear: fibrosarcoma and possibly the even deadlier and aggressive osteosarcoma. Bone cancer. The surgeon couldn't get a wide enough margin for a definite reading because Olivia's leg is already so fragile, the bone was crumbling around the entry point of the needle.  

Amputation is only a palliative measure, not a cure. If it were a cure, I wouldn't think twice, but removing the affected limb will buy Olivia a mere 4-9 additional months before the cancer returns. And it will return because it's in her marrow. It's only a matter of time. I can't put her through such an invasive procedure for such a short fix. I can't do that to my sweet girl. 

This Wednesday marks our third anniversary when, on November 19, 2011, I saw my three-year old  "little tiger" for the first time at Golden State Greyhound Adoption. When I took Olivia home that night, I was walking on air, thrilled at the many years we had ahead of us to look forward to.  Now, we have just weeks.

I am sick with grief. Absolutely sick. 

The Squirrel Czar

“I am Hazel, hunter of Squirrels, defender of humankind.

Cats don’t interest me, nor do birds, rodents, other dogs or even people for that matter, although an extended hand offering a cookie might momentarily divert my razor-sharp attention. Especially if it’s a peanut butter cookie. I love peanut butter. Oh, and particularly those homemade bone-shaped ones that my human makes. Right out of the oven, they are quite good. Wouldn't mind one right now, actually. Maybe if I whine loud enough….

But I digress. My focus must remain solely for that tyrant of the tree, The Squirrel. How I abhor these bothersome pests, which are naught but rodents with fluffier tails.

And how they taunt me, my enemy The Squirrel. They park themselves in my path, fearless and brazen, teasing me with their “come hither” stares as we momentarily lock eyes before they playfully scamper away beyond reach, not the least bit rattled over their near brush with death. I hear them chattering in the trees and this infuriates me. No doubt the impetuous little rascals are mocking my failed attempts to conquer and destroy.

That’s not to say I don’t give it my best. Given the 93 heats I ran as a race dog, one would think a retired ex-racer greyhound could catch one of these scalawags, but they’re quick. And cunning, too. They know how to grab my attention with the flirty flip of the tail or a leap between trees, all the while evading capture despite my most enthusiastic endeavors. Even my mighty barking, which echoes throughout the valley, doesn't faze these treetop minions.

My human is also annoyed by the unwelcome presence of The Squirrel, I can tell. Whenever we’re going for a walk and I suddenly lurch across her path to lunge at the furry little imps and she trips over me and hits the ground with a heavy thud, she raises her voice and sounds upset. I don’t blame her. My enemy The Squirrel upsets me, too. The world will be a better place only with their total eradication, of which I take complete responsibility. There may be collateral damage in its wake, but those are the times in which we live.

Because I am Hazel, hunter of Squirrels, defender of humankind.”

Canine Mafia

Ah, here we are in the glorious waning days of Indian Summer--toasty hot and the perfect time to give the dogs a bath before cold weather arrives and I have to resort to costly indoor facilities. 

Plus, I had just uber-cleaned my home, complete with moving furniture, beating rugs, and crawling on my hands and knees to use a toothbrush on the baseboards. Yes, I go clean-crazy every now and then, and clean dogs would be the final touch 

And so, I started with Hazel. Brought her into the like-a-sauna-courtyard outside my garage, soaped her up, washed her down, and finished her off with a nice towel rubdown. 

Now it was Olivia's turn. I swapped dogs, placing Hazel back in the house and bringing Olivia outside.

But this arrangement was apparently not acceptable to Hazel. She whined like she was being skinned alive. 

"You're having so much fun out there without me," she howled. "Nobody loves me, I've been abandoned!"  Then, her mournful cry morphed into a demanding bark. Bark bark bark barkbarkbarkbarkbarkbarkbarkbarkbarkBARKBARKBARK!

And then, blessed silence. But only for 30 seconds before the barking resumed.

I rushed soaping up Olivia, cognizant of the fact that I've never met a neighbor who appreciates a barking dog. I wasn't outside more than eight minutes before my girl was freshly bathed and smelled like her "sister," of lavender and oatmeal.  We returned back to the house where Hazel greeted us as if we were long-lost loved ones she hadn't seen since the last full moon. What a drama queen.

Not to mention a vengeful one. Because there, on the oriental area rug that was just professionally cleaned last month, was the ominous dark sign of urine. Which, by the way, was discovered only after I stepped in it and noticed my tracks across the freshly polished hardwood floors.  

I looked for Hazel and found her quietly slinking on her belly toward her pillow, ears flat, furtively peeking at me out of the corner of her eye. This wasn't a "couldn't hold it" accident, mind you. My naughty girl had delivered a message as obvious as the horse's head on the bed from The Godfather, the man who was also known for the saying, "revenge is a dish best served cold."

As opposed to the Dogfather's world where revenge, it would seem, is a dish best served wet.

The Real Olivia

It was with bated breath that I took Olivia to the vet yesterday for the third time in three weeks. She's had this persistent limp and, as any greyhound owner knows, a limping greyhound is a very scary thing because of the breed's predisposition to bone cancer.Gulp.

But, thank God, x-rays didn't show anything ominous or even suspicious. Dr. Arnott suspects the culprit is a slightly compressed disk on her spine that's pressing against a nerve.  Very short walks, lots of rest, and anti-inflammatories should help relieve her distress. Hopefully, in a couple weeks, the nerve will settle down and my girl will be back in fine form.

Of course, Hazel was with me. Can't take one without bringing the other is the Rule of Dog, even if it's a visit to the vet. As Dr. Arnott sat on the floor, playing and cuddling with both dogs, he made the observation that my feisty Hazel appears to be asserting herself as the alpha dog in our household. He asked how Olivia is with this young upstart trying to dethrone her.

She seems fine, I replied, probably because I still treat her as the alpha dog: I greet her first, feed her first, leash her first, and, every evening, always cuddle with her before moving on to Hazel. I then added my own observation that Olivia had really mellowed over the three years that I've had her. Dr. Arnott and I both recalled those unsettling first few months when my spirited girl lunged at other dogs, growled at people passing by, and even snapped at me on more than one occasion.  While I didn't miss her aggressive attitude, it saddened me to think that Olivia, now six, might be losing her edge due to age. 

But Dr. Arnott had another take, one that I hadn't considered.

"Olivia's not slowing down because of age," he said. "She was aggressive only because she didn't know any other way to be. Who knows how she was treated at the track?" I agreed, citing that to this day she still bolts and hides whenever she sees a fly swatter. He continued.

"Now, with you, she feels loved. Safe. What you see today--this mellow, sweet, affectionate dog--this is the real Olivia, not that scared dog you first adopted.  Olivia doesn't need to be the alpha dog because she trusts you. She's happy."

Olivia was still limping when we left Dr. Arnott's office, but I knew, with time, love, and care, she would heal. Just as she had on the inside, a thought that warmed my heart beyond measure. And I took my girls home.

Under the Full Moon

I was in my pajamas, standing on my bedroom balcony and looking over my backyard, admiring its tranquil beauty in the moonlight, when I saw the two skunks on my patio. I wasn’t concerned since they were climbing the fence and appeared to be leaving.

But then—oh no!  I heard the “clack” of the doggie door and realized that my greyhound, Olivia, wasn’t at my side. I rushed downstairs, but it was too late.

Olivia had caught one of the skunks and was tearing into it, chunks of skin and fur flying everywhere, blood spraying the patio floor and sliding glass door. I managed to drag Olivia inside when I saw the skunk’s partner re-entering the yard, looking for his mate. I tried closing the doggie door but the angry skunk was forcing his head through the door, snarling and trying to bite my bare heels as I used them to push his head backward. Suddenly, out of nowhere, the skunk was joined by two equally rabid rabbits that were also growling, biting, and shoving their heads through the doggie door trying to enter my home.

Then the skunk lifted his tail and a flume of white spray shot out, covering my entire patio in a putrid veil of white mist like a fog machine at a concert. The foul fog started creeping through the doggie door, violating my beautiful home, my peaceful sanctuary. It burned my eyes, my throat, my nostrils, and I realized I’d lost the battle….

I woke up with a start, gasping for air, my heart pounding like a jackhammer. The symbolism of the dream did not escape me.

Just a few weeks ago my neighbor had told me about the excruciating pain she was experiencing from her sciatica. But earlier this day, when I asked her husband how she was doing, he told me the pain turned out to be, not her sciatica, but stage 4 breast cancer that had metastasized.  She was now under the care of Hope Hospice.

A few days prior I had visited a family member fading away from inoperable pancreatic cancer. And this Friday marks my beloved mother’s five year anniversary. She died just three weeks after being diagnosed with ovarian cancer.

Cancer. Damned fucking cancer. Insidious, invasive, and quietly aggressive, snaking into homes, destroying lives, shattering hearts.

Eventually I fell back into an uneasy sleep. But the malodorous stench of that dream haunted me for days. 

The Secret's in the Sod

There’s always a ramp up period with any new dog, right? 

With sweet, shy Elvis it was mastering the scary stairs and conquering Kilimanjaro. When Mom passed away in 2009 and I adopted her greyhound, Lucy, it was months before the little white hound got over her fear of the dreaded doggie door. 

And with Olivia, well she had a slight issue with trust. All now in the past, of course. These days, as we spoon on her pillow and I pepper her needle nose with kisses, I tell her, “Remember that time you snapped at me and almost shaved the peach fuzz off my cheek?” And we both laugh over the silly misunderstanding as she nuzzles her head deeper under my chin and nudges me for more kisses.

Now there’s Hazel. Funny, goofy, affectionate Hazel, an instant love bug who mastered the stairs and doggie door in record time. When I began the housebreaking process, I noticed that aside from that first night, she wasn't having accidents in the house, which was good. But she also wasn't going in the backyard, which was not so good. Instead, she was holding it and going only when we went on walks, which could sometimes be 12 hours apart. This dog had to learn to do her business in the backyard when I was at work. 

I called Golden State Greyhound Adoption for advice and was told to take her out and stand in the yard with her throughout the day in 10 minute cycles.  Morning, noon and night. Never give her the opportunity to pee in the house. Eventually she would go in the backyard. 

Sounds easy enough, right?

Except it wasn't. She simply wouldn't go. Would. Not. Go. There I was, every morning at 5:15 am, in my pajamas, half asleep and standing in my backyard waiting for Hazel to do her business,begging her to do her business, but nothing.She'd just look at me with her big doe eyes and then fall asleep on the welcome mat near the sliding glass door.  At that hour I wanted to join her.  A couple times she'd hunch over the rocks that border my fence, like she was about to do something, and I'd get so excited and hold my breath and think, "yes, yes!" But then she'd stop. Circle. Paw the ground quickly, like she was touching a hot iron, and then go back to the welcome mat and lay down. 

And so, I'd take her for a quick walk and then crate her while I was at the office. I hated doing this after she'd already lived the first four years of her life in a crate, but I had no choice: she had to learn to pee outside before I could give her free rein of my home.  

Finally, when no progress was made after two weeks, I called a trainer for advice. Janis said this was a common problem with dogs that had a preference for particular substrates, like grass or (GULP) carpet. "Try a couple rolls of sod," she suggested. "When she produces, lavish her with praise like she's just done the most brilliant thing in the history of dogdom."

Okay. So I bought some sod, which was pretty darn cheap thanks to California's drought because hey, no one's planting sod these days, right?  Laid it in the area where I wanted Hazel to go, just like the trainer said. 

Then watched. Waited.Prayed.

It was all of 10 minutes before Hazel came sniffing around with Olivia at her side. Helloooo, what was this?  And maybe another minute or two before the sod was baptized. My neighbors must have thought I'd gone nuts because allelujia!  I lavished praise upon my little girl as if she'd just done the most brilliant thing in the history of dogdom. 

And don'tcha know it? She had.  

Week Two with Hazel

Judging from this photo, I'd say Hazel is feeling right at home, wouldn't you? 

Our first two weeks together have gone incredibly smooth...oh, except for that sea of urine, in the center of my living room, that was so large I swear it had waves. The "accident" occurred after I turned my back on her for one minute. Okay, maybe two.

Olivia just looked at the bright yellow puddle slowly seeping across the hardwood floors, and then at Hazel with this stunned expression that said, "Oh no you didn't." And then she looked at me like, "I didn't do it. Honest."

I couldn't get mad. Hazel was brand spankin' new, right off a Florida racetrack just last May. As far as she was concerned, any place outside her crate was fair game. This was how it worked at the track, right? But eventually, she would learn to go outside, as did Elvis, Lucy, and Olivia. I mopped up the floor, threw away the contaminated throw pillows, and dragged Olivia's bed into the yard for a good wash, followed with a spraying of Nature's Miracle. 

The ramp-up period with a new dog is always a challenge, I know. But I signed up for it because I also know that every puddle, every "NO!" and every chewed slipper will be worth its weight in gold when replaced with needle-nose nuzzles. Oh, there's nothing more rewarding, trust me.

Just ask me about Elvis, Lucy, and Olivia. And coming soon, Hazel.

Introducing Hazel

I wasn't planning on getting a second dog. Really. The day started out as an innocent play date for Olivia at the home of Tom and Susan. They have three greyhounds of their own and my girl always comes home dog-tired after a day of romping with her peeps. 

Only this time, Tom and Susan were fostering a little 4-year-old fawn straight off a Florida track. Better known as Miss Bessie in the 93 heats she ran as a race dog. Her final race was on May 21 before she was rescued by Golden State Greyhound Adoption. 

Anyway, you know that old Linda Ronstadt song, the one with the lyrics that go, "...just one look and I fell so hard in love, with you?"  Well....

Olivia now has a new sister, a sweet and affectionate little love bug I've named Hazel. Once again I'm a two-dog household.  

Oh, I know what this means, mind you. Double the work. Double the food. Double the vet bills, cleaning, and costs. 

And double the love.  

Pet Tails and the Rainbow Bridge

Yes, it's true. As you might have read in last Wednesday's San Francisco Chronicle, after 13 years, Pet Tales is crossing the Rainbow Bridge.  

I could hear the regret in my editor's voice when she called to break the news. She said that despite recognizing the popularity of the weekly column, "market research" shows that newspapers need to take a different direction. I'm guessing this is why sections of the paper keep getting revamped--they're still trying to identify what that "direction" may be. 

These days print media is doing their best to connect with a generation that simply doesn't read print anymore. If it ain't online, they ain't readin'.  Trying to reach this generation might be as hopeless an endeavor as trying to get my generation to convert solely to e-readers, smart phones, and iPads. Oh, I've got a Kindle and an iPhone. But I'll never use them for my news. Never.

I love newspapers. Always have. My affair with print started in 1967 when I was 9-years old and with my folks visiting Aunt Amelia and Uncle Frank in San Francisco one weekend. I was bored. Oh God, so bored. Theirs was not a kid-friendly house, and it was cold outside. And foggy. No yard to play in, no toys, no other kids. Bored bored bored. 

And so, when I came across their Sunday San Francisco Examiner/Chronicle, I started reading it out of sheer desperation. Anything to kill time.  But my interest in the paper suddenly spiked when I came across a photo of actor Tommy Steele in the entertainment section. Helloooo! I had just seen his new movie, Half a Sixpence, a few weeks earlier and had an enormous crush on the British singer/actor.  

I  must have been the only 9-year old in history to ever ask her parents for a subscription to the San Francisco Examiner. I got it and have never stopped reading. Even when I moved to Utah for a couple years, I continued my subscription to the weekend Examiner/Chronicle, although it would  arrive three days later.  No matter where I lived, no local rag could ever replace my beloved hometown newspaper.

Yes, I love print. The smell of the ink, the tactile feel of the paper, the peripheral news elsewhere on the page that catches my eye--maybe a word or a picture--and so I find myself reading an article or blurb that I had no intention of reading and as a result, I learn something new. It just doesn't work that way online. Sigh....

But Back to Pet Tales 
My main regret is losing this voice for the rescue community. It's been extremely rewarding to spotlight the joys of animal companionship and share the many wonderful resources we have throughout the Bay Area.  From bunnies and birds to chihuahuas and pit bulls, there's a rescue group for that one particular person looking for that one particular pet. Plus, I've met so many wonderful people, like-minded folk who love the creatures that share their lives.

But the good news is, I've been asked to write a pet "lifestyle" column in the 96 Hours section of the Chronicle, addressing trends, events, and quirky topics that appeal to pet owners. It'll be different, but fun and I'm looking forward to discovering what's out there. Because really, I don't get out much...what IS out there? I need readers to share their favorite pet tips and ideas with me.  

Thanks for reading Pet Tales all these years. I hope you'll follow me over to 96 Hours for the new column, which is yet to be named. I had suggested "Heavy Petting" which a few editors liked, but the Powers That Be nixed that one. Oh well. 

Can't win 'em all.

The Ugly Shelter Dog

I loved this email I received from a Pet Tales reader, Holly Field, of Fort Collins, CO.  She was responding to last week's column (Maddie's Pet Adoption Days) about a shelter pet finding her forever home. I asked Holly if I could share her email and she agreed, so here it is.  This made my heart smile; hope it does yours as well.

"I always tear up when I hear of animals finding their homes. I have a dear friend, Susan, who lives in Santa Fe and for years volunteered at a shelter taking dogs out for walks on Sundays. I don't know how she steeled herself for it, but she managed. She had a dog-sitting business and owned two already, so she couldn't bring any more home.

There was one particular dog that was very sweet, but quite ugly. She loved him and feared he'd never find a home. One day, when she was out walking another, she heard him barking, barking, barking...and she looked up to see his little head sticking out of the window of a car that was leaving the shelter.  

She knew he was saying,'Susan! Susan! Susan! I have my family and they have a BOY!!!!!'"

Photo credit: somepets.com

A Different Type of Memorial Day

A few months ago, I came home to find a large package on my front porch. The return address read The San Francisco Chronicle, the newspaper where I've been a freelance columnist for the past 13 years.  

What the heck was this?

I opened the box to find dozens and dozens of envelopes and small packages from names I didn't recognize. As I started sifting through the contents, mystified, I noticed a common theme: many expressed sympathy about the death of my mother in 2009, others addressed the death of my greyhound, Lucy, in 2011, and the remaining lamented the loss of my boy, Elvis, in 2012.  Confused, I took another look at the envelopes and realized that every one of them were postmarked between 2009 - 2012. 

These were condolence messages from readers of my Pet Tales column. 

Apparently, as a freelancer, the newspaper's mail room staff wasn't familiar with my (cough) brilliant prose and didn't know what to do with all the incoming mail. And so, all the letters and packages sent by caring readers languished in a dark corner of the basement until--fast forward to 2014-- someone had the foresight to look me up. 

Hence the box on my porch.

The outpouring of love, sympathy and support expressed in every piece of correspondence was so overwhelming that eventually I had to stop.  Each card and letter brought back a flood of fresh memories, like I'd just lost my mom, Lucy and Elvis, days ago, and not years.  I set aside the box of letters to read at a later date; perhaps when I wasn't caught off guard about revisiting these painful periods in my life.

That date was today. Appropriately enough, Memorial Day. A day of memories.

Sifting through the letters, I again found myself overwhelmed, but this time I knew what I was diving into and was emotionally prepared. Each card and letter was like a loving hug from a pair of warm arms who felt my pain and wanted to make me feel better. Some sent photos, others shared similar experiences or comforting books, a few sent invitations for therapeutic hikes or meditation retreats. I was amazed that these readers--total strangers--took the time to buy a card or write a letter, and pen messages of such depth and compassion.  

And I was equally mortified that they hadn't received a response from me. A "thank you" for their thoughtful words.  Of course, they had no way of knowing that their letters hadn't been received. They probably just thought I was too busy or didn't care.

But I do care.  Very much.

And so, I'll be busy the next few weekends, sending emails, dropping notes. I want each reader to know that their kind words, however late, were very much appreciated.

Because no matter what the postmark says, it's never too late to return a hug.

I Love Lucy = Mom

Woke up this morning with a chihuahua on my stomach and a greyhound at my feet. Not a bad way to greet the day if you love your four-legged children as much as I do. The greyhound, mine, the chihuahua, a house guest that I'm very fond of.

Rolled out of bed and made myself a latte on my 25-year old Krups espresso machine, read the Sunday Chronicle while listening to KFOG's Acoustic Sunrise, then loaded up the "kids" in the car for a ride to the park. Went for a nice long walk on trails that were empty since it was still quite early for a Sunday morning. Clear skies and warm temps, but with gusty winds that had leaves twirling, branches flying, and threatened turning the chihuahua into a helium balloon on a leash. 

Returned home, dropped off the dogs, and ran to Safeway for a few necessary supplies: chocolate chips, flour, butter, parchment paper. Came home and vacuumed, mopped, dusted, did laundry, changed the linen. 

Kept busy, busy, busy. 

Then I whipped up a batch of my favorite comfort "food," chocolate chip cookies. I snacked on raw cookie dough (yes, it has raw eggs and no, I don't care) while the rest baked in the oven, filling my home with yummy, chocolaty smells. Finally, I snuggled on the sofa to watch the I Love Lucy marathon I'd recorded earlier. 

I Love Lucy was my mom's favorite program. She never tired of watching Lucy's crazy antics, even if she'd just seen the same "Lucy goes on a diet" episode a few days earlier. I remember epic battles between Mom and Dad when, as a one-TV household, 7:00 pm would roll around and it was time to choose between reruns of Star Trek or I Love Lucy. 

Lucy always won.

Today I Love Lucy too, but now more than ever because the series reminds me so much of my mom, down to the heavy Spanish accent she shared with Ricky Ricardo. My best friend, my coach, my confident, my greatest fan, my loving mom. She isn't here this Mother's Day for me to cherish and care for in her old age, as I'd hoped to do. 

And so, I watched I Love Lucy instead. No doubt, Mom would have approved. 

GoD And DoG

This morning on KFOG's Acoustic Sunrise, my favorite radio personality, Rosalie Howarth, played a song so simple and eloquent, it took my breath away. It's been around since 2009--how have I not heard this before? But maybe you haven't either. 

And so, for all my dog-loving friends, here it is, with a link to the video. I hope you find it as touching as I do.

GoD And DoG

by Wendy J. Francisco 

"I look up and I see God, I look down and see my dog.

Simple spelling G O D, same word backwards, D O G.

They would stay with me all day. I'm the one who walks away.

But both of them just wait for me, and dance at my return with glee.

Both love me no matter what - divine God and canine mutt.
I take it hard each time I fail, but God forgives, dog wags his tail.

God thought up and made the dog, dog reflects a part of God.
I've seen love from both sides now, it's everywhere, amen, bow wow.

I look up and I see God, I look down and see my dog.
And in my human frailty...I can't match their love for me."

A Twist of Fate

So, the blog, a bit quiet lately. You may have noticed. Or not. Since I don’t track numbers, I never really know who’s reading. 

Or not.

 

But there’s a reason for the silence. Of late, there have been several deaths—all unrelated—that have knocked the wind out of my sails and the “get up” from my “go.” Weekends normally reserved for Sunday brunches or leisurely walks with the dog have been spent attending services. Sharing the grief of friends for the passing of their elderly parents, feeling their pain while remembering the passing of my own parents, long gone.  

Over the past six weeks, I've also mourned the loss of two younger lives whose deaths-- again, unrelated--were shocking and unexpected. Out of respect for privacy, I won’t go into detail, but it’s been a lot to absorb. 

This kind of stuff gets you thinking.

The fragility of life. The randomness of events. How a routine visit to the dentist can turn into a raging infection that cuts short a life. Or how someone who is fit, vibrant, and athletic unknowingly harbors a fatal heart condition. 

Maybe this is why I’ve always been intrigued by the 1998 movie, Sliding Doors starring Gwyneth Paltrow. The movie uses parallel time-lines to explore the different paths a woman’s life might take if she does—or doesn't—catch her London train. In one scenario, she makes it in time and in the other, the doors slide shut right before her nose. How her future unfolds, based on each perspective, is the premise of the plot

The movie was billed as a “romantic comedy” but I found it much deeper than that. Ever since watching it several years ago, I always find myself contemplating chance delays or inconsequential events. How they could, without my knowledge, alter the very course of my life’s journey.

My Teamster dad, who drove for a living, never complained when he was delayed by something annoying like a flat tire. Instead, he embraced it as a sign. “I’m obviously not meant to be on the road at this particular time,” he would say. “God stepped in and stopped me.”

Maybe. Yet I also remember the Bay Area banker who was living in Germany during the time of the 2004 tsunami, one of the worst natural disasters in recorded history. The young man was supposed to spend his Christmas vacation in Southeast Asia, but his girlfriend convinced him to join her for a ski trip in the Alps, instead. As a result, he missed the tsunami. Whew.

And was subsequently killed in an avalanche.  

Sliding doors. Would he have survived the tsunami if he hadn't gone skiing? Or was it simply his time, no matter where the location?

What I found most interesting about this movie (warning: SPOILER ALERT) is the ending. Although Gwyneth Paltrow’s character takes two entirely different directions, each one circles to reach the same final destiny, regardless of the journey.  Suggesting that, no matter what path taken, the destination remains the same.

Sealing your fate whether it’s a random flat tire or trip to the dentist. They’re all just sliding doors. 

Life Through Coffee

Used to be you boiled tap water, added a couple tablespoons of instant freeze-dried coffee, and voila! You had a cuppa joe. 

In the 1970s, this is what my parents drank. They'd boil a large pot in the wee hours of the morning for my dad to fill his thermos before leaving the house at 5am for his hour-long commute to San Francisco. Whatever didn't make it to the thermos would sit in the carafe all the live-long day. And then, when dad returned home from work around 6pm, he'd take that same bitter brew that had been sitting cold on the stove top for 13 hours and nuke it in the microwave for he and mom to enjoy in the evening. 

I took a sip of their coffee. Once. It tasted like battery acid with cream. My taste buds were traumatized, which is probably why I didn't start drinking coffee until well into my late twenties. Right around the time that coffee shops started cropping up with specialty drinks, like lattes and cafe mochas  and cappuccinos, and --you know--the good stuff. And I realized wow, coffee could actually be a tasty drink if made properly.

These days it's impossible not to make good coffee at home.  All you need is the right machine, like a Nespresso, Keurig, or Bosch. Plug it in, insert a pod, press a button, and before you can say, "The next best thing to waking up...." there you have it: a gourmet cuppa joe complete with frothy foam.  The only finger you have to lift is the one holding the mug to your lips. 

In 1986, when my salt-of-the-earth parents learned that I was spending $1.75 every single day to buy a latte, they said, "Enough throwing away your money. Make your own lattes!" And, as a Christmas present, they plunked down $100 to buy me a Krups Espresso Maker. The first, and maybe the second and third and fourth times I tried steaming the milk, the hot liquid exploded, spraying milk all over the ceiling and walls. But over the past 28 years I've mastered the craft to perfection. And using the same Krups Espresso Maker, I might add, three times a week no less.

No buttons to push. No pods to insert. I grind my own coffee, measure the water, and steam the milk, with nary a drop on the ceiling. Sure, I could buy one of those fancy new machines where all I have to do is insert, press, wait. 

But there's something about my ritual that I like, especially on weekend mornings. I listen to the hissing steam as I watch the sun rise, monitor the cresting foam as it nears the rim of my cup, and then sit down to enjoy my hard-earned drink, enhanced with maybe a little almond syrup or coconut sugar, and cinnamon sprinkled on top. 

Today's sophisticated coffee makers probably render my Krups method a bit archaic. Just as I thought of my parents' method for boiling tap water and adding coffee crystals. But I think of my mom and dad, who both died far too young, every single time I use that Krups machine. 

And that alone makes for a perfect cup of coffee. 

This Little Piggie Went to Kaiser

I just wanted pretty toes. That’s all.

Which is why I got a pedicure the day before I left on my cruise to Hawaii. I mean, who’s not going to wear sandals in Hawaii, right? Pretty toes are a must.

I’d been to this salon a couple times before, one of those in-and-out cattle-call places, and they had done a decent job. Quick, seemingly clean, and efficient.  

Not so much this time.

The young girl attacked my tootsies like a starving wolverine on a fallen lamb. I have neuropathy in both feet and therefore lack about 75% feeling, but the remaining 25% felt every jab, poke, and stab. During the painful process, I even posted on Facebook, “Are pedicures supposed to hurt this much?”

And is blood letting a part of the process?

Apparently not. So what’s with those drops around my big toe? When I winced and pointed out that she had cut the side of my foot with her overzealous use of the pumice stone, she applied antiseptic and made direct contact with the torn skin. 

So much for sterilization.

But I was in a hurry with a ton of errands to run before my 15 day vacation. And so, I let the aspiring Samurai finish and paid with the thought, “never again.” When I got home, I cleaned the wound, applied more antiseptic, and didn’t give it another thought.

Not until six days later onboard ship, when this guy approached me and my pretty toes in my new sandals.  “I hope you don’t mind me interfering,” he said, “but I’m a retired paramedic and that cut on the side of your foot looks bad. You should see a doctor.”  

Not the pickup line I was hoping for.

But I guess neuropathy can come in handy because I wasn’t feeling any pain. Or maybe those endless cruise cocktails had something to do with it. Anyway, I hadn’t noticed the wound since it entailed twisting my foot at an unnatural angle.  When I did, oh wow, it was looking pretty nasty. So I saw the ship doctor, a kindly South African who reminded me of Dr. Bombay from Bewitched. He confirmed an infection. Big time. He treated the wound and prescribed antibiotics. Problem solved, right?

Uh, not quite.

When I returned home two weeks later, not only was the wound still infected, but an abscess had formed underneath it.  Which meant another doctor visit, more bandages, and stronger antibiotics, both oral and topical.

By week three, the wound was still red, swollen, and angry looking. My doctor was concerned that the infection had gone into the bone and ordered X-rays. Thank goodness, it hadn’t, but now the pain was bypassing the neuropathy and hurting like hell.

By week four, there was still was no improvement so I was referred to a podiatrist. He excavated the infected, walnut-sized abscess, bandaged my foot, and prescribed one of those dork medical shoes to be worn over the next week coupled with twice-daily 15-minute foot soaks in a special antiseptic bath. This was to be followed with another topical antibiotic ointment and finished with enough gauze, wrap, and surgical tape to mummify the entire entourage of King Tut.

That night I could barely sleep. My aching foot throbbed like a migraine with toes. 

Hopefully, my follow-up appointment next week will put this saga to rest.  In the meantime, I’ve alerted the nail salon with a detailed letter outlining visits, costs and procedures to date.  You know, in case I lose a foot or something. 

All this for pretty toes. Which, by the way, looked great in those new sandals.    

A 15 Day Blast to the Past

Last week I returned from a 15-day cruise to Hawaii.  Sailing out of San Francisco, we spent five days at sea, four days in Hawaii, and five days back at sea, including a quick pit stop in Mexico, before returning to San Francisco. 

But what I liked best about this trip wasn’t mentioned in any of the cruise line’s marketing collateral. It wasn’t the endless supply of cruise cuisine like Eggs Benedict, shrimp cocktail and buttery lobster. It wasn’t the entertainment, shopping, or shore excursions. It wasn’t even the ideal weather, good company, and endless laughs.

It was being offline. Disconnected.  Unplugged. At sea there wasn't online access unless I wanted to spend a dollar a minute tethered to the ship’s designated computers, which uh, no, I didn’t.   

And so, for 15 unprecedented days I didn’t check emails or peruse Facebook for crazy dog videos, cute kid photos, or “I just pigged out on a quart of coffee Hagen Daz ice cream” laments. I didn’t play Words with Friends or Candy Crush, didn’t surf YouTube for music videos, didn’t text friends, and didn’t monitor my weather app for the latest temperatures. I already knew what the temperature was because I was outside feeling it for myself. I wasn’t wasting time reading about the polar vortex on the east coast or the unprecedented flooding in England.

It was on this cruise that I realized just what an insidious intrusion smart phones have become, packaged as an essential need. We can’t put them down, not for one second: we eat, walk, talk and live with our phones as if they were a bodily extension like our hand or foot. In elevators, stores, restaurants, and coffee shops, waiting in lines, driving cars, crossing the street, meeting with colleagues, talking with friends and shopping, dining and exercising, we are constantly, simultaneously, forever checking our phones and responding to “pings” like Pavlov’s dogs. 

Never mind the time or place. Nowhere is immune.

Such as the dark winter evening I was walking my greyhound, Olivia and using a flashlight to navigate the pitch black streets. Turning a corner, I plowed into a woman who was also walking her dog, but didn’t see me because she was busy texting on her phone. Last August, my good friend Mark, who’s a local DJ, invited me to join him for a concert that he was emceeing for one of my favorite bands, Chicago. In our front row seats we were so close to the brass section I could actually smell their sweat. Not that the young woman next to me noticed. She was too busy watching the entire performance through the video she was making on her phone. At the gym, I see people lifting 50 pound weights with one hand while reading their phone in the other. And what about that recent photo in the Chronicle of the newly-wed couple dancing at their reception? The bride was checking her phone and the groom was holding his. 

Really? It’s that important?

On my cruise I read four books, including two massive novels that were over 400 pages.  I forgot how much I love diving into a good book without simultaneously playing Words with Friends, losing myself so thoroughly and completely that when I look up from the pages, hours later, I experience a temporary disorientation. You mean I’m not hanging out with an orphan in New York who is harboring a stolen painting?  

Shipboard life included conversations where I didn’t keep an eyeball peeled for texts, emails or alerts. I wasn’t privy to the personal and often inane one-sided blither of people barking about their laundry stains, idiot co-worker, or rash that just won’t go away. For 15 days it was just like old times, when people lived in the present without posting every thought on Facebook or photo on Instagram; when eye contact was made with people instead of screens. We gave our full attention to conversations without sneaking that sidewards glance we’re all too familiar with. Best was when we just relished the silent beauty of a sunset or serene stillness of the smooth seas. 

It was unexpectedly wonderful.

And then we docked in San Francisco and phones were whipped out like we’d just landed on Mars and were gasping for air and those little devices in our desperate clenched fists were oxygen tanks.

But for 15 glorious days we were unplugged and offline; disconnected with our phones and connected with the present. 

That was the real vacation.

The Parking Lot

It was a nice day. That is, until I took Olivia to the park on my afternoon break.

My pup and I were enjoying a peaceful, relaxing walk, relishing the warm California sun while the rest of the country was suffering through a polar vortex. But the warm glow quickly wore off when we returned to my car and were greeted by approximately one trillion parents who were picking up their kids from the school next door. They were cutting through the park parking lot and creating a nightmare logjam of traffic because children can no longer walk home. You see, there are kidnappers lurking behind every single bush, therefore every single SUV-driving parent has to pick up and escort home every single child.

Okay, fine. But that’s not what got me.

In my efforts to exit the parking lot, I bumped the car in front of me. And when I say “bumped,” I mean I was at a dead stop when I prematurely released my foot on the brake and rolled into the car two feet in front of me, resulting in my rubber bumper tapping its rubber bumper. It was so soft that I wasn’t even sure I’d touched the car. I thought I’d hit my brakes hard enough to create the gentle jolt and was going to drive on until the driver pulled over to the side. She exited her car and started screaming, “YOU HIT ME, YOU HIT ME!!!” 

Uh, okay.

I pulled over and looked at her rubber bumper. There was a tiny piece of scratched rubber--roughly the size of an eyelash coated in Maybelline mascara--that the screw on my license plate had caught. I flicked it off with my fingernail.

“This is a new car!” she huffed. “Give me your driver’s license! And your insurance.” 

When a police car drove by, she waved at it frantically but he didn’t see her. I just stood there looking at her with a bemused expression, not quite believing her reaction.  I’ve been hit harder by Tonka Trucks.

“No disrespect,” I finally said, “But I really don’t think this is anything. I wasn’t even sure I’d touched you.”

“Yeah, but it’s a new car,” she repeated. “I’ve had it two weeks!”  And yes, I understood that. She’d made that very clear. This was a NEW CAR. But honestly, there were bigger pimples on the tweens milling about than the nick she kept pointing at. She photographed my license and insurance information and, as an afterthought, I asked her name, but only because I felt like I should show some level of interest. Not that I really cared. Her name was Maura.

We parted ways and I returned home, perturbed over the experience. Not because of the incident itself, but because of her reaction. It was an unpleasant reminder that there are people who interpret skin tags as tumors, raindrops as monsoons, and splinters as stab wounds.  

God help the first bird that baptizes Maura's new car. The hunt for Osama bin Laden will pale in comparison to the efforts she’ll use to hunt down the feathered felon. I have a feeling rocket launchers may be involved. Because in case you didn’t get it…

THIS IS A NEW CAR.

In Memory of an Animal Lover

Over the past couple weeks I've been emailing a Pet Tales contributor to let her know her story would run next month and to send photos, but --odd -- she hasn't responded. Most people are thrilled to hear their story will be used and their beloved pet immortalized in print and online. 

Finally, I called the number she provided. When I asked for Laurie Campbell,  the stranger at the other end hesitated, then told me that Laurie passed away. Just last week. It was unexpected, she told me.  I didn't ask any more because it wasn't my business. 

But I feel so bad for this stranger I've never met, this lover of dogs who wanted to share her pups with Chronicle readers. And I've been wondering about her dogs--what's happened to them with her sudden demise? I've also been kicking myself for not using her essay earlier. It would have been one nice thing for her to experience before her untimely death. 

But I can share it here. Laurie wanted her story told and that's the least I can do for this stranger I never met, this lover of dogs.

Needle Nose Love

Years ago, Laurie Campbell read an article about a group of greyhounds that had been rescued from Letterman Army Hospital at the Presidio. The dogs had been used by military doctors to experiment with limb amputation and replacement. She was transfixed by the "before and after" pictures of one of the hounds: in the first picture, he was the canine personification of misery, and in the second photo, he was a laughing, relaxed, happy dog. Campbell thought, “If any breed of dog is this resilient, I’m definitely interested.”

Honey was a 55-pound brindle female that had spent the first eighteen months of her life in abusive circumstances. She was afraid of everyone.  She didn't know how to go up or down stairs and wasn't housebroken.  To top it all off, she was terrified of being left alone.  It was an understatement to say that Honey was different from the other dogs I'd had.

I abandoned what I thought I knew about dogs, and focused on what she was trying to teach me. The most heartwarming milestone came after about a month when she first wagged her tail. That motion, however slight, marked her delightful awakening. Her only fault was that she was an inveterate food thief. I remember her once walking daintily past someone and very calmly, with the utmost delicacy, swiping the sandwich from their hand while they were busy talking.

When Honey was 13 she became incontinent, a common problem with older spade females. I always thought that this would be my line in the sand; when I'd make the hard decision to let her go. Instead, I found myself washing dog beds on a daily basis and hoping that when I got old, no one would dismiss me for the same reason.

However, that day did come, a pain that is understood by all who have walked that path with their beloved companions. I sat on the floor, holding Honey and talking to her so that she would take my scent and voice with her across the Rainbow Bridge.

Five months later, I read an article in the San Francisco Chronicle about Golden State Greyhound Adoption and soon found myself in the living room of the group’s founders. There were two available greyhounds to choose from.

I selected Kaze, a 3-year old brindle female. My gentle girl came with a fear of open drawers, trucks, and plastic bags, but she soon evolved into a loving companion.  We moved to Texas several years ago and lived for a while near the Franklin Mountains.  Often I was transfixed by the eerie howl of nearby coyotes, but Kaze seemed unconcerned about their proximity; after all, at 45 mph, my ex-racer could certainly outrun them!

Eventually I adopted a companion for Kaze, a spunky three year-old blue brindle female named Luna.  Today “The Girls” are inseparable, trotting shoulder to shoulder when we take our walks. Kaze, now 10, has blossomed with her younger companion and is experiencing a second puppyhood.

With each new dog, I can't say that I knew what I was doing. All I know is that I extended my heart and each greyhound took it gently, I promised to make their lives as safe and happy as I could, and in return they've given me a life of needle-nose love.