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.