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. 

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).