How to Make 2017 Rad

• Stop doing shit you hate

• Love your body more

• Hang with awesome peeps

• Smash some goals

• Share your magic

• Be freakin' brave

• Flaunt your awesome

• Love harder / Love louder

• Be kinder to yourself

• Be a nice human

• Give assholes the boot

~courtesy of Mommy Needs a Beer

Never a Good Time

Which is worse? 

To wake up on what appears to be just another typical day with your happy, healthy dog snoring alongside you, only to go to bed that evening suddenly alone, bereft, and heartbroken; just like that, your dog is gone, the unsuspecting victim of an asymptomatic disease or horrific accident.

Or is it worse to know that a tumor, infection, or disease is festering inside your beloved pet and will eventually kill him, but you hold on to that slim sliver of hope that maybe your dog will beat this thing. And you do chemo treatments and countless surgeries, pills, and appointments, practically draining your meager savings account in a desperate attempt to save your dog's life, praying that maybe he'll be the exception. You wake up each morning with a hopeful, yet heavy heart, wondering if today will be "the day" until eventually it is. 

Which is worse? The answer is both.  

I pondered this question after reading an email I got last week from two dear friends. Tom and Susan fostered Hazel before I adopted her and to this day often dog sit for me. Just a couple months ago I stayed at their house for a few days and dog sat their three greyhounds, Zizi, Ziggy, and Zita. Right off, I knew their email contained bad news.

"...it's with a heavy, saddened heart that I tell you our beloved Zizi died today of lung cancer. Last night she became short of breath. She had no other symptoms. The cancer caused two spontaneous pneumothoraxes--one in each lung.....she gave us seven years of happiness. Hug your hounds and remember how special they are and how short a time we get to enjoy them."

Tom and Susan were offered the option to operate on Zizi in an attempt to treat the disease, but they elected to euthanize her on the spot. Hard as it is, I would have done the same thing. Years later, I still cringe when I think of the horrific surgeries and treatments I inflicted upon my first greyhound, Elvis. For three months I grasped at every straw there was, trying desperately to save that dog's life, unable to fathom living without him.  But in the end, the cancer won. It always does. 

That's why, when Olivia developed bone cancer, I didn't even consider amputation, although it may (key word: may) have extended her life by a year or two. Whenever I thought about amputation, I remembered Elvis: his carved-up neck where the tumors kept growing back, his daily vet appointments to drain the leaking tumors, his numerous shots, his waning energy, his tired eyes. I couldn't do that to another dog.

And so, four months after Olivia's osteoscarcoma diagnosis, I heeded the difficult words of Stu Homer, the founder of Golden State Greyhound Adoption: "Do it while their tail's still wagging."  Olivia's tail was still wagging, and she hadn't yet experienced the excruciating agony of a broken leg, when I made the heartbreaking decision to say goodbye to the dog I called "my sweet 'Livvy."    

It's because of Tom and Susan that today I have Hazel. I remember getting an email from Tom saying, "We're fostering this little fawn that I think you'd love!" and the rest, as they say, is history.   

This afternoon, I thought of my friends after returning home from a weekend getaway. I didn't think Hazel would miss me much since it was only two days and she'd been left in the excellent hands of Deanna, a good friend who gives belly rubs, chicken treats, and likes to take long walks. But when I opened the front door, Hazel almost mowed me down, heaving her 65 pounds onto my lap and pressing against me so tightly it was almost as though she was trying to melt into my skin. Then she'd jump off me, do a couple joyous laps around the sofa, then leap back onto my lap, knocking the breath out of me, and snuggling her knobby head under my chin as I peppered her needle nose with kisses.

And I hug my hound tighter than normal, loving this goofy girl so much my heart is physically aching, and remembering Susan's sage words. Because it's such a short time I get to enjoy her.  

Finding the Perfect Gift? Priceless

I'm always perusing catalogs in search of a gift that might be fun, interesting, or unusual. Sure, gift cards are convenient as anything and appropriate in certain situations, but for family and close friends, gift cards are too impersonal, too easy. They say, "I was standing in line at Safeway and as I pulled out my Safeway Rewards card to save 80 cents on this six-pack of toilet paper, I saw an iTunes gift card and thought of you. Happy birthday!"

Uh no.  Not for my younger sister who bought me the Fitbit I wanted; my older sister who gave a labor-intensive gift of homemade pasta and pesto; or the BFF who found the perfect two-tone purse I'd been searching for but unable to find. I want each loved one's gift to be as special and personal as theirs always are for me.

And the holidays are just around the corner, which is why I've been flipping through more catalogs than usual, looking to get inspired, creative.  Recently, a new one arrived that I'd never heard of before: Hammacher Schlemmer. Their tag line reads, "Offering the Best, the Only and the Unexpected for 168 years."

Alrighty then. Bring it on.

Would my sister like "The Brightest Lawn Dart Set" that glows in the dark? Such fun to be had for just $49. Or, at the same price, would she prefer a more sentimental gift, such as "The Animated Praying Bear" who recites Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep? 

I'll keep shopping.

My BFF is a very insightful "Oprah-like" kind of gal. Maybe she would enjoy "The Authentic Himalayan Singing Bowls" that were said to "invoke a deep state of relaxation, meditation, and spiritual well-being." A pretty amazing promise for just $199.  Or would she like something a little more indulgent, such as "The Genuine Turkish Towels" from the Denizli region of Turkey, which, the catalog claims, "is legendary worldwide for its toweling of extraordinary thickness and absorbency." Given the international acclaim, it sounds like a steal at $59.

Looking, looking.

"Tinnitus Relief Wand." Pass. "Best Bug Vacuum," "Wide Coverage Handheld Steamer, or "Tight Space Bathroom Organizer?" Nope. And while my gardening-loving sister might appreciate "The Only Unkinkable Garden Hose," I couldn't see that as a Christmas present. So far I wasn't finding much in the way of potential gifts. 

Then I saw it. The very awesome "Three Dimensional Labyrinth Orb." Hello, what was this?  Described as a "...spherical labyrinth that challenges the limits of your manual dexterity and spatial understanding as you maneuver a wooden marble through its entire course," the orb appeared to meet my criteria of fun, interesting, and unusual. This was something my new nephew-in-law might enjoy. Yowza, one gift down. That is, until I saw the price. I blinked. Read it again. Was this a typo?

$40,000.  That's right. Forty thousand big ones.

And so it was, tucked alongside products such as "The Best Tower Fan" for $129 and "The Eye Fatigue Preventing Reading Glasses" for $49, an item almost double the cost of a Toyota Prius. But hey, it does include free shipping. Maybe I could call Customer Service just to yank their chain a little, have some fun.  "Uh yes, I was perusing your catalog for a nose hair trimmer and came across your three dimensional labyrinth orb on page 73. I'll take two, please."

Or I could buy an iTunes gift card.

It's "Fall" in More Ways Than One

So yeah, I took a bit of an extended blogging break. Leisurely summer days will do that to a person. But honestly, with the plethora of social media material vying for attention (Facebook! Cat videos! The Kardashians!), I really didn't think anyone would notice. 

That's why I was surprised and moved when the emails started coming in.  "Where are you?" they asked. "Is everything okay?" "Have you stopped writing?" 

Wow, thanks. It's nice to be missed. 

About the Dog
Several readers asked about my second dog, which I referenced earlier this year. I had every intention of getting one. Placed my request with Golden State Greyhound Adoption. Was about to order the customized name tag (I had a gender-friendly name already picked out), and doubled my next order of heartworm medicine through Fosters & Smith. 

Oh yes, I was ready. Except for one disturbing little detail that kept niggling in the back of my brain. 

I was starting to fall. I don't mean a slight stumble, either.  I mean flat-on-my-keister, kissing the pavement, people-running-over-to-help-me, full-frontal-belly-flop falling. Over the past two months I've fallen four or five times--I'm losing count. Two weeks ago I fell and cracked my right hand, which is now in a splint. Worse yet, I tore a hole in the knee of my favorite jeans (hey, c'mon, a good pair of jeans is hard to find!).  

I can't blame the dog. With each fall, Hazel was trotting obediently by my side, occasionally turning her head around to look up at me with heart-shaped pupils that expressed just how happy she was to be outdoors walking alongside her human when...SPLAT. Suddenly she was looking down at me instead of up, waiting patiently for me to get back on my feet so we could resume our walk.

Yes, it's the Blood Thingie that I wrote about a couple years ago. The mysterious blood disorder that has been causing neuropathy in both feet. Pending genetic testing that was done three weeks ago, we're on the verge of finally confirming a diagnosis, but in the meantime my neuropathy has worsened.  I've lost feeling in both legs up to mid-calf, which, as you might imagine, makes walking difficult. I can do it--I'm not at the cane or walker stage yet--but it's painful. My legs are heavy, weighted, like I'm walking through waist-deep water, and every step feels like I'm walking barefoot on a floor of thumbtacks. I often stagger too,like maybe I've had one martini too many.  

And since I live in a hilly neighborhood with lots of pine cones and acorns, coupled with uneven sidewalks and very poor street lighting, a walk is not a walk anymore, but a hazardous obstacle course that I hope to survive in one piece.  One dog is all I can handle at the moment.  

But I'm getting my second dog fix in other ways, which also helps Hazel stay exercised and socialized. I'm meeting up with fellow greyhound owners for shared walks and exchanged dog-sitting services. In the process,  I've made some great new friends like Nicole and her sweet black hound, Nadeen, who has stinky breath and loves to give kisses.  Nor is a second dog off the table permanently. Since stairs might eventually become an issue, a one-story home might be in my future, maybe one with a larger yard with plenty of room for two dogs to play and exercise.

Best of all, I found a good tailor who was able to patch my jeans so you can hardly see the hole. 

Hey, you've got to find the good in life and run with it, right?

I'll Never Forget When...

The year was 1977.  I was 19 and standing in line at a Taco Bell, picking up lunch for my co-workers as part of my summer "gopher" job at Dublin Travel, when the breaking news crackled over the radio: Elvis Presley, age 42, had just been found dead in his bathroom.  

While older people around me reacted with shock, I was sorry but not especially surprised. After all, he was 42. Wasn't that around the age when people stopped buying green bananas? Remember, I was 19.

Of course,  I now realize that 42 is ridiculously young, just like John Lennon was when he died at age 40 in 1980. It was a Monday night and I was at home watching Kate & Allie when the show was interrupted with breaking news by legendary sportcaster Howard Cosell. The former Beatle had been shot and killed. 

The next morning I drove to the now defunct Wherehouse Records and joined a crowd that was silently milling about, everyone carrying albums by the Beatles. There wasn't any talking and the store wasn't playing any music. We all knew why we were there. 

Fast forward to June 25, 2009. I was at my desk at work when my mom phoned. "Michael Jackson is dead!" she gasped.  For some reason my 73-year old mother had always been fascinated with Michael Jackson, which I never quite got because she was definitely more the Julio Iglesias type.  

"He is not," I snorted, wondering where she'd picked up such a silly idea. Michael Jackson was my age. Michael Jackson was too young. Michael Jackson was immortal. But when I Googled his name to humor her, there it was, splashed across every website.  Oh my God, Michael Jackson was dead. 

As word spread throughout the office, work came to a standstill as everyone logged on various websites to find out what had happened to the King of Pop. 

Now Prince.

On Thursday, we were about to enter a meeting at work when a co-worker came trotting down the hallway, looking at her phone in disbelief.  "I can't believe this," she announced. "Prince is dead."

Forget the meeting. We all looked at her slack-jawed.  "Prince the singer?" I asked, hoping maybe it was, you know, another Prince. As if.  My manager rushed to her computer to check CNN and there it was.  "This is another Michael Jackson moment," a co-worker murmured and I knew exactly what she meant.

Just last weekend I was watching Purple Rain and thinking that Prince was ageless. We were born the same year, but I figured one day when we were 70, I'd be in my fluffy pink bathrobe watching a geriatric Vanna White trying to spin the wheel while Prince would still be performing pop-up concerts at 11pm, singing Little Nikki and jumping off stages in stilettos. 

Because that was Prince.

"Some people want to die, so they can be free.
I said life is just a game, we're all just the same, do you want to play?"  ~Controversy

Pitter Patter of Paws

That old familiar "feeling" is starting to fester again, similar to the notorious biological clock that drives women of a certain age crazy with baby lust. 

Except my temptation has four legs, not two. I'm starting to lust after other greyhounds, imagining how it would feel to once again cuddle with a hound under each arm or walk with a waggin' wagon train of dogs in front. I'm wondering where I'd put the second food dish--next to the fridge or near the baker's rack? I'm envisioning extra pillows near my sofa and bed. I'm playing with names: I prefer monikers that start or end with a vowel, or have "Ls."  I'm picturing a companion for Hazel, a second needle nose for me to pepper with kisses, an extra set of velvety ears to rub.  

Not to mention, Golden State Greyhound Adoption is bringing in a haul of retired racing greyhounds from Florida on May 7. How convenient is that?  

However, I'm just a bit paranoid about the Second Dog Curse.  I adopted Olivia as a companion for Elvis, and three months later my beloved boy died of throat cancer. After one year, my broken heart felt ready for a second dog and I adopted Hazel as a companion for six-year old Olivia. And--you guessed it-- my sweet Olivia died of osteoscarcoma just six months later.

See where I'm going here? 

But really, what are the odds of that happening a third time? Plus, the payoff is so worth the risk, in spite of the extra work. Because there's no denying, there's work: it means housebreaking all over again, patting and sniffing the carpet for those dreaded wet spots. Stuffed toys and chew sticks scattered throughout the house. Extra shedding and double sets of paw prints on my shiny hardwood floors, which means double the vacuuming, double the mopping, not to mention double the food and vet bills.

And (be still my beating heart), double the love.

Adventures in Babysitting

Last Saturday I babysat. Not a biggie for most people, but it was for me because the last time I babysat, the going rate was 50 cents an hour and the Osmond Brothers were crooning One Bad Apple on KYA.  

It's not that I dislike kids--I'm just not around them since I have none, hence no grandchildren, and most of my friends are single as well.  These two little girls, 7-year old Lucy and 5-year old Audrey, belong to my next door neighbors and they're so darned cute, I told their parents I'd be happy to watch them sometime so the young couple could enjoy a rare date night.  

"Really?" their mom asked as if not quite believing her ears. "You'd babysit for us?

"Sure," I said.  "We'll watch movies, make brownies. It'll be fun." And before I knew it, I had two pajama-clad munchkins sharing my overstuffed chair with the giant sock monkey that my niece added to my sock monkey memorabilia. And we really did have a good time. The girls were so polite, well-behaved, and adorable, it didn't feel like work at all. 

Well, except for that DVD they brought. They insisted I join them to watch Earth, a visually stunning 2007 Disney nature flick. I was enjoying it until--oh no! --the cheetah chasing a fleeing gazelle actually caught it. I couldn't help but gasp. I should have known not to trust a Disney movie. Hey, look what they did to Bambi's mother? 

But the girls were fine. Lucy turned to me and and without batting an eye, she tried to set my mind at ease. "It's all part of the food chain," she explained gently. "Cheetahs have to eat too, you know."

Which reminded me how precocious kids are. How unfiltered. How honest. Especially when Lucy asked me, "So how old are you? 50 or 90?"

Gulp.

In case I didn't get the hint, her message was delivered loud and clear when she came across a photo of me with my greyhound, Hazel. It's a decent enough picture for me to have used for my 2016 New Years Greeting card.  

"That must be an old picture," she mused as she admired it. "You look a lot younger."

Finally, my chance for redemption. "No, it's not," I replied. "It was taken just two months ago." Ha! So there. 

She studied my freshly-washed face and then returned to the photo, looking at it carefully, obviously perplexed. I could see the wheels turning in her head before she reached the only explanation that made sense. 

"Oh, I see," she said. "You're wearing make-up."

Ouch. I certainly will be moving forward.

When my adventure in babysitting came to a close three hours later, I really meant it when I told their mom I'd be happy to watch the girls again.  They thoroughly charmed me over and provided a refreshing break from the intricacies of adulthood.

Except for that "50 or 90" crack. Next time I'm wearing lipstick.