Need an Ego Boost? Play Me

Should I ever find myself on a therapist's couch and am asked why a clever gal like myself suffers from low self-esteem, I'll blame those two guilty culprits: No, not Mom and Dad.

Try Words with Friends and Draw Something.

Because thanks to these two popular smart phone games, I've discovered that I can't spell and can't draw. There's probably a lot more I can't do, but I haven't yet discovered the games that will further deplete what little confidence I have left.

Really, how else can I explain the ten dozen consecutive games I've lost to each of my friends on the online version of Scrabble known as "Words with Friends?"

At least that's the game as I know it. From their end, they probably call it "Words with Idiots."

Here I am, tippy-tapping simple words like, "RAT" and "FOOT" and the ever-popular "QI." Whoa, lookee me---I just scored 14 points! Whoohoo, I rock. Satisfied and feeling just a tad smug, I sit back and imagine my opponents writhing in my infinite glory.

Then Sharon counters with "CONJUNCTIVITIS" down over "ESOPHAGUS" across, grabbing three double words tiles in the process. Or Peter responds with "AUDIORADIOGRAPH" over three triple point letters, while Terry creates "REPERTOIRE" and "UBIQUITOUS" out of my simple "PET" while crossing two triple word tiles. Deb does a slam dunk with "DEMYTHOLOGIZERS," Maria rakes me across the coals with "DISEQUILIBRATED" and Kim takes it home with "METHOXYFLURANES."

Their triple digit points leave my eyeballs spinning. Even as I look at the words they created, I can't quite figure out how they did it.

They make my brain hurt.

So I take a break and move on to Draw Something, the online game in which you draw a sketch based on a certain word and your opponent tries to guess it.

My word is "ATHLETE." Okay, that's easy. Using my fat finger as a stylus, I draw a stick figure holding a brown baseball bat and hitting a white softball with red stitching. I'm quite pleased with my creative use of color. I hit "send."

Then my opponent, whom I can only guess is channeling Leonardo Da Vinci, sends me her drawing. A multi-colored, three-dimensional sketch of a Renaissance court jester, so life-like I can almost feel the velvet of the jester's cap and hear the laughter of the king he's entertaining. What's the word I'm trying to guess?

"FOOL."

A subliminal message, no doubt.

But the perfect word for using up those extra "o"s in that other game, and across a double-word tile, no less. I'll score a whopping 16 points!

And so it goes.

Just a Little Pee'd Off

I've about had it with dog owners who think the world is nothing but one great big toilet for their pup's personal use. Seriously. I just want to smack these folks upside the head and ask, "You think this is okay? Really?"

If I sound annoyed, well, uh, yeah. My front porch smells like an outhouse at the close of Lollapalooza and the black cluster of flies only reinforce the image.

In the 11 years I've had dogs, I can truthfully say that I've never purposely let my dogs do their business on or near a neighbor's property. Once, my sweet greyhound Lucy couldn't hold it as we were leaving my townhouse complex and she peed near a neighbor's porch. When we returned from our walk, I went to this neighbor's house with a bucket of water and white vinegar and washed the puddle as best I could.

Because here's a newsflash, folks: Urine stinks. Urine draws flies, and urine attracts other dogs. For more urine.

But some dog guardians seem to be under the mistaken impression that their beloved pups squirt lavender water. And so, I'm giving these dolts the benefit of a doubt with a gentle reminder, this "no pee" sign I've posted near my porch. Honestly, though, I doubt it'll help. You can't make someone be considerate. Respectful. To the contrary, it's probably just a matter of time before someone steals the sign while waiting for their precious Snookums to finish her business. On my porch, of course.

And adding yet another knot to my already twisted knickers.

Secure in Her Forever Home

Every time I feel the need for a chuckle, I sneak a peek at this picture (left) of my silly Olivia and voila! Mission accomplished. I love this picture for two reasons:

1. It's a classic example of a greyhound "roaching" (the dead cockroach pose that greyhounds are known for).

2. Only a happy, relaxed, and content dog will assume this position and expose her belly.

And Olivia has come so far from the frightened, wary dog she was when I adopted her in November; the dog who would stiffen when I'd try to hug her and wouldn't come when called. The dog who bared her teeth and made my hair stand on end with a skin-crawling growl if I got too close.

The dog who didn't trust or love me.

Fast-forward eight months later to a loving, sweet and affectionate Olivia. Friendly towards strange people and strange dogs. She's goofy, playful, silly, giddy. No growls, no way. My biggest problem now is a 70-pound dog who insists on affection, climbing onto my lap and demanding kisses with adoring, love-struck eyes and one very wet nose.

I accommodate her requests. With pleasure.

Because this former race dog, who just ten months ago was living in a crate for up to 22 hours a day, had previously never known any type of love, treats, toys or affection. Today, when I see Olivia prancing about with her stuffed squeaky shark in her mouth and pure, unbridled joy, my heart flutters and I share her joy.

And so, roach away, my sweet 'livvy. You've earned it.

Letter From a Dog

I don't normally share the dozens of jokes, heartwarming stories and "aw shucks" photos received through email. Nice for a quick read, but I figure we all get enough junk mail.

And so, I read, click, delete.

But I have to share this one sent to me by a Pet Tales reader. I cried when I read it the first time. And later, when I read it again, I cried again. Oh, how I miss my Elvis.

Maybe you've already read this "letter from a dog." Maybe it's old news to everyone, but me. Don't care. I'm posting it anyway (slightly edited for length) in memory of my beautiful boy.

"DEAR FRIEND,

It is my time to say goodbye. I have been called home, away from you. I know I leave you in loneliness and pain, for that is the way of people when they say goodbye. Dogs are different. We don’t have regrets or wish that we could alter the story of life.

I leave you with memories of our life together...when you looked at me and the corners of your mouth turned up, you smelled and looked different. Lighter, happier. That was my life, my work. Nothing more clearly defined my purpose. When you smiled, I knew why I was here.

I remember my heart jumping out of my chest when you came home and called my name, or grabbed my toy to play with me, or feed me. I hope you know that I loved all of those things. Whatever you chose to give me, whatever time you spent with me, I loved. And I thank you.

You know that there is always a goodbye hovering in the shadow of a dog. We are never here for long enough. We were never meant to share all of your life, only to mark its passages. We come when we are needed. We leave when it is time. Death is necessary. it defines life.

I will see you again.
I will watch over you.

I hope, in your grief and loneliness, that you will consider how sad it would have been had we not had this time together, not had the chance to give each other so much.

I do not mourn or grieve, but I will miss standing beside you, bound together on our walk through life, even as I know there is a long line of others waiting to take my place and stand by you.

Thank you. It was nothing but a gift.

Finally, I ask these things of you: Remember me. Celebrate me. Grieve for me. And then, when you can, let me go, freely and in peace.

When you are ready, do me the great honor of bringing another dog into your life so you can give and receive this gift again."

~Author Unknown

Kick Me While I'm Down

My broken toe finally got the best of me. It's too swollen to comfortably fit in a closed shoe, sandles don't offer much support, and trust me, dogs don't care about busted extremeties. Olivia eagerly anticipates her daily walks and I can't bear to disappoint her, knowing how much my playful pup enjoys this simple pleasure.

And so, I hobbled to Kaiser's Minor Injury Clinic to pick up a cast shoe-- yup, the Dork Shoe.

The Dork Shoe technician fit me with one size. Too small. My toes hung over the edge, like Godzilla trying to squeeze his boats into a strappy Gucci. But the next size up was too large, with almost two inches of sole to spare above my freshly painted toes.

"You're an in-between size," he said. "Too small isn't comfortable and you may trip with the larger size and further injure yourself."

"How about a men's shoe?" I asked. To which the young man gave me a sheepish grin. "Uh, I didn't want to tell you," he smirked, "but this IS the men's shoe." I heard the other technician snicker.

Talk about adding insult to injury. Fine! I limped off with the larger size. I may be in danger of tripping, but what the heck.

At least my Godzilla's paw will look petite.

Gimme a Break

Good thing I have a high tolerance for pain.

Over my 50+ years I've broken wrists, ribs and jaw bones (upper and lower). I've had spinal taps, sinus infections and dental procedures so eye-crossing painful that waterboarding seemed a desired alternative. I once had a shot injected near my eyeball to treat an infected sty, and another time had all four fingers trapped in a slammed car door.

They're all child's play, I tell you, an afternoon of Chutes and Ladders when compared with a broken toe.

I first experienced the excrutiating pain of a broken toe 12 years ago when I was kicking off my pajama bottoms and miscalculated the proximity of my foot from the corner of the wall. Fatal error.

THWAP. I heard the sickening craaack and saw my second-to-last toe flop like an over-cooked macaroni. Oh no. But maybe it wasn't really broken? I tried straightening it and held it a few seconds, then let go.

Flop.

And then the neurotransmitters kicked in, shooting their damning message to the part of the brain that translates experience into sensation and ohgoodgodinheaven, the pain. The PAIN! I felt faint and saw stars and knew that this little toe was going to be big trouble.

But when I hobbled to Kaiser's Minor Injury Clinic, I didn't quite get the sympathy I expected.

"I can tape your broken toe to its neighbor and charge you $100," the doctor yawned, "or I can give you the tape so you can do it yourself and save the money. Which shall it be?"

And that's when I learned that a broken toe gets no respect.

I was reminded of this on Wednesday when I broke my little toe. I was practicing my pole dancing and slipped during a reverse triple spin when WHAM. CRACK. OUCH! (I may have slammed my toe into a desk chair, but if you believe the pole dancing story, then that's what happened.)

This time I know the drill: no sympathy. No respect. Just Advil, ice, tape and flip-flops. Oh yeah, and a playful young greyhound who's not about to let a little thing like my busted toe interfere with her daily walks. No rest for the weary or lame.

Sigh.

Ash Backwards

Due to popular demand, I'm reprinting an essay that originally appeared in BustedHalo and, later, in the San Francisco Chronicle. Over the years, I've received many requests for this essay because it turns out it's a popular piece to read at memorial services. Who knew?

And so, in honor of my Dad and Father's Day, I bring you:

ASH BACKWARDS

For 13 years Dad sat on Mom's nightstand.

Or at least his ashes did. I'm sure a nightstand from Levitz wasn't quite what he envisioned as his final resting place; in fact, I know it wasn't because 13 years earlier, when Dad learned he had Leukemia and was given just three months to live, he told us specifically where he wanted his ashes scattered.

The problem was, we forgot where exactly that was.

And when you forget a deathbed request, it's not like you can go back and ask the person to repeat their wish. We only realized our fatal faux pax when the time came to scatter his ashes.

"I thought you knew the location."

"No, you said you would handle it!"

And so on. What we did remember was that it was somewhere up in California's Mother Lode Gold Country. Dad's favorite hobby was dredging for gold and he had wanted his ashes scattered in the Tuolumne River. Or was that the American River? Maybe it was the Yuba River?

Good God, we couldn't remember! I could just imagine Dad shaking his head and rolling his eyes.

Finally, on the 13th anniversary of his death, we said enough. We had to accommodate his final request. Maybe we couldn't remember the exact river, but we knew he loved the Mother Lode. Maybe we'd find a quiet, serene place, say a prayer, share a few special memories, then scatter his ashes. Dad would finally be laid to rest.

And so, on a sizzling summer day that would have marked his 75th birthday, we drove two hours north from the East Bay toward Columbia, a charming preserved gold rush town he had especially liked. There we were, a gaggle of Johnnie's gals...my mom, sister and me, plus our two best friends whom he had considered second daughters, and the 12-year old granddaughter he never knew.

Now in California, it's illegal to dispose of human remains, and my mother is a person who has never so much as rolled through a stop sign. She was a nervous wreck, convinced an FBI SWAT team was watching her every move, just waiting for her to show some ash.

When we finally arrived in Columbia, she clutched the box of ashes to her chest, looking furtively about. Coke dealers in the other Colombia have looked less guilty.

"Here," she indicated, anxious to get the illicit act over with before she was hauled off to San Quentin. "This is good. Let's scatter them here."

I looked at her in disbelief. We were standing in the middle of an asphalt parking lot in between a Hummer and a Volkswagen.

"It has to be someplace special!" I insisted. She thought about that for a second, then agreed that, yes, yes it did. So she moved a few yards. "Okay, how about here?" She pointed to a trampled trail dotted with horse pies from the Columbia stagecoach rides.

Oh for God's sake, this wouldn't do. I hustled Johnnie's gals, now hot, cranky and tired, back into the van. "We would drive," I barked, "until we found a spot that felt friggin' special!" A task that we soon discovered appears much easier in the movies than it does in real life. Where is that scenic overlook above a sparkling lake when you need one?

But after an hour of driving off beaten tracks and down desolate roads, we saw it: a doe and her fawn looking at us from a dirt path and thought, hey, maybe that was our sign!

Or maybe it wasn't. But we hadn't eaten all day, had sweltered in 100-degree weather, and still faced a long ride home. It would be our sign, dammit.

So we followed the deer a short way only to find ourselves looking down a hillside of trees and daisies. Hey, it was kind of nice. Peaceful and serene. Dad would have liked this. What should we do now? Hold hands and say a prayer? Share some fond memories? Contemplate the passing of a loved one?

“Hurry up!” Mom hissed nervously under her breath. “Before we get caught!”

Okay fine. We’d forgo ceremony to accommodate America’s Most Wanted who was still convinced that the FBI or John Walsh was skulking about.

Solemnly we began scattering Dad’s ashes. Suddenly our bickering ceased as the significance of saying goodbye one last time dawned upon us. No one felt the need to speak. Until, that is, a strong gust of wind came from nowhere and blew a tsunami of ashes back in our direction, coating everyone with a fine film of dust.

Or a fine film of Dad, to be more precise.

“PFffffffttt!” my niece sputtered, coughing. “I've got Grandpa all over me!”

After the initial shock of wiping Dad off our sweaty faces, slowly we started smiling. Then giggling. And then, for the first time on that hot, somber day, laughing until we were crying. This was an act so typical of Dad, an Irishman with a wicked sense of humor. No doubt he was making his presence known, even if his ashes now lay strewn among California wildflowers.

And Johnnie’s gals, chuckling and dusty, reminisced about this special man as we piled back in the van to make the long trek home.