The Sound of Silence

For years, every Tuesday morning at 5am I've been awakened by the distinct "beep-beep-beep-clank-clank-clank" of garbage trucks on trash day. But suddenly, the past few Tuesdays have been silent. No trucks. No beeping or clanking. Just the pre-dawn stillness of 5am. Seems the sanitation department changed their schedule and pick up is now in the afternoon at 5pm.

I am not pleased.

Not that I can call Waste Management about this. I can just imagine the look on the person's face as I complain about the lack of noise at 5am. 

But in the hushed darkness of early morning or late evening, the absolute silence is louder than any garbage truck, honking car, or barking dog. It's an unearthly silence where I can hear the ringing in my ears, the pumping of my heart, and the blood coursing through my veins like the Indy 500. A silence that threatens to break at any given second with the sudden piercing intrusion of a dying smoke alarm battery or the ominous crack of breaking glass. The silence is the reason why I run my Roomba right before going to bed. I doze off to the reassuring whir of my little iRobot as it bumps into furniture and baseboards, warding off uninvited sounds while sweeping all that dog hair. And if it finishes before I fall asleep, I turn on a podcast, although I've yet to stay awake through one. It's not the subject I'm seeking, it's the noise. Any ambient noise to mask that ear-shattering silence.  

I know, weird...or maybe not. Because when I Googled the subject, I read that Robert Roth, Ph.D, Director of the Sleep Disorders and Research Center at Henry Ford Hospital in Detroit, told Prevention Magazine that "...if your room is too quiet, every little 'inconsistency of sound' becomes that much more evident and disruptive." 

Hear that, Waste Management? Straight from the expert's mouth. Or to paraphrase a certain song:

"Hello darkness, my old friend, we need the garbage trucks again."

Uh, at 5am, please. Thank you. 

Worry Warts and Wounds

My mom always used to say that it was a good thing I never had kids because I would have made myself crazy with worry. Is that a headache or a brain tumor? Tummy ache or Ebola? And sure, this little sliver embedded in the thumb may appear inconsequential, but what if it travels through the bloodstream and pierces my baby's heart? 

I don't know how parents do it, I really don't. How can you love someone so much and not worry every single day over every single thing, like tainted spinach, mall shootings, school bullies, and falling meteorites?

See? I'm worrying on your behalf. 

So yeah, it's probably just as well I never had kids because I would have driven myself into an early grave and them into lifelong therapy. But Mom had a point because I have dogs, and I worry. Good God, how I worry. 

Like with Hazel, my nine-year old greyhound. It started when I took her to my back-up vet for what I thought was a broken toe (Worry #1). X-rays showed the toe wasn't broken, but maybe sprained because she yelped every time it was touched. And so, Dr. H. stabilized the paw with plenty of tape and gauze, and told me to remove the bandage in one week. 

When I did, the problem toe was fine. However, the paw had been wrapped without padding in between the toes, so a toenail had embedded itself into the toe next to it, creating a bloody gash (Worry #2). Back to see Dr. H. who cleaned it, this time remembered to insert padding in between the toes (uh, thank you), and wrapped the foot again. 

When we returned to my regular vet the following week to remove the bandages, the toe gash was starting to heal, except we found that the new bandages had created yet another problem (Worry #3): a bloody, dime-sized crater on the outside of Hazel's paw. The vet cleaned it, wrapped it again with extra padding, and told me to remove the bandage in one week. At my request, he also started Hazel on antibiotics, because, you know, flesh-eating disease and stuff like that (Worry #4). 

Well, I removed the bandage last night to find that the wound was now a bright pink, pulpy, oozing abscess. And Hazel was clearly not herself (Worry #5). No zoomies. No downward dogs or playful barks towards passing pups.

Maybe I was overreacting. After all, I recently had a blister the size of a grain of rice on the knuckle of my middle toe, and for days I limped like a failed Firewalker.  Maybe this was just the canine version of a blister. Maybe there was no need to worry and if we let nature take its course, everything would heal and my girl would be fine. 

Who was I kidding? I was worried. Back to the vet we went, where he took one look at Hazel's neon pink paw and confirmed a now-raging infection (Worry #6). He numbed the abscess. Cleaned it. Sutured it. Wrapped it with falsely cheerful green tape and sent us home with powerhouse drugs we hope will work.

Until then, I'll continue to worry, if not about sprained toes and infected wounds, but eventually over something else, because yeah, Mom was right: I'm on the road to crazy. 

With worry.

Just Another Morning

He's been there sporadically over the past year, leaning against the brick wall near the entrance of the Hayward Peet's. Standing alongside a confiscated Lucky's shopping cart stuffed with, well, stuff. A small, slight man, Hispanic, late 50s maybe, hard to tell with his weathered skin.

My excuse for being at Peet's at the ungodly hour of 6:30 am was to fuel up with caffeine before trying to beat traffic on the notorious Hwy 92 eastbound. But this guy wasn't a commuter. He was clearly homeless, although he never asked for money. All he said each morning was, "God bless." Going in, going out, a simple nod and "God bless."

I wanted to help him, but you just never know where your money is going, right? So, like other commuters, I occasionally bought him something from Peet's, although really, just how much Major Dickason or banana bread can anyone take in one morning?

Then one day while cleaning out a closet, I came across a nice nylon duffel bag that I'd forgotten about and thought, ta dah! How about I stock it with supplies, things a homeless person might need?

And so, off I trotted to Target where I bought a pack of undershirts and a sweatshirt. Men's socks. Toiletries, personal hygiene supplies, and a box of granola bars. Packed everything neatly and stored it in the back of my Honda CRV for the next time I saw him.

Except he disappeared. Perhaps the continuously cold, damp, windy weather proved to be too much. Sure, there were other homeless people who could use the supplies, but something about this guy with his simple "God bless" had touched me. This was his bag.

Then one day, months later, there he was at his usual spot in front of Peet's. Giddy with the thought of brightening his day, but also not wanting to insult him, I approached him tentatively and asked if he could use a few supplies. "Sure," he said.

Great! When I returned with the duffel bag minutes later,  he was engrossed in conversation on a phone that, I couldn't help but notice, had the familiar Apple logo. When he saw me, he nodded and continued talking while waving me, somewhat impatiently, toward a spot where I could place the bag. Sort of like he was a Wall Street stockbroker making an important trade and I was the local deli gal delivering his salami on rye, hold the mayo.

Uh, okay. 

I followed his instructions and dropped the bag atop his packed Lucky's shopping cart. I wished him a good day and he lifted his chin in acknowledgement, then turned his back to carry on with his conversation.

Alrighty then. And a God bless to you, too. 

The "Eyes" Have It

It was Monday and I was in the office talking to my coworker, Tami, when suddenly a floater the size of the Goodyear Blimp appeared in front of my left eye. It hovered, shifted to the left, then floated back to the center again.

"Wow," I told her. "You should see the floater that just blotted out your face. It looks like a big fat semi-colon." Tami nodded and said she gets floaters too, and we agreed that they're oh so annoying, like gnats swarming around your face.  And then we continued our conversation about whatever it was we were talking about.

That night, more floaters appeared around the blimp, which remained fixed in my line of vision. Not gnat-sized floaters, but spider-sized. Still, I wasn't concerned. I've had them before and my ophthalmologist reassured me that they're a very common eye ailment and nothing of concern. "But if you see flashing lights, call me immediately," he said. "Because that means the retina is detaching. Flashing lights are something to worry about." 

And Tuesday morning I saw the flashing lights.  

I called. Left a message. Left another message. And another. By the time the ophthalmology department returned my call five hours later, the vision in my left eye was like looking at a blimp through a screen door. 

"The doctor can see you on November 13th," the scheduler said, not understanding the gravity of the situation. "No," I told her. "You need to get a message to him right now. Tell him I'm seeing flashing lights. I'll hold."

That did the trick. 

Ninety minutes later, I was sitting in his chair, having my left eyeball manipulated, poked, and prodded like he was kneading bread dough. I apologized for being paranoid, but said I remembered what he told me about the flashing lights and he nodded. 

"90% of the people who come in complaining about floaters have nothing to worry about," he said. "Unfortunately, you're the 10% that do. You have a torn retina." Seriously? I can't get one matching number in the lottery but hoo boy, something bad comes along and winner winner chicken dinner. 

And so, emergency laser surgery was scheduled for the next morning, which was Halloween. When I saw the retina specialist, I gulped. Was he in costume as a middle school student? This was the guy who was about to Darth Vader my eyeball with a blinding laser.  Oh, make that two eyeballs. Because when he checked my "good" eye as common practice, he found my right retina was also torn. 

"No symptoms, which is odd," he said. "But it's also at risk for a retinal detachment."

Alrighty then. Laser away, Darth.

Various websites indicate that laser surgery is painless and takes just 15 minutes, but Darth found a second tear in my left eye. This one was hard to reach and sitting on a nerve, which hurt like a #!@#! every time he stabbed it with the throbbing green light. One hour and three repaired tears later, I staggered out of the clinic, blinded by the light, in the most literal sense, and clutching the arm of Oliver, my nephew-in-law and driver.

So it's been three days and my left eye still has the Goodyear Blimp fixed in my line of vision. Plus, my peripheral vision is blurry, like looking underwater. When I told Darth, he said my retina is bleeding from the surgery (how's that for a good excuse to call in sick? "Sorry boss, can't come in today, I've got bleeding retinas!") and should dissipate in a few days. The blimp though, may be permanent. He'll know more when I see him again in three weeks. In the meantime, I'm getting by with my "good" eye.  

And buying a lottery ticket. Because really, if someone's going to beat the odds, I might just be that gal.

Wardrobe Malfunction

So there we were, me and the pups, making our usual lap around Osage Park when I saw two women up ahead. Each was walking a striking, straight from the movies, Rin Tin Tin stand-in quality German Shepard. 

We stopped to admire each others' dogs and talked about our shared passion for animal rescue. When they asked about Hazel and Aiden, I explained that they were retired ex-racers from Florida. I mentioned that although I'm absolutely, unconditionally devoted to Greyhounds, I've always had a soft spot for German Shepards. 

And it's true. Those were the dogs of my childhood, starting with a gentle black and white German Shepard named Lisa. She was so named because when I was born, that was what Mom wanted to call me.  However, Dad didn't like "Lisa," wanting instead to name me after his first girlfriend--really?  And her name was "Eileen," so I guess we know who won that argument. But when they got their first dog a few months later, Mom put her foot down: Lisa it would be. And for 13 years, Lisa was as much a part of my family as any two-legged version. 

When Lisa died at 13, my parents went to a breeder (because that's what people did in the 70s) and came home with Lobo. He was a goofy dog, a brown and black runt of the litter that turned out to have a bit of a destructive streak...and that was putting it mildly. From drywall and doorknobs to shoes, sofas, tables, and toys, lop-eared Lobo chewed his way through our home with the tenacity of an 80-pound termite. He was a sweet dog, loving and affectionate, but suffered from severe separation anxiety, a little-known condition in the 1970s to most people. In those days, canine resources weren't as readily available as they are today, plus Al Gore hadn't yet invented the Internet. And so, our family muddled through 12 years with Lobo, loving our crazy neurotic dog but always wondering what chaos we might return home to.  

Our final dog from a German Shepard breeder was an all-black beauty named Grizzly. From the beginning, he was Dad's dog, attaching himself to our father like green on grass. When Dad was in the hospital, one of his dying wishes was to see Grizzly one last time and the nurses agreed to smuggle him into his room. Sadly, Dad died before we could set our plan in motion. By then, I was a young adult and no longer living at home, but Mom would tell me how her mourning was made even harder by watching Grizzly mourn, too. The dog would wander from room to room, looking for his master, and sometimes Mom would find Grizzly in the garage lying next to Dad's yellow diesel Volkswagen, a car with a very distinct engine rumble. One day, while walking Grizzly in a crosswalk, a yellow diesel Volkswagen approached and was idling at the stop sign as they passed.  Ears up, eyes alert, Grizzly suddenly bolted and dragged Mom to the man's car, where he excitedly jumped up on his hind legs and stuck his big black menacing head through the driver's open window. The poor guy was frightened out of his wits until Mom tearfully explained the reason for the dog's erratic behavior.  Just a couple years later, our hearts were broken yet again when we lost Grizzly to bloat, a painful condition where the stomach twists and fills with gas. 

These were just a few of the memories that raced through my head during the 10 minutes we chatted about the importance of animal rescue and placing homeless pets. As I admired their majestic-looking dogs, I explained why Greyhounds had stolen my heart but said that I fully support any rescue organization. Noting their identical blue t-shirts that read, German Shepard Rescue of Northern California, I added how, given my history with the breed, I especially appreciate their organization. 

"Adopt, don't shop, right?" I said in the spirit of camaraderie.

"Oh, we didn't rescue these dogs," replied the one gal. "We support the group, but we went to a breeder."

Alrighty then. 

We said our goodbyes and, pausing only to pick my jaw up from the ground, I continued walking Hazel and Aiden. 

May be Summer But Feels Like "Fall"

Last week, my 30-minute small group session with Chris, my personal trainer, was about coordination and balance. Dang. I was hoping for something a little more challenging, like strength training or --even more fun--boxing, which is a great way to work out stress. But this was important too. I guess.  

Actually, I'm all too aware that coordination and balance are critical since I have this annoying neurological condition that threatens my stability. A common complaint among people who share this disease is that they walk like they're drunk and it's true. Without my leg braces, I stagger like I've been hitting the vodka when really, my most serious vice is the occasional Midori Margarita at Los Panchos, my favorite Mexican restaurant.

So, yeah, I paid attention to what Chris was saying even if it wasn't "fun." But talk about serendipity.

Not three days later, I was walking my two greyhounds, Hazel and Aiden. Suddenly, Aiden caught a whiff of something that was deliciously stinky and made a sharp left in front of me just as I was stepping forward. I wibble-wobbled. I flailed. And, in that "oh my God I can't believe this is happening" slow motion sensation, I started to fall.  

But miraculously, in that split second, I had the presence of mind to remember what Chris said. "Bend your knees. Lower your center of gravity so you're closer to the ground and hit with less impact." That's what I did.

With bent knees, I missed the hard pavement by inches and went splat on landscaping. I waited for that sharp bolt of pain to tell me something was broken, but nothing was bruised other than my ego. Really? I took a deep breath. Looked around. Whew. No witnesses, although I'm pretty sure someone from the adjacent apartment complex was looking out their window and having a good snicker at my expense. Hazel and Aiden just stood there looking confused.

I got up. Dusted myself, grateful that I hadn't landed on the hard pavement or, for that matter, anything else since I'd fallen on a popular canine "relief" station. My clothes would go in the wash, just the same.

And we continued our walk like nothing had ever happened. Two happy hounds and one intact,  if not shaken, human. 

Why Pet Tales Mattered

Hazel and Aiden

There we were after work yesterday at Osage Park, me and "the kids." We were taking our nightly walk when we passed this couple who were walking their own two adorable wiener dogs (a word I use only because, for the life of me, I cannot spell daucsand... dacsand... dauschand... aarrgh!). I also use the word "walking" in the spirit in which it was employed because they were actually pushing their elderly dogs in a baby stroller.  

Of course, we stopped to chat, as dog lovers often will, cooing over each other's pups, asking their names, their ages, their stories.  They were intrigued when they learned that Hazel and Aiden are ex-racing greyhounds. 

"Did you ever read that woman in the Chronicle?" the wife asked. "The columnist who wrote about her greyhound, Elvis?"

"Uh, yeah," I replied, flattered that anyone would remember Pet Tales since it ended more than two years ago.  "That was me."  Her enthusiastic response was equally flattering.

"Oh my gosh, I loved that column!" she exclaimed, asking shyly, "Can I hug you?" Now I realize that coming from a total stranger this might have been an strange request. But from someone who read the column and embraced its message, I understood her intentions and opened my arms to her. 

She shared how she had saved several columns, such as the ones about my first greyhound, Elvis, how I adopted my mother's greyhound, Lucy, and another story that I remembered well: the one about Kai, the Chihuahua. A pet psychic had said Kai wanted his photo taken with an abalone shell, which sounded like an odd and unlikely story. That is, until two days later when the owner took Kai to a beach and lo and behold, the dog suddenly bolted into a cave, unearthed a huge abalone shell almost twice his size, and then sat next to it and waited patiently.    

As we continued chatting, I was reminded why I so loved writing Pet Tales.  Its readers were people after my own heart, people who shared the almost fanatical, undying love I have for my dogs, and the affection and respect I hold for others. I met many readers over the column's 13 year lifespan, and each time there was an instant connection, thanks to the pets in our lives. 

After 20 minutes or so, we parted ways and I headed home, my heart warmed by the experience. It wasn't but five minutes before a Toyota SUV pulled up to the curb. The window rolled down and a woman called out, "Hey, are you Elvis' mom?"

I am indeed.