Freedom's Ride

They say only the young have rash moments. You know those times when the laws of physics are still something to be learned about years later in university. Times when your mom is busy in the kitchen, your dad is at work, and you are left to your own devices.

With my big brother, we cut a swath through our parents' patience. There was the time we took the TV apart, literally, when we were 12 years old. Mom was still amazed we didn't electrocute ourselves as she surveyed the CRT, flyback transformer, demodulator, and filters scattered across her clean floor. It was worth the grounding (literally and figuratively). Then, the less physically risky, though not without its own penance. Mom and Dad had an electric blanket with dual controls, something NEW. We reconfigured it so Mom's control operated Dad's side, and vice versa. Mom woke up, "I'm freezing!" and cranked up the heat. Then Dad would say, "I'm hot!" and would crank his side down. It took them two nights to figure it out. Grounded again.

The world was ours to take, living as we did at that age, in advance of adulthood, when life knows no pauses and has no fear of what the future brings. I'm not sure when it changed. Mom's cancer was turning terminal, the splash of cold water against the bow of our lives, her death in her late 50s, that shadow line that marked the official end of that unfettered road.

I can't say I didn't do anything rash again; every fork in the road has its own seduction, but everything was tinged with the mark of mortality, the portent of possible loss. If you don't love hard, you won't be hurt, you think, reconciling yourself to the life of a gregarious loner.

40-some years later, with as many lessons of loss etched on my heart as there were marks in my logbook, I embarked on what was the rashest decision of all. A tattoo? You say. No. A change of job, residence, or last name? Certainly not. No, it was a decision made one night, Lorelei, our last rescue, having been diagnosed with an aggressive soft tissue sarcoma. We took her to the best Veterinary oncologist in all of Chicagoland, whatever the expense. They went in to see what could be done, but it was inoperable; she wouldn't have survived any attempt to remove the embedded mass. While she waited to come out of recovery, a dash was made to a local thrift store to obtain an extra-soft baby blanket, which would provide her with some extra warmth and comfort on the long drive home.

We took her home to make her remaining days as joyful and pain-free as possible, when the notice came in from the Rescue group that we had adopted her from. They had a young yellow Lab with an orthopedic defect that might need the "doggie elevator" my husband had made for Lorelei. Honey Bee was her American Kennel Club name. She was 10 months old, from an Amish Breeder who had released her when it became apparent she couldn't be sold due to markedly bowed front legs. Poor nutrition? Genetics? Growing up in a small pen for 10 months in a barn?" We don't know, and didn't ask; all we knew was they had the good hearts to take her some distance to a well-known rescue that would find her the right home.

So, with a thumbs up from EJ (who, honestly, would probably say yes if I asked to buy a tank), we brought her home. A PUPPY. What was I thinking? I'm 66 years old, still working, and I've now got an overgrown puppy with NO training, NO socialization, and the urgent energy of a 40-pound Velociraptor on Crack (with puppy teeth to match). Add in a husband who can be on the road 2-3 weeks a month, and there was a moment I almost called and said, "wait, I change my mind", but like that moment when that first labor pain starts, there's no calling it off.

Her first night was great; she had some cuddle time with Lorelei and her new mom and dad, and then slept next to EJ as he lay on the futon beside her. As he waved to leave for work the next morning, I thought, "I can do this!"

It was the calm before the storm. I likened it to those long, late flights overseas, when storms were forecast but not yet visible, the engines humming in a drowsy sky, senses alert but not fully engaged in the fatigue. On such nights, the few stars above cast their touch upon our aircraft, shafts of light penetrating a sky that was turning from clear to the blackened soot of nearby fire. The massed clouds all around would have had a singular significance of effect, had we been able to see them ahead. But the aircraft's radar was not yet painting any threat. You sensed it was there, but with no hint of the direction from which it would come, the nearing of a menace, feeling like it was coming from all and every direction. Then that first spray would hit the window as your radar screen lit up with what looked like the big red dot on a 7-Up beverage can.

I remember the first sharp expression of small puppy teeth in my flank; she had discovered that people have bottoms, and they are biteable. Ouch! It really didn't hurt that bad through my jeans, but the surprise came out in my voice, and she thought it was a game. The next thing I knew, she was running and jumping off the recliner, launching herself at the couch like one of the Flying Wallendas, knocking over a plant in the process, while Lorelei looked on, taking notes.

The typhoon had arrived, and I named her "Sunny."  Phonetically, it was close enough she responded immediately, yet avoiding the whole standing out on the porch at 6 am shouting at her in the yard while EJ loaded up his car for work, "Honey, NO, not the rabbit poop" or "Honey, NO! NO, don't lick that!" The neighbors would be calling the authorities (or the local sanitarium).

Lorelei was overjoyed to have a friend, and Sunny played with her surprisingly gently, then lay protectively nearby when Lorelei slept frequently in those last weeks with us. Bittersweet scenes to view, as it was impossible to see without that sense of unavoidable finality. The quietness as they slept came over me like a forecast of abrogation, that pause before the heart ceases to beat like a rundown timepiece.

The coming months were marked by continued mayhem, including stolen tools and shoes, shredded rolls of paper towels taken from the counter, as well as one late-night trip to the Vet when a dew claw was torn in the Zoomie to end all Zoomies. There were laughs, tears, and many days I would have gladly dispensed myself of the regrettable opportunity of "guess what gross thing I have in my mouth, Mom?"

We had a local dog walker who came by as needed, especially when we were working, playing with her, and teaching her the skills we were slowly building with her daily. But I'd still come home, approaching her crate like it was the den of some wild beast, with bravery but some bluster. I'd open the door while singing the notes of "Ride of the Valkyries", and our evening would commence, measured not in hours but by the kinetic energy of flying fur.

But, as with any storm, the skies clear, the winds calm, at least in the land of Puppy-Ville. It was during those last weeks before retirement that we faced one of our largest challenges, both intellectually and emotionally, on the job in several years. The loss of life was immense, the senselessness of it all, a bitter taste on my tongue as I worked late into the night. I'd learned long ago, my first official assignment after the earth shook in Pennsylvania on 9-11, that there was no point in asking "Death, where is thy sting?" as you stand before a vast, smoking hole in the ground. The images that day, 24 years ago, pursued me home, making sleep impossible without a strong shot of Single Malt.

But having put that bottle away years ago, I learned to take comfort as the shadows gathered again, with the little things of joy I had around me. In those last weeks, badge still in my pocket, regret in my fingers, I learned to appreciate the simple pleasure of a young dog. For she was once as I was, living in advance of an end she will not fear coming, because she doesn't conceive of its existence, that beautiful continuity of joy that knows no limits and no introspection.

I wouldn't have traded this decision for anything. - Brigid

Finding Your North Star

I've got too many restoration projects/repairs going on in the Bungalow right now to head outdoors to camp, but it is one of those activities I genuinely enjoy. When I was an airline pilot based in California, I used to head out to the Sierras every time I got a few days off, in my SUV, with nothing but a sleeping bag, a fishing pole, and a cooler of pop and sandwiches.

I then didn't go for years. A thousand-mile commute from where I was based as a pilot to where I lived took away that urge. Then, later, with another job that had me on the road constantly, the last thing I wanted to do on my time off was be away from my own bed. 

So being free to pack up and go anytime I want now is so liberating. But oh, has the world of camping changed. My first trip was to a small state park, a day’s drive east of home. What I didn't know was that in the last 20 or so years, camping has evolved from the basics—tents, beer, and sandwiches — to the "established campsite".

As I pulled into the park, I could only think of that Joni Mitchell song "They Paved Paradise and Put Up a Parking Lot". Instead of sparsely isolated spots of dirt where the remnants of a campfire might be found, there was what appeared to be the parking lot of the Mall of America, except with RVs.

In Campsite #179, a 300-pound man in a bathing suit (my eyes! my eyes!) was trying to adjust his cable antenna (do they still make those?) on top of his $125,000 "camper".  From somewhere in the bowels of this getaway vehicle, his wife and kids were "roughing" it by not having Netflix.

In Campsite #180 just feet away, a couple was arguing about the fact that the wife had left the cappuccino maker at home, while what was either Katy Perry or someone strangling a weasel played loudly enough to disturb anything hibernating within 75 miles. 

I drove further in, hoping for some of the peace and solitude I craved only to about veer off the road as a chipmunk, with a yellow plastic radio transistor collar, sped across the road, followed by about a dozen screaming children and what was either a small scruffy dog or a rat with hyperthyroidism leading the pack, barking in a high pitched tone that would have broken glass.

I turned back and went to the gate where I'd paid my fee to drive through and see a tree, and then I asked the ranger. "Can I just go in deep in here and pitch a tent to stay overnight away from everyone?" And he said, friendly but firm, "No. You must be in one of the designated sites, but there's plenty to do. Here. You can have site # 278," as he handed me what looked to be brochures from a Las Vegas hotel. "The showers are to your left, the recreation hall to your right, don't forget the group nature walks". He smiled and held out his hand. "That will be $32.00, please." "$32 just to throw down a sleeping bag with my dog?", I said. “The website said it was only about $20."

 

Apparently, I didn’t factor in the extra charges if it’s a weekend, if you want a shower, or if you’re breathing or. . . . "

"In a designated pet camping spot only, which is an additional $2, of course," he said, peering with a smile into the back seat at my Labrador retriever who was starting to growl. "And the dog must be on a leash at all times. It's policy".  "Don't you have something for about $10.00? I pleaded.  I'm just here for the night and don't need to use the showers." That's what the 5 gallons of jugged water in the back of my jeep is for. Check for neighbors, have gun handy in case of bear, take off the clothes and pour it over my head. . voila' shower! It worked in the wilds of Alaska and Africa; it'll work in Pennsylvania. 

"I’m sorry, but the pricing is on our website, Ma’am." (Ma’am?!) The dog was growling in earnest now, looking as if he wanted to eat the ranger’s hat . . . to start. I gave up. "Does #278 have a fire pit? I'm looking forward to some hot dogs and campfire chili."

"Fires are not allowed in your  particular campsite, Ma'am," the ranger said (I swear one more "Ma'am and I'm going to smear the Ranger Rick here with peanut butter and let the dog out of the truck)."If you wish, however, you may purchase a burrito at the snack bar.” Burritos? No wonder the only raccoons I saw were in organized groups wearing authentic ski masks.

Granted, I was probably “safe” from four-legged predators. No bear or mountain lion could get through the 12-inch gap between Winnebago’s, though I figured the raccoons would use drones to get any food hoisted up a tree branch at night.

Suddenly, the sky lit up with someone’s leftover fireworks from the 4th of July. Seriously? If I wanted to play with a cannon, I could have stayed home.  

I bid the ranger good day, turned around, and drove until I found some land that didn't look to be privately owned. In the ascending hills, I hiked for a while and pitched my tent. I didn't have a microwave, but I had a small, carefully managed fire, one that burned bright. In its light, my hair was like fire, and points of fire burned in my eyes as I savored all of it, woodsmoke and bug spray, paper plates that got all soggy and fell apart, the sounds of the crickets as the sun set, the sun's dying rays reflected in my drink as Barkey snoozed happily by the fire.

As I drifted off to sleep, the branch of a tree brushed against the tent opening, driving in the forlorn scent of the wild. From a distance, a sound, not civilization, but simply the hoot of an owl, felt more than heard, pressing against the night until nothing was left but a dark impression as it flew away. 

There is no video streaming service, no internet, no phone. There is a watch in my backpack with a compass, but even that is not carried to keep track of the time, but only to put time aside so as not to spend my breath trying to conquer it. There is just me, my dog, and the vast summer sky, languid and empty of geese, news helicopters, or the late evening conga line that is Midway Airport at 9 pm. Above me, just the North Star blinking in that vast and empty gesture that is all promise, even as it remains out of reach. 

This is why I come out here, for those times when I don't wish to sacrifice the wonder of the present moment to work, civilization, or noise. I love a broad margin to my life. And I've always been a loner. I can sit in the faded sunlight of a doorway between two giant trees, from dinner till dark fall, rapt in a revere amidst the forest, in undisturbed stillness and solitude.  As darkness settles on me, I wonder about the lapse of time, the evening seeming like a mere moment, time like a season in which I grew like flowers in the night.

Like flying, time spent in the woods is not subtracted from my life, but is simply over and above my usual allowance. Oriental philosophers talk about contemplation and the forsaking of work, and I realized out here what that means. Out in the woods, I don't care how the hours went; the day advances as light comes into it, it's morning, and now it's evening, and nothing memorable is done. My days are not days of the week, minced into hours and deadlines of a ticking clock or an airline schedule. Let mornings be lazy, afternoons pass by in long walks through the woods, the splash of a paddle in the water, and if the day becomes wasted in the warm rapture of a sunset as nature sings its song in your ear - what's the harm? 

THIS is my North Star.  Unidentifiable sounds in the darkness that make you hold your breath at the bottom of your sleeping bag. A good book read with a dying flashlight until sleep came, shadows dancing on the wall of a small canvas tent, and the musty smell of freedom and adventure. A time when growth may not be on the surface but may be internal, as the days quietly drift by in the warm embrace of the woods. - Brigid

P.S.  The North Star necklace is from Zen Lemon Arts in Alaska - I have several of her handmade pieces. https://zenlemonarts.com/  Available online and on Etsy.

Busted!

 You broke that treat in half, didn't you?

Lady and the Tramp Stamp - a Barkley Memory

Don't I look all soft and adorable?  Please feed me treats.

With this photo memory of Miss Abby(one of the original Blogville Gang from 2014)  when she had her first grooming after adoption, it brought memories of trying to get Barkley bathed, NOT the easiest of tasks.

From the Book of Barkley (Outskirts Press) and some photos of Barkley with my little Point and Shoot that you may not have seen.

CHAPTER 34 - Lady and the Tramp Stamp

I've had some bad haircuts in my time, as with very fine but also curly hair, it happens.  Barkley, however, has been spared getting shaved and groomed but for the occasional bath and nail trim.

Why is it a breed that loves the water and will cannonball into any available pool or pond, hates getting baths?  When he was a puppy he just got his baths in the tub.  He wasn't too happy about it, but I could hold on to him and although I'd end up as wet as he was, we got it done.

When he was older, it didn't go so well.  You know those wildlife clips from Africa that shows the lion running and jumping on the zebra, taking it down in a flurry of legs and hair.

It was something like that.

So I had to take him to a "groomer."  It was a lady recommended by his previous vet where we used to live, the groomer working from her home out in the country.  I asked if she did larger dogs and she assured me she did all the time.

I left him. She was very friendly; the place spotlessly clean, her instruments shining and well cared for, the other dogs there, waiting to get picked up, looking content.

When I came back, she was there, with another girl I did not recognize.   "I had to call for help," she said.  Both of them were drenched, with wet hair, clothes, everything.  There was water on the table, on the floor, several of their tools had been flung across the floor, and the picture on the wall was all askew.  They looked like they'd been in a tornado and flood combined.

 Barkley was in his pen, drying out, with a scarf around his need, looking ALL happy but not liking the scarf much.

 "I'm sooo sorry, I said, please; let me pay you extra for your services."  They declined, but I gave her a huge tip with a second apology.

 As we left, she looked at me and said, "Miss, I appreciate the business, and hope you'll think of me if others ask about pet grooming.  But please do not bring him back."

So baths got less frequent but we managed.  There were no more fashion accessories, though, at least until he came home with a square of fur missing from his lower spine.

 It was some simple veterinary surgery to remove a small, benign fatty growth from that area, as well as four little skin tags on a couple of his legs.  Common enough in older dogs, but if he kept chewing on them, it could do some harm, so off they came.  At the same time, since he would be under anesthesia, his scheduled doggie dental cleaning and care were accomplished.

 Barkley loves Dr. H., and is oh so excited to get in the door and see her. I dropped him off in the early morning and could pick him up after I got off work.  He was not so happy with me when I picked him up.

 He looked at me as if to say - "You told me some pretty girls were going to check my teeth and pet me, and I come home with Brazilian Bikini Butt."

Barkley is a "no fuss dog."  Although he is an AKC purebred and a hunting breed, he's lived a quiet life at home.  It's been a simple life of water and dirt and running amok, not constant grooming and bows in his ears and dog couture.  If I dressed him in a costume as a food object or a cute insect, he would likely steal the clippers and give me a Mohawk in my sleep.

 He was neutered as a youngster; there are lots of good rescue dogs out there, so he wasn't going to reproduce, bloodlines or not, but he'd had a life of only routine fussing over, just enjoying being part of my family.  His not-so-secret canine mission was that of most working dog breeds - to sniff every object in the entire world, peeing on anything that smelled even remotely like another male dog and then having done so, trying to -

(a) eat it

(b) bark at it

(c) carry it around in his mouth

(d) hump it

But his teeth needed attention, so this had seemed like a good time to get it all done. The vet sent me home with some samples of dog treats that help with tartar, as well as a brush and some poultry-flavored dog toothpaste (mmm, for breath that's barnyard fresh!)  The veterinary technician said, "With a little practice, your dog will enjoy his brushing."

 I didn't tell her that the Storming of the Bastille was better received and less bloody than my attempt to apply a few drops of flea medication on his skin between his shoulder blades a couple of years ago.

 I'd be wearing the chicken-flavored toothpaste by the time we were through.  I won't mention the look of disdain I'd get at a pink toothbrush.  But the doctor only has his health in mind and we talked about some alternatives to keep his teeth and gums healthy.

 He did fine, though he whined a little when he did not get a full bowl of food the night before the procedure, by the doctor's orders, and he was in a little discomfort when he came home.  I had pain meds, but I could not give him one until the next morning, so he got much extra care and got to sleep with Mom on her bed, something normally not allowed.

I lay with him while he went to sleep, telling him he was still a handsome boy and even offering to show him the picture of me from the 80's when I had a mullet.  He declined, it appeared, nodding off to sleep, happy that this day was done.

- LB

 Happy Labor-ador Day from Sunny D. Lab

I Believe I can Fly - The Retriever Song

 I believe I can fly

 I believe I can touch the sky

 I think about it every night and day

 Spread my wings and fly away

I believe I can soar

I see me running through that open door

 I believe I can fly

 I believe I can fly

 I believe I can fly

Lyrics by R. Kelly

Thursday Smiles

Click on this picture to enlarge it and then look at the contents of the cubicle.  bwahahaha