My fortune cookie from the other day said: Allow disruptions to deepen your concentration.
Okay, Confucious...
Is that really good advice?
Really?
I'm not sure I agree with that fortune. But... I have to admit that I get more done with a time crunch.
And... there is nothing like a demanding dog to create a lack of concentration and time.
Walk me.
Play with me.
Rub my tummy.
Feed me.
Let me outside.
I'm bored...get me a bone to chew on.
I just wish sometimes that Rex hadn't misread my fortune. I think he thought it said: CONSTANT disruptions. I read it to mean occasional. But I guess I'm stuck with his interpretation.
I have to say that with a dog and all the disruptions in my days, I get more done and have less anxiety than I ever did without him -- thank you, Rex!
Saturday, August 7, 2010
10 Things About Rex
I was just reading Kate DiCamillo's book Because of Winn Dixie for the umpteenth time. In the book, the little girl makes a list of 10 things she knows about Winn Dixie. But later she reflects that a list cannot tell us the essence of a person.
Nevertheless... here is a list about Rex.
10 Things I Know About Rex
1. Rex farts. His farts are like what you smell if you drive past where someone ran over a skunk. Sorry for the comparison. But ... no lie.
2. Rex is big. He even looks like Clifford the Big Red Dog. But you get used to the size if you are around him long enough. Then he only looks big when you see a medium-sized dog.
3. Rex loves belly rubs. Who among us would not like a massage. Duh.
4. Rex's favorite toy is anything he has at the moment that you want to get away from him. This is also his favorite game.
5. Rex loves to chase a tennis ball if someone will throw it for him. (He actually loves this a little TOO much. When he gets wound up about chasing that tennis ball, he might even come near to knocking you over. How would you like to have a lion jumping up on you? Well... that's what it's like.)
6. Rex loves to eat. If you asked him his favorite time of day, he would probably say: Mealtime. Rex can eat a lot too. But if you dump three scoopfuls of food into his dish, that'll probably hold him for a while.
7. Rex hates plastic bags and he will tear up a brown plastic bag with a Cub logo on it for no reason whatsoever--no reason I know of anyway.
8. Rex loves walks. If you want to get in shape and get motivated to walk every day--he's your man, a personal trainer. He will even check you like a hockey player and corral you toward the front door in the morning if it looks like you are trying to go into the kitchen or bathroom or anywhere else besides to the front door to strap his halter leash on him and head out for a walk. A 105-pound dog smiling and jumping and barking can be awfully persuasive.
9. Rex is protective. He will kick someone's butt--or some dog more likely--if they come near you. So when walking him, it's important to get between him and any approaching dogs so he knows that he doesn't have to protect you and that you are there to protect him instead.
10. Most of all, Rex just wants to be loved. When he is laying at your feet, he always wants to be touching your foot or leg with his paw. He wants to be close to his owners. No matter what.
Nevertheless... here is a list about Rex.
10 Things I Know About Rex
1. Rex farts. His farts are like what you smell if you drive past where someone ran over a skunk. Sorry for the comparison. But ... no lie.
2. Rex is big. He even looks like Clifford the Big Red Dog. But you get used to the size if you are around him long enough. Then he only looks big when you see a medium-sized dog.
3. Rex loves belly rubs. Who among us would not like a massage. Duh.
4. Rex's favorite toy is anything he has at the moment that you want to get away from him. This is also his favorite game.
5. Rex loves to chase a tennis ball if someone will throw it for him. (He actually loves this a little TOO much. When he gets wound up about chasing that tennis ball, he might even come near to knocking you over. How would you like to have a lion jumping up on you? Well... that's what it's like.)
6. Rex loves to eat. If you asked him his favorite time of day, he would probably say: Mealtime. Rex can eat a lot too. But if you dump three scoopfuls of food into his dish, that'll probably hold him for a while.
7. Rex hates plastic bags and he will tear up a brown plastic bag with a Cub logo on it for no reason whatsoever--no reason I know of anyway.
8. Rex loves walks. If you want to get in shape and get motivated to walk every day--he's your man, a personal trainer. He will even check you like a hockey player and corral you toward the front door in the morning if it looks like you are trying to go into the kitchen or bathroom or anywhere else besides to the front door to strap his halter leash on him and head out for a walk. A 105-pound dog smiling and jumping and barking can be awfully persuasive.
9. Rex is protective. He will kick someone's butt--or some dog more likely--if they come near you. So when walking him, it's important to get between him and any approaching dogs so he knows that he doesn't have to protect you and that you are there to protect him instead.
10. Most of all, Rex just wants to be loved. When he is laying at your feet, he always wants to be touching your foot or leg with his paw. He wants to be close to his owners. No matter what.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Cookie Monster--Counter Surfer
Yesterday, Rex sniffed out a cookie leftover from my Subway lunch lying on the kitchen table. How could he smell the melted chocolate chips through the plastic?
My first warning of this was the wrestling sound of plastic. I rushed to the kitchen in time to see Rex hurtle through the living room, torn plastic streaming behind him.
I chased Rex around the room, cookie and plastic in his mouth.
"Drop it!" I said.
He looked for an escape route. I walked closer. He turned and dropped it. Then he dug the paper-covered cookie out of the plastic.
"Give me the cookie," I said.
This command only made his jaws clench more firmly. I pried at his teeth. Chocolate is bad for dogs. What if he got sick? I kept pulling at the sharp incisors but to no avail. He wanted that cookie. Who wouldn't? Whether chocolate was good for him or not, he was eating it.
Just a week before he had caught a squirrel on our walk. He didn't even kill it. And he dropped it within a few seconds of my saying, "Drop it!" But this incident would end differently. Cookies are already cooked. The squirrel was not ready-to-eat.
I pulled at his teeth again.
"Drop it!"
I tore half of the paper-covered cookie from his mouth. Then, like a snake wolfing down a mouse, he promptly gulped down the remaining half of the cookie.
My first warning of this was the wrestling sound of plastic. I rushed to the kitchen in time to see Rex hurtle through the living room, torn plastic streaming behind him.
I chased Rex around the room, cookie and plastic in his mouth.
"Drop it!" I said.
He looked for an escape route. I walked closer. He turned and dropped it. Then he dug the paper-covered cookie out of the plastic.
"Give me the cookie," I said.
This command only made his jaws clench more firmly. I pried at his teeth. Chocolate is bad for dogs. What if he got sick? I kept pulling at the sharp incisors but to no avail. He wanted that cookie. Who wouldn't? Whether chocolate was good for him or not, he was eating it.
Just a week before he had caught a squirrel on our walk. He didn't even kill it. And he dropped it within a few seconds of my saying, "Drop it!" But this incident would end differently. Cookies are already cooked. The squirrel was not ready-to-eat.
I pulled at his teeth again.
"Drop it!"
I tore half of the paper-covered cookie from his mouth. Then, like a snake wolfing down a mouse, he promptly gulped down the remaining half of the cookie.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Bye Bye Buble’
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Even a small gift could mean so much to someone today.
That was the fortune I picked off the floor of the # 18C bus. I was going to South Minneapolis. Riding the bus that day was a gift. It made me feel empowered. It reminded me I wasn't trapped even though I no longer had a car. I had told Jodi I would go over to her place and feed and walk the dogs that evening.
I had never ridden the bus before to get around the Twin Cities. I had ridden it in once to get to Milwaukee to catch a plane to St. Thomas and also two years ago in Sienna, Italy, going so far as to learn the Italian phrase for asking to buy bus fare. But for some reason riding the bus locally was too foreign for me since I was so used to driving a car in town and having it available at my whim. That is until that day.
I had walked out of my St. Paul apartment Tuesday morning at 8:40 a.m. I had parked around the corner because there were no spots close to my building. It was raining. When I walked around the corner, there was no Prelude parked there. My car was gone.
Where was my car?! Could it have been towed? I hadn’t parked illegally. I had parallel parked in the middle of the street. There was no broken glass. How did they get in? Where was it?
It was 8:45 a.m. and I needed to get to a class I was teaching. I called my friend Lisa and left a message. Then I called my friend Brian. “I’m walking my dog, he said, “but I can be there in a half hour.”
I made it to class only a half hour late. The students waited patiently. “Let’s start with a writing exercise,” I said. “Write about a time when you had something stolen.”
After class, Brian dropped me off at home. I called the police and they sent out a squad.
“Looks like the Fast and the Furious gang,” the officer said, looking off into the distance and reminding me of David Caruso from CSI Miami. “They’ll just strip it down for parts. We’ll probably find it in an alley somewhere. We’ll call you when we do.”
I was in shock. What would I do without my car?
My friend Jodi had joked that my Prelude was like a clown car. When she and I decided to foster Rex four months earlier, I hadn’t taken into account that my coupe was much too small for a 105-pound dog. We discovered this once when we loaded Rex into my car to do errands.
He didn’t want to stay in the back seat (which he filled side to side). Instead, he poked his head up front and tried helping me drive. One good thing was that he held down the emergency brake with his lion-sized paw. The brake had a tendency to come up while driving, so initially I appreciated the hand that day. I didn’t drive Rex around in my car much after that.
I opted out of listing my Facebook status as My Car was stolen! This was a good choice. I didn’t need all of my online “friends” emailing me a barrage of questions: What happened? Was it locked? Where was it? The questions would have increased the drama and that I did not need.
I just needed to keep my classes going for the week without interruption. At least I hadn’t left any valuables in my car. Unless you count the three Michael Buble’ CDs I had received for my recent birthday. Bye bye Buble’.
My car had been rummaged through on a previous summer’s night one year ago. Nothing was stolen. The CDs were strewn on the passenger’s seat. But the thief, not sharing my more mellow eighties music taste, left every last CD.
My next car would sit higher up, I vowed. I was getting sick of straining in drive-through windows to get cash and leaning around corners to see past the SUVs that surrounded me. My next car would be bigger.
And what happened to Robinhood? Why did today's thieves steal from the poor? No virtue. No morals. That's what happened.
Wednesday night, 6:30 p.m., my phone rang. It was the St. Paul police. My car had been recovered and was on its way to impound. From what the police could tell, there was no new damage, except that the stereo was missing.
I was instantly elated!
I called the impound lot. The car was actually on its way there.
“It’s $154.50 cash or $158 credit to get the vehicle out of impound,” the lady said.
I was so happy that I’d have transportation back that I didn’t get mad about the impound fees. My friends, however, got mad for me. “That’s just not right!” Merritt said. “You were robbed! You shouldn’t have to pay to get your stolen car back!”
I chose not to fight it. I fought the law and the law won.
This was only the beginning of songs that would run through my head while driving without a stereo.
Jodi drove me to the impound lot. The lot was a car graveyard. Would my car even start? Had the thief used all of the gas? Had they caused more damage than the lady who had been texting while driving (TWD) back in January and rear-ended my car?
I needed my license and my proof of insurance which had been in the glove compartment to claim the car. “You can go get it out of the car,” the lady said behind the thick glass window at the impound lot.
Jodi and I wandered through the creepy lot. Grass grew under row upon row of unclaimed cars. Some were smashed. One had an open hood forming a forty-five degree angle. We arrived at row 5. My black car was hidden at the end of the row. Yellow writing was scribbled on the windshield: 6/9/10, and a number for the police tracking I presumed. A note lay on the driver’s seat. The author had scribbled in black marker: You better move this car! I paid for this spot. If you don’t move your car, I’ll have it towed!
So the thief had left the car in someone’s reserved parking space. That must have been why it was found so fast. Thirty-six hours after being reported stolen is unusual.
I got in. The engine turned over. There was still a fourth of a tank of gas. Two of my Michael Buble’ CDs sat on the passenger’s seat. An empty hole occupied the stereo compartment. Wires dangled out from the space.
Now I saw the other items that had been left in the car. I had had other valuables in there. But these were not valuable to a thief. The list of articles included one worn pair of New Balance cross-trainers, a yellow flowered shoulder bag containing a favorite black baseball cap and a favorite pink sweatshirt, one left black shoe that was on its way to the shoe repairman, and my proof of insurance that would allow me to take my car home.
The thief had also left two bags of items I was taking to the thrift shop. The two bags contained books from childhood that I wouldn’t miss and five Mary Higgins Clark novels I’d never read again. I took them to Half Price Books the next day and got $4.75 for the lot. I spent fifty cents and bought a pristine paperback copy of Old Yeller, even though I already had a copy of the same edition. I knew I could find someone who would appreciate the treasure. The story had left me sobbing when I had read it a few years ago.
So I had two of my Buble’ CDs back. But the third one had been in the stolen stereo.
I relayed the CD theft to a friend. She said, "Look around your block. They probably saw it and said, 'Who's Michael Bubble?' It was probably tossed on the grass somewhere on your street."
I never found that CD--the newest CD--the one with Micheal Buble’ on the cover and looking out through yellow police tape—that one went bye bye.
Even a small gift could mean so much to someone today.
That was the fortune I picked off the floor of the # 18C bus. I was going to South Minneapolis. Riding the bus that day was a gift. It made me feel empowered. It reminded me I wasn't trapped even though I no longer had a car. I had told Jodi I would go over to her place and feed and walk the dogs that evening.
I had never ridden the bus before to get around the Twin Cities. I had ridden it in once to get to Milwaukee to catch a plane to St. Thomas and also two years ago in Sienna, Italy, going so far as to learn the Italian phrase for asking to buy bus fare. But for some reason riding the bus locally was too foreign for me since I was so used to driving a car in town and having it available at my whim. That is until that day.
I had walked out of my St. Paul apartment Tuesday morning at 8:40 a.m. I had parked around the corner because there were no spots close to my building. It was raining. When I walked around the corner, there was no Prelude parked there. My car was gone.
Where was my car?! Could it have been towed? I hadn’t parked illegally. I had parallel parked in the middle of the street. There was no broken glass. How did they get in? Where was it?
It was 8:45 a.m. and I needed to get to a class I was teaching. I called my friend Lisa and left a message. Then I called my friend Brian. “I’m walking my dog, he said, “but I can be there in a half hour.”
I made it to class only a half hour late. The students waited patiently. “Let’s start with a writing exercise,” I said. “Write about a time when you had something stolen.”
After class, Brian dropped me off at home. I called the police and they sent out a squad.
“Looks like the Fast and the Furious gang,” the officer said, looking off into the distance and reminding me of David Caruso from CSI Miami. “They’ll just strip it down for parts. We’ll probably find it in an alley somewhere. We’ll call you when we do.”
I was in shock. What would I do without my car?
My friend Jodi had joked that my Prelude was like a clown car. When she and I decided to foster Rex four months earlier, I hadn’t taken into account that my coupe was much too small for a 105-pound dog. We discovered this once when we loaded Rex into my car to do errands.
He didn’t want to stay in the back seat (which he filled side to side). Instead, he poked his head up front and tried helping me drive. One good thing was that he held down the emergency brake with his lion-sized paw. The brake had a tendency to come up while driving, so initially I appreciated the hand that day. I didn’t drive Rex around in my car much after that.
I opted out of listing my Facebook status as My Car was stolen! This was a good choice. I didn’t need all of my online “friends” emailing me a barrage of questions: What happened? Was it locked? Where was it? The questions would have increased the drama and that I did not need.
I just needed to keep my classes going for the week without interruption. At least I hadn’t left any valuables in my car. Unless you count the three Michael Buble’ CDs I had received for my recent birthday. Bye bye Buble’.
My car had been rummaged through on a previous summer’s night one year ago. Nothing was stolen. The CDs were strewn on the passenger’s seat. But the thief, not sharing my more mellow eighties music taste, left every last CD.
My next car would sit higher up, I vowed. I was getting sick of straining in drive-through windows to get cash and leaning around corners to see past the SUVs that surrounded me. My next car would be bigger.
And what happened to Robinhood? Why did today's thieves steal from the poor? No virtue. No morals. That's what happened.
Wednesday night, 6:30 p.m., my phone rang. It was the St. Paul police. My car had been recovered and was on its way to impound. From what the police could tell, there was no new damage, except that the stereo was missing.
I was instantly elated!
I called the impound lot. The car was actually on its way there.
“It’s $154.50 cash or $158 credit to get the vehicle out of impound,” the lady said.
I was so happy that I’d have transportation back that I didn’t get mad about the impound fees. My friends, however, got mad for me. “That’s just not right!” Merritt said. “You were robbed! You shouldn’t have to pay to get your stolen car back!”
I chose not to fight it. I fought the law and the law won.
This was only the beginning of songs that would run through my head while driving without a stereo.
Jodi drove me to the impound lot. The lot was a car graveyard. Would my car even start? Had the thief used all of the gas? Had they caused more damage than the lady who had been texting while driving (TWD) back in January and rear-ended my car?
I needed my license and my proof of insurance which had been in the glove compartment to claim the car. “You can go get it out of the car,” the lady said behind the thick glass window at the impound lot.
Jodi and I wandered through the creepy lot. Grass grew under row upon row of unclaimed cars. Some were smashed. One had an open hood forming a forty-five degree angle. We arrived at row 5. My black car was hidden at the end of the row. Yellow writing was scribbled on the windshield: 6/9/10, and a number for the police tracking I presumed. A note lay on the driver’s seat. The author had scribbled in black marker: You better move this car! I paid for this spot. If you don’t move your car, I’ll have it towed!
So the thief had left the car in someone’s reserved parking space. That must have been why it was found so fast. Thirty-six hours after being reported stolen is unusual.
I got in. The engine turned over. There was still a fourth of a tank of gas. Two of my Michael Buble’ CDs sat on the passenger’s seat. An empty hole occupied the stereo compartment. Wires dangled out from the space.
Now I saw the other items that had been left in the car. I had had other valuables in there. But these were not valuable to a thief. The list of articles included one worn pair of New Balance cross-trainers, a yellow flowered shoulder bag containing a favorite black baseball cap and a favorite pink sweatshirt, one left black shoe that was on its way to the shoe repairman, and my proof of insurance that would allow me to take my car home.
The thief had also left two bags of items I was taking to the thrift shop. The two bags contained books from childhood that I wouldn’t miss and five Mary Higgins Clark novels I’d never read again. I took them to Half Price Books the next day and got $4.75 for the lot. I spent fifty cents and bought a pristine paperback copy of Old Yeller, even though I already had a copy of the same edition. I knew I could find someone who would appreciate the treasure. The story had left me sobbing when I had read it a few years ago.
So I had two of my Buble’ CDs back. But the third one had been in the stolen stereo.
I relayed the CD theft to a friend. She said, "Look around your block. They probably saw it and said, 'Who's Michael Bubble?' It was probably tossed on the grass somewhere on your street."
I never found that CD--the newest CD--the one with Micheal Buble’ on the cover and looking out through yellow police tape—that one went bye bye.
Friday, June 4, 2010
Like Mother, Like Son
One week after Rex started his pain meds, he seemed back to his normal self.
When he wanted to go out in the morning, he gently laid his head on my bed -- which is flush with his height. The perfect dog alarm.
When he wanted a walk, he once again bounded around the living room rampant, like an unbroken bucking bronco, leaving the two thick floor rugs askew.
When he wanted a treat, he swung into position, sitting before the word SIT could leave my mouth, back straighter than mine ever was in childhood when my piano teacher would tell me to sit up.
The old Rex was back. He finished his prescriptions of Rimadyl, Cephalexin, and Tramdol. And he seemed like his old self again.
Whew.
A few days later...
I hurt my back. I got snarly. I didn't want to get up. My leg hurt from radiating pain. I figured it was sciatica -- the pinching of a sciatic nerve in the lower back.
I tried a heating pad. I tried a cold pack. I tried walking it off. I tried sleeping it off. I took Ibuprophen. That helped some, but I worried about taking too much Ibuprophen. And the pain kept coming back. Nothing worked. After a week and a half, I limped in to the doctor's office.
"They lump all of these pains into the low back pain category," she said.
The doctor gave me a 30-page printout of exercises and two prescriptions: Cyclobenzaprine, a muscle relaxant, and Tramadol, a pain reliever.
Yes. Tramadol. The same drug that Rex had just been prescribed. Well... we did have the same symptoms. Back leg pain. Unresponsive. Snarly.
I just didn't think animals and humans were supposed to take the same medications.
But what was good enough for my son, was good enough for me.
When he wanted to go out in the morning, he gently laid his head on my bed -- which is flush with his height. The perfect dog alarm.
When he wanted a walk, he once again bounded around the living room rampant, like an unbroken bucking bronco, leaving the two thick floor rugs askew.
When he wanted a treat, he swung into position, sitting before the word SIT could leave my mouth, back straighter than mine ever was in childhood when my piano teacher would tell me to sit up.
The old Rex was back. He finished his prescriptions of Rimadyl, Cephalexin, and Tramdol. And he seemed like his old self again.
Whew.
A few days later...
I hurt my back. I got snarly. I didn't want to get up. My leg hurt from radiating pain. I figured it was sciatica -- the pinching of a sciatic nerve in the lower back.
I tried a heating pad. I tried a cold pack. I tried walking it off. I tried sleeping it off. I took Ibuprophen. That helped some, but I worried about taking too much Ibuprophen. And the pain kept coming back. Nothing worked. After a week and a half, I limped in to the doctor's office.
"They lump all of these pains into the low back pain category," she said.
The doctor gave me a 30-page printout of exercises and two prescriptions: Cyclobenzaprine, a muscle relaxant, and Tramadol, a pain reliever.
Yes. Tramadol. The same drug that Rex had just been prescribed. Well... we did have the same symptoms. Back leg pain. Unresponsive. Snarly.
I just didn't think animals and humans were supposed to take the same medications.
But what was good enough for my son, was good enough for me.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Diagnosis: F.U.O.
Eleven-thirty p.m., Saturday, May 15, 2010.
THE VET
When we see this type of sudden inflammation in dogs, it usually means cancer. You need to prepare yourselves. If it were my sister's dog, I'd tell her to run the tests.
Twelve a.m., Sunday, May 16, 2010.
Jodi sleeps in a chair in the waiting room. Kristin sits on the floor, trying to ignore the possibility of germs.
KRISTIN
It's okay, boy. It's okay, Rexy. We're just trying to find out why you're ouchy.
The vet comes back with initial test results.
THE VET
We've ruled out bone cancer.
Jodi and Kristin give sighs of relief.
THE VET
If it were my sister's dog, I'd say: You need to take him to a specialist.
Kristin's stomach twists. Visions of tens of thousands of dollars flying out the door cross her mind.
THE VET
It could also be auto-immune. We just don't know at this point. We are just trying to rule things out.
Auto-immune is a term Kristin heard on House recently. Should they call House's diagnostic team in to take a crack at this?
They decide to have x-rays done and a partial blood panel. The bill is adding up in increments.
Two a.m., Sunday, May 16, 2010.
THE VET
F.U.O. Fever of Unknown Origin.
The vet has x-rayed Rex. Kristin and Jodi review the x-rays on a laptop. The vet flashes through screens, as if he's excited about his expensive new toy.
KRISTIN
What's that?
She points to a small orb on Rex's left thigh.
THE VET
Bee-bee. This dog was shot at some point.
Kristin and Jodi look at Rex. Does this explain why he is sensitive when touched on the back?
THE VET
Again, if it were my sister's dog, I'd tell her to take him to a specialist.
KRISTIN THINKS...
But this is our dog. We've had him for three months. He's seven years old. My income is at or near the poverty level.
Kristin and Jodi decide to leave. They will give him the drugs and see if it is a sprain or infection. Maybe it will go away in a few days.
Three a.m., Sunday, May 16, 2010
They leave the vet's office. But first they split the bill -- the $700 vet bill which probably helps pay for the vet's expensive x-ray equipment. Jodi pulls out a Discover card. Kristin pulls out a Mastercard. The F.U.O. diagnosis feels like an F.U. But at least they ruled out bone cancer.
After taking Rex to the vet, they now know he has a fever. They knew this before by just feeling his forehead. But now they leave with a pain prescription and an antibiotic for Rex. Those two things made the late-night trip worthwhile.
They also know that he was shot at some point in his life.
JODI
We're like new parents. We overreacted as soon as something went wrong.
KRISTIN
We needed the drugs. So we had no choice but to bring him in. Right?
THE VET
When we see this type of sudden inflammation in dogs, it usually means cancer. You need to prepare yourselves. If it were my sister's dog, I'd tell her to run the tests.
Twelve a.m., Sunday, May 16, 2010.
Jodi sleeps in a chair in the waiting room. Kristin sits on the floor, trying to ignore the possibility of germs.
KRISTIN
It's okay, boy. It's okay, Rexy. We're just trying to find out why you're ouchy.
The vet comes back with initial test results.
THE VET
We've ruled out bone cancer.
Jodi and Kristin give sighs of relief.
THE VET
If it were my sister's dog, I'd say: You need to take him to a specialist.
Kristin's stomach twists. Visions of tens of thousands of dollars flying out the door cross her mind.
THE VET
It could also be auto-immune. We just don't know at this point. We are just trying to rule things out.
Auto-immune is a term Kristin heard on House recently. Should they call House's diagnostic team in to take a crack at this?
They decide to have x-rays done and a partial blood panel. The bill is adding up in increments.
Two a.m., Sunday, May 16, 2010.
THE VET
F.U.O. Fever of Unknown Origin.
The vet has x-rayed Rex. Kristin and Jodi review the x-rays on a laptop. The vet flashes through screens, as if he's excited about his expensive new toy.
KRISTIN
What's that?
She points to a small orb on Rex's left thigh.
THE VET
Bee-bee. This dog was shot at some point.
Kristin and Jodi look at Rex. Does this explain why he is sensitive when touched on the back?
THE VET
Again, if it were my sister's dog, I'd tell her to take him to a specialist.
KRISTIN THINKS...
But this is our dog. We've had him for three months. He's seven years old. My income is at or near the poverty level.
Kristin and Jodi decide to leave. They will give him the drugs and see if it is a sprain or infection. Maybe it will go away in a few days.
Three a.m., Sunday, May 16, 2010
They leave the vet's office. But first they split the bill -- the $700 vet bill which probably helps pay for the vet's expensive x-ray equipment. Jodi pulls out a Discover card. Kristin pulls out a Mastercard. The F.U.O. diagnosis feels like an F.U. But at least they ruled out bone cancer.
After taking Rex to the vet, they now know he has a fever. They knew this before by just feeling his forehead. But now they leave with a pain prescription and an antibiotic for Rex. Those two things made the late-night trip worthwhile.
They also know that he was shot at some point in his life.
JODI
We're like new parents. We overreacted as soon as something went wrong.
KRISTIN
We needed the drugs. So we had no choice but to bring him in. Right?
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
The Mystery Injury
Could Mary have been right? Was it "the other dog"?
I looked at Ruby. She raised her eyebrows. She lolled her head. She wagged her tail. Could a dog half Rex's size have hurt him? Was sibling rivalry that devious?
Ruby nose-flipped my hand. She wanted to be petted.
Rex's Possible Injuries:
1. While jumping like a bucking bronco, he bumps his back leg on something initially unknown to him. A table, a stair step, one of the standing metal candle holders.
2. Jodi throws the tennis ball for him in the backyard. He tears off to retrieve it, jumping onto the jagged, wooden stump in the middle of the yard. Later, a sprain materializes.
3. Ruby -- angry and jealous of all the attention the new addition to the family is getting -- lifts a furry, black paw and pushes an unsuspecting Rex down the three steps leading to the fenced back yard.
4. Rex, like the lion he is, gets a sliver in his enormous paw and plays up the drama in order to get the cool yellow and green paw print bandage the vet assistant wrapped around his ankle after drawing blood for tests.
5. Rex is seven years old. His arthritis is acting up. His joints will get stiff and sore. This is normal for a dog his age, and it will probably flare up again. Good thing we have Rimadyl on hand.
And Ruby is an angel. She would never hurt anyone. I pet Ruby's shiny black coat, giving her the attention she has been craving.
I looked at Ruby. She raised her eyebrows. She lolled her head. She wagged her tail. Could a dog half Rex's size have hurt him? Was sibling rivalry that devious?
Ruby nose-flipped my hand. She wanted to be petted.
Rex's Possible Injuries:
1. While jumping like a bucking bronco, he bumps his back leg on something initially unknown to him. A table, a stair step, one of the standing metal candle holders.
2. Jodi throws the tennis ball for him in the backyard. He tears off to retrieve it, jumping onto the jagged, wooden stump in the middle of the yard. Later, a sprain materializes.
3. Ruby -- angry and jealous of all the attention the new addition to the family is getting -- lifts a furry, black paw and pushes an unsuspecting Rex down the three steps leading to the fenced back yard.
4. Rex, like the lion he is, gets a sliver in his enormous paw and plays up the drama in order to get the cool yellow and green paw print bandage the vet assistant wrapped around his ankle after drawing blood for tests.
5. Rex is seven years old. His arthritis is acting up. His joints will get stiff and sore. This is normal for a dog his age, and it will probably flare up again. Good thing we have Rimadyl on hand.
And Ruby is an angel. She would never hurt anyone. I pet Ruby's shiny black coat, giving her the attention she has been craving.
Diagnosis; No Diagnosis
Date: Sun, 16 May 2010 10:46:00 -0500
Subject: what?
From: mschent@gmail.com
To: kristinfjohnson@hotmail.com
What chu doin?
Mary Schenten
“I write entirely to find out what I am
thinking.”
_Joan Didion
Hey Mary!
Last night Jodi came over and helped me -- like putting in my AC units and cleaning, etc. Then we were having dog training this morning (notice the past tense foreshadowing) but when we came back to her house at 11pm, Rex did not want to move or get up. We called an ER vet and they said bring him in if he is lethargic. So when we finally got him to get up we saw that his back left leg was hurt because he was holding it up. Ugh. So we managed to get him into Jodi's SUV and took him to the vet. They did tests ($700 worth) and x-rays and did not come up with a diagnoses except that they ruled out several things -- he may have an infection or sprain or something. His leg is swollen. So he is on antibiotics and a pain killer. He was growling at us to leave him alone this morning and he wouldn't take the meds in bread and peanut butter. So I just bought hot dogs and those worked -- yay! So he is sleeping on Jodi's living room rug. we are keeping the two dogs separate. and I am working on grades (I went back to my house to get homework for classes).
What are you up to?!
:)
Kristin
Date: Sun, 16 May 2010 14:37:16 -0500
Subject: Re: what?
From: mschent@gmail.com
To: kristinfjohnson@hotmail.com
Poor Rex!! How do you think he got hurt? Was it the other dog? Poor baby.
Subject: what?
From: mschent@gmail.com
To: kristinfjohnson@hotmail.com
What chu doin?
Mary Schenten
“I write entirely to find out what I am
thinking.”
_Joan Didion
RE: what?
| From: | Kristin Johnson |
| Sent: | Sun 5/16/10 12:53 PM |
| To: | Mary Schenten |
| Cc: | Kristin Johnson
|
Hey Mary!
Last night Jodi came over and helped me -- like putting in my AC units and cleaning, etc. Then we were having dog training this morning (notice the past tense foreshadowing) but when we came back to her house at 11pm, Rex did not want to move or get up. We called an ER vet and they said bring him in if he is lethargic. So when we finally got him to get up we saw that his back left leg was hurt because he was holding it up. Ugh. So we managed to get him into Jodi's SUV and took him to the vet. They did tests ($700 worth) and x-rays and did not come up with a diagnoses except that they ruled out several things -- he may have an infection or sprain or something. His leg is swollen. So he is on antibiotics and a pain killer. He was growling at us to leave him alone this morning and he wouldn't take the meds in bread and peanut butter. So I just bought hot dogs and those worked -- yay! So he is sleeping on Jodi's living room rug. we are keeping the two dogs separate. and I am working on grades (I went back to my house to get homework for classes).
What are you up to?!
:)
Kristin
Date: Sun, 16 May 2010 14:37:16 -0500
Subject: Re: what?
From: mschent@gmail.com
To: kristinfjohnson@hotmail.com
Poor Rex!! How do you think he got hurt? Was it the other dog? Poor baby.
RE: what?
| From: | Kristin Johnson |
| Sent: | Sun 5/16/10 4:47 PM |
| To: | Mary Schenten
|
Hey --
We think Rex has some type of bacterial infection. Now I am being a paranoid hypochondriac. Well, I had kind of a full life :) Ok -- I'll try and be more optimistic.
We think Rex has some type of bacterial infection. Now I am being a paranoid hypochondriac. Well, I had kind of a full life :) Ok -- I'll try and be more optimistic.
Friday, May 28, 2010
Injured
Eleven p.m., Saturday night. May 15, 2010.
Jodi and Kristin arrive at Jodi's house, tired, after a long night of cleaning Kristin's place. They ate at India Palace--garlic naan with raita, chicken curry, basmati rice, and two glasses of Merlot.
They open the front door. On a normal evening, Rex would nose his way around the door, excited to greet them. Today, no one greets them.
KRISTIN
Rex!... Rex?
They enter. Lock the door. Look around. The search quickly leads them to the spare bedroom on the main floor. Rex lies on the pink-striped comforter, which has been folded into a square big enough for a 105-pound dog.
JODI
Rex?
Rex does not move.
KRISTIN
What's wrong with him?
JODI
He was fine when I left at five-thirty.
Kristin leans down, feels his forehead.
KRISTIN
He's hot. What's wrong, honey?
In his lethargy, Rex is non-responsive.
JODI
Call the emergency vet.
Jodi whips out a Yellow Pages.
JODI
Here.
She rattles the number off. Kristin punches it into her cell.
KRISTIN
He won't move. He feels hot.
THE VET
If he's lethargic, you need to bring him in.
After nudging and pulling Rex for several minutes, he rises. Rex holds up his back left leg, obviously in pain.
JODI
He was fine when I left him.
Kristin straps the dog harness around Rex. He limps out the front dog, finds the nearest tree and squats. He's in too much pain to lift the leg.
To be continued....
Jodi and Kristin arrive at Jodi's house, tired, after a long night of cleaning Kristin's place. They ate at India Palace--garlic naan with raita, chicken curry, basmati rice, and two glasses of Merlot.
They open the front door. On a normal evening, Rex would nose his way around the door, excited to greet them. Today, no one greets them.
KRISTIN
Rex!... Rex?
They enter. Lock the door. Look around. The search quickly leads them to the spare bedroom on the main floor. Rex lies on the pink-striped comforter, which has been folded into a square big enough for a 105-pound dog.
JODI
Rex?
Rex does not move.
KRISTIN
What's wrong with him?
JODI
He was fine when I left at five-thirty.
Kristin leans down, feels his forehead.
KRISTIN
He's hot. What's wrong, honey?
In his lethargy, Rex is non-responsive.
JODI
Call the emergency vet.
Jodi whips out a Yellow Pages.
JODI
Here.
She rattles the number off. Kristin punches it into her cell.
KRISTIN
He won't move. He feels hot.
THE VET
If he's lethargic, you need to bring him in.
After nudging and pulling Rex for several minutes, he rises. Rex holds up his back left leg, obviously in pain.
JODI
He was fine when I left him.
Kristin straps the dog harness around Rex. He limps out the front dog, finds the nearest tree and squats. He's in too much pain to lift the leg.
To be continued....
Monday, May 10, 2010
Who was Gorbachev?
Some people have distinguishing marks. Mikhail Gorbachev was one of them.
Rex has white fur in his scruff. I initially thought he was an old dog because of the white fur. But it turned out to be the St. Bernard in him.
He also has a lower lip that juts out into a pout like Elvis. These are two of his distinguishing marks.
What were Madonna's?
I have one.
People often ask me about it.
What's that mark on your arm?
I hope someone's not beating you up!
What happened to your arm?!
It's a BIRTHMARK. Okay? Let it go.
Summer shirts for women have short-short sleeves--the kind that are exactly high enough and revealing enough to show my birthmark.
Ten years ago a work friend talked me into having a mole removed from my face. At the dermatologist's office, the doctor said, "You know that's considered a beauty mark."
I knew, but I hastily got rid of it anyway. Later, I wished I had waited.
Do we need to all look alike?
If Gorbachev had had the stain removed from the top of his head, wouldn't he have looked like myriad other leaders? What would the cartoonist's have done to give him character? Would anyone remember him now?
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Rex's Personal Ads
Before we adopted Rex--when we were just fostering him--we couldn't believe some of the awesome things about him: He didn't beg for food at the table, he didn't eat much more than Ruby who is half his size, and he didn't even shed! Wow, we thought, this is the perfect dog! How did we get so lucky?
After the adoption was final, things changed.
Stringy drool hung from his jowls at mealtime.
He nudged us for more food once his blue and white bowl with the paw prints was empty.
And when spring hit, he shed golden tufts everywhere like it was a furry monsoon season.
My friend Patty said, "That's just like a man. As soon as he realizes it's permanent, his true self comes out."
We joked that we should take out an ad now and see if anyone wants him.
Rex's Personals
10. Do you need a pony for your party?
9. Big dog with flatulence problem needs home. Male owner preferred.
8. Will work for food. Able to pull leashes and large plows. I'm the horse you want before your cart!
7. Garbage disposal on the fritz? Call Rex. He'll sniff out the problem.
6. Need a companion? I work cheap -- hugs and belly rubs are all I ask.
5. Clifford the Big Red Dog impersonator. Specializing in parties for children.
4. Security Guard -- all bark; no bite.
3. Karaoke Crooner -- specializing in Elvis', "Hound Dog"; Lou Rawls', "You'll Never Find Another Love Like Mine"; Led Zeppelin's, "Whole Lotta Love"
2. Perfect Gentleman. Svelte. Likes long walks. Loves to laugh. Enjoys ice cream cones. Could you be the one?
1. 105-pound lap dog. Loves to cuddle. Is there room for me on your couch?
I was looking for a house where Rex would be more comfortable. I also wanted to take advantage of the alleged great time to buy a house. But my dad thought Rex was too big for me and was stifling my search, so he emailed me this:
"The dog seems to be an impediment. I can place an ad in a couple of rural papers, The Lafayette Ledger, Winthrop News, etc. and maybe a farm family will take him."
Thanks, Dad. But no thanks.
After the adoption was final, things changed.
Stringy drool hung from his jowls at mealtime.
He nudged us for more food once his blue and white bowl with the paw prints was empty.
And when spring hit, he shed golden tufts everywhere like it was a furry monsoon season.
My friend Patty said, "That's just like a man. As soon as he realizes it's permanent, his true self comes out."
We joked that we should take out an ad now and see if anyone wants him.
Rex's Personals
10. Do you need a pony for your party?
9. Big dog with flatulence problem needs home. Male owner preferred.
8. Will work for food. Able to pull leashes and large plows. I'm the horse you want before your cart!
7. Garbage disposal on the fritz? Call Rex. He'll sniff out the problem.
6. Need a companion? I work cheap -- hugs and belly rubs are all I ask.
5. Clifford the Big Red Dog impersonator. Specializing in parties for children.
4. Security Guard -- all bark; no bite.
3. Karaoke Crooner -- specializing in Elvis', "Hound Dog"; Lou Rawls', "You'll Never Find Another Love Like Mine"; Led Zeppelin's, "Whole Lotta Love"
2. Perfect Gentleman. Svelte. Likes long walks. Loves to laugh. Enjoys ice cream cones. Could you be the one?
1. 105-pound lap dog. Loves to cuddle. Is there room for me on your couch?
I was looking for a house where Rex would be more comfortable. I also wanted to take advantage of the alleged great time to buy a house. But my dad thought Rex was too big for me and was stifling my search, so he emailed me this:
"The dog seems to be an impediment. I can place an ad in a couple of rural papers, The Lafayette Ledger, Winthrop News, etc. and maybe a farm family will take him."
Thanks, Dad. But no thanks.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
The News
"We should watch the news," Jodi says. "I don't know what's going on anymore."
"So what? Who cares?" I say in my best Brooklyn accent, impersonating Fred Armisen from SNL, impersonating Joy Behar from The View.
But the news is in trouble. And we are out of the loop.
Between dog training class twice a week, working, making dinner, and walking and training the dogs, there is little time left to catch up on national, much less local news.
I worry that my news is coming from satirical bits played out on SNL. And they are being selective of what will fit into their Weekend Update with Seth Myers, so that is only a fraction of what is going on in the world being mocked on Saturdays.
I used to love watching Jay Leno's monologue when he was the host of The Tonight Show before Conan O'Brien took over. But after all of the hubbub and the unsuccessful ratings transition of the show to Conan, and the eventual law suit and $32.5 million settlement to Conan to leave his contract early and hand the show back over to Leno, I've become disenchanted with Jay and don't watch any of the late night shows anymore. But before that happened, I got a nightly dose of satirical news from Jay's monologue.
Speaking of being selective of what to include in the news, I once attended a conference at The New York Times offices in NYC. I was working as the Associate Editor of my school's newspaper, The Metropolitan, and scored an all-expenses-paid trip to the Big Apple to attend their one-day conference called "Inside the Times." My friend Patty, the editor of the school paper, finagled the trip for herself and another staff member -- and, as associate editor at the time, I lucked-out and got to go.
At the conference, they said four names would be drawn and those four people would join The New York Times section editors and editor-in-chief in their Monday night meeting to decide what would appear on the front page the next day. The process and its importance is unseen by the news consumer. We read what is easiest to see. What's above-the-fold. What jumps out at us.
But important news can be buried inside those pages, and news story placement is all determined in this one meeting.
At the end of the conference day, we shifted in the theater-like chairs of the auditorium. Felice Nudelman, the conference coordinator, drew names for New York Times door prizes: baseball hats and t-shirts. Patty won a baseball cap she would present to her husband who was watching the kids.
Then, the front page meeting names were drawn. The first name was.... Christina something!
My heart jumped at the assonance of my name.
The second name was drawn Christopher something!
Again, I was jarred.
The third name... a less-Scandinavian name, which the reader struggled to pronounce.
The fourth and last name was called... "And from Metropolitan State University, Kristin Johnson!"
I was shocked. I pushed myself up and out of the comfy seat. Patty and I planned to meet later back in the room. I wandered up to the front of the crowded auditorium and waited with the others selected.
Felice looked at my empty hands. The others all had shirts or hats. "Let' get you a t-shirt," she said. Yes! I had wanted that gray logo-ed shirt.
Felice herded us up to the meeting. The Times offices looked like any other corporate company I had worked at -- cubicles sprawled out to cover the floor. The difference was that signs hung from the ceiling marking sections of the paper which split the floors into various departments: Business, Sports, Entertainment.... This wasn't the busy newsroom I had seen on shows like Mary Tyler Moore and Kolchak: The Night Stalker. This was an office. A professional office.
Finger to her lips, Felice motioned for us to be very quiet. We filtered into the conference room where the meeting would be held. we were the first to arrive. Felice handed out index cards and asked us to write down what we thought would be on the front page the next day.
As we waited, I worried. What if Bill Keller, the editor-in-chief, pointed at me and said, "What do you think? What should we put on the front page?"
I scoured my brain, praying I would not get a deer-in-the-headlights look if I were put on the spot. What would I say? I remembered that the Red Lake Indian Reservation shooting had just occurred. Maybe being from Minnesota they would ask my opinion on that. I sweated.
Section editors began filling seats.
I once had a microphone held under my chin and a huge television camera on me. That was in Newport Beach, California, at the annual Newport Beach Film Festival. "What did you think of the movie?" they asked me.
Deer-in-the-headlights stare at the camera lens. Then, "It was great. I thought it was great" was all I managed. They moved on to the next movie-goer.
Could I come up with something better, more witty to say if put on the spot at The New York Times? I wanted to sound intelligent. After all, they "expect the world." It was even on the baby blue conference folder handed out to us earlier that day. the folder included all sorts of great information, like how to be an ethical journalist.
The rest of the section editor seats filled and in walked Bill Keller. Everyone quieted. I sat up straighter, determined not to let my school or my state down.
Then, one of the Chris's next to me whispered, "Felice said do not say a word during the meeting. We're to be absolutely silent."
I froze in my chair. Then I passed along the information to the next girl in our group seated next to me. Our whole entourage was tucked away in a corner of the conference room. How did they get that huge table in here? We were to be seen and not heard. The pressure was off, except to try and not make a sound. Why wouldn't Bill Keller want my opinion? Well, he didn't.
We observed the discussion. Placement of articles tells the reader what is important. If the war is buried on page five, will anyone read about it? Or a soldier who died by a roadside bomb?
In the center of the table lay a Star Trek-like speaker-phone. The voice coming from it was a conference call from Baghdad. The war correspondent. What was going on with the war?
Michael Jackson was in the news then -- should he be on the front page? Was the public more interested in pop singers than billions of dollars and thousands of lives spent on a war away from home? What was news? Who has the right to determine what we will see as news? The news was the product and similar to product placement on shelves in bookstores or grocery stores, what is easily accessible and at eye level is what will be seen by most of the public. The front page is what we are told to care the most about.
After the front page debate, Felice led us out of the room as quietly as we had been brought in. they had not nailed-down decisions when we left, so it would be for us to guess what would appear the next day. I managed to maintain silence and followed the flock onto the elevator and out the front door.
It has been nearly a year since Michael Jackson died.
The war rages on in Iraq.
An oil spill in the gulf has gone on for 37 days with no resolution to the slick liquid gushing out of an under-the-sea pipe. President Obama was quoted as saying: "Plug the damn hole!" The spill has already been labeled the worst environmental disaster in history.
And the Facebook privacy debate also made The New York Times front page today.
The news at home:
Rex has recovered from a sprain of unknown origin. He took Rimadyl, Cephalexin, and Tramadol for a week and a half. Initially, he lost 5 pounds because he wouldn't eat. He became growly because he was in so much pain. He couldn't put any pressure on his back left leg. But thanks to the doggie dope we referred to as canine crack, now he seems back to his old self.
And the weather in Minnesota in 72 and sunny.
"So what? Who cares?" I say in my best Brooklyn accent, impersonating Fred Armisen from SNL, impersonating Joy Behar from The View.
But the news is in trouble. And we are out of the loop.
Between dog training class twice a week, working, making dinner, and walking and training the dogs, there is little time left to catch up on national, much less local news.
I worry that my news is coming from satirical bits played out on SNL. And they are being selective of what will fit into their Weekend Update with Seth Myers, so that is only a fraction of what is going on in the world being mocked on Saturdays.
I used to love watching Jay Leno's monologue when he was the host of The Tonight Show before Conan O'Brien took over. But after all of the hubbub and the unsuccessful ratings transition of the show to Conan, and the eventual law suit and $32.5 million settlement to Conan to leave his contract early and hand the show back over to Leno, I've become disenchanted with Jay and don't watch any of the late night shows anymore. But before that happened, I got a nightly dose of satirical news from Jay's monologue.
Speaking of being selective of what to include in the news, I once attended a conference at The New York Times offices in NYC. I was working as the Associate Editor of my school's newspaper, The Metropolitan, and scored an all-expenses-paid trip to the Big Apple to attend their one-day conference called "Inside the Times." My friend Patty, the editor of the school paper, finagled the trip for herself and another staff member -- and, as associate editor at the time, I lucked-out and got to go.
At the conference, they said four names would be drawn and those four people would join The New York Times section editors and editor-in-chief in their Monday night meeting to decide what would appear on the front page the next day. The process and its importance is unseen by the news consumer. We read what is easiest to see. What's above-the-fold. What jumps out at us.
But important news can be buried inside those pages, and news story placement is all determined in this one meeting.
At the end of the conference day, we shifted in the theater-like chairs of the auditorium. Felice Nudelman, the conference coordinator, drew names for New York Times door prizes: baseball hats and t-shirts. Patty won a baseball cap she would present to her husband who was watching the kids.
Then, the front page meeting names were drawn. The first name was.... Christina something!
My heart jumped at the assonance of my name.
The second name was drawn Christopher something!
Again, I was jarred.
The third name... a less-Scandinavian name, which the reader struggled to pronounce.
The fourth and last name was called... "And from Metropolitan State University, Kristin Johnson!"
I was shocked. I pushed myself up and out of the comfy seat. Patty and I planned to meet later back in the room. I wandered up to the front of the crowded auditorium and waited with the others selected.
Felice looked at my empty hands. The others all had shirts or hats. "Let' get you a t-shirt," she said. Yes! I had wanted that gray logo-ed shirt.
Felice herded us up to the meeting. The Times offices looked like any other corporate company I had worked at -- cubicles sprawled out to cover the floor. The difference was that signs hung from the ceiling marking sections of the paper which split the floors into various departments: Business, Sports, Entertainment.... This wasn't the busy newsroom I had seen on shows like Mary Tyler Moore and Kolchak: The Night Stalker. This was an office. A professional office.
Finger to her lips, Felice motioned for us to be very quiet. We filtered into the conference room where the meeting would be held. we were the first to arrive. Felice handed out index cards and asked us to write down what we thought would be on the front page the next day.
As we waited, I worried. What if Bill Keller, the editor-in-chief, pointed at me and said, "What do you think? What should we put on the front page?"
I scoured my brain, praying I would not get a deer-in-the-headlights look if I were put on the spot. What would I say? I remembered that the Red Lake Indian Reservation shooting had just occurred. Maybe being from Minnesota they would ask my opinion on that. I sweated.
Section editors began filling seats.
I once had a microphone held under my chin and a huge television camera on me. That was in Newport Beach, California, at the annual Newport Beach Film Festival. "What did you think of the movie?" they asked me.
Deer-in-the-headlights stare at the camera lens. Then, "It was great. I thought it was great" was all I managed. They moved on to the next movie-goer.
Could I come up with something better, more witty to say if put on the spot at The New York Times? I wanted to sound intelligent. After all, they "expect the world." It was even on the baby blue conference folder handed out to us earlier that day. the folder included all sorts of great information, like how to be an ethical journalist.
The rest of the section editor seats filled and in walked Bill Keller. Everyone quieted. I sat up straighter, determined not to let my school or my state down.
Then, one of the Chris's next to me whispered, "Felice said do not say a word during the meeting. We're to be absolutely silent."
I froze in my chair. Then I passed along the information to the next girl in our group seated next to me. Our whole entourage was tucked away in a corner of the conference room. How did they get that huge table in here? We were to be seen and not heard. The pressure was off, except to try and not make a sound. Why wouldn't Bill Keller want my opinion? Well, he didn't.
We observed the discussion. Placement of articles tells the reader what is important. If the war is buried on page five, will anyone read about it? Or a soldier who died by a roadside bomb?
In the center of the table lay a Star Trek-like speaker-phone. The voice coming from it was a conference call from Baghdad. The war correspondent. What was going on with the war?
Michael Jackson was in the news then -- should he be on the front page? Was the public more interested in pop singers than billions of dollars and thousands of lives spent on a war away from home? What was news? Who has the right to determine what we will see as news? The news was the product and similar to product placement on shelves in bookstores or grocery stores, what is easily accessible and at eye level is what will be seen by most of the public. The front page is what we are told to care the most about.
After the front page debate, Felice led us out of the room as quietly as we had been brought in. they had not nailed-down decisions when we left, so it would be for us to guess what would appear the next day. I managed to maintain silence and followed the flock onto the elevator and out the front door.
It has been nearly a year since Michael Jackson died.
The war rages on in Iraq.
An oil spill in the gulf has gone on for 37 days with no resolution to the slick liquid gushing out of an under-the-sea pipe. President Obama was quoted as saying: "Plug the damn hole!" The spill has already been labeled the worst environmental disaster in history.
And the Facebook privacy debate also made The New York Times front page today.
The news at home:
Rex has recovered from a sprain of unknown origin. He took Rimadyl, Cephalexin, and Tramadol for a week and a half. Initially, he lost 5 pounds because he wouldn't eat. He became growly because he was in so much pain. He couldn't put any pressure on his back left leg. But thanks to the doggie dope we referred to as canine crack, now he seems back to his old self.
And the weather in Minnesota in 72 and sunny.
Dinner Conversation
Jodi and I sit down to dinner. I have just blackened catfish on the stove. Having made the dish a few times, now I do not use a recipe. I liberally shake cayenne pepper, white pepper, garlic powder, black pepper, and paprika on the fillets and cook them in olive oil for three minutes on each side. The oil is ready when a hint of smoke billows up from the pan.
Jodi props open the side kitchen window to filter the smoke out of the house.
Rex lays on the floor--not begging at all, another thing we like about him.
I microwave two baked potatoes and serve them with pepper and I Can't Believe It's Not Butter Light.
"The strongest sense a dog has is olfactory, you know."
Jodi is eating the bowtie pasta salad she brought home from Cub to accompany the meal.
"This salad's good," she says. "It's got chicken in it."
"When I walked them today, I noticed more how much Rex sniffed things. I was really observing him."
Jodi keeps eating.
"That book I'm reading (Inside of a Dog) says that dogs aren't really marking. They are leaving little notes all around. The notes say: I'm in the area or I'm tough or I'm ready to mate. Ruby left some notes too."
Ruby wags her tail, perhaps thinking I meant that I am about to share some catfish with her.
Jodi polishes off her pasta salad.
"Rex actually pees higher on those tree trunks because he wants the other dogs to be able to smell it. It's at their nose height that way. The wind can make the scent carry farther too."
"Enough." Jodi is drinking her milk.
I cut my potato in fours and butter it, then shake some pepper on. "I used to be grossed out when he would lick pee off the ground, but he's just being a dog."
Jodi nearly chokes on her milk. "Nice dinner conversation. Is this what we've come to?"
I laugh. "Well, if we were really parents, we'd be saying: 'Junior had a B.M. today' and it would sound perfectly normal."
"Enough!" she says again, striking her hand on the table.
And I laugh harder, now remembering my Grandma on my dad's side who always asked us if we had a B.M. each day when we would visit. I can't stop laughing. The catfish is getting cold. It has to be served right away after being fried. This must be tricky timing for restaurants.
"He never did that crotch-sniffing that so many dogs do. Maybe his previous owners punished him for that. Charlie does that," I say, mentioning my sister's dog. I slice off a chunk of catfish and dunk it in light Miracle Whip.
"I'm glad he doesn't do that," Jodi says. "Now can we move on?"
"I'm just saying that those things make him a dog. We're teaching him to be a dog again."
Rex stretches his neck up near the table and sniffs then lays down underneath again with a loud thunk.
Jodi props open the side kitchen window to filter the smoke out of the house.
Rex lays on the floor--not begging at all, another thing we like about him.
I microwave two baked potatoes and serve them with pepper and I Can't Believe It's Not Butter Light.
"The strongest sense a dog has is olfactory, you know."
Jodi is eating the bowtie pasta salad she brought home from Cub to accompany the meal.
"This salad's good," she says. "It's got chicken in it."
"When I walked them today, I noticed more how much Rex sniffed things. I was really observing him."
Jodi keeps eating.
"That book I'm reading (Inside of a Dog) says that dogs aren't really marking. They are leaving little notes all around. The notes say: I'm in the area or I'm tough or I'm ready to mate. Ruby left some notes too."
Ruby wags her tail, perhaps thinking I meant that I am about to share some catfish with her.
Jodi polishes off her pasta salad.
"Rex actually pees higher on those tree trunks because he wants the other dogs to be able to smell it. It's at their nose height that way. The wind can make the scent carry farther too."
"Enough." Jodi is drinking her milk.
I cut my potato in fours and butter it, then shake some pepper on. "I used to be grossed out when he would lick pee off the ground, but he's just being a dog."
Jodi nearly chokes on her milk. "Nice dinner conversation. Is this what we've come to?"
I laugh. "Well, if we were really parents, we'd be saying: 'Junior had a B.M. today' and it would sound perfectly normal."
"Enough!" she says again, striking her hand on the table.
And I laugh harder, now remembering my Grandma on my dad's side who always asked us if we had a B.M. each day when we would visit. I can't stop laughing. The catfish is getting cold. It has to be served right away after being fried. This must be tricky timing for restaurants.
"He never did that crotch-sniffing that so many dogs do. Maybe his previous owners punished him for that. Charlie does that," I say, mentioning my sister's dog. I slice off a chunk of catfish and dunk it in light Miracle Whip.
"I'm glad he doesn't do that," Jodi says. "Now can we move on?"
"I'm just saying that those things make him a dog. We're teaching him to be a dog again."
Rex stretches his neck up near the table and sniffs then lays down underneath again with a loud thunk.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Meet the Parents
"You irritate me!"
"You irritate ME!"
This is a sometimes exchange between me and Jodi.
"Please adopt a less marital tone," I say, quoting Glen Close's character from Dangerous Liaisons.
"It's like we are married," Jodi snaps back.
"Yeah," I agree. " We fight over money and we fight over the children.
The two dogs look up sitting on the slobbery kitchen floor, waiting for treats. Rex has just had a drink from the blue glass Corningware mixing bowl (the large one from the set of three) and excess water drips from his jowls like someone spilled a pitcher of water on the floor. Hyperbole is not lost on this dog.
"Only we don't have sex," Jodi says.
"But that is just like a married couple."
"You irritate ME!"
This is a sometimes exchange between me and Jodi.
"Please adopt a less marital tone," I say, quoting Glen Close's character from Dangerous Liaisons.
"It's like we are married," Jodi snaps back.
"Yeah," I agree. " We fight over money and we fight over the children.
The two dogs look up sitting on the slobbery kitchen floor, waiting for treats. Rex has just had a drink from the blue glass Corningware mixing bowl (the large one from the set of three) and excess water drips from his jowls like someone spilled a pitcher of water on the floor. Hyperbole is not lost on this dog.
"Only we don't have sex," Jodi says.
"But that is just like a married couple."
The Graduate
We have T-Rex in two classes now. He is in level one obedience and started level 1 of 4 for Good Citizenship Certification(GCC). We wanted to get him as much schooling as possible. And, like our trainer said, then you at least you know you have those hour-long sessions each week that are devoted to his training.
Rex started GCC April 24. After class, he was moved up to level two! Yesterday, we went to the level two class, squeaky ball in hand. There were two pit bulls in the class and Ruby and Rex. And, once again! Rex moved up to level three! But, we expect him to be there for a while.
In level 3, the dogs have to interact with each other. Rex has stopped his growling behavior but he still barks and lunges. We correct this quickly now by getting his attention with the squeaky ball. It's amazing how not tough a huge dog can look when he is playing with a little pink balls that squeaks.
Rex doesn't do the annoying crotch sniff that most dogs do. When we first noticed this, we thought: Great! But, in reality, I think this means he doesn't know how to meet other dogs.
I just started reading a book recommended by our trainer: Inside of a Dog: What Dogs See, Smell, and Know by Alexandra Horowitz. I'm hoping to gain more insight into Rex from this book and will comment on it once I've read more.
Initially, our goal was to get Rex the Good Citizen Certification within a year -- but we may make this goal much faster than expected! Will re-evaluate and change goal as he progresses.
Rex started GCC April 24. After class, he was moved up to level two! Yesterday, we went to the level two class, squeaky ball in hand. There were two pit bulls in the class and Ruby and Rex. And, once again! Rex moved up to level three! But, we expect him to be there for a while.
In level 3, the dogs have to interact with each other. Rex has stopped his growling behavior but he still barks and lunges. We correct this quickly now by getting his attention with the squeaky ball. It's amazing how not tough a huge dog can look when he is playing with a little pink balls that squeaks.
Rex doesn't do the annoying crotch sniff that most dogs do. When we first noticed this, we thought: Great! But, in reality, I think this means he doesn't know how to meet other dogs.
I just started reading a book recommended by our trainer: Inside of a Dog: What Dogs See, Smell, and Know by Alexandra Horowitz. I'm hoping to gain more insight into Rex from this book and will comment on it once I've read more.
Initially, our goal was to get Rex the Good Citizen Certification within a year -- but we may make this goal much faster than expected! Will re-evaluate and change goal as he progresses.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Stray Dog
I was driving to get my coffee this morning -- yes, I am one of those people who LOVE the $2 coffee from the coffee shops -- and on my way, I saw a stray dog. It was a medium-sized yellow Labrador who looked like Maizy (another dog, another story).
She wandered down a sidewalk on 59th Street and we were not far from a busier street--Nicollet Avenue in south Minneapolis. A woman in an SUV had stopped and appeared to be watching the dog, but that woman stayed in her car. Admittedly, I have seen possible stray dogs before and done nothing. Today, I stopped.
Jodi had done this many times, saying, What if that were your dog? You'd want someone to find it!
Once I stopped, the woman in the SUV drove away. Now it was up to me. I called to the dog and she scurried in the other direction. If she could talk, I think she was saying: "Oh, dear. Oh, my, oh, my. Who is that lady following me?...."
I whistled for her to come. But she did not.
A teenage girl waited for the bus. "Is that your dog?" she said.
"No, but she has tags," I said.
The dog turned down an alley between the houses. Shoot! I jogged after her, turning down the alley. Then, I didn't see her. I hurried down the alley. The dog was drinking out of a blue plastic dish tub.
"Come here, girl."
She stopped drinking and looked up at me. Then, she darted into a fenced back yard of a house that faced Nicollet Avenue--the busy street. Was the yard fenced in front?! I hoped so.
I was reluctant to enter the yard. What if they had a dog? But their fence had been left open. So I guessed they did not. I whistled for the stray dog again. She looked around the corner.
"Here, girl!"
She stared at me, judging me. Could she trust me? I knelt down to be less intimidating.
She came over by the fence but as soon as I leaned toward her to get her collar, she darted back into the yard. What if she bit me? I was cautious. I went into the yard. I closed the gate behind me, in case she ran around the house and got out again. I didn't want her to feel cornered and get aggressive toward me, but I also had to get a look at her tags.
When I got to the front yard, I saw that there was a smaller gated area and now we were in front of Nicollet Avenue. I closed the gate behind me and whistled again.
I approached the dog slowly and finally got close enough. I carefully handled her collar and looked at the tags. She seemed calm enough.
The gold dog biscuit name tag said: Belle. The address didn't look far away according to the street numbers. There was a phone number. I called. Thankfully, the owner answered. He sounded calm--more calm than I would be if my dog had gotten loose. I would have been freaking out.
"I'm right across from Cub," I said. "I'll wait for you in the yard. It's a busy street."
"I'll be right there. Thank you for calling," he said.
Belle and I waited. I looked at the house, feeling I was trespassing on someone's property. Two kids climbed on a sofa in a picture window. They were watching us and smiling.
The front door opened. A man came outside.
"The dog came in your yard," I said, pointing at Belle. "She's friendly. I already called the owner."
"Phone?" he said and I could tell he mostly spoke Spanish.
"No," I said. "I already called. They will be here soon." I spoke louder, like people do when they are trying to get their point across. But this was a language barrier. It wasn't that he couldn't hear me.
The man came outside. "Habla Espanol?"
"No habla espanol," I said, knowing what that meant. "Que pasa?" I said, reaching for my limited Spanish vocabulary from a Taco Bell commercial. I knew that meant what's up, but it was almost all of the Spanish I knew. "Not el Gato," I added, making conversation. "Que dog?" How do you say dog? I was trying.
He didn't answer.
"Me llamo Kristin," I said.
No response. Maybe my accent was off. It had been several years since I had taken any language courses. Maybe I had it mixed up with the conversational Italian I learned for my trip in 2008. No that was mi chiamo Kristin. Maybe I should have said: Mi nombre es Kristin?
He motioned for one of his boys who was probably three to come outside and pet the dog. The dogs ears flattened. I was also leery of this idea. I knew that probably meant Belle was nervous, but she stayed still. It probably wasn't a good idea to let the kid try and pet Belle, but nothing happened.
The owner pulled up in a silver sedan and I handed the dog off to him.
"She's never run off before," he said.
I walked back to my car. Yay, I did it!
Now a group of kids waited with the teenage girl I had seen before.
"Did you catch it?" she said.
"Yeah, the owner just got her. She was from the other side of the freeway!"
"I thought the dog was aggressive," the girl said. Then she added, "But it probably would have run at us if it was."
"Yes," I agreed. "Have a good day," I said and left.
That was Monday. In Good Citizen class just the Saturday morning before, we were told the dogs must be able to be handled all over in order to pass level one. This situation with a dog straying is exactly why. If Belle could not have been handled around the neck and collar, I would not have been able to call the owner to come pick her up AND I may have been bitten.
Our trainer also said the group of people who gets the most dog bites every year is groomers. This is because they have to handle the dogs all over and some dogs can't accept that.
She wandered down a sidewalk on 59th Street and we were not far from a busier street--Nicollet Avenue in south Minneapolis. A woman in an SUV had stopped and appeared to be watching the dog, but that woman stayed in her car. Admittedly, I have seen possible stray dogs before and done nothing. Today, I stopped.
Jodi had done this many times, saying, What if that were your dog? You'd want someone to find it!
Once I stopped, the woman in the SUV drove away. Now it was up to me. I called to the dog and she scurried in the other direction. If she could talk, I think she was saying: "Oh, dear. Oh, my, oh, my. Who is that lady following me?...."
I whistled for her to come. But she did not.
A teenage girl waited for the bus. "Is that your dog?" she said.
"No, but she has tags," I said.
The dog turned down an alley between the houses. Shoot! I jogged after her, turning down the alley. Then, I didn't see her. I hurried down the alley. The dog was drinking out of a blue plastic dish tub.
"Come here, girl."
She stopped drinking and looked up at me. Then, she darted into a fenced back yard of a house that faced Nicollet Avenue--the busy street. Was the yard fenced in front?! I hoped so.
I was reluctant to enter the yard. What if they had a dog? But their fence had been left open. So I guessed they did not. I whistled for the stray dog again. She looked around the corner.
"Here, girl!"
She stared at me, judging me. Could she trust me? I knelt down to be less intimidating.
She came over by the fence but as soon as I leaned toward her to get her collar, she darted back into the yard. What if she bit me? I was cautious. I went into the yard. I closed the gate behind me, in case she ran around the house and got out again. I didn't want her to feel cornered and get aggressive toward me, but I also had to get a look at her tags.
When I got to the front yard, I saw that there was a smaller gated area and now we were in front of Nicollet Avenue. I closed the gate behind me and whistled again.
I approached the dog slowly and finally got close enough. I carefully handled her collar and looked at the tags. She seemed calm enough.
The gold dog biscuit name tag said: Belle. The address didn't look far away according to the street numbers. There was a phone number. I called. Thankfully, the owner answered. He sounded calm--more calm than I would be if my dog had gotten loose. I would have been freaking out.
"I'm right across from Cub," I said. "I'll wait for you in the yard. It's a busy street."
"I'll be right there. Thank you for calling," he said.
Belle and I waited. I looked at the house, feeling I was trespassing on someone's property. Two kids climbed on a sofa in a picture window. They were watching us and smiling.
The front door opened. A man came outside.
"The dog came in your yard," I said, pointing at Belle. "She's friendly. I already called the owner."
"Phone?" he said and I could tell he mostly spoke Spanish.
"No," I said. "I already called. They will be here soon." I spoke louder, like people do when they are trying to get their point across. But this was a language barrier. It wasn't that he couldn't hear me.
The man came outside. "Habla Espanol?"
"No habla espanol," I said, knowing what that meant. "Que pasa?" I said, reaching for my limited Spanish vocabulary from a Taco Bell commercial. I knew that meant what's up, but it was almost all of the Spanish I knew. "Not el Gato," I added, making conversation. "Que dog?" How do you say dog? I was trying.
He didn't answer.
"Me llamo Kristin," I said.
No response. Maybe my accent was off. It had been several years since I had taken any language courses. Maybe I had it mixed up with the conversational Italian I learned for my trip in 2008. No that was mi chiamo Kristin. Maybe I should have said: Mi nombre es Kristin?
He motioned for one of his boys who was probably three to come outside and pet the dog. The dogs ears flattened. I was also leery of this idea. I knew that probably meant Belle was nervous, but she stayed still. It probably wasn't a good idea to let the kid try and pet Belle, but nothing happened.
The owner pulled up in a silver sedan and I handed the dog off to him.
"She's never run off before," he said.
I walked back to my car. Yay, I did it!
Now a group of kids waited with the teenage girl I had seen before.
"Did you catch it?" she said.
"Yeah, the owner just got her. She was from the other side of the freeway!"
"I thought the dog was aggressive," the girl said. Then she added, "But it probably would have run at us if it was."
"Yes," I agreed. "Have a good day," I said and left.
That was Monday. In Good Citizen class just the Saturday morning before, we were told the dogs must be able to be handled all over in order to pass level one. This situation with a dog straying is exactly why. If Belle could not have been handled around the neck and collar, I would not have been able to call the owner to come pick her up AND I may have been bitten.
Our trainer also said the group of people who gets the most dog bites every year is groomers. This is because they have to handle the dogs all over and some dogs can't accept that.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Conflict and Story
I walked Rex one day that first week and we passed a house with a "Wage Peace" sign posted to a metal fence. Rex lifted his leg and turned on the faucet. The sign dripped dog pee. Peace was not something Rex wanted to preserve.
A week later, on the same walk, Rex peed on a second sign posted in the same yard. I looked around but luckily no one saw. Rex had waged war. There would be no peace. Only pee. Just like in war, he was marking his territory, all over the neighborhood. We wondered where all the pee came from. He seemed to void but there was always something left to make his mark elsewhere if he chose.
After that, I loaded Rex into my too-small-for-a-105-pound-dog Honda Prelude to do errands. He wanted to go for a car ride. What dog wouldn't? Alas, I had a black "Wage Peace" button stuck into the mustard-colored dash. Rex's tail immediately swatted the button out of place and onto the floorboards. There would be no peace in that little car or on that car ride either.
In Writing Fiction (5th ed.), one of the writing craft books I was reading at the time, Janet Burroway says, every story needs conflict. Without that, there is no story. The main character must run into trouble.
"Only trouble is interesting" (29), Burroway says.
Charles Baxter adds to this in Burning Down the House, as qtd. in Writing Fiction:
"Say what you will about it, Hell is story-friendly. If you want a compelling story, put your protagonist among the damned. The mechanisms of hell are nicely attuned to the mechanisms of narrative. Not so the pleasures of Paradise. Paradise is not a story. It's about what happens when the stories are over" (29).
The question that I wasn't sure how to answer in this story was this: Who was the protagonist? Who would be trying to get us out of this trouble? Maybe there was more than one.
I had found trouble--the conflict-loving dog definitely qualified. This was a story and I was actually living it.
The Foster Manual
Before fostering a dog, I had to go up to the warehouse/office and sign some paperwork. This was the Foster Agreement. I had to initial each of the items, acknowledging that I'd read it.
This was on Friday, February 19. We were getting the dog on Saturday.
That first week, we had lots of questions. I read through the agreement I had signed numerous times, especially because he wasn't neutered and had dominance issues. We were waiting to get him in to be neutered and I wanted him in asap.
I wondered if I could take him to somewhere closer that could get him in faster. I reviewed the foster agreement. as a foster, I would not have to pay for anything for the dog if I followed procedure, except for food and toys. But anything medical would be covered by the rescue agency.
Foster Home Agreement, Item #4:
Protocols for Emergency care must be followed as outlined in the Foster Manual.
What Foster Manual?
Was I missing something? Had I not received an important document that would answer all of my questions? That would make everything clear? How to help him adjust... how to get him to behave... how to get him to listen?
Whatever the document was, I did not have it. And I thought his getting neutered also qualified as an emergency. Supposedly, he would calm down after the procedure because his testosterone would lessen. I wanted this done immediately, if not sooner.
This was on Friday, February 19. We were getting the dog on Saturday.
That first week, we had lots of questions. I read through the agreement I had signed numerous times, especially because he wasn't neutered and had dominance issues. We were waiting to get him in to be neutered and I wanted him in asap.
I wondered if I could take him to somewhere closer that could get him in faster. I reviewed the foster agreement. as a foster, I would not have to pay for anything for the dog if I followed procedure, except for food and toys. But anything medical would be covered by the rescue agency.
Foster Home Agreement, Item #4:
Protocols for Emergency care must be followed as outlined in the Foster Manual.
What Foster Manual?
Was I missing something? Had I not received an important document that would answer all of my questions? That would make everything clear? How to help him adjust... how to get him to behave... how to get him to listen?
Whatever the document was, I did not have it. And I thought his getting neutered also qualified as an emergency. Supposedly, he would calm down after the procedure because his testosterone would lessen. I wanted this done immediately, if not sooner.
Bringing Him Home
On the way to get Rex, we played Paul Simon's Loves Me Like a Rock over and over, singing along with the words and driving in Jodi's Honda CRV. Like new parents, flying abroad to get a child from China, we were so excited! We had also brought Jodi's dog Ruby along for the two-hour drive. We thought it would be a good idea to get the new dog socialized right away with Jodi's dog since he would be at Jodi's house some of the time.
We met our foster contact in a Super America parking lot in Alexandria, MN, halfway between Minneapolis and the South Dakota Indian reservation. Our contact led the dog out of her back seat. He was HUGE. His ears pointed forward.
Gulp.
"I have some bad news," she said.
My first thought was he had a disease or injury.
"I talked to his previous owners and they said they got him in 2003. So, he's probably more like seven years old."
The ad had said two years and five months (best guess).
"Oh, and he also had an accident on the way here. He pooped all over my back seat," she said.
I didn't even want to see what that looked like.
We unloaded Ruby out of the back of the CRV. He growled at her. He barked. We held them on tight leashes a ways apart. Ruby was a black Labrador and half his size, at 50 pounds.
Double-gulp.
"Let's walk them," someone suggested.
We walked them on leashes through the parking lot. Rex remained growly. Ruby was another dog in his space and he wasn't happy about that. Plus, he was confused. Where am I? What's going on? Who are these people?
We were the fosters but to him we were strangers.
But we had agreed to foster him and provide a good home until a forever home could be found. And we were people of our word. "Okay, well, let's go," we said, wanting to get going because the drive back would be just as long and the sun was setting as it was getting to be late afternoon.
Ruby and Rex had to be separated for the ride back. We never thought to ask if it was okay to have another dog along for the meeting. Apparently, the instant socialization with another dog was not a good idea. We didn't know better.
Ruby sat in the front seat. Jodi drove and I sat in the back seat. Rex was in the far back area of the SUV. A quiet sense of shock overtook the journey.
I sighed.
Jodi sighed.
Ruby even sighed.
What had we gotten ourselves into?
The drive home was quieter. Paul Simon did not croon from the radio. The sounds of silence seemed more appropriate.
But, instead of silence, nervous panting from the rear of the Honda filled the void.
Reservation Dog
The first day we had T-Rex home we walked him. But this was a country dog and he was used to wide open spaces. In the city, he would walk on sidewalks. New sounds of children in playgrounds and cars whizzing by would make him look around and wonder where the heck he was.
On that first leash walk, a plane flew overhead. Rex stopped and stared at the sky. That may have been the first plane he ever saw.
On the reservation, he probably saw mostly pickups trucks, if any traffic.
The moment he stared at the sky and the silence surrounding the plane reminded me of the aftermath of 911. The day after September 11, 2001, no planes were seen or heard. This was a dramatic silence for anyone living near the Minneapolis airport. We're used to hearing the constancy of takeoffs and landings, so much so that we forget it's going on around us in the busy HUB. Planes had become as common as geese flying overhead.
I went to the Regal Theater in Eagan and watched the movie United 93. The movie was about the high-jacked flight where the passengers took action so the plane would not hit the U.S. Capital. The flight had been delayed so when the highjackers took over, the passengers on board got word of the attacks on the World Trade Center.
I remember coming out of the theater after that sobering movie. The first thing I noticed was a plane that flew overhead. It was eerie.
Now it was Rex making us stop and take notice again of the miracle flying overhead. But soon he too would not take notice of the jets flying overhead. They would become as common and taken for granted sight for him, perhaps, as mosquitoes and gnats. He adjusted to the change and forgot about it as quickly as some of us who resumed travel after the events of 911.
Yours, Mine, and Ours --, Resource Guarding
During the first month of fostering T-Rex, whenever he would be cute and easy to handle, I would say, "He's mine."
"Mine," Jodi would respond.
But when he would pull the leash while walking him or growl, then I would say, "He's yours." and Jodi would respond: "He's yours."
But we had adopted him together--so he was Ours.
Jodi called me one morning and said, "Guess what we're doing!"
I had no idea.
"He likes fetch!"
They were playing fetch in her fenced back yard. And Rex loved it! And he loved tennis balls.
"I'm never walking him again," Jodi said.
I stopped over later that day and played fetch with him too. The problem was he wouldn't drop the ball. Does anyone have a crowbar?
I asked Joann about this at training. And she told us to have two balls. When you get ready to throw the second one, he should drop the first. This worked for a while but he was never very willing to give up the ball once he brought it back. Later, he had a stuffed toy hedge hog outside. I reached for it and he grabbed it. Again he was resource guarding.
On Saturday, day one of Good Citizen training, I explained the problem to Joann and she said that he was resource guarding. Rex thought that the toys were his and now I needed to let him know everything was mine and that nothing in the house was his.
It's funny because the night before we had gone out and bought him a pink stuffed bear and thought: this will be one of his first toys. Awwww. He loved the bear. Even a 105-pound dinosaur will look like a big baby if he's carrying a floppy pink teddy bear around in his mouth. But now I would have to take the bear away and say it was mine -- mine!
Joann took a squeaky ball she held it in front of his face. When he grabbed at it, she said, "Leave it!" Once the dog backed off, then she held it up by her shoulder and said, "Mine." The dog kept watching her and the ball. She held it to his face again and said, "Leave it." This time he left it. She said I had to do this with every toy in the house so he knows that nothing is his and that his very existence and everything he has is because of you. "It's all yours."
I took the teddy away. Rex cocked his head. I told him to leave it. He did. I laid the teddy on the floor and he started toward it. I said: "Eh!" He stopped. I reached slowly for the bear. He leaned. "Leave it," I said firmly. He stopped. I picked up the bear and said, "Mine." He waited with cocked head. After several seconds, I handed him the bear.
Joann said that training is forever. It's not just during the class. Then you have to train the dog with every interaction. Forever. Echo.
That was yesterday. The mine concept has to be reinforced constantly. Especially when you are dealing with a rambunctious T-Rex.
I understand resource guarding. I have always resource-guarded my time. Maybe we all need to lighten up a little in the area.
"Mine," Jodi would respond.
But when he would pull the leash while walking him or growl, then I would say, "He's yours." and Jodi would respond: "He's yours."
But we had adopted him together--so he was Ours.
Jodi called me one morning and said, "Guess what we're doing!"
I had no idea.
"He likes fetch!"
They were playing fetch in her fenced back yard. And Rex loved it! And he loved tennis balls.
"I'm never walking him again," Jodi said.
I stopped over later that day and played fetch with him too. The problem was he wouldn't drop the ball. Does anyone have a crowbar?
I asked Joann about this at training. And she told us to have two balls. When you get ready to throw the second one, he should drop the first. This worked for a while but he was never very willing to give up the ball once he brought it back. Later, he had a stuffed toy hedge hog outside. I reached for it and he grabbed it. Again he was resource guarding.
On Saturday, day one of Good Citizen training, I explained the problem to Joann and she said that he was resource guarding. Rex thought that the toys were his and now I needed to let him know everything was mine and that nothing in the house was his.
It's funny because the night before we had gone out and bought him a pink stuffed bear and thought: this will be one of his first toys. Awwww. He loved the bear. Even a 105-pound dinosaur will look like a big baby if he's carrying a floppy pink teddy bear around in his mouth. But now I would have to take the bear away and say it was mine -- mine!
Joann took a squeaky ball she held it in front of his face. When he grabbed at it, she said, "Leave it!" Once the dog backed off, then she held it up by her shoulder and said, "Mine." The dog kept watching her and the ball. She held it to his face again and said, "Leave it." This time he left it. She said I had to do this with every toy in the house so he knows that nothing is his and that his very existence and everything he has is because of you. "It's all yours."
I took the teddy away. Rex cocked his head. I told him to leave it. He did. I laid the teddy on the floor and he started toward it. I said: "Eh!" He stopped. I reached slowly for the bear. He leaned. "Leave it," I said firmly. He stopped. I picked up the bear and said, "Mine." He waited with cocked head. After several seconds, I handed him the bear.
Joann said that training is forever. It's not just during the class. Then you have to train the dog with every interaction. Forever. Echo.
That was yesterday. The mine concept has to be reinforced constantly. Especially when you are dealing with a rambunctious T-Rex.
I understand resource guarding. I have always resource-guarded my time. Maybe we all need to lighten up a little in the area.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
JFK and Herb Brooks
"We chose to go to the moon in this decade and do the other things, not because they are easy but because they are hard." -- John F. Kennedy
That quote has always stuck with me.
JFK and I have a lot in common: We have the same initials (only mine are backwards from his), the same birthday, and we both liked Marilyn Monroe. But only one of us had the Happy Birthday song sung to us by the siren.
The movie Miracle was made about Herb Brooks, the coach who famously took a bunch of kinds from Boston and Minnesota to the Olympics to play hockey and beat the Russians in 1970. Herb was told of his plan to beat the Russians in the Olympics: "That's a pretty lofty goal, Herb." His response: "That's why I want to pursue it."
So, what in life is worth pursuing? If you want to achieve greatness--be something and someone who rises above mediocrity--then you have got to take on something BIG.
What is bigger than a 105-pound unneutered male Golden Retriever/St. Bernard mix who is 7 years old? Yes, that's right. The advertised yellow Labrador turned out to actually be something different: a Golden Retriever/St. Bernard mix, which explains his enormous size.
To battle mediocrity, you also have to go against the grain. An old cliche states: You can't teach an old dog new tricks. Well, I think you can.
In one month, T-Rex, the obstreperous dog, has already learned these commands:
*Sit
*Lay down
*Leave it
*High-5
*Shake
So here's to setting lofty goals that take us to the moon! What are you going to take on in the next decade?
That quote has always stuck with me.
JFK and I have a lot in common: We have the same initials (only mine are backwards from his), the same birthday, and we both liked Marilyn Monroe. But only one of us had the Happy Birthday song sung to us by the siren.
The movie Miracle was made about Herb Brooks, the coach who famously took a bunch of kinds from Boston and Minnesota to the Olympics to play hockey and beat the Russians in 1970. Herb was told of his plan to beat the Russians in the Olympics: "That's a pretty lofty goal, Herb." His response: "That's why I want to pursue it."
So, what in life is worth pursuing? If you want to achieve greatness--be something and someone who rises above mediocrity--then you have got to take on something BIG.
What is bigger than a 105-pound unneutered male Golden Retriever/St. Bernard mix who is 7 years old? Yes, that's right. The advertised yellow Labrador turned out to actually be something different: a Golden Retriever/St. Bernard mix, which explains his enormous size.
To battle mediocrity, you also have to go against the grain. An old cliche states: You can't teach an old dog new tricks. Well, I think you can.
In one month, T-Rex, the obstreperous dog, has already learned these commands:
*Sit
*Lay down
*Leave it
*High-5
*Shake
So here's to setting lofty goals that take us to the moon! What are you going to take on in the next decade?
Writing -- Where do you start?
They say when you are writing and don't know where to start that you should start in the middle of the action or a conversation -- start in the middle.
Well, that is exactly where I am -- I am in the middle of a story. I have adopted a dog with a friend -- joint custody. We are on week 4 of Obedience training. Yesterday Rex Learned to do a High 5 -- this was akin to watching a baby take its first steps. I was amazed!
This story began two months ago when I got an email....
February 12, 2010, my friend Jodi emailed me a posting for a rescue dog. "How about this one," she said. "Isn't he cute?!"
I looked at the photo. I had been saying I wanted a yellow lab for months and here was one staring me in the face. He looked tough with his Popeye arms firmly planted on the snow.
But I had questions: Why was the photo taken with him standing so far away from those pickups in the background? Why did his former owners keep him outside all the time?
He squinted. Was the wind blowing in his face? Maybe he was lonely and cold, like the ad said.
I was told he was at the tribal police on a South Dakota Indian reservation and they were going to SHOOT him if a foster home wasn't found right away!
Maybe this was the dog I had been waiting to save.
The ad said: Biscuit -- Urgent!! Foster Needed!!!!
Won't You Consider Helping him get a new start?
The facts: Labrador Retriever
Age: 2 years, 5 months (Best Guess)
Good with People: Yes
Good with Dogs: Yes
Description:
Biscuit is Lonely and Cold!!!
Biscuit is coming to us from an Indian reservation. He was picked up by the tribal police as the owner does not want him back. This poor boy is stuck at the "tribal pound" which means he spends his days and nights chained up outside at the police station. It is way too cold!!! The police dispatcher says he appears very submissive, he goes belly up when you approach him. Biscuit was found with other dogs so we are assuming he is good with them. Won't you please give a new home?
I decided I could foster him and then figure out later if I wanted to keep him -- if it was a good fit. Plus, if it was a good fit, I figured I would have him with me through my forties, since he was just over two years old. The previous owners were moving and decided not to take the dog with them. I immediately jumped to the conclusion that they were lazy and how awful it was that they would just give up their family pet.
"Never judge a man until you walk a mile in his shoes."
Soon I would have a taste of what the former owners went through. But those people gave up on Biscuit. I would not. At least I haven't yet....
Just before picking the dog up, I found out he was actually closer to 100 pounds. Probably 7 years old--not 2 1/2). And he had issues. (to be continued...)
Well, that is exactly where I am -- I am in the middle of a story. I have adopted a dog with a friend -- joint custody. We are on week 4 of Obedience training. Yesterday Rex Learned to do a High 5 -- this was akin to watching a baby take its first steps. I was amazed!
This story began two months ago when I got an email....
February 12, 2010, my friend Jodi emailed me a posting for a rescue dog. "How about this one," she said. "Isn't he cute?!"
I looked at the photo. I had been saying I wanted a yellow lab for months and here was one staring me in the face. He looked tough with his Popeye arms firmly planted on the snow.
But I had questions: Why was the photo taken with him standing so far away from those pickups in the background? Why did his former owners keep him outside all the time?
He squinted. Was the wind blowing in his face? Maybe he was lonely and cold, like the ad said.
I was told he was at the tribal police on a South Dakota Indian reservation and they were going to SHOOT him if a foster home wasn't found right away!
Maybe this was the dog I had been waiting to save.
The ad said: Biscuit -- Urgent!! Foster Needed!!!!
Won't You Consider Helping him get a new start?
The facts: Labrador Retriever
Age: 2 years, 5 months (Best Guess)
Good with People: Yes
Good with Dogs: Yes
Description:
Biscuit is Lonely and Cold!!!
Biscuit is coming to us from an Indian reservation. He was picked up by the tribal police as the owner does not want him back. This poor boy is stuck at the "tribal pound" which means he spends his days and nights chained up outside at the police station. It is way too cold!!! The police dispatcher says he appears very submissive, he goes belly up when you approach him. Biscuit was found with other dogs so we are assuming he is good with them. Won't you please give a new home?
I decided I could foster him and then figure out later if I wanted to keep him -- if it was a good fit. Plus, if it was a good fit, I figured I would have him with me through my forties, since he was just over two years old. The previous owners were moving and decided not to take the dog with them. I immediately jumped to the conclusion that they were lazy and how awful it was that they would just give up their family pet.
"Never judge a man until you walk a mile in his shoes."
Soon I would have a taste of what the former owners went through. But those people gave up on Biscuit. I would not. At least I haven't yet....
Just before picking the dog up, I found out he was actually closer to 100 pounds. Probably 7 years old--not 2 1/2). And he had issues. (to be continued...)
Friday, April 23, 2010
Citizen Canine
The Goal:
Take one difficult dog and have him pass the Good Citizenship test within one year. Can it be done? One vet I talked to said No way.
The obedience trainer I’m working with says it can be done in 6 months.
The dog:
T-Rex (formerly known as Biscuit, Wish, and even Cujo by a former foster home).
Answers to: Rex, Rexy, Rexford
The problem:
He is unruly, a.k.a. obstreperous. He growls at other people and other dogs. He has been an outside dog most of his life, tied up on a chain on a South Dakota Indian Reservation. And he’s big -- 105 pounds big. He is also 7 years old. Can you teach an old dog new tricks? Let’s find out!
While I’m at it…
Let’s make another goal to learn some new words since my vocabulary might suffer—as any new parent’s does—because I will be spending more time baby-talking and using small words like these: Sit, stay, come, down, No! etc.
First Word: Obstreperous – unruly. Rex was an obstreperous dog when I first got him.
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