Category: Uncategorized

Why is it when I sit down to write anything for myself I suddenly acquire ADHD and find at least 25 things I must do instead of writing. Just now, for example, I was about to write an email and I had to make myself to write instead. If I hadn’t begun, lord only knows what I would have found to do next.

I’m making it sound like I don’t like to write. Quite the contrary. I love to write and have been doing it since I wrote my first “novel” at age 10. Short stories, poems, essays – as a child it all came so effortlessly. Not so as an adult. It seems I let myself get in the way.

Seriously, though, I suspect I am not alone with this strategy of avoidance and I wonder what it means. It’s not the blank page syndrome, because the page never opens to be blank. Fear of failure? Fear of success? Or perhaps just a basic fear that I have nothing to say?

Language evolves. What’s appropriate today may be rude tomorrow. However, when language becomes unnecessarily complicated, I believe there should be a buck stopped here claiming “Enough.”

I’m talking about gender neutral language. Our society is on the track to rightfully embrace all people, all nationalities, all colors, and all sexual orientations. We have come a long way, but there’s still a long way to go.

Enter implications for language. The gender-neutral language movement is not limited to one community of people, though the majority of its supporters are of the LGBT community. More complicated variations are out there, but the most prevalent example of general-neutral language is the replacement of the singular, gender-identifying pronouns of he and she with they, them, etc. So what’s the big deal?

Consider:

Jeff packed up his lunch. They made sandwiches including peanut butter and ham.

Suddenly we lose clarity in what would otherwise be a perfectly ordinary series of sentences. Did Jeff pack his (their) own sandwich? Did someone else join Jeff? Do the two sentences relate or has there been some error in semantics? And so on – you get the point.

Ironically, I do “get” the angst of groups seeking to establish an identity and self-recognition. On the other hand, there are many other groups in society that do not request a grammar change that can fundamentally wreak havoc in our already over-complicated world. I for one not only balk at these potential meaning muddles, but also resent being told how I can and cannot use my language.

Rosie has developed a new and most disgusting habit and as a proper pet owner, I am embarrassed to admit what it is – but simply put – she eats poop. Not only does she eat poop, but with two other dogs in our family, every day is a veritable feast for our Rosie. Interesting, though, I have whispered about her awful habit to a few select friends who are dog owners and would you believe that every single one of them whispered right back, “My dog too!” At least mine isn’t the only disgusting dog in town.

Nevertheless, Dominic and I have been scouring the Internet looking for solutions to thwart Rosie’s feasts and this is one we found.

Solution 1: Put hot sauce on the respective targets.

Sounded like a slam dunk to me. When it was poop-time for all three pups, and sure-thing feast time for Rosie, I grabbed the bottle of hot sauce from the frig and entered into a race for the finish with Rosie for a to-die-for pile of poop in the corner of the yard. I won. I can’t even imagine what this must have looked like: Me racing like a madwoman with this bottle of hot sauce in hand trying to out-run this little dog.

Clear that I won, I squirted a small amount of the hot sauce on the still-steamy mound and when Rosie arrived, she decided hot sauce or no, she was going to dine. Dine she did, seemingly oblivious to the hot sauce. I poured on more. She kept eating. Despite a hefty amount of hot sauce, she ate the whole dang pile of poop.  Discouraged, demoralized and dejected, I trudged back into the house, with my very merry-Rosie in hot pursuit.

I began to worry. From what it said on the Internet, most dogs will sniff hot sauce and back away while others might need a taste to be repelled and discouraged from ever eating poop again. Not my Rosie. She didn’t even want any water when she came in. Great, a new delicacy: poop covered in hot sauce. With great guilt I tried to calculate how much hot sauce she consumed and conjured thoughts of her having a hole burn through her stomach or worse. She seemed fine.

An hour later the three dogs and I sat all snuggled on the couch on this a cold winter afternoon. Rosie was, per usual, snuggled as close to me as possible. Then I felt it, a slow, ominous rumbling followed by trembling followed by a body position that meant nothing good was about to happen. As it was clear the eruption was nigh, I moved Rosie and positioned her head to hang off the edge of the couch. It worked – sort of.  As for the rest of the scene – let’s just have you use your imagination. The good side was that with so much stuff coming out of this little dog, there could be no poisonous residue left inside her.

To be continued.

While driving out in the country today, I saw two pathetic pumpkins who’d clearly seen better days, so I wrote this little haiku to honor them:

Burnt orange orb half-

Hidden in dirty snow, an

Ugly winter day

 

Come on Wegmans, really? You are my only go-to store for groceries, and I love you dearly, but must you break the charm of Christmas 5 days before the day itself?

Yesterday I went to gather supplies for last-minute baking to find that all the lovely displays of food and novelties for Christmas were gone, and in their place, a big fat nothing. Gone, blank spaces, departed from this world. Gone were the mini-evergreen trees, the wreaths, and the scented pinecones. In store were the displays of health and diet foods – enticements for a new year full of resolutions for weight loss and better eating habits. This is all well and good, but Wegmans, please don’t take my Christmas away from me before it has even arrived …

I went out to do some last-minute holiday errands today when I came across four very sad and little evergreens, leaning pathetically against the outside of a well-known, and not always well-thought-of, big box store. A week ago, in this same spot, there was a whole crowd of trees, puffing up their branches when someone walked by, like a prostitute on the corner saying “take me, take me.” And so they got taken – all but these four little waifs, branches splayed downward in defeat, huddling together against the bitter wind and piercing lake effect snow.

I thought of them two, three, and more months ago, how they wafted resplendent in warm breezes, basked under shimmering sunlight, and offered their fledging pinecones to anyone who asked.

Look at them now … I felt an errant tear slither down my face, freezing in midstream, and despite many choruses chastising us for our artificial tree, perhaps if more people opted for the tree in the box we’d have more, healthy and beautiful trees gracing the lands where they are meant to be.

I can’t believe we’ve had our bundle of joy for two weeks now and during this time, not only have I learned about our little wild thing, I’ve learned a thing or two about myself. Or should I say, Rosie is hauling these things from somewhere in the deep, dark recesses of my being.

Typically, I spend crazy amounts of time in my office, on my computer, dealing with email, social media, and all that goes along with that, getting stressed to the max! Yet there I sit, accomplishing nothing, going down one link trail after another, getting obsessed about really stupid stuff like the Pitt-Jolie breakup. When you have a little one in the house, you cannot ignore her for hours at a time; in fact, you need to take her out every hour or so to teach her the ins and outs (hopefully all outs) of housebreaking.  Since Rosie, I am prioritizing (what a concept) and only doing what I really NEED to be doing, like writing this post.

This brings me to another discovery. Puppies do not “go” on command. In fact, in the beginning they don’t have a blessed clue why they are outside and what they are supposed to do there.  Armed with a pocketful of treats, at first I anxiously followed Rosie around so I could give her an instantaneous reward when she peed or pooped and get back to my key-banging. This didn’t go as planned. Instead, I became a big distraction leaving potty time the farthest thing from her mind.  I mentally threw my hands and began to enjoy just being out there with her while she sniffed around incessantly, went mad-crazy over bugs, ran around in gleeful circles, and plopped herself down in the sun with a stick to gnaw on. And all the while I watched, I had on a great, big happy face!  Rosie was making me be in the moment!

Finally, also thanks to Rosie, I am entering another phase of life: second (maybe third?) childhood. I have always been an active sort, but truthfully, as the years have gone by, I’m not as intensely active as I once was. That has now changed. I am walking dogs, bending to pick up poops (mostly outside – yay!) and food bowls, standing, picking up toys, throwing balls, and more until I drop into bed at night more exhausted and fulfilled than I have been in years.

All of this thanks to a mad-crazy, funny, delightful Boston Terrier puppy named Rosie.

News Flash: Big sis, nine-year-old BT Sasha is actually playing with her nemesis!!

Much to the negation of ‘we’ll never have another puppy again,” we drove 2 hours to just “see” the last of the litter of 5 Boston Terrier puppies – a little female with a not-so-smooshed-in” face and a wiggling butt and tail that sealed the deal at first glance. Home we drove with this squiggling little mass of black and white in my lap who finally fell asleep when we were just 20 miles from home – a foreshadowing of what was to come.

Next – the introductions! Our 2 resident BT’s looked at the lump in my arms with this “What is THAT and why is it in MY house?” Our oldest is indeed a senior citizen at 11, but he is mellow and always fine with other dogs. My 9-year-old female? Ha – now that’s a different story. Her track record with other pups is less than stellar and she usually goes for the weak one, a fact of which I am not proud. But dogs will be dogs, and so???

Day 1

It was late afternoon by the time we got home and the priority was to establish separate territories for the troops, namely keeping Sasha – the 9-year-old – behind the gates that wall off the kitchen. We left my old man in with Rosie and voila – let the party begin! Normally a dignified gent, Brinkley has risen to the challenge of our utterly relentless baby girl and become a puppy again in his own right. It is heartwarming. In the meantime, Sasha just sits, stares and throws me pathetic looks at which my heart breaks. Sasha – hang in there, we’ll work this all out.

Night 1

Our first night was … interesting. Brave hearts or foolish souls, we invited little Rosie into our bed. All was well until the bell tolled at 4 a.m. and little teeth found their way to nice, soft, warm fingers and toes. Ouch! I promptly went to my computer and ordered 3 books on puppy training. After our 4 a.m. unwelcomed wakeup call, we walked around like zombies all the next day, albeit with smiles on our respective faces.

Days 2 – 6

Laid back? Ha!! That’s the term the breeder used to describe our little wild cat who is constantly looking for the next thing with which she can get in trouble, who has learned how to jump the kitchen room divider when our two seniors have remained properly ensconced behind it for years, who marches around the back yard carrying a branch with leaves as if she is ushering in a parade, who was found happily munching on a cicada shell, and well – get the picture? And would you believe, at this moment, as I write, she is curled up in my lap, fast asleep, making me out to be a great big liar!!

To be continued ….

P.S. – Sasha actually played with Rosie for 2 minutes one day. Things are improving.

The first stop during our trip to Italy was the small town of Montorio al Vomano, located in the province of Teramo in the region of Abruzzo. With a population of approximately 8300, the town is surrounded by a river, mountains, but mostly built on hills and flatter land. I was struck by its beauty and medieval architecture and stunned by the fact that it houses the ruins of an ancient temple that was dedicated to Hercules. We have no such history in the United States.

Family brought us to this first stop of our Italian trip and on the first morning, Dominic and I sat on the piazza with our expressos watching the old Italian ladies dressed in headscarves and long dresses drag their shopping carts over the cobblestones while the young women pranced smartly dressed in the latest fashions.

As I watched the scene unfold, I felt a gentle pat on my thigh. I looked down and there was a small cat begging for a handout. I had nothing to give him, so instead, I stroked his natty-looking fur, and off he went looking for more lucrative donations.

My focus changed then, and as I looked around the piazza, I saw more cats, lolling in the sun or looking for dropped crumbs and generous souls. Then I noticed the dogs, the wanderers, clearly homeless, without collars, and all on a mission. None were interested in socializing, yet they all seemed harmless and fairly docile. I was surprised that they were of good weight, and then I saw why: outside the doors of many homes were little bowls of water, milk and food, mostly pasta.

While there are many kind-hearted people, there are also those who brutalize these poor creatures who mean no harm. Take this story of a stray meeting up with a dog on a leash with its owner. The stray just wanted to say hello to the other dog, but the owner kicked it in the face repeatedly. Fortunately, I did not see this or else I might have found my way into an Italian jail.

So why are these abandoned, homeless animals not in animal shelters? Italy has many animal shelters, most not run very well, which lends fodder to the argument that these animals may be better off on the streets?

Some shelter operators round up as many dogs as possible, cramming them into cages to collect cash from the local, state and federal governments that fund publicly run shelters

Heartbreaking.

So why am I making such a big deal about Montorio al Vomano, in the province of Teramo, in the region of Abruzzo? Don’t we have a similar plight for abandoned animals here in the United States?

Yes and no.

For the most part, stray dogs are not wandering the streets of our cities and towns. Rather, they are locked away in animal shelters (hopefully well run), desperately waiting to be adopted, or the tear-jerking alternative.  Should they be let out to wander the streets, hoping for handouts and the occasional pat on the mangy head?

Germany has an interesting alternative to the world-wide crisis of abandoned and unwanted animals. It has over 500 shelters, known for cleanliness and caring attention to pets, and all with a no-kill policy except for animals who become seriously ill. Dog owners are required to pay yearly taxes on their pets, the amount of which varies by town and number of dogs. The purpose of the tax is mainly to regulate the number of dogs in a household, thereby indirectly limiting the overall number of strays. There is no such tax on cats which lends to more stray felines than dogs.

This issue of animal abandonment and homelessness is not going away, ever. And it is worse in other parts of the world where the atrocities are truly despicable. And on this note, an apt quote by Mahatma Gandhi:

“The greatness of a nation and its moral progress can be judged by the way that its animals are treated.”

Pet Ownership as Economic Factor

Note to Animal Lovers Visiting Italy

Free-roaming Dogs and Cats in Central Italy

Stray Animals Remain a Problem in Italy