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A Dog’s Eye

Timmy's Eyes Now Open
Timmy’s Eyes Now Open

A dog’s eye is prone to injury and infection, especially so for bulge-eye breeds such as pugs, boxers, Boston terriers, Pekingese and others. We have Boston Terriers, and about five days ago, the littlest (and oldest) one came in from a backyard romp yelping any time someone went near his eye. It looked swollen, so I put a cold cloth on it which seemed to help – a lot! But then a few days later I noticed an oozing slit where his left eye was supposed to be.  In addition, his behavior was ‘off,’ as in more tired and droopy in general.

I scooped all 10 pounds of him up in my arms and off to the vet we went. All the way there I harbored visions that he would lose his eye or need advanced and complicated surgery due to an eye ulceration or worse.  The verdict: an eye infection, better known as conjunctivitis. Our beloved vet, I’ve been going to him for 20 years, sent us home with a small vial of eye drops, and 3 days later, our little Timothy is clearly on the way to recovery. Phew.

We have always had animals, ever since I was on my own and out of the pristine house where a spec on the carpet wasn’t tolerated let alone any happy, tail-wagging  or leg-rubbing creatures. Each and every one of my pets holds a precious place in my heart. But now that I am graying (I am into the natural look and can’t be bothered with the rigors of hair coloration et al), and my human-children have flown the coop, my canine, equine and avian creatures have become my babies even more so than before.

I’ve always seen pets as every bit as important as any other living being, but my emotional attachment to them is now  far greater. I surmise this is a function of being older, wiser, and having more time for them. Or is it a function of days passed when I overlooked them in my hurry to go to work, deal with soccer and baseball games, and do all the other things a household filled with kids requires? Probably.

Now I treasure the simplicity of life and wonderful evenings with the total warmth of having one of my dogs ensconced in my lap while the other two snuggle as close as they can be on either side of me. I love the vigor of a long walk with one or two (can’t handle three) of them prancing along beside or in front of me. And the ultimate is the security of having them warm the bed beside me, two lined up on one side and the third at my toes.

There is only one bad part, and you all know what that is. It is something I cannot write or talk about because I want to love and cherish every moment I have with them right now.

Buzzy’s Got My Number

100_2157Sigh. Yep – he sure does. I just got home from what I’d planned to be a Zen ride when it in fact ended up being a stressful ride.

Buzzy is my little former harness racehorse and for 10 years now, we’ve been working on understanding the word ‘slow.’ Actually, Buzzy is a complete contradiction in terms because at the walk he is my very own snail while at the trot, he goes like freight-train engine in fast forward. But today, when we did our ring work, he was phenomenal: I actually succeeded in getting a Western jog from him. His head hung nice and low, he propelled from his butt end, and he was comfy, slow, and smooth. Smooth is a big deal because Buzzy is NOT smooth – most of the time. Riding him is like riding in a car that is traveling on rocks, you know, like the commercials with those 4 x 4’s that climb mountains? Yup.

Like I said, today he was my own little cow-pony, and because he did so wonderfully well in the arena, I cut the drills short and headed for the trail. Let the fun begin. My Zen deteriorated into a ‘discussion’ into which I did NOT want to engage, but as it is with horses and riders, I really HAD to or I would be essentially handing the reins over to my horse.

Well, it wasn’t a complete victory – for me, that is –but enough that I felt I’d made my point – sort of.

And then, once again in my life, serendipity strikes. No sooner do I come home and collapse in front of my computer than I come across this: Your Best Horse Relationship: Discipline. In it you’ll find this quote, originally by Robin Shen:

If I discipline my horse, my horse will discipline me, but if I discipline myself, my horse will do the same. 

After watching this short flick, I cringe, thinking of kicking and yelling at Buzzy when he wanted to turn around and come home today.  Next time I need to find the key to exert my own self-discipline so Buzzy can then find his own key and keyhole.

I don’t believe in coincidences.

To be continued!

Animals in the Belly of the Asiana Airlines Plane

airplane-bellyI am obsessed. I am obsessed, as I often am by these things, by the Asiana Airlines Boeing 777 crash that occurred in San Francisco yesterday. I found out about it from my dear friend Karen who texted me while I was thrift-shopping  around on this summer Saturday afternoon.. I rushed home and switched on CNN while Karen and I went back and forth by text.

“Did you see the smoke?” I wrote. She lives right across the SF Bay from the airport.

“No,” she wrote back.

And so I went on to learn all that I could learn, and even more so today.  I learned about the injured and the two 16-year old girls who died. I learned about the survivors and those who walked away with a bruise, or not, and most likely a psyche forever scared and plagued with PTSD. I learned about how the plane broke apart when it hit the seawall.

But what about the animals? When these things happen, we never hear about the animals that are stowed away beneath in the belly of these great behemoth crafts. How many were there? Dogs? Cats? Horses? Did they survive? Were they rescued? Will they too be forever plagued with terror, turned into trembling remnants of the creatures they once were?

And so I ask, why don’t we hear about them? Why isn’t there a count of how many of them were on board? Where is the accounting for their humble little lives? Why are their lives seemingly not valued?

I want to know.  I want to know because I am obsessed. I want to know because I love animals.

Rudy Came Running

Ginger SnapsA week ago I wrote about a sweet little mule named Rudy. Rudy has been at our barn ever since I got there some  six years ago, a timid little creature that darted off  in terror at the slightest advance of humanity and was at the bottom of the hierarchy among the three minis with whom he pastured.  Little by little over the last year I have offered him bits and pieces of grass, hay and hands-full of oats. The process was long and tedious, requiring great gobs of patience and hope for this beautiful, sweet and soft-eyed fellow.

Then we discovered Ginger Snaps! I’ve been treating my boy Buzzy with Ginger Snaps for years now and he gobbles them greedily and with great gusto. I decided to see if Rudy had the same reaction. He did, and he finally he came forth, albeit arching his neck to keep his body as far as possible so he could stretch and get the Ginger Snap out of my hand.  This boy is as gentle as they come, taking the  Ginger Snap ever so carefully with his soft lips before running off, only now he doesn’t run off, and now he actually comes to the fence when he sees me or hears my voice.

Then yesterday – Rudy came running!! To me this was a reward and joy beyond words! I went to the gait to look for him, and he had just finished a muddy roll at the far end of the pasture.

“Rudy,” I called.

He looked,  got up, sounded his musical mule bray, and came running to me!! I wanted to give him the whole box of Ginger Snaps but had to save a few for my Buzz.

I may never get much further with this boy, but to give a little ‘feral’ mule some love and a few Ginger Snaps fills me with true joy and happiness.

The Old Man Gardener and His Little Black Dog

old man gardenI am an outdoor junkie, even if it means going for a bicycle ride or jog around my very-suburban neighborhood. Being the creature of habit that I am, I stick to three or four tried and true routes and I take comfort in watching the ebb and flow of people who live in the houses I pass. I have done this for all my adult life. I have been in my current neighborhood for 10 years and one of my routes takes me past the fields under the major power grid coming into our city. These fields are long and empty except where an old man has planted a perfectly plotted and aligned ‘farm’ filled with corn, tomatoes, sunflowers,  pumpkins, zucchini, eggplant and so much more. Every time I pedaled or jogged past his farm, I’d see him, bent over – pulling weeds, or planting something new, or just plain playing in the dirt. He was shy, or maybe anti-social, but I wondered how someone who could create such mastery from the earth could be anything but special, and so I always made a point to say “Hi.” He always responded. And so did the little black puff-ball of a dog who thumped-thumped his tail in canine greeting.

Every year I look forward to spring when he tills the soil and begins the process of bringing the earth to life again. Every year I look forward to seeing him hunched over the dirt with his little black dog lying dutifully next to him. Only this year — the garden isn’t there anymore. Oh,  well, the rows of dirt are there – empty. The stool he sat on is gone. The little dog, Thumper I got to think of him as, is nowhere to be seen. Instead, there is a hole,  not filled with dirt or seed or plants, but a sort of empty pit inside of me that sorely misses my old man gardener and his little black dog, who once filled my days with the precious joys of simple pleasures,

Irresponsible Pet Ownership

Today we were victim to a sad situation, perhaps even a tragedy, depending upon the ultimate outcome, which as of this moment, we don’t know. My boyfriend and I drove his 17-year-old son to his mother’s house across town so he could talk to her, a very dysfunctional woman, now without a phone or any way of reaching people. While Dominic and I stood outside listening to their yelling and crying, her Airedale got out of the house, took off down the street, and attacked a Shepherd who was being walked by his owner.  Her dog bit the Shepherd, drawing blood, which set off a barrage of swearing and threats by the Shepherd’s owner.  The mother was oblivious to this entire drama, remaining holed up inside the house while her son grabbed the Airedale by the collar and dragged her home. In the meantime, the Shepherd’s owner continued spewing until his threats turned to action when he pulled out his cell phone and reported the incident to the police.

Here’s the sad part, for the Airedale, that is. She had previously and viciously attacked two other dogs, one of which lost its eye, thus, setting the precedent  for a dog who needed an ultra-vigilant owner that kept the dog under control at all times. Didn’t happen. Sigh.

Later, I saw from the police blotter that a squad car was indeed dispatched to her house, and I don’t want to think the worst, but what else? The Airedale is a nice dog, fine with people, albeit unruly at times, and relatively young at five years. But she is vicious with other dogs and she needs a strong , experienced and responsible owner to give her a happy life.

This is what breaks my heart about animals, owners, and adopting – yes, this dog was adopted. But even if she hadn’t been, she has been laid victim by an irresponsible and careless owner who doesn’t deserve to have a dog, or any pet, at all.

A Little Mule Named Rudy

RudyYesterday was shots day at the barn. Spring shots – the yearly standards including rabies,  flu and a few others. Our barn “Mom” (owner) gets the list together of who wants what, and when the vet arrives, we have our equines polished and preened such as we did with our kids when we took them to the pediatrician for their yearly physicals.

Our barn is home to a ‘feral’ mule; correction: a mule who was previously owned by an Amish farmer and while he was there, something happened that filled his little life with terror.

This boy, Rudy, has an exceptionally soft and gentle eye, except for when he is startled by something or when one of the minis in his paddock pick on him, and then soft brown turns to white flash. I fell in love with his as soon as I set eyes on him, but it is just in the last year that I made him my personal project. Our barn Mom welcomes my efforts, and helps me from time to time, but mostly she lets me do my thing. With Rudy, it’s not about technique, it’s about patience, body language, softness and consistency.

A year ago, Rudy would not come to take a treat and if I moved,  even slowly, he bolted in fear. Now: he takes treats – he has become a HUGE fan of ginger snaps – from my hand. He is incredibly gentle, just brushes his lips against my hand, now with happy anticipation and a level of confidence we never thought we’d see.

Yesterday Rudy needed to get his shots, too. In the past, the vet had to tranquilize him just to do so. Not yesterday. Barn Mom got him into a narrow but open pen. I held his head and while the vet did her thing, I whispered sweet nothings into his big mule ears and plied him with ginger snaps. And then, I touched him! I petted him, and he welcomed it – probably the first human touch, besides shots, that he’s had since that Amish farmer did whatever he did to a beautiful little mule with  warm, soft eyes, and a muzzle as soft and gentle as they come.

Brinkley’s “Woof”

Brinkley after his 'woof' serenade
Brinkley after his ‘woof’ serenade

My household is often filled with the sounds of dogs barking and birds whistling. But in the mornings, I am always greeted by my Boston Terrier Brinkley’s ‘woof.’ Actually, I have three BTs, all of whom I adore, but for those inexplicable reasons, I have a particular bond with Brinkley. Brinkley likes my company, and I like his. He is my ‘walk-dog’ because he trots along easily and dutifully, unlike Sasha who about jumps out of her fur with excitement, and precious little Timmy, our puppy-mill fellow, can only walk half a block without becoming exhausted and needing to be carried. Fortunately he only weighs 10 lbs. Brinkley is also my go-to travel dog because a. – he loves being in the car, and b. – he sits very contentedly on long rides, and c. – wherever we end up, he is easy! Not so with dear Sasha, my adorable female, who foams at the mouth and gets on the floor in the back seat and shakes uncontrollably. Timmy is also a ‘mover and shaker,’ minus the mouth-foam.

Back to Brinkley’s woof. Once the morning routine is over, I go down the hall into my home office to begin my day of grading papers, writing, and trying not to spend tons of time surfing and lurking on the Internet. In the meantime, the dogs remain in the kitchen to laze around with their bellies full of food. All except Brinkley. Brinkley parks his little butt as close to the gate as he can get and begins his woofing. It is very calm, relatively quiet, but VERY constant – just imagine, a continuous, perfectly timed in intervals, sort-of-subtle “woof.”  I am admittedly not very good at resisting animals and so I end up scooping him up to join me in my office.

End of story, right? Wrong.

I of course have to have a second cup of coffee after I have spilled one quarter of my first on some poor student’s paper, and upon entering the kitchen, I am greeted by four very sad, seemingly tearful eyes that I simply cannot resist. And so, the gate opens, the stampede begins, and I am now operator of my very own doggy day care, all thanks to Brinkley and his woofs.

Privacy vs. Protection

Edward SnowdenOne man, a single, previously unobtrusive young man, appears to have forever changed the course of intelligence and privacy (lack-there-of) in the United States, perhaps even the world.

Edward Snowden

Questions abound: is he guilty? Did he do something wrong? Is he a modern day hero? A trailblazer in restoring the freedom of speech, and just plain freedom, this country is supposed to be all about?  Has our country, our government, gone too far in the name of protecting us against terrorism?

I, at least, was shocked at the extent of the invasions in the name of these ‘highly classified surveillance programs.’ How many of my phone calls have been monitored? Did government agents hear me expound when I spoke to my daughter about birth control? Did my text messages to my students advising them on their reports about terrorism get pulled into the pile of red-light risky communications? Was I, then, a victim of more intense scrutiny?

I recently wrote a book as a ghost writer about a cyber-war with origins in Russia. Several weeks later something quite similar occurred. My client was the one who mapped out the plot of this tome and when we were finished, he said all of the emails and communications he’d had with me on the project mysteriously disappeared. He was convinced he was targeted by a surveillance agency. At the time, I thought he was nuts. I don’t think so now.

Listening: A Lost Art?

listenTo be heard: I think this is one of the greatest gifts we can receive. To have someone hear us, look us straight in the eye, without fumbling or doing anything else, and LISTEN!

I did a Google search on “The Lost Art of Listening” this morning and got 47,000,000 hits. Books, articles, and PDFs abound, evidence that this is indeed a hot topic. I wonder why? Have we forgotten how to give the gift of listening to one another? Dare I proffer an answer, it being YES?

As part of my college course curriculum, I talk to students about listening.

I ask them, how many of you feel like you are a good listener? Twenty of twenty-five hands go up. Bravo to you only brave and honest souls, I think to myself about the five who didn’t put their hands up.

Then I ask, how many of you ‘multitask’ when you are talking with someone else. Twenty-five out of twenty-five hands go up.

Then I say, how many of you hear? Some hands go up. How many of you listen? Some now look at me with confusion, others give me the  “look,” as in, “you have GOT to be kidding…” and one asks, “What’s the difference?”

With this skillfully maneuvered segue, I proceed to talk to them about the fine art of listening versus the passive act of hearing and regretfully send them off on their merry way to their multitasking, multi-stimulated, and non-listening world.

I write about this topic because more and more I also find myself in situations with individuals where they spew words in a non-stop cascade and I quite literally cannot get a word in. If I am so lucky as to nail a small word-nugget or two, I am drowned again in another torrent. It seems that the majority of people I encounter these days very loquacious.  I often wonder, is it that people are just talking more and listening less, or am I attracting big-talkers because maybe I am a good listener? Or maybe we ought to think about the importance of the elements of our most basic communication media: person-to-person, face-to-face, voice-to-voice.

One of my favorite poets once wrote:

“We do not believe in ourselves until

someone reveals that deep inside us

something is valuable, worth listening to,

worthy of our trust, sacred to our touch.

Once we believe in ourselves we can risk

curiosity, wonder, spontaneous delight or

any experience that reveals

the human spirit.”

– E. E. Cummings

(American poet 1894-1962)