Buzzy Goes to the Dentist

Yep, my 845 pound Standardbred had his first visit to the dentist in a very long time the other day. Actually, the ‘dentist’ came to him and the ‘dentist’ was our vet who from a most practical point of view, always makes house, um, that is, barn calls.100_0618

To be blunt, Buzzy needed to see the dentist, as in badly. For the last few months, he was dropping grain and leaving great gobs of grass behind when he grazed. Fortunately, he hadn’t lost weight, but mainly because we’d upped the ante on his daily grain and hay rations.

Horses need dentistry because over time their teeth develop very sharp points that make it difficult for them to chew properly as well as potentially cause ulcers in their mouths. With Buzzy there is the additional complication that many years ago, he’d been kicked in the jaw and had it broken by an unwilling mare. He’d had to have emergency surgery to wire it back together. He came out of this ordeal with several missing teeth and one very pronounced snaggletooth, which he takes great pleasure in displaying.

So our vet Anne came and Buzz was first in line. Protocol is to sedate the horse and then Anne has this marvelous device on which she places the horse’s head while she does her job.  She gave Buzzy the standard amount of sedative for a horse his size only it hit him as if it had been the standard amount for a much bigger horse. We got his nose up from touching the ground, and two of us together lifted his head onto the shelf but then it became very interesting. Let it be said – his teeth got done and he is a new horse in many ways. But, in this process, it took two, sometimes three of us to keep him on his feet. Have you ever seen a horse swaying in the breeze? Or one who has fallen (hard) off the wagon? That was my Buzzy!

Like I said, now he’s a different horse. Today it didn’t take him 15 minutes to eat ½ quart of grain and he didn’t leave tufts of grass everywhere when he grazed. He even seemed happier with the bit in his mouth and that snaggletooth positively sparkled in the sunlight.

Autumn Leaves, Wood Stoves and Very Big Birds

vulturesIt was a stellar day in upstate New York today. Some would call it stupendous – me included. This is my favorite time of year to horseback ride. I love everything about it – the smell of dead and dying leaves, with their reds, yellows and oranges smashed like melted crayons on a canvas of  Crayola “Pacific Blue.” I love the brisk mornings and warm afternoons. I love the smell of wood stoves, cranked up for the first time since last winter. It’s just all good.

Buzz and I set out for our usual Saturday morning ride today, matched in our mellow moods. We headed to the field and met my friend Barb on the way. We love the field – a wide open expanse of wild grass now yellow and long enough to shift like ocean waves. We mostly plodded until we came to ‘the hill,’ the place where we all like to practice our ‘faster gaits.’ Today we didn’t rip. We just set into a comfy jog, Buzzy and me in the lead and Barb and Pepper ambling along behind.

When these things happen, I never know what in fact happened, but what I do know is that some enormous, hideous-looking feathered creature dive-bombed Buzzy and me and as it did so, Buzzy became airborne in a sideways  leap. He stopped, frozen and I, incredulous, watched the  thing that came at us flap its incredible wings and sore high.

In my first moment of rational thought, I was grateful Buzzy was leading because although Barb’s horse  is a lovely mare, she’s hot, and when she’s faced with a ‘questionable’ situation, she’s outta there! As in bolt, full speed ahead. And lord knows what Buzzy would’ve done had she been in the lead.

“Look, they’re everywhere,” Barb yelled. Indeed they were – 30 or 40 of them, in trees, in the air, and several spread out in the field.

The horses were dancing up a storm now, anxious to head home. Barb and I were also anxious to head home.

“Must be something dead around here,” I ventured, voice quaking.

“Yep,” she answered, voice quaking.

Turns out we’d just been acquainted with a ‘committee’ of turkey vultures: prehistoric-like avian creatures with 6 foot wing spans – longer than most horses. After we turned back and headed home we had no further excitement. I’m just glad Buzzy is Buzzy and that I was in the lead.

What The Docs Don’t Tell You About Endometrial Biopsy

Last week I thought I was going to die. Well not quite, but I experienced the most barbaric procedure of my life, a procedure I thought would be a piece of proverbial cake. Only it wasn’t – not by a long shot.

Now approaching “the Golden Years,” my body introduces me to new and exciting (not) phenomena of which I shall not go into great detail. However, whenever I mention one of these new occurrences to one of a medical persuasion, I am relegated to undergo a series of tests, most of which are relatively benign, only some aren’t. Correction – one wasn’t.

Last week I had a transvaginal ultrasound – no biggie, and an endometrial biopsy. Before the biopsy, I was told I might be ‘uncomfortable’ and was advised to take a few pain killers two hours before. As I have a  high tolerance for pain, I decided to forgo the pain killers and go cold turkey. Bad decision.  I truly have never experienced such pain in my life– including childbirth and other assorted surgeries. I also reacted unlike I had for any of these events – loudly and physically. I was mortified.

After it was over, without a really ‘good’ tissue sample, so I was told, I crawled sheepishly down the corridor, wondering how many people had heard me and hoping no one had. I felt like a world class wimp despite being told many people reacted a lot worse than I, including some who passed out. I get that and I wish I had so.

I drove my sheepish self home and promptly got on the Internet to research others who had had this procedure and guess what I found?  I was not alone – not by a long shot! So, I share these stories with you as both a warning and as encouragement to talk with your medical practitioners to request a nice tidy squirt of anesthesia in a hospital setting, an option I was told about AFTER my agonizing and quite humiliating experience.

Read on: For the Women Folk: Endometrial Biopsy

Endometrial Pain

Read the Comments on This One 

The Stories Houses Tell

dilapidatedAs summer meanders to its not-so-grand finale, I ponder my many hours biking and clomping around neighborhoods in sneaks, I decide it’s time to tell the stories of the myriad houses I’ve passed during my travels.

I’m not going to tell the tale of each and every house I’ve passed, even though each one has a lot to say, but rather, talk about them in categories which means, I guess, that I am typecasting?

Never-the less …

  1. Vacant, bank-owned houses: These are the ones that incense me, that make me see maroon, that fuel my ire. While biking on any given day I have passed anywhere from 5 to 15 vacant homes, and this within a five mile radius from ground zero (my home).  These bank-owned travesties sport crooked shutters, boarded windows, tropical rain forest landscaping in a northern climate, falling down fencing, cracked driveways, sinful and heartbreaking neglect  and, well, you get the picture. The reason these homes incense me so is because they sit there pulling down property values for us working poor when their bank-owners could do all sorts of creative things to keep them neat, trim, and occupied. (I am not a fan of U.S. banks)
  2. Empty lot with flowers: There is just one of these on my route and I was struck by its bareness in contrast to four very lonely bouquets spread across it evenly.  There is a driveway which hints about the house that was once there. Stories filled my head immediately  upon seeing this lot, and none of them were pretty.  I spent weeks doing Google searches and combing through the results to discover what once went down there. I found it. It happened the previous February. A fire. The owners were not home. Cause: accidental. The four bouquets? I remain rattled wondering – pets? Someone knocked something over? Please no and I will indeed not – know.
  3. Homes owned by elderly: My town is host to many of these. Here the grass is mowed less frequently than the neighbors’. The shades and curtains are drawn tight. The car in the driveway is an older model Cutlass or Century. In short – the house has known better days but remains strong and stalwart.
  4. Homes with new owners: So many times I’ve gotten great comfort from select homes with beautifully, artful yard and pristine property. I dream of living in these until they are sold and the new folks move in. I cannot blame them but for the first year, two, or even three, there is a marked deterioration in everything as they get their finances under control.  The upside – most will.
  5. Homes with new owners in over their heads: Everything above holds true except – most won’t!
  6. Rented homes:  Ugh, ugh, ugh! In fairness, some renters do care and keep up their homes, but the vast majority, well, enter slumlord city. These are on the same scale as the bank-owned babes, albeit maybe half a centimeter higher.1940_cape_cod

And so with tongue in not-so-cheek, I ask you to lend your ears and your comments about house stories you have heard in your travels and travails.

Handlebars and Bikers

plain_bicycle_icon_largeAnd no, I am not talking mustaches. This summer I have noticed a phenomenon during my Canal Path biking cruises. What I have noticed almost without fail is that those of us who toot-toot along on our up-handle bar bikes smile, say hello, and are basically friendly. What I have noticed almost without fail is that those who careen along on their down handlebar bikes don’t smile, don’t nod, and ignore any friendly overtures.

I’ve been pondering this most of the summer, or at least while I’m riding along the Canal Path, wondering why the rude behavior among most of the down handlebars. Here are some other things I’ve noticed:

  • 99% wear very serious-looking helmets
  • 99% wear what appear to be official (expensive) biking togs
  • 99% cruise along quite quickly
  • 99% take up the whole path when they ride in pairs or groups and take their time getting out of the way of other (up-handlebar) bikers

On the other hand, besides a general friendly, open approach, here are some facts about the up handlebar folks.

  • 75% wear helmets
  • 75% wear plain jeans, shorts, and T-shirts
  • 75% huff and puff up hills and coast happily down hills
  • 75% quickly and generously get out of the way of passing or approaching bikers

I’m not sure what this all means except for a loose hypothesis that perhaps the down handlebars are ‘serious,’ competitive bikers who focus on one thing – winning whereas we “up” types seek to enjoy life, smell the roses and be in the moment. Notice the wording – “up” handlebars and “down” handlebars. Hmmm.

So, next time you’re out riding your bike, see if you can confirm my scientific observations or engage me in debate regardless of your handlebars.

Not Lost and Found!!

Basha 2I have literally been losing sleep this last week worrying about the little Boston Terrier who was running loose and clearly scared alongside the Erie Canal here in Rochester, NY. After some sleuthing, I found her owner who had given up hope. Little ‘Basha’ had been lost since July 4th when she bolted in terror at the sounds of firecrackers. July 4th  until July 31st – that’s a long time, and bless her little heart, she was spotted in a huge geographical radius that included busy streets and expressways.

I spent the last week riding and walking up and down the path where I saw her. I talked to her owner and we walked the path together. I placed an ad on Craig’s List and blasted the word on Facebook. I even Tweeted several of the local television newscasters.

Then, on Tuesday  I took some chicken and put it in a place I marked and when I went back yesterday, it was gone. Granted – anything could have eaten it, but there are no real carnivores in that area, so my hopes rose. I brought and left some doggie biscuits and put them where the chicken had been. I was going to go check on them today but this morning, I got a call – one of the best calls I’ve gotten in a long time. Little Basha was found! She is currently in safekeeping with the guy who found her and he and her owner will rendezvous later today. She has found her way home at last.

A Lone and Lost Boston Terrier

I started out on my canal-side bike ride today as I often do on Sundays. Today I had to negotiate between rain showers and actually caught our brief hour of sunlight. I hadn’t gone far when I saw something black and white on the path a ways ahead. Skunk? That was my first thought. Cat? Didn’t move like one. Dog? Yep. Boston Terrier? Damn – yes.

Some of you know that BTs are my dog of choice, but regardless of what breed, this was a tiny little dog on the run and I was thus compelled to do something about it.

I tried, I really, really tried. I parked my bike as well as held up some approaching bikers. I approached him, but every time I did, and I never did manage to get close, he took off, and he covered one heck of a lot of territory – on the path, off the path and into the woods, back on, off again.  Crushed, I went on with the rest of my ride on which I was miserable, peddling way faster than usual, hoping I’d see him again on the way back.

Close to the area where I first saw him, a biker passed me and just ahead of the biker was the little BT. Please stop, I wished. He didn’t, and the little BT, who looked to have been resting on the walkway, took off again. I tried.

Home. Lunch – a gulped affair. I scoured the frig for something enticing to a small BT– chicken! I hopped in my car and drove down to the path. I headed down it – no one was around. Maybe. I dropped pieces of chicken hoping the smell would attract him. Nothing. On I walked. Nothing.

Now my thoughts are running rampant with all the awful, tragic possibilities though I am trying real hard to be hopeful. I will go back there – maybe tonight, tomorrow for sure, treats in hand, hoping that a little lost Boston Terrier will find love, safety and warmth.

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.