Letting Go

“Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.”   

                                                               - Percy Bysshe Shelley

October 2009

One evening Knox and I head into the house after a long walk and I find Hunter with her back to the door rammed in the corner shaking with one foot in a basket her nerves all a-shatter, and mushy crap all over the carpet. As I run to her my heart sinks to basement level and I know. Her heart is racing a mile a minute and I wonder how long has she been in this state: a minute, an hour? I can’t contain her and clean up the mess so it doesn’t spread about the condo and she is so freaked out by the whole ordeal that she won’t stay still. Here is my steady, Zen, wise old pup acting like a toddler on a double dose of Ritalin.

I’m finally able to contain her in the kitchen by closing her in with a doggy gate. My home looks more like an old folks’ home then a place of dwelling; there are cut up pieces of carpet and giant size pee-pee pads strewn about the hardwood floors to catch drips and to give Hunter a grip as her hind legs have been buckling out on her. If she falls on the hardwood she can’t get herself up which, only makes her panic more and more as she flails like a fish out of water.

Some days when I’m lucky enough to get work I can be out of the house for ten hours or so, not knowing if Hunter is having one of her episodes brings a razor sharp sting to my heart and streams of tears to my eyes. People suggest crating her or barricading her in certain parts of the house; when I have done this in the past she has such an aversion to it that she uses all her limited power and might to bust her way out and when I get home I find that she has indeed broken herself out of doggy jail; giving prison break a entirely new meaning. This is a dog who has never been crated, barricaded or locked away; she is a free and wild spirit that cannot be caged……..it simply kills her……and me…. and again I know.

Knox is cowering in the corner of the room as he usually does when something is wrong with Hunter.  He knows what’s to come before I do.  She is soundly asleep, safe at the side of my bed near the door where her bed has been set up, since she started wetting herself in the middle of the night. Frequently I’m awaken at 3:00 AM to the lapping sounds of her licking herself in shame, trying to hide the evidence that her body has betrayed her and again, my heart breaks.  I purchased a fancy orthopedic bed for her and the surrounding area is covered with pads in case of an accident. I lie down on the floor next to her and stroke her supple plush coat. She is still a beautiful dog, a pedigree above all pedigrees. I put my arm round her and it gently rises and falls with her every breath. I am next to her and she is at peace. Instantly hot burning tears invade my face and my chest is so tight that I fear if I breathe it will crack open into a million tiny pieces. I cry like I haven’t cried in years, when death was all to new to me, as tears continue to pour from my eyes, gushing rivers of raging water that will not stop. I feel like there is a volcano erupting inside me and I open my mouth as if to let hot steaming lava out, but nothing comes: no sound is released; there is nothing but crystal clear silence.

Hunter has always been a sound sleeper; when she slept on the corner of my bed I would wake up many a time to find her slammed up against me like a steamroller.  When I tried to move her over so I wouldn’t fall off the bed, she would not budge; it was like moving a boulder. Often I’d see how harmonious and cared-for she looked and, as I turn onto one side, holding the side of my bed for dear life, let her be. On many occasions when we’d hit bumpy ground with Hunter, I prayed to a higher power to please just let her go gently in the night. Most mornings when my eyes first crept open, I’d listen for her breath. Usually with my heart a pitter-patter I’d meekly approach her, searching for signs of life, even having to shake her at times before coming to and when she does, I’d be relieved and devastated at the same time.

                                                                                         

I needed Hunter to make that decision for herself so I won’t have to, and apparently, she needed me to make that choice for her so she wouldn’t have to. I had made all her important decisions for her later in life so I guess she thought I should make this one as well. As she followed me from room to room always by my side, always checking in, getting a reading, I often got the feeling that she was sticking around for me, wanting to make sure I was okay, out of crisis, and that it was safe for her to leave. Crisis has been a constant on my menu. I’ve always been a night owl, staying up until all hours of the late night staring into the abyss, searching for answers, going over life’s plays over and over in my head, punishing myself for my past and fearing my future and wondering if “I should die before I wake.”

Knox is on his own time clock and every night around nine or so he pries himself off the couch, opens his trap and releases a noise that sounds like a yawn and an old man’s sigh at the same time, and he escorts himself to the bedroom. If Hunter weren’t sprawled out on the carpet at my feet, she would soon pop up out of her deep sleep and head to the living room in search of me. What a comfort to know that you’re a top propriety in someone’s life. Knox, at every turn reminds me that he is my sole protector and Hunter is my guru, my shaman, and my spiritual guide.

I drift off into a deep sleep of wet tears lying on the floor next to Hunter, and dream about Knox’s 5^th birthday on Cinco de-Mayo and the party we had to celebrate. I remember Hunter having the time of her life, bobbin for apples, guarding the Scooby Doo piñata, sniffin Coronas and wearing a party hat, she was most certainly, the Bell of The Ball. She seized every moment of every day, a lesson I know she was trying to teach me. I awake hours later stiff and cloudy. My eyes sting as I peel myself off the floor getting a better idea how Hunter has felt lifting her old body up and into action day after day.

                                                                                                                       

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Dogs 102

“Dogs are not our whole life, but they make our lives whole.”

–      Roger Caras    

The dog days of summer have come and gone and the crisp cool hint of fall is doing its dance. I’m grateful for the reprieve from the heat as I know this temperature is much more pleasurable to Hunter, she isn’t doing well these days and our walks are getting shorter and shorter. Many times I feel a huge twinge of guilt as Knox and I clear the doorway with leash in hand and I close the door as she still tries to nudge out pushing forward with her nose.

In so many ways Hunter still acts like a puppy, she unearths joy in every moment of every day and she is the closest thing to a pure yogi that I know, as she and most all animals for that sense, live in the moment. They aren’t wondering what shoes to wear with a certain outfit, how to best hide a double chin, or what so and so thinks of them for that matter. When Hunter is napping she does it in full bloom with deep, deep pranayama inhales and exhales, she even hums in her unfathomable state of slumber as if she is chanting. When Hunter eats, the only thing that exists in her life at that moment is the meal that is laid out before her and anyone else’s if she has her way. When she goes outside she relishes every scent as if she’s just discovering it for the first time. When she lies with her head in my lap, she is at such complete peace that I can feel her body melting into me as if we are one. When she goes for a walk her tail does a nonstop wag as if she is a windshield wiper in a torrential down pour, and, god love her, that she’s still able to go neck and neck with Knox at his high speed pace. I’m told animals will push on full steam ahead no matter how much pain they are in and have no problem paying for it later. Again, I can look to her to learn.

Her legs have been failing her for sometime now and though I’ve been in denial, I purchased a ground level condo with her in mind. Just two steps down once outside the door and she can claim a patch of grass. I’ve made a deal with myself that when she can no longer make it outside on her own….then I know what I have to do. My friend Kathy who’s a vet tech says that she knows owners feel better about letting their “pets go” when they still have some dignity left in them. I hate the words “put down” and my mind can’t even dance around the issue. I mean, I know many a human folk that I wouldn’t have a second thought about “putting down” and out of their misery, but a loving spirited furry friend who looks deep into my eyes as if she is trying to tell me some secret of the universe, send me a message, for I know, she knows I couldn’t do it. I’ve been told that sense of smell is the last sensation that leaves dogs and I know her hearing and sight has been compromised for sometime now. I feel such a colossal kinship with Hunter, like she’s giving me warning signs of future things to look for in myself; my sight is becoming an issue and as for my hearing….I have always sort of heard only what I want to hear.

Dogs 101

“I used to look at my dog and think, If you were a little smarter you could tell me what you were thinking, and he’d look at me like he was saying, if you were a little smarter, I wouldn’t have to.”  - Fred Jungclaus

Fall 2009….

My animals keep me in check. Its hard to hide under the covers when you have hounds that need to be fed, taken out and scratched behind their ears several times a day. Knox, is my protector, he senses when things aren’t right, he growls and plants his feet firmly in the ground and takes his stance, staking his territory. He sniffs under the door as if to say there is something beastly out there.  This is enough of a sign for me to head back to bed and throw the covers over my head.

But Hunter won’t let me; she has the temperament of a grand old lady of the south and the heart of a teddy bear.  She should be sporting pearls around her silky chocolate brown neck. She has really bad arthritis and trouble with her hind legs.  She can no longer hoist herself up onto the bed, which has always been her choice of refuge. She never complains, I can learn a lot from her.

Hunter licks my hand as if I’m a human Popsicle, her lapping up of love and concern sends flares to all parts of my body (I need and want love, but it seems to have been removed from my to-do list). Hunter is a Zen pup, a healing being who only wants what’s best for everyone…..well that and any and everything she can jam down her throat. A few years ago I was having friends over for a dinner party and entered the house with a bakery box of cannolis tied up with a candy cane colored string. I put the box on the kitchen table and headed to the bathroom for no more then three minutes tops. When I approached the kitchen the box was missing, Hunter was on the couch in all her glory.  She looked at me as the string from the bakery box entered her mouth as if she was sucking in a long string of al dente spaghetti. In the amount of time that a bank robber could crack open a safe, she had jumped up onto the kitchen table, wrangled the box into her chops and carried it, (I’m assuming) by the handy dandy string to the couch where she dined on a dozen cannolis, the doilies, the cardboard box and string. She continues to lick my hand as if she is healing my weakened sprit and broke back body…..and she is.

Can I Risk Dropping my Defenses in the Bloga –Sphere?

Still Summer 2009……

“If you can risk getting lost somewhere along the day you might stumble upon opening that link to your depths” - Annonyous

We last left off (way to long ago) as Sabrina and I had begun our journey. As I descended down the valley into pitch-blackness, I noticed the steady tell-tale lights of red, white and blue behind me, and my heart began to sink and my pulse began to boil. “Are you fucking kidding me?” I asked Sabrina. Why is it if you have done absolutely nothing wrong, you feel guilty when you have a state trooper behind you? I had spent the night before at Mia’s because I knew some serious drinking was to be going on, but tonight I had nothing stronger than coffee ice cream. My first instinct is to pull over to the side of the road and let the officer pass. Do you know what it’s like driving down a dark winding road at night, not sure of the speed limit, with the fuzz behind you? I began sweating like crazy, my palms were oozing liquids, but I could not let go of my grip on the wheel.  With my heart’s racing, my eyes fearing those lights would begin flashing at any given moment I did not know what to do. 

The silence was excruciating, as Sabrina had not uttered a word since our last turn, which seemed like eons ago in a galaxy far far away.  Did something happen to Sabrina? Had she left me in my moment of need? Gone MIA? That BITCH, I should have known, you can’t rely on anyone these days!  Only your damned self! Soon I was unsure of my path, the road ahead, this road that I have traveled so often seemed unfamiliar.  I could have sworn I missed a turn; perhaps I should turn around and head back to safety and familiarity.  Just then the road dropped as if I were on a roller coaster and I knew the terrain would soon change- flatten itself out because as Tom Jones once sang “What comes up…must come down.”  As the pit of my stomach was about to do a free-for-all….Sabrina came back to life with strict directions telling me to turn right at the stop sign in 0.5 feet. God bless Sabrina! I shamed myself for doubting her! I love her!!! I followed my new best friend’s instructions and made the turn. Much to my relief, at the stop sign the state trooper made a left.  Sabrina and I were home free!

As Sabrina and I continue our odyssey we approach a fork in the road and Sabrina commands my directions, but I feel the need to challenge her charge  (yes folks I’m a challenger)  I make an executive decision and do the opposite within seconds many a “MAY DAY’S” come out of Sabrina’s mouth as she shouts “Off -Course.” I obey her commands…seconds later Sabrina takes a deep breath and then calmly states that she is “recalculating.” I think of all the recalculating I need to attend to in my own life, and wonder if Sabrina is up to the task…how great would it be if I could just carry her with me wherever I go, having her calm and steady voice guide me at every fork in the road and help me readjust when I lose my bearings.

I think of blogging, maybe I can use this as a course of action to reach out, a way to help me navigate rough waters through cyberspace, a place where I can freely think out loud…As I have often been labeled as opinionated (I’ve been known to have an opinion or two when it comes to how I see things), perhaps I can work out these theories in time and space.  Thinking out loud, outside the box, who knows along the way, I just might get back on course.

Despite all my attempts to “stay on course” with or without Sabrina’s help, it seems I’ve had some momentary lapses of wandering and sashaying away from the fray.  The wax

build-up in my ears must be something fierce or did I simply elect to ignore Sabrina’s assists? Do I negate help in general and put up road-blocks in my life where they need not be? Or is it more my norm to feel as if I am indeed all-alone – is this the fairy tale I’ve fancied to believe??????????

I’ve been looking at this period of unemployment as a “sabbatical” of sorts, an opportunity to look at my life under the microscope -- but not too closely, as the pores and wrinkles are beginning to run deep and hit dirt. I on the other hand have never felt grounded, I generally feel as if I’m suspended some 50 feet above land, not too low and not too high, just hovering about in the middle not quite sure if I should go higher or crash to the earth.

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Cats, Dogs, Journeys and New Directions

Still Summer 2009……

“Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.” 
- John Lennon

I leave the following evening and Mia lends me her GPS so I can get down the mountain in the dark. I have a tendency to get lost; physically, spiritually, mentally—you name it. Seems I’ve been having a hard time finding my way these days, my sea legs are off kilter and I can’t tell my right foot from my left. In fact, I can’t remember the last time my feet were firmly planted on the ground.

I feel I have failed in many ways, missed the boat, and danced to the beat of my own long-distant drum for far too long.  I’ve always been romantically challenged, holding out for that damned “Prince Charming”  (damn those goddam fairy tales), who will take me away from all this (all of what, I am not sure).  I never quite know where I’m supposed to leave my size 9 plus pumps at the ball. If I did, who would return them to me? And of course at every turn, every buffet table at the ball, I am chasing down the “wrong” men ….blah, blah, blah.  OK so, even though my panic button over turning 40….-something has been blasting loud and clear for sometime now. I optimistically tell myself that my middle-aged prince is out there somewhere…he has to be…right?  Besides 40 is the new 20 (alright, I know I’m pushing the Splenda envelope on that one) but a girl’s still gotta be able to dream, right?

Some may say that I am old and tired, but I’m not buying the farm yet, No Siree Bob! I look at it this way, at least I’m not living with a houseful of cats (I have nothing against CATS….except the musical of course). I’m more of a dog person.  Which I must say comes with some perks and added bonuses. It is documented that being a dog owner helps with depression, blood pressure and winter SADS. OK, maybe it’s not all documented. However, I find being a dog owner gets one out into the environment, facing all elements. There is nothing like strapping a hound on a leash after a summer’s storm has cleared and cooled the air.  Amazingly, yesterday’s scents have changed. The same path you were just on yesterday is awash with new and exciting possibilities. If only we human folk could use a summer storm to refresh our lives. 

At present my two housemates are Knox and Hunter, my 70-something pound hounds. Hunter is a 16-year-old chocolate Lab who, lately, constantly reminds me of what life may be like in the old folks home if I don’t find someone nice to take care of me. Knox is the baby.  He was born, or so they say, around Cinco de Mayo (which is always a grand time for a celebration!) and he does have a flair for spicy food, well any food to be honest, but he does like it hot. He hails from Tennessee; hence my niece Sarah named him Knox. He is now entering his sixth year.  He is a midnight magical black mixed breed, with white hairs already surfacing about his jaw line, reminding me of how quickly the years can pass.

I seem to have digressed again (another one of my many dys-centric issues, and another key reason for the gift of the GPS). I lose track so easily. So many thoughts attack my brain in any given moment that I’m not sure where to focus. Of course, the sprinkling of ADD doesn’t help the situation. So where was I? Oh yes, Mia gave me her GPS.  I give hugs and kisses and, I say my goodbyes. I get in the car and program my destination (there truly is no place like home) and hit start. The voice of Sabrina is the name given to the GPS lady by Mia’s sister Christie, as Sabrina is the name of her husband’s imaginary girlfriend. All I can think of is the teenage witch. Sabrina is calm and welcoming and I realize that in all my years of heading down this hill towards home, this is the first time my blood doesn’t begin to boil for fear of veering off my path, making the wrong turn, ending up God knows where and arriving home around dawn. I don’t have to think, I don’t have to do anything……I am not alone. I have Sabrina and together we begin our
journey.

To Blog or not to Blog…that is the Question

So,  I was having the dirtiest martinis in the land with my friend David (whom I have never called Dave) and Dave (whom I have never called David) at The Russian Vodka Room the other night after seeing Laura Linney's amazing performance in "Time Stands Still." While eating vodka soaked olives as appetizers, I admitted that I have been working on a "blog" for over a year and that I haven't made one post yet.

David pretty much calls me pussy saying, "what in the hell are you waiting for? Just hit PUBLISH." I try to explain how permanent hitting publish is and that I had taken a year because A.) I wanted to prove to myself that I had some sort of discipline lodged deep inside one of my veins and that B.) my blog had a purpose, a point, a direction not just some random babbling of the subconscious garbage echoing my dizzy ADD thought process and chatting uselessly about what I was eating or something so ineffectual in nature.  Or  C.) Was I just a big pussy? After much "babble" I did see themes appear, but still I did not hit "publish" in real time and besides my friend Concetta suggested I look into Word Press instead of Blogspot as it has more options for creativity further down the line. That, of course was months ago and I have not looked into Word Press - and here I sit... a pussy who won't hit publish.

I am, one might say, a bit of a procrastinator, point being I haven't made any New Year's Resolution as of yet........That being said I think its time to step up to the plate and that my New Year's Resolution should be two-fold A.) to no longer procrastinate and B.) to not be a pussy and hit publish!!!!!!!!!!! Because time does not stand still...so what in the hell am I waiting for???? If Laura Linney can produce such a brave performance night after night why in the hell can't I publish a little Betty Blog????

Summer 2009 – I have to go back, before I can go forward.

“My words fly up, my thoughts remain below:  Words without thoughts never to heaven go.”  - William Shakespeare

Tweet, Twitter, Twit….Rockin Robin. Boy am I feeling my age or maybe I am dreaming, but somehow a technological tornado came to town and blew off the glass ceiling and I am not in Kansas anymore.  I’ve eavesdropped on enough coffee klatsch conversations at many a Starbucks in the tri-state area.  As I sit there trying to enjoy my over-priced venti ½ caf ½ decaf (I’ve reached that age where too much caffeine makes me crazy) non-fat latte, the conversations filter through my consciousness.  I hear snippets of chat, babble, gab involving grand ideas of hometown folk putting their “thoughts” out there into “cyberspace” to share with the “world.”  These thoughts make me wanna release streams of thick steamed non-fat skim foam from my nostrils….who do these people think they are? And…why do they think their lives are so damned important? And why am I doing this and who do I think I am anyway????

A little over a year a ago, I was laid off (hence the allotment allowed for daily caffeine stake-outs) but let’s be real here… the “BOSS” that I worked for couldn’t wait for the day to send me on my way. AND let’s just say that she was the worst boss I’ve ever had in my life (and I’ve had a lot of bosses thus far.) My blood pressure went from normal to rooftop heights. On my drive into work every morning I’d begin to feel a wave of nausea for the dirty-blond Cruella Deville boss lady from hell and I'd have to fight the urge to pull over, open my door and heave out all the bile that was boiling up inside me. This BS  job was eating away at me. It was never anything I had hoped or asked for, but at the time it seemed like a nice financial break from past paychecks in the non-profit arts sector.

One beautiful summer day, I go to my friend Mia’s house in the country. I relish the change of scenery and greenery that is way off Interstate 95’s path.  I feel a breath of fresh air as I head in the direction of a road less traveled. Mia’s family, aka “The Fam” (I adore them), is in town from Maryland. We are sipping vodka tonics on the veranda (not to be confused with Miranda, that is Mia’s oldest daughter) while looking over the majestic valley below and catching up on life. They give their condolences regarding the job and we put our heads together and brainstorm about which path I should take next. Soon the conversation sways to blogging. I cringe (I feel so technologically challenged). The Fam (I love them) continues carrying on about blogging and how I should be blogging, because blah, blah, blah…footnote there was vodka involved, a booze-fest of sorts, however, I do feel very blessed to have such supportive folks in my life.

They go on and on, through the vodka-hazed sunset, about blogging and me.  I thrive on the encouragement, but do not want to seem too eager.  I throw in my two cents about me just being an ordinary Betty who is trying to fight the good fight on a daily basis. Who wants to get by with her (from time to time) red head held high above her blood alcohol level. Who holds onto her proverbial buoy as if it were a martini olive. If I let go, splash, I’m in over my head. I also state the obvious “who would listen to me? and “what to I really have to say, anyway?” The Fam sends me beams of encouragement from across the table and I think, “these people have only my best interest in mind.”  Perhaps they are onto something.  Maybe I should quiet the voices in my head, stop and smell the vodka and take note. In my V&T cloudy mind, I make a mental note to myself to look into this thing called blogging. I hope I can remember this note-to-myself in the morning.

                                                                                   

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