My Dream of Excellence - Part 2

My heart pounded within as I walked briskly through our tiny airport.  It was a beautiful spring day and I was on a mission.  I reached for the first airport security guard striding across the concourse: “Excuse me sir, I’m here to pick up a puppy.  Where would that be?”  The hugeness of my new commitment seemed to solidify in my brain as I said it out loud.  Part of me got really, really nervous as I walked closer toward the cove to get my new little girl dog.  
Two small dog kennels sat next to each other.  A French bull dog puppy that looked curiously like a fawn-colored frog sitting on a lily pad sat quietly.  The tri-color cocker spaniel puppy next to the bull dog seemed so much smaller.  I reached down for her while simultaneously making myself brave from my gut to my heart as I said, “There’s my baby!” in a cheerful voice I did not know I had.  The puppy leapt upward to my chest and snuggled her head right up to my shoulder.  It felt like there should have been angels singing or something.

When I took her into my car and drove to the house, I pondered again with some nervousness that, despite all my reading, I did not really have any CLUE of how to take care of a puppy this small.  My earlier cocker spaniel had passed away months before at the age of about 17 years.  I had a medium-sized beautiful liver-colored lab mix that I had rescued from the pound waiting at home.  (I wrote extensively about adopting Timbyr in an earlier post.) 

Entering into my home with the new puppy did not begin ideally.  Timbyr began to drool profusely and pace all around the house very anxiously.  I think she may have feared she was getting evicted, which was certainly not the case.  But for this story, I want to focus on the new puppy and how that unfolded because everything about that first week was what I want to spare new puppy owners.

You will read in my posts of puppies for sale: “I don’t fly puppies.  I will not ship.”  I think that it is hard for puppies – I don’t care how “posh” the flight kennel is; I just won’t do it.  Earlier plane regulations put dogs in an area near the luggage that was not climate controlled.  Translation:  it could get too warm or too cold and there’s not a bleeping thing that can be done about that.  When you are a passenger in the plane, you know to swallow or drink to keep your ears from popping.  Dogs don’t know that.  You know that when the plane has turbulence, the captain is going to come on board and tell you to buckle your lap belts and that you’re just going through a rough patch.  Who is in the belly of the plane to re-assure the dogs?  You get my point.  I’m just not good with it.

The other thing is:  if you cannot go to the home that birthed the puppy and raised it for the first 8 weeks of life, you have no idea of what the environment is.  That matters.  A lot.  People who operate “puppy mills” – where they over-breed dogs strictly for the purpose of money making – don’t post signs on their websites that say:   “Yeah, we don’t have a large enough staff to care for our dogs so they howl a lot in kennels in the back.  And we can’t keep up with cleaning the pens either.” 

One young woman that visited my home to look at puppies remarked:  “I just got back from Pennsylvania.  I went to an Amish farm …. It was so sad.  The puppy didn’t look me in the eye when I picked it up.  It seemed uninterested.  There was another puppy (a littermate) that had some problem with its eye.  I told the farmer he needed veterinary attention and he just kind of shrugged it off.  I asked to see the mother dog and when he brought her out, she stood between his legs shuddering.”  It was a stark contrast to the two puppies that were bopping around her feet on my backyard, that’s for sure.  It brought tears to my eyes.  The Amish certainly have my respect for being hard working farmers and people of faith; however, it’d be a cold day in hell before I buy a dog from them for just this reason:  they are stereotyped for being notorious puppy mills.  Not unlike people who hoard animals they start off “rescuing,” I want to give the Amish dog breeders the benefit of the doubt that they don’t plan on over-taxing their dogs.  I think it starts off innocently, and then when they think they can make more puppies and more money faster, they over-breed the dogs and have issues.  Unfortunately, culturally, they tend to view dogs less as family members than we do … and that contributes to a lower standard of care for the dogs than I would agree with… at least that is how the mills work.

My puppy came from the south.  Her original name was “Darlin’ Pearl.”  That was a little too much syrup for me so I changed it to “Bethany Pearl.”  I took her to her first veterinary visit – a practice I no longer go to – and the examining vet shouted at me:  “WHERE did you get this dog from?!  She has 2 types of intestinal worms and yeast infections in her ears!”  I said:  “Online from out of state.”  And didn’t know if I was going to faint or throw up.  We left the clinic that afternoon with a hefty veterinary bill and doggie medications. 

I am a decent human being (mostly) so I made the phone call to the southern dog breeder gentle:  “I want to give you the benefit of the doubt that you did not intentionally send me a sick puppy.  She has giardia and coccidia and ear infections.  I will be sending you the vet bill to reimburse me.”  The dog breeder was mortified.  She said she had the whole litter into the vet’s only three days prior, and as a result of my report, she was taking the whole litter back for a recheck (and to yell at the doctor).  It’s curious how it starts with one vet yelling at a client and ends with another client yelling at a different vet?!

The initial start with this puppy was a challenge; however, after a couple of weeks, things smoothed out, her health returned, and I calmed down.  My commitment to doing something “right” or “well-done” sometimes comes out as me being edgy or emotional.  At this point I think that is just because I have prioritized this and it would just kill me if someone accused me of ever being a puppy mill. 

So with this sweet new dog with the perfect Type-B personality, two years later I began to search for an appropriate stud dog.  Another wild journey.  How do you write an ad for the newspaper that you are looking for a stud dog?  Even if you go online and reach out to other dog breeders, often times you get the following answers:

                “I only breed my dogs to each other.  I do not put him up for stud.”

                “No, the males here are all neutered.”

                “I think people should not breed; they should adopt.”

I stopped one lady who was handling cocker spaniels at a dog show and told her I had a beautiful young tri-color pup and wanted to breed her.  She responded, “Yes I have tri-color males.”  I said, “Well, I’m looking to diversify the colors in the litter.   Do you have others besides tri-colors?”  She snapped back:  “I don’t believe in that!” and walked away in a huff.  I’m still not sure what belief of hers I offended.  (???)

I met with one woman up in the north country who was so uncomfortable when I visited her that she sat with her back turned to me in her own kitchen, texting her husband who was somewhere in an airport waiting to catch a plane.  The dogs did NOTHING and my trip was wasted.  I returned to her a week later and the dogs STILL did nothing.  She subsequently offered to come to my home in a few days and I laid out corn muffins and tea for her while we waited on the dogs who …. Still did NOTHING.  Months later when I called to try again, she said her dog was living elsewhere and was neutered. 

I find that people in the breeding business are as varied as any other sector in life.  Some want to portray an aura that they are a higher life form than you because they have more dogs, or show them, or whatever.  Others are not interested in helping educate a new dog breeder.  Then there are some really great people who walk you through and put you at ease and really befriend you in the process.  I raise my proverbial glass here to the last two ladies who have helped me with the breeding process from start to finish.  I have learned so much from them. 

In the process of puppy care immediately after they are born, I am so blessed to have some great support people. One of them has been with me during the first three litters’ laboring and helped tremendously when I was up too late and too tired to think straight.  We’ve had the funniest experiences.  “Chris, did you put that black and white dog back in with Madeline?”  “No.  It’s here in the willow basket.”  “Are you sure?”  I peeled up the blanket to reveal an almost exact replica of the dog she was asking about.  Madeline had birthed a puppy without even letting us know it.  Five puppies later, I went upstairs to toast a frozen waffle for myself and stood at the kitchen island, very, very tired.  Madeline came up the cellar stairway, stood next to me, and without ceremony pushed a puppy right out onto the kitchen floor.  Madeline recognizes that I am her doggy midwife, and we are in this together.

Two teenagers have helped with the litters under the label of: “Puppy Socialization Specialists.”  That means they stop by after school and do the clean-up, mid-day feeding, and play with puppies.  Man, I wish I had a job like THAT growing up!!!  When people remark at how well socialized the pups from our litters are, I don’t hesitate to give credit to these wonderful young women whom help make our dogs great.        

To be continued ….

My Dream of Excellence - Part 1

When a starry-eyed foodie says, “I love your pierogi’s!  How do you make them? Can you teach me?”  The Polish grandmothers and aunts always answer this question the same way:  “It’s a lot of work.”   And they are correct.  Not everyone is meant to soar with the eagles when it comes to preparing Ethnic food.  But I have come to believe that when the circumstances permit, and your zeal runs high, it may be your turn to attempt the thing others run from:  Hard work for the sake of excellence.

I used to think I might have the “food gene” and be the Chosen One to cook special dishes that people rave about.  But frankly, in a household of one, it is tiring to go through all the hoo-hah of making a complicated meal.  For now, I have given-up.  I eat regularly with the three families I know the best:  The King’s, The McDonald’s and the Dunkins.  I don’t complicate my life by going to work out at a gym; that would send my body conflicting messages.  I work hard at my country life and put in 40+ hours a week in my Real Job, and pray that I live the struggle just long enough to hit the lottery.

A few dreams floated through my head over the years and finally dissipated, mostly due to the need for cash flow to start up.  I thought perhaps I could marry into money and everything would just flow from there.  As it turned out, I never even dated into money, so marrying into the money just wasn’t in the cards.  One dream isn’t dead yet:  to start a small alpaca farm.

I studied my brains out to learn more about this sweet animal.  But now I can’t think of how I would ever garner enough energy to care for one more enterprise by myself.  I am content to visit them at farms and reminisce about all I had learned of them in my exploratory phase.  For a while, the alpacas were being shipped into the country from various points in South America, which is where they are an indigenous species.  Then, when we got some really good farms established with quality stock, we closed our borders (yeah, imagine) and said to the American farmers:  “Go for it.  It’s your turn to develop the bloodlines of excellence.” 

The smaller farms found they couldn’t make it by just raising the alpacas to look at.  It was imperative to multi-task.  So they spun the alpaca wool, and sold it to consumers.  They began selling products like socks and scarves and mittens and sweaters at exhibition shows and at their home farm’s stores.  They branched out and sold crochet hooks, knitting needles, looms, and hobby products.  They intrigued new customers by explaining that alpaca wool is better than sheep’s wool in so many ways:  less oily, cleaner, softer, and initially worth its weight in silver.  If they could educate the potential consumer, they could then create the market.  The law of demand would kick in and the supply would be right there waiting for it.  That was the market 25 years ago.  Small farms popped up everywhere, and they were delightful.

The alpacas were brought to competitive shows and petting zoos and the like.  They could pull a small cart in a parade and thrill small children by their seeming smiling faces.  And, no, they don’t spit.  It is llamas that spit.  Alpacas hum.  And it is a happy sort of sound when they do.  Like I said, they seem to be smiling.  I spoke with one Vermont farmer once and asked him “Why alpacas?”  He answered:  “I was looking to get into developing my farm and went to visit a friend who was raising alpacas.  My child slipped under the railing and walked into the center of the herd.  The alpacas just graciously stepped aside and made room for the child.  Cows would have stepped on her.  I was sold.”  And he began his journey.  Twenty years later, his farm has developed into a lovely wedding venue and farm-stay as well.

My own dream that came true birthed from something deep inside my soul.  If you were to find my 9^th grade science notebook you would discover that I obsessively drew two things in the margins.  One was a small cartoon character I called “Squashbill.”  The other was a dog.  And every time I tried to draw the dog with a tail, somehow it looked off-balance.  So the tail-less dog reigned supreme in the notebook.

Ten years later, having just graduated from University, I wandered the halls of the Maricopa County Animal Shelter looking for a dog.  I picked one dog out, a red cocker spaniel, but had to wait until she was actually “up for adoption” the following Saturday.  When I arrived at “the pound” I found that two other people were there for the very same dog, and consequently the pound staff did a lottery system.  The dog went home with this immense man driving a junky pick-up truck, needing some Elmer’s glue for his back side where the shirt didn’t hang low enough to cover the pants that didn’t come up high enough, with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth.  I was duly horrified at the cruelty of the little dog’s fate. 

Utterly crestfallen, I walked toward my car when the woman, the other competitor for this dog, stopped me.  She said, “Hey, take another walk through ….” I really just wanted to go home and cry as a sore loser and be mad at her for being another participant in the nasty, obviously-flawed lottery system.  I ended up walking through the dog-jail again and finding my perfect match:  a white cocker spaniel with red markings … no tail included.  The woman disappeared.  I have come to surmise she was an angel sent to get me in line with my destiny when I almost walked away from it.

That first dog, Serena, lived with me for over 17 years.  She taught me just about everything I needed to know about how to live with a dog and take care of them.  I believe she took good care of me too.  That dog was part of my life like a best friend would be:  we went camping, to sing-a-longs, to parks, and teen retreats together.  She was loved by a million-and-one people besides me.  She was instrumental in my understanding of how a good dog can make your life so much better.  And I came to the idea that I would like to get another dog whom I could breed puppies that would bring joy to people.

To be continued….

A Modest-y Proposal

A Modest-y Proposal

“Put some clothes on, dammit.”  That’s what I wanted to say. But I did not.  It has happened more than once in my interface with those I have come to think of as unthinking Millenials.  I will admit that I, as a mid-lifer, do not understand this deep-seated psychological need the 30 something’s have for showing their bare skin to all 284 of their closest friends on Facebook.  The other thing that I don’t understand is their absolute lack of humility when someone who actually knows them personally and loves them reaches out and says:  Maybe this isn’t the best idea.  Maybe you need to remember that there are Other Eyes on Facebook that are seeing this besides your husband, or your mother, or your very best friend since childhood.  (And, admittedly, all of the latter are obliged by their role to say, “You look mahh-velous darling” even if you, well, even if you just DON”T.) 

 

Look, my favorite sister-in-law (in fact, my ONLY sister-in-law) did not post baby pictures of my nephews online until they were old enough to run from creepy people.  Because, in this world of technology connected with internet, camera, and anonymity, people can troll into your life and cause you harm.  It’s like the Lifetime movie (yeah, I occasionally watch those so I can remember what it is to feel horrified) where the teenage girl is coaxed by her boyfriend to undress on camera and it goes viral on the internet.  We forget that this ruins lives.  Trust me when I tell you that there is NO JOB I could apply for that would hire me if my bare bum was exposed on Facebook.

I don’t detest my body and I don’t detest anyone else’s.  I just think we have gone a bit off the rails – okay, A LOT off the rails – when it comes to this low-level exhibitionism we keep putting online.  If I lost two dress sizes, you don’t need to see my bare belly to figure that out.  Nor are you on the need-to-know basis if I GIVE A DAMN about ME losing two dress sizes.  It’s not that I’m a private person living behind walls.  It IS that I am a dignified person living IN a BODY that is glorious and not for common consumption.  The day I lose two dress sizes is the day I go out and buy a dress worthy of that figure.  And I won’t be shopping with Janet Jackson and the “oops” Wardrobe-Failure-Queens either.

Pope John Paul II the Great said once:  “The problem with pornography is not that it shows too much; it is that it shows too little.”  Ponder that.  What he was saying is that there is more to the human person than the wrapping that it comes in.  Our souls, our integrity, our dignity, our spirit cannot be captured on film media.  And all of that is what is truly amazing about each and every human being.  Exhibitionism flaunts only a partial product and ramps it up like it is The Only Product. 

This is one area that the Millenials forget when they are caterwauling for “diversity and inclusion and respect for other cultures.”  Here’s how:  we forget that even some of our typical North American summer-wear is absolutely scandalous to people from Middle Eastern countries.  I remember telling a co-worker once that I felt that because we work in a multi-cultural environment where, to some men, the showing of the bare upper arms was considered pornographic, that it wouldn’t be a bad idea to refrain from wearing sleeveless sundresses in the open hallway out of respect.  So … when you are sitting in your private office, rock on… but when you walk down the hallway, put on a little sport jacket or bolero.  It’s a win-win because you get to look a little more classy and professional; it doesn’t offend people from other more modest cultures; AND none of us have to see that hideous vaccination scar on your upper arm…. Unless of course you’ve had it tattooed recently as a small pond with birds flying around it.

In the most recent escapade, a COMPLETE STRANGER sent me a one liner on Messenger and asked what kind of person I was that I could be so hurtful to someone and be mean to “Katie.”  HUH?  I wondered to myself, now who is THIS person?! So I texted “Katie” and asked her who this person was and what she was talking about.  Katie said the person is a Life Coach and she is referencing “Kerry.”  She further went on to say that my comments to Kerry had been anti-feminist and body-shaming.  (Why didn’t I hear this from Kerry, instead of a total stranger?)  If this wasn’t such a serious charge against my character, I probably would have rolled on the floor laughing.  If I had the physique of a super-model, I might be in a place just by my mere existence, to body-shame someone by just walking into a room.  However, I do not.  I could not.  I would not.  I don’t have a mean bone in my body.  I find it exhausting to get angry at people who really need someone to tell them off.  It just isn’t my way. 

As far as being anti-feminist, that is a complicated issue.  Feminism means so many things to so many people and some of them are conflicting ideals.  I just think, like the writer Matthew Kelly, that everyone should, with God’s help, try to be their very best self.  Gender wars have never served any good purpose.  Because we are human, we should never let the dialogue get reduced to simplicities:  men vs. women; this race vs. that race; etc.  We are all one race:  the human race.  Maintaining unity and peace and balance requires hard work and much dialogue – not name-calling.  The other thing that was more hurtful, though, was for someone who was always the recipient of my kindness to presume that I would be anything other than kind to them.  That was hurtful to me and baffling.  

But this is the new Millennial technique:  They throw out labels to draw the lines.  They forget their personal history with a person and presume everyone who doesn’t agree with their ideas is an immediate enemy.  They are, frankly, not mature enough to realize that we can disagree with each other’s politics, preferences, lifestyles, etc., and voice those disagreements respectfully without becoming enemies.  Remember I mention the Talking Heads on TV in other articles I wrote?  This is the fruit of their labors.

Talking Heads presume they know what the guest on the talk show is going to say and respond to an imaginary dialogue instead of giving the other person the courtesy of a hearing.  It is so counter-productive to good conversation as well as healthy human relationships in general.  But now here we have a whole generation that interfaces with everyone like this.  It is painful to deal with this.  The other thing is these particular Millenials are immediate in declaring that THEY are the ones with hurt feelings.  This is narcissism at its finest.

Am I anti-millenial?  No.  If you have lost 20 pounds, will I celebrate your hard work?  Yes (with a peanut butter cup sundae in hand hoisted as a toast to your success).  Do I want to sign up with your life coach?  HAIL, NO.  And when I ask you to think twice before you put really personal photos up on Facebook, for your own safety, it is not because I don’t like how you LOOK.  It’s really that I LIKE how you LOOK ALIVE and NON-ABDUCTED by creepy people. I don’t dis-respect your personal choice as an adult to post what you want (although the rules of FB might have restrictions).  I am reminding you that there are Other Eyes out there.  I close this airing of my thoughts with a horrible, true story.

I know a young woman who in her early 20’s was conned into “making a movie” with someone.  Yes.  THAT kind of movie.  She was told it would be shipped over-seas.  Shortly before her conscience kicked in for any other reason, she was aware that when she went out to the mall, strange men would look at her in a way that made her feel creeped-out.  She went to a local outlet that sold “those kind” of movies and found her movie right there on the shelf.  She went out and dyed her hair and tried to change her appearance in order to get her privacy back.  I don’t know if she ever felt at home in her own city after that. 

There is an adage that says: “You reap what you sow.”  Why would we expect it to be otherwise?

Rediscovering the Beautiful American

Rediscovering the Beautiful American

Picture if you will a beautiful cabin in the Carpathian mountains of Poland.  It is surrounded by rolling hills and tiny yellow flowers blowing in the gentle breeze.  Sheep graze nearby like fluffy tufts of cotton on the green quilt-like landscape.  A happy dog lopes through the fields.  Perhaps he is the inspiration for the Polish song about why he is so happy: because he is not married. 

Inside the cabin is a late-in-life man who thought to himself he would have the best of both worlds:  he married a woman his own age, as well as a much younger woman.  Every evening his late-in-life wife would pat the top of his head before she began the ritual of plucking out all the darker hairs she could find.  She didn’t think it proper for him to be anything other than salt-and-pepper tresses like herself.  In desperate contrast, the younger wife would meet him in the sitting room in the morning and remove all of the grey hairs she could find.  She didn’t think it proper for him to be anything other than youthful as herself.  The end result is:  in short order, the man became completely bald and neither wife was pleased.  He was left to live out the opposite of the adage:  “Happy wife, happy life.”

This Polish folktale bears with it the message of the importance of compromise.  We can be surrounded by every blessing and every beauty and yet if our inner world is nit-picky and turmoil-ridden there can never be peace.  Can I read this story to the Senators and Congressmen of our country?

Someone at one point crafted the idea of the “Ugly American.”  I don’t know where it came from or who thought that idea was worth culturing, but it has been bad for our national self-esteem.  It is as if we keep looking at ourselves in the political mirror and saying:  we are ugly; we are ill-behaved, we are bad.  Anyone who lived through the 1970’s was exposed to all the self-help and proselytization of the “feel good” culture.  We would never, as individuals, allow our kids to look into the mirror at home and say, “I’m ugly.  I’m fat.  I’m selfish.”  We would cart them right off to a psychiatrist or counselor to straighten what was called “stinkin’ thinkin’.”  And yet as a nation we have allowed people who perhaps are THEMSELVES the ugly stereotype of selfish, boorish, and badgering to tell us that we are no good. 

I never hear of the Canadians bashing their own national identity.  I never hear of the Mexicans bashing their own national identity.  And the Brits of the U.K. have managed, despite their intrigue and marital catastrophes to shine up their own veneer as if they all are 100% classy.  They have projected an image of The Royals that they intend to culture.

In the States, we lived through 8 years of a President who did pseudo self-effacing of America as a nation and it hurt us.  We have tolerated two terms of a Governor in New York State who actually stammered out, “America was never that great.” 

Really?  I think that even though my experience is limited, my vision is not:  I SEE GREATNESS.  I have friends that have left the comfort and safety of their homes to travel with church groups to Third World countries and build houses and feed the poor.  I and countless others write checks to support the work of missionaries and organizations at home and overseas who try to raise the spiritual AND physical living standards of people who suffer greatly.  Our economic success, for the greater part of this Nation, isn’t just about personal prosperity:  it is about corporate prosperity – we get more, we give more.  We do spend more.  That is the fact.  But as the Good Book says:  “It is wrong to muzzle the ox that trods the grain to feed you.”

When I go to a baseball game and they play the national anthem, I have to choke back tears.  They are the same sort of tears I shed when I see veterans coming back from war-torn lands when they have tried to stabilize and bring peace to an area.  It is a good thing that I do not have teenagers or I would be a perpetual source of “embarrassment” to them as I also cry at parades. 

I see through the joy of the marching bands and Irish dancers to know that Freedom is not free. 

Someone had to pay for it, and others have to remain vigilant, lest we have it stolen from us.  Leisure comes to us as the fruit of a militant and productive society.  Countries led by tyrants of every stripe do not have leisure or self-determination on their minds for their peoples.  I am grateful for every day that I can pursue my dreams, and the hobbies that bring me joy.  Sometimes I even cross the border to a neighboring land to see how the others live.  But every time when I return, I have to fight the urge to kiss the ground as I return to a land where I have freedom and responsibility and identity.

Whomever the Ugly American was that was a stereotype of boorish self-centeredness, I do not know.  And frankly I don’t know anyone like this (and admittedly I know A LOT of people).  There are people I do not like as persons for whatever reason.  But very few of them are the completely obnoxious Ugly American stereotype that someone dreamed up to beat us over the head with.  Perhaps it is time to look at ourselves in the National Mirror and say:  we are imperfect, but we strive to be a good, generous nation.  We argue amongst ourselves, so that our decisions can be made in a way that advances us along a good path.  We are diverse and perhaps not always fair; but we do have the ability to come together and serve others side-by-side when the chips are down.  We have the ability to check our negative opinions at the door and collaborate for the greater good.   We long to be unified and resilient.  We long to radiate the purity reflected on the face of our Statue of Liberty in the New York City Harbor.

Maybe the fact that we want all these things says we are already, in some way, beautiful and great.

######

The Land of Experts

At first furrow of the brow, I thought it was just New York that was the “land of experts.”  I began noticing it cropping-up when our newspaper fizzled out and they put a substitute newspaper online.  101 Ignorant people began adding their comments to every single article.  Bear in mind that the newspaper is, at best, written at a 6^th grade reading level …. No one would confuse it with the Wall Street Journal.  In its online or occasional printed form, it is also quite depressing:  murder, abuse, corruption, violence are its leading stories… every single day. Norman Vincent Peale would probably suggest lining your birdcage with it … which I do already (weekend edition).  There is not a shred of feel-good that you can find on any given day.  In fact, you may find  yourself reading the classified just for a sense of the familiar things of life that are not related to hospitals or courtroom proceedings or jails. 

But in order for someone to want to respond to an article aimed at the middle school reading level, it might indicate they’ve set their sights a bit low…. just sayin’.  There’s one guy who was mean as hell on wheels every time he wrote.  I’d look for his user name, just to skip over reading the overt nastiness.  People add their comments not to provide constructive detail for the story – they are just typing to hear themselves spout-off.  And after the spout, comes the torrent of other commentators who, of the same ilk, name-call and fly their uneducated opinions back as if anything they say will change the facts.

Note to all:  “Your opinion is only as good as the data that supports it.”

I began to think of these people’s comments with the same eagerness of having sand in a wet bathing suit:  if you want to be in the ocean, you’re going to get wet and unfortunately, some sand might be involved.  Truly they chafe me.  They chafe me because none of them seem to have gainful occupations that could lend expertise to an opinion.  They are just armchair quarterbacks saying how something “should have” played-out.  They act like they know better than the cop, than the lawyer, than the professional person who is out there just trying to fight crime and put in a good day’s work like the rest of us.

Again, I thought it was just the online commentators who thought they were experts.  Then I stepped back and widened the lens of the social kaleidoscope.  Oh no, there are more of them!  And then I watched the role models:  the talking heads.

By “talking head” I reference anyone who has a talk show that chews the fat of current political and sociological issues.  Naturally, they stack the deck of whom they invite for guests.  And they don’t treat guests with differing opinions with much respect, as a general rule.  I heard just last night that one of the more famous talk show hosts, a former actress, invited a reality TV Judge to her show…. only to foster an environment of shouting-her-down when the disagreeable opinion was voiced by the Judge.  The talk show host, as later explained by the Judge, followed said guest out the door telling her incessantly to F-off.  Wow.  And this is the way we treat guests on our tv shows?  I just changed my mind:  I don’t want to be on tv anymore.

Where are the mothers of society that would rise up and say:  “I don’t care that you have your own TV Show and are 55+ years old!  If I hear you cuss out a Judge and dishonor our family the way you did, ever again, you’re going to be very sorry indeed.  I’m your mother, y’hear now?  And wipe that smirk off your face or I’ll take it off for you!”  And the smirk would be gone, because we don’t mess with Mad Mothers.

I am wondering how anyone on the extremes – far left or far right – think we can unify our country if we cannot speak to each other like civilized human beings.  Take Maxine Waters, for instance, please take her.  Anywhere…  preferably to another planet or across the ocean.  For her to insist that her political followers shout-down people who disagree smacks of removing first amendment rights by – dare I say it – bullying behavior.  Why do we insist on anti-bullying programs in school, and yet tolerate the role modeling of bullying in the public arena?  Is that what we want to teach our young women to be:  angry, disrespectful high-profile bullies?  I think not.

Ms. Waters also said for certain people to be denied service in restaurants.  I am appalled.  I believe Dr. King is rolling in his grave at this suggestion.  He was a man of change, yes, but also a man of peace…. And I read it once in a very revered book that said:  “There is a future for the man of peace.”  What is the opposite of that statement?  There is NO FUTURE for the man/woman of discord.

It used to be a liberating experience in the classroom to be able to intellectually debate two points of view on an issue with respect and proofs and good data.  It was like a good fencing match.  On guarde!  Now to try to do that in this culture is to invite mayhem.  People don’t know enough to subject their emotions to legitimate expressions of disagreement.  There needs to be no room for name calling.  And that goes for the Senate and the House as well.  Sometimes I wonder if the Land of Experts includes a very large population of beauticians because so many people make negative comments about and cartoons of a certain president’s hair.  Come on now, really.

I have encountered this know-it-all mentality in the common things of life as well.  Last week I spent the day at a beach on Lake Ontario.  Enroute home, I swung into one of the country communities of the north to a pleasant little ice cream shop.  I reviewed my choices and selected:  coffee-chocolate hard ice cream on a sugar cone.  The smiling young woman handed me an ice cream cone with two very generous scoops of …. White ice cream …. And I went to my car and sat down.  The first two preliminary bites were followed by mental notes:  “um… not chocolate.”  And:  “um… not coffee.”  I tried to figure out what it was, perhaps a sweet cream base?  And it was this very non-descript ice cream flavor that left me staring at my ice cream cone asking if I even WANTED to finish it.  It was like eating the flavor “Nothing.”  Now, it’s gotta be pretty darn low on the approval scale if me, the Queen of Ice Cream, is asking this question:  Do I still want this cone?  I struggled between just driving off and dealing with sub-par, or going back and making a scene, which I do not look forward to doing. 

I re-approached the window with a bit of reserve.  “Hi.  I just wanted you to know this is neither chocolate, nor coffee.  I don’t know what it is.  I can’t tell.”  Response:  “It’s coffee.”  “No, it’s not.”  “Yes.  It’s coffee.”  “Girls.  I drink coffee every SINGLE day.  I know what coffee tastes like; it’s NOT coffee.”  A girl from the background steps up and says brightly:  “How can I make this right for you?”  YES.  PERFECT CUSTOMER SERVICE!  She adds, “Would you like another flavor?”  I smirk and reply, “I wish you had coffee…. But I will take German chocolate.”  (By the way, German chocolate is supposed to be a very light chocolate with a hint of coconut in it.)  She hands me a chocolate ice cream that has these giant almond-shaped chocolate pieces …. which is not a nut of any kind, nor is it a caramel or fudge center.  Again, I couldn’t make it out.  Now I know that I am aging, but in my ice cream discernment, I do not falter.  They will be putting my body in a casket someday and they can ask me who has the best Crazee Coffee ice cream ever …. and the very last thing they will see before they close the lid on me is a thumbs-up for Gannon’s in the Valley.

And, to round this out, just a few minutes ago, a complete stranger sent me a message online.  I am re-homing a parrot that I suggested in the advertisement may be used for breeding.  The bird just came of maturity LAST YEAR by laying some eggs.  Huh.  All this time I thought it was a male bird.  So this bird has lived 50% of its anticipated life expectancy and has just shown signs of propagation.  I think it is reasonable to offer it as a breeder.  This complete stranger wrote to me suggesting that this was the equivalent of “why don’t you just KILL this bird?” 

My response to this particular resident of the Land of Experts was not patient.  I told her if she had no interest in buying the bird she should reserve her ignorant comments to herself.  But at least I didn’t say she was ugly and her mother dresses her funny.  I wanted to, even though I have never seen her.  Without having that data, my sarcasm was curtailed and I had to be a hair more civil.  Imagine.

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Dr. Doolittle Rides Again

Dr. Doolittle Rides Again

There is an old Polish legend which I hold fondly that in honor of the hospitality of the stable animals when Christ was born in Bethlehem, all animals are given the power of speech at midnight on Christmas Eve.  I cannot tell you if it is true or not because earlier in my life I had no animals in my parents’ house; in the middle of my life in college, I had no animals other than a beta fish; and now at middle age with a house full of animals, it is difficult for me to stay awake that long to test the theory.  (I have the same problem when the “ball drops” on New Year’s Eve.) 

I have noticed lately at my house, though, that there are attempts at inter-species communication – and they are kind of comic to me.  (You may take this entire rendering with a grain of salt if you like.)  I first noticed it with my chocolate cocker spaniel Madeline Grace.  She would look at me and I could feel words coming through her eyes to me.  That’s not how it’s supposed to work.  But I understood what she meant.  I would hit the snooze for the first time in the morning.  She would drape half her body over me and rest her chin next to my heart.  I would say it for her:  “Hi.  Good morning.  I love this time with you.”  Then I would hit the snooze for the second time, exactly 10 minutes later.  The snooze alarm goes off at 8 minutes.  Madeline would say, “are you going to wait 2 more minutes before you get that” and “Do you have to get up and leave?”  I looked at her.  She looked down at me and run a paw across my cheek.  I would get up. As I sat up – I got pounced upon by both Madeline and Valor (her tri-color son).  I would ask them:  “Is there a Party on my bed???   Do you wanna go O-U-T???”  And they would circle me and leap off the bed and hit the hardwood floor at full steam ahead.  

The year I took her home to visit my parents for the holidays, I became aware that not only can she communicate with me, she can also make herself invisible to everyone else.  Raw talent.  It was Christmas Eve, in the middle of the night.  She was sleeping in the kennel next to the bed where I was.  Early morning, I got up to use the lav and came back.  I said to her, “Now be very quiet, okay?” and unlatched the kennel, she hopped up on the foot of the bed, curling herself into a nice circle and we both went back to sleep.  My mother popped the bedroom door open an hour later to say good morning.  She bent down and saw no dog in the kennel.  With the proximity of the kennel to the bed being only three feet it was surprising that she had to ask:  “Where’s the dog?”  She turned her head to the right and looked toward the foot of the bed and the form of a small dog appeared.  “OFF THE BED!!!”  This is why some people never get to hear dogs speak:  they don’t listen to dog’s hearts and what they want.   Thud.  Madeline jumped down and slunk into the kennel, very disappointed.  So was I, because she can effortlessly toast up my feet to the appropriate degrees on a chilly night.

Then there’s Madeline’s son Valor.  He has a few different names.  His official AKC name is “Valor Prince of Morning Glory Acres.”  When he stands on top of his kennel and turns his head to the side, his profile is absolutely regal.  But when he looks at you and smiles, he is 100% mischief, no additives:  Valley-Canally.  Valor answers me when I call him … most of the time.  When he is very pre-occupied outside with chewing grass so he can puke on my floor later or watching the neighbors yell at their dog, I have to use the other name.  His other name is not an AKC name.  It is the name that is under his picture which I think is posted in the post office of the small city of Chihuahua, Mexico.  That is his professional crime name:  “Little Enrique.”  Only you can’t say it that way.  You have to use the I-Love-Lucy voice that is high-pitched, and drag it all out.  Think of the way Lucy used to say, “Little Ricky!!!” and you are close.  Phonetically it sounds like, “Little Ennn-reeee-kayyyyy!!!!” the higher the pitch the better. It snaps his brain out of whatever outdoors distraction he has going on and he will spin on a dime to come to me.  When he arrives, it is imperative that a “big deal” is made.  “oh!  Hello, hello, hello!  What were you doing?!  It was great, no?!  Yes, let’s go in for a TREAT!!!  Dream bonez!!!”  He becomes one big, walking wiggle.

And yet Valor is closest to talking.  He will sit at the side of the table and quiver his lower lip as he attempts to speak.  A pained look crosses his brow.  And I respond:  “I just GAVE you a piece of the steak; I think you’ve had enough.”  More painful brow, sorrowful eyes.  “Can you catch it if I toss it?” and he watches my hand and sails up like the best outfielder ever to play in the major leagues, catching a scrap mid-air.  Sometimes he will come and sit next to me and quiver that lip as an appeal for attention.  I will tuck him under my arm and explain things to him.  Dogs very much like to be a part of what is going on and they find it very demeaning when people treat them like, well, like just dogs.  When the hostess in a restaurant greets me with: “Just one?” I have been known to respond:  “Oh, I’m so much more trouble than ‘just’ one.”  Dogs taught me that:  what you see is not always what you get.

The other day, even though it was June, there was leftover Christmas legend magic in the house.  The cat had just come off her official strike.  She was talking to me again in cat dialect.  I had recently quarantined her to the bathroom so that she was protected from a dog that was staying with us briefly. 

The week before, when the small dog had run into the bathroom and barked at the cat, Madeline and Valor sailed down the hallway like fighter pilots in tandem.  They banked right, turned into the bathroom and separated for mere seconds.  Madeline banked to the right to block the cat’s body from the little visiting/intruding dog.  Valor swooped to the left, forcing the small dog out into the hallway.  As he did so, he spoke quite clearly in dog dialectic which sounded like:  Raw, raw, raw.  Translation:  “we don’t bust our cat.”   That little offending dog turned, tweaked her princess-like tail, and walked away, appropriately chastised.

During the cat’s time of quarantine in the bathroom – a couple of weeks –another area of our life was getting unsupervised.  I was down in the basement doing laundry and turned just in time to see a mouse run straight UP the wall.  This is probably where the expression comes from:  “you are driving me UP the wall.”  Now that the cat is back making her whole-home rounds again, I feel fairly confident that “Mickey has left the building.”

I went out for an evening meeting, or perhaps it was grocery shopping.  Even though it was barely the first week of June, the air smelled of summer, the collar on the goat next door clinked as he wandered his pen in the inky dark, and the leaves fluttered in the gentle breezes.  I pulled into the driveway and hit the garage door button.  As I watched the door go up into the rafters via the miracle of automation, my eyes scanned down toward the headlights.  I said some muffled word of aggravation as I engaged the parking brake and stepped into the night air.  As I walked to where the beam directed me, I bent down and picked up a wood toad. He made no protest as I re-located him away from where my tire treads would be going in the next few minutes.  It was a small gesture, but I saved his life.  It seems to me that particular night that the Ponde Family Symphony sang a little louder.  Maybe one little voice made all the difference.  Or maybe we only hear the magic when we truly listen.

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"we resemble that remark."

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The Kumquat Theory

They look like mini oranges, no more than the size of a quarter, that you can actually eat whole.  Well, smart people nibble them because if you get a bitter one, the first bite is an education in wincing-without-swearing.  The clerk at the grocery store asked me what they taste like.  I told her, you have the bitter ones, and the other ones.  If you bite a bitter one, you have to have the other kind on hand to quickly remove that flavor that makes your eyes squint and lips pucker.  The trouble is, they all look exactly alike.

You need to either decide that for the quantity of good ones you may have, you are willing to forbear the bitter ones, or just not eat them at all.  How much like dating that is.  But I will also propose it is like other things in life too.

The other night I was picking up sticks in my backyard.  The bending over and squatting down took a toll on me, but not as much as the Kumquat Theory did.  I collected two wheel barrow loads of sticks and had to stop because my awareness was exhausted.  What?  Kumquat Theory – when things look alike on the outside, but can differ seriously on the inside - makes it imperative that I pick up sticks with 100% presence of mind and both eyes open.  I even wear my prescription glasses…  all of this attention to detail because of the one day I was picking up pine branches at my prior house in Bridgeport and almost grabbed the midsection of a snake in the process.  He was just lying there on the grass, blending in with the sticks.  Kumquat Theory.  I’m telling you he looked just like a pine branch on the outside.

Old guys and I seem to get along, mostly because I like their stories.  Little Old Ladies and I, eh, let’s just say  …. Kumquat Theory.  Some of them do not tread lightly on the land, nor other people’s feelings.  Like the one who used to tease me where I work.  One day she would tell me she doesn’t like dogs.  The next day she is asking if I have a litter of puppies still at my house.  She feigns interest in the puppies, I show her a picture of them (well, okay a few on my cellphone).  Then she gives me this patronizing look like I’m a simpleton for my love of dogs.  I retain polite composure and pretend it doesn’t hurt my feelings.  I always walk away feeling like Charlie Brown after Lucy pulls the football from him mid-charge.  The last time I spoke to her she said she used to give her dog raisins … and then suggested with a wicked smile that I try feeding them to my dogs.  I looked it up with an online search:  Raisins cause kidney failure in dogs and kills them.  Kumquat Theory.  I never take the time to speak to her anymore.

I am at a loss at present to think of another example of the Kumquat Theory but perhaps you have one?  If it’s hard for you to remember what to call that experience, just remember what they taught us on Sesame Street:  One of these things is NOT like the other!

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