Blog Archives
365 Reasons to Smile – Day 21
I
f someone were to ask me what is needed to live a happy life, having a dog would be at the top of my list.
Even when I was young, I knew I could never marry a man who didn’t love dogs and consider them important family members.
But that never guaranteed I would have children who love dogs.
Thank goodness they do, and that always makes me smile.
Day 21: Puppy Love
Day 20: Personal Theme Songs Day 19: Summer Clouds
Day 18: Bartholomew Cubbin’s Victory
Day 17: A Royal Birth Day 16: Creative Kids
Day 15: The Scent of Honeysuckle Day 14: Clip of Kevin Kline Exploring His Masculinity
Day 13: Random Text Messages from My Daughter Day 12: Round Bales of Hay
Day 11: Water Fountains for Dogs Day 10: The Rainier Beer Motorcycle Commercial
Day 9: Four-Leaf Clovers Day 8: Great Teachers We Still Remember
Day 7: Finding the missing sock Day 6: Children’s books that teach life-long lessons
Day 5: The Perfect Photo at the Perfect Moment Day 4: Jumping in Puddles
Day 3: The Ride Downhill after the Struggle Uphill Day 2: Old Photographs
365 Reasons to Smile – Day 11
Rodney at Water Fountain
One of the benefits of having children is that they literally look at the world through different eyes. That’s why my daughter had to point out that the water fountain at our local park is designed for dogs.
I’ve walked by the fountain hundreds of times and even used it on occasion. Yet I never noticed that particularly amenity until my daughter instructed me to let our dog use the lower fountain while we humans drank from the two higher ones.
The concept is brilliant, and watching my dog take advantage of it always makes me smile.
Day 11: Water Fountains for Dogs
Day 10: The Rainier Beer Motorcycle Commercial
Day 8: Great Teachers We Still Remember
Day 7: Finding the missing sock
Day 6: Children’s books that teach life-long lessons
Day 5: The Perfect Photo at the Perfect Moment
Where Fear Comes From
As I sat in my driveway Thursday night watching fireworks, I was transported back to a July evening more than 40 years ago.
My family and I were sitting in lawn chairs in front of our small rental house on the Warm Springs Indian Reservation in Oregon watching an amateur fireworks show. As a very young girl, I didn’t know the pyrotechnics were less than impressive. All I knew was that my parents were complaining about the long delays between explosions and that Charlie Brown was scared. And I was worried about Charlie.
Trina and Charlie Brown 1971
From the day my parents adopted Charlie Brown, they should have known I would fall deeply in love. I was born to be a dog lover the way some people are born to be athletes or musicians. According to my baby book, one of my first words was “doggie,” and, as a toddler, I would search out dog books at the local library.
But until Charlie Brown arrived, my family never had a dog.
Since then, my family has never been complete without a dog.
Charlie Brown
And even though we loved Charlie, his early years weren’t easy. He came into our lives at a time when dogs were allowed to roam, and roam he did. When he strayed onto a cattle ranch and started chasing the cows, the rancher shot him. He barely survived, and my parents always blamed his fear of thunder and fireworks on that incident.
Their explanation was reasonable, and I always believed them until I discovered that other dogs, those who have never been shot, also fear thunder and fireworks.
That’s when I began to wonder where the fear comes from. I just couldn’t understand why so many dogs would be afraid of the same thing when their experiences were so varied.
The concept of fear has always fascinated me, especially since I’ve spent my own life overcoming unjustified ones. When I was young, I was afraid to swim in water that was over my head even though I could swim perfectly well when I could touch the bottom. I was afraid to slide down a fireman’s pole, even when all the other kids were expressing sheer joy during the descent. And I’ve always been afraid of rejection and failure to the extent that I avoided potential relationships and challenges.
Then, at one point in my life, I thought I had finally figured out the fear factor.
In college, a Psychology professor discussed the theory of collective memory, and the concept clicked. I might not have experienced an event that would provoke fear, but one of more of my ancestors had. They would have then passed those fears down to me.
That made sense for the dogs as well. They may not have experienced the danger associated with loud noises, but their ancestors had.
For years, as I’ve slowly overcome my fears one by one, I’ve held on to that theory.
Then Rodney entered my life.
Rodney watching the fireworks.
Rodney is the current canine member of my family. He’s a giant German Shepherd with a lot of energy and very little fear. That is, very little fear unless you count his inability to be left alone.
When we first adopted Rodney from a rescue group, he wouldn’t even go into our backyard without someone accompanying him. Over the past three years, he’s improved, but he still hates to be separated from the family, and, yes, particularly from me.
On Thursday night, as the human members of the family sat in the driveway watching fireworks, Rodney sat in the house watching us. He whined, he whimpered and he cried until I brought him out to join us.
And then he was content. While the city fireworks boomed overhead and the neighbors shot off their firecrackers, he simply watched. And my theory about the roots of fear was forgotten.
Because, at that moment, I realized that no matter where fear comes from, there will always be an even greater force.
It’s called love.
Happiness Should Be Like a Dog With a Snowball
The year 2012 ended with a white Christmas, which is fairly unusual here in the Eastern Panhandle of West Virginia. But then, Mother Nature hasn’t been very predictable, or even very kind, over the past twelve months. Her random and sometimes disruptive behavior was fitting for a year when too many people experienced upheaval and loss. But just like Mother Nature, 2012 also brought bright and sunny moments along with the storms. All serve as reminders of the lessons we need to learn and/or remember.
Lesson 1: We Should Experience Happiness Like a Dog with A Snowball My German Shepherd, Rodney, adores the snow. He loves bounding through it. He loves smelling it. He loves eating it. And most of all, he loves playing in it. As a true fanatic for all things that can be thrown and caught, when the white stuff is on the ground, he begs for someone to pack and throw a snowball.
This Christmas, I noted how thrilled he was with every snowball he caught, even though each fell apart or dissolved in his mouth. Instead of being disappointed when a snowball was gone, he was just as eager for another, which he enjoyed with no concern that it too would disappear.
We should all appreciate our happy moments just like my dog appreciates snowballs. They may be fleeting, but instead of worrying that they may not last, we should enjoy each moment and remain steadfast in our belief that there will always be more.
Lesson 2: We Can’t Always Control Our Circumstances or Protect Those We Love, but Any Attempts To Do So Are Always Good for a Laugh At the end of June, the Eastern Panhandle, like the rest of West Virginia, was hit unexpectedly by a derecho, or a land hurricane. Most of us had never heard of such a storm prior to the event, and since there were no warnings, we didn’t initially realize the severity of what had happened. We discovered the extent of damage the next day when we saw the downed trees and power lines and when many people experienced a loss of electricity for weeks.
The event left its mark, so in October, when meteorologists called for the Eastern Panhandle to be in the path of Hurricane Sandy, most of us wanted to be prepared. Some of us over-prepared. And some of us even freaked out… a bit.
For my part, I decided my family should ride out Sandy in our basement to avoid the hazards of trees crashing through our roof. We were all safely downstairs when I realized that Skitty, our cat, wasn’t with us. Since Skitty has a tendency to hide in unusual and hard-to-find places, I immediately assigned all family members to search for her. As the wind howled and the trees creaked, we took turns calling her name and shaking a bag of cat food, which is usually the best way to get our over-weight feline out of hiding. This time it didn’t work, and I began to worry that my cat, who is generally too lazy to go outside, was battling the elements.
Just as my anxiety got the worst of me, my son, in his usual dry and sarcastic way, told me that the cat was safe. As it turns out, the only thing she was battling was her disdain for a family who didn’t realize that she’d taken shelter in the basement long before the rest of us. My cat had the sense to do what she needed to do and not be bothered by the drama that surrounded her. I should have done the same.
I hadn’t had enough warning to worry about the derecho, and we managed through the storm and the aftermath just fine. I had way too much warning about Sandy, and even though we also managed through that storm and aftermath just fine, my stress level had gotten so high that even my cat chose to ignore me.
Sometimes, we get so wrapped up in either avoiding a situation or in worrying about what might happen, we simply forget that we can only do so much, we must accept that some things are beyond our control and we should believe in the sound judgment and appropriate actions of others. The results won’t always be what we hope for, but too much worry is only good for providing memories that allow us to laugh at ourselves later. 
Lesson 3: Life Rarely Goes According to Plan, but When Bad Things Happen, We All Have a Great Capacity for Resiliency and Recovery No one in my family expected the snow that arrived on Christmas Eve, and, even after it began to fall, none of us expected it to last long. But last it did. And in the midst of final preparations for our Christmas celebration, the snow covered the grass and then it covered the roads.
When we realized we were going to have a white Christmas, we celebrated by taking a family walk with Rodney. Unfortunately, Rodney was more excited than all of us, and the jumping, the barking and the lunging, drove my husband crazy to the point he just wanted to go home. Instead of enjoying the beauty of the untouched snow, we were trying to control an overly enthusiastic dog. I worried that our Christmas Eve would become a battle over the dog.
As Rodney began to calm down, we began the climb up the hill on the far side of our neighborhood. When a truck came speeding down the snow-covered hill, we immediately jumped off the road and into a neighbor’s lawn. And then we heard loud thumps and bangs. We turned to see that the truck had gone off the road and taken out two mailboxes and multiple newspaper boxes. Packages littered the ground, and I was relieved that Rodney’s behavior was all but forgotten.
We empathized with the driver and the home owners that such an incident happened on Christmas Eve. But when put in perspective with the loss some families faced this Christmas, the event was far from tragic. For many, Christmas isn’t always just a reminder of family traditions and family warmth. It can also be a reminder of could-have-beens, might-have-beens and regrets. And yet, most of us still believe in the magic of the holidays.
Yesterday, as I was walking up that same hill with Rodney during yet another unexpected snow storm, I noticed the mailboxes were already back up. As is true with human nature, the owners were trying to get everything back to normal. Seeing the mailboxes standing so quickly after witnessing their near demise less than 36 hours earlier was a reminder that no holiday is ever perfect. But planning for perfection only leaves room for disappointment, and planning for disappointment only leaves room for anxiety. But planning to enjoy life’s imperfections only leaves room for joy.
I plan to carry that lesson with me forever and to look forward to whatever the weather, and life, have in store for 2013.
The Misadventures of Mr. Muffet, My Chronically Confused Cat
Mr. Muffet was never destined for greatness, dignity or even a long life.
Quite the opposite in fact.
The moment he joined our family, his fate was sealed.
I was too young to remember how Mr. Muffet arrived at our house or even when his name changed.
All I know is that Mr. Muffet was Miss Muffet until my cat-loving grandmother from Massachusetts visited our Oregon home. All things considered, my grandmother probably thought my parents were trying to make some kind of statement about gender stereotypes, but she wasn’t going to have any of it. She told them in no uncertain terms that Miss Muffet was just not an appropriate name for a male cat.
My father, who had previously tried unsuccessfully to breed rabbits, (he was unsuccessful because they were all female) heeded her advice, and Mr. Muffet’s name was modified accordingly. But his status as a full-fledged member of the family never changed.
Which, apparently, is why he went with us on a family vacation to the Oregon Coast.
I was recently reminded of the trip during a conversation with a couple of co-workers. Both were discussing the trauma of having to ship their cats overseas.
“I’ve never shipped a cat,” I said. “But I do remember the time my family took our cat to the beach.”
They both looked at me in disbelief.
“Why,” they wanted to know, “would you take your cat to the beach?”
I couldn’t answer their question. But since cats were the topic, curiosity got the best of me. I had to call my mom and ask why.
“I don’t remember,” she told me.
“But we did take the cat to the beach, didn’t we?” I asked.
“Yes, we did,” she answered. “I just don’t remember why. Probably because cats are easy, and we didn’t want to travel an hour to have him boarded.”
I didn’t even ask why a neighbor couldn’t have taken care of Mr. Muffet. Instead, I pressed on with the bigger issue. “And he pooped in the car, right?”
“Yes,” she sighed. “Yes, your memory is correct. He pooped in the car.”
She was obviously done with the conversation, so I didn’t push the issue. But I did tell my co-workers that I wasn’t imagining the trip.
Not only did we take Mr. Muffet on vacation with us, but we didn’t even have a carrier for him. (Were cat carriers even around in the early 1970’s?) Because of that, he was simply free to move around the cabin. But he didn’t. He stayed on the vent behind the back seat where my brother and I were riding.
That was either his favorite spot or he was too terrified to move, even when he had to poop. As a result, he pooped in the vent right behind my head.
There is no way to describe 1) the smell, or 2) how determined my mother was to get the mess cleaned up.
My mom was determined for a long, long time.
The good news for Mr. Muffet was that he soon had a lot more places to poop.
Always an equal member of the Bartlett family, Mr. Muffet accompanied us on our first walk on the beach (a beach comprised mostly of sand dunes.) He probably thought he’d landed in the world’s largest litter box.
He did his best to take advantage of the situation, but after an hour of running through the dunes, scratching in the sand and doing his business, the poor cat was simply exhausted.
Fortunately, our trip home was much less memorable than the one to the coast. Unfortunately, I don’t have many more memories of Mr. Muffet.
He disappeared shortly after the infamous vacation.
For years, I was convinced that a less adventurous family had found and adopted him. I was equally sure that he was quite relieved that he didn’t have to live with my crazy family anymore.
I was well into adulthood before I learned the truth: Mr. Muffet had been hit by a truck on the highway near our home.
I appreciate that my parents tried to protect me from the facts, but I also think they were trying to protect themselves. I’m certain that the adventures with Mr. Muffet had a significant impact on them.
He was, after all, my only cat growing up. After he “disappeared,” we only had dogs. And, I must say, dogs travel a lot better.
Not Just Another Walk in the Park
My dog Rodney on a daily walk in the park
I’ve got a habit.
It’s a habit that’s opened my eyes to a side of my town that many people aren’t even aware of. It’s a side of our town that some people look right through – maybe because they don’t want to see it or maybe because they simply don’t know what they are looking at. It’s a side of our town that shows disparity, inequality and absurdity.
But it’s there right out in the open – in the park down the street from my neighborhood. It’s a park where I’ve spent hours and hours of my time.
My husband calls my behavior obsessive. I call it maintaining a routine. But, whatever you call it, I am compelled to take our dog Rodney for a walk in the park at least once, and sometimes twice, a day depending on the weather and how busy my schedule is.
No matter what, we always go in the morning. Always.
On weekdays this means my alarm goes off at 5:00 and we’re in the park by 5:30. On weekends, we’re generally there a bit later.
But no matter the time, those visits to the park provide a glimpse into what’s going on in my town.
This time of year, it’s still dark when I get to the park. But that doesn’t bother me. I’m walking a big German Shepherd, and anyone would be crazy to mess with him. He’s a nice dog, but he isn’t exactly a fan anything, human or otherwise, that he sees moving in the dark.
Besides, just like I have a routine, so do others.
There’s the group of joggers that come running through every other day. There’s the two middle-aged women whose exercise routine is a little less strenuous and who simply walk through the park gossiping. There are always the other dog walkers, although I don’t think they are quite as committed to the whole dog walking thing as I am because they are only there sporadically.
And on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, there’s the group of bankers, accountants, lawyers and others being barked at by an ex-Marine putting them through “boot camp.” I’m always amused by the fact that these professionals pay to have someone tell them to run the bleachers and jump rope at the crack of dawn. But, then, I guess they probably wouldn’t get out of bed for the torture if they weren’t paying for it.
And as the sun begins to rise, I also see what other people have left behind. Clean-up crews haven’t arrived yet, so there’s always quite a bit left from the previous days’ activities and events. There are sweatshirts and shoes; I don’t understand how anyone can leave the park without shoes, but it happens all the time. There are balls and toys; I imagine some of those the parents were happy to leave some of those toys behind. And worst of all, there is litter – lots and lots of litter. Bottles, cans, cups, fast food wrappers, tin foil and popped balloons often lie on picnic tables and on the ground, usually near one of the dozens of trash cans that dot the park.
And, also as the sun rises, I see a man walking through the park. I never know where he’s spent the night, but I do know it’s not in the comfort of a warm home and bed. He’s always carrying his life on his back and something to read in his hand.
Just like many of us, he has his own morning routine. He settles at his favorite table at the shelter by the creek. He takes a water bottle from his backpack and lays his reading materials out before him. He then heads to the restroom, where I assume he grooms as best he can. And then he goes back to his table and reads. He is usually there for a few hours but is always gone by mid-morning. I don’t know where he goes, although at times I have seen him walking the streets of my town during the day.
I’ve come to think of this man as an acquaintance, even though I don’t know his name or his story. But, like any other acquaintance, we always greet each other. I’ve also come to respect this man – not because he is obviously surviving any way he can, but because he’s earned my respect.
Unlike many other patrons of the park, he alway leaves his space cleaner than when he got there. If that means throwing away his trash as well as the trash of others, he does. I’ve seen him do it many, many times.
It might seem like a simple thing, but it’s not simple at all to me. In fact, it seems very complicated.
Because people who can afford to leave behind shoes and sweatshirts have more than this man… a lot more. At the same time, many people who have sufficient material possessions are quick to judge and label those who don’t as lazy. Yet, to me, someone who throws away trash is NOT lazy, and someone who leaves it behind is.
That’s a puzzle I’ll have to ponder on yet another walk through the park.
My Bookshelf is Going to the Dogs
Despite the image I lamely attempt to portray, I really do care what other people think of me. I care a lot. And there is nothing I hate more than disappointing people who have invested something, whether it’s their time, money or emotion, in me.
Unfortunately one of my greatest talents (or lack of talent depending on how you look at it) is my inability to be fake, or as I’ve been told many, many, many, many, many times (can we say almost on a daily basis?), I’m extremely blunt.
Combine those two personality traits, and you have a recipe for disaster when it comes to any gift-giving occasion.
But here’s the deal. People who know me well enough to give me a gift should also know my quirks. And one of my biggest quirks is an aversion to any book or movie about animals.
Unfortunately, people seem to forget this, because I have enough animal books to fill an entire bookcase. Logically, the gifts make perfect sense. I am passionate about animals, particularly dogs, and I also love to read. So, in a rational world, a book about animals seems ideal.
The problem is I’m not exactly the most rational person in the world, especially when animals are involved.
I think my issues began when I was as a child, and almost every animal story ended with the animal dying. And the movies weren’t any better: Sounder? Where the Red Fern Grows? Old Yeller? The heroes always died in the end. And, simply put, that left me with emotional scars.
My husband has tried for years to get me to watch animal movies. “The animals don’t die anymore,” he’s told me. “They almost always have happy endings now.”
I just can’t bring myself to believe him. I simply don’t trust Hollywood. And for good reason.
While I never read Marley and Me (although I have a hardback copy that was a gift from my mother if anyone ever wants to borrow it), I refused to see the movie because I was
pretty sure it would end with tears. I’ve been told that it does. I’ve also been told the book is better than the movie,and I should read it anyway.
But despite that, I don’t care because I’m pretty sure the dog still dies. And I refuse to have to deal with the grief issues.
I’ve had to deal with my own dogs dying. I think that’s enough. I really don’t need to grieve for a dog I’ve never met.
My husband doesn’t understand why I’m so adamant about the whole “animal movie/book” thing. After all, I read mysteries, and people always die in those books. The same is true with the television shows and the movies I like.
I try to explain to him the difference between animals and people dying, but he just doesn’t get it. He simply fast forwards to his own death and tells me that I probably won’t grieve for him like I’ve grieved for our pets. He even thinks that, at his funeral, I’ll be preoccupied worrying about how I’ll fit walking the dog into the chaos his death has created.
He’s probably got a point there.
But his accusations have got me thinking. Maybe I should address my aversion to the animal movies and books. My concerns are limiting my entertainment options. Also, my behavior reminds me a bit of my former neighbor, Jimmy.
Jimmy absolutely adored my dogs and welcomed them into his home. But Jimmy also refused to get his own dog because he’d had one once, and it died. He simply didn’t want to have to go through that grief again. I was always sad at how much love and joy Jimmy was missing for fear of heartache.
- Gusty 1994 – August 2010. I still miss him.
While I completely understand how difficult losing a canine family member is, their deaths are a small price to pay for all the pleasure they bring to a home. Maybe the books and movies are the same. Maybe the sad endings are worth it.
So I am now re-considering the whole issue, and I may even pick up one of those many unread books on my bookshelf. Maybe. But it’s going to take some time to get up my nerve.
In the meantime, if you are thinking of sending me a gift, just remember that you can never go wrong with jewelry.
Valentines Day 2011: Genes, Family, Love and, of Course, Dogs
I never grew up with really warm and fuzzy feelings for my grandfather. The strained relationship was more than just a matter of not clicking. It was more an issue of two head strong people who were so sure they were in the right, the other person had to be wrong.
When I first began complaining about him to my mother, she tried to convince me he had a lot of great qualities. And, if I look at the matter objectively, I can see that he did. As a child growing up in Oregon, he and my grandmother made sure that, even in their seventies, they travelled from Michigan to visit us twice a year. No matter what. Even after my uncle died in a plane crash, they still made the trip via air at times, which I now realize was extremely hard on them.
And when it came to matters of giving gifts of money or material possessions, he went beyond the call of duty to be fair.
But when it came to matters of who he respected and held in high regards, I never measured up. Not because I wasn’t smart or determined. I was both. What I didn’t have was the ability to keep my mouth shut, a natural respect for my elders or, most importantly, a Y chromosome. And nothing was ever going to change that. And therefore, nothing was going to change about my relationship with him. Or so I thought.
But time and perspective have a way of altering our views. Admittedly, when my grandfather died of Alzheimer’s in 1998, my relationship with him hadn’t changed. But now in my mid-forties, I’ve bumped along the path of life long enough to accept some of the hard lessons it teaches.
And one of the toughest for me was recognizing how much I am like my grandfather.
Granted, I think I could teach him a thing or two about tolerance and about not taking life too seriously, but other than that? I’m definitely his granddaughter. No doubt about it. I’m no scientist, but I have no question that the helix of DNA he passed on to me carried the genes for being outspoken, strong-willed, and impatient. That same blue print is also completely missing the genes for being calm, detached and deferential.
I may not care about the same things he cared about, but I don’t think that matters. At least not to me. Granted, my conservative grandfather is probably rolling over in his grave at some of my beliefs and loyalties, but that’s all right. What’s shaped my passions and values isn’t part of the DNA. I get those from my life experiences and the choices I’ve made.
But in remembering my grandfather, I realize there was one passion we shared. And, even though there may be no scientific proof, I’m pretty sure it is an inherited trait. I’m positive that there is a gene for undying love and compassion for animals, particularly dogs.
I know my rigid, self-controlled grandfather was beholden to the pull of the “dog gene.” His absolute adoration of dogs above people is only matched by my own. When my children or husband comment about how I love dogs more than I love them, I smile. I know I should be denying it, but instead, I think of my grandfather: a man who would fly or even drive a couple thousand miles to visit his daughter and grandchildren. Or so everyone else thought.
But even as a young girl, I knew differently. When he and my grandmother would arrive at our house, it wasn’t me or my brother that would make his face light up. It was the sight of our lab/German Short hair mix, Charlie Brown, that would make his eyes twinkle and his usually stern mouth break into a smile. And, if you look back through family photo albums, I think there are more pictures of grandfather with Charlie Brown than there with any of the rest of us.
I never saw my grandfather get enthusiastic about much, but he was always enthusiastic about animals. And even though a lot of things about my grandfather bothered me,that never did. And now I know why.
Because I was exactly like him. I still am. And, now, I appreciate all the traits he passed on to me.
Now, on this Valentine’s Day when we are supposed to let those we love know, I don’t have the opportunity to tell my grandfather what I’ve learned. That I loved his passion for animals, and, after all these years, I know I also loved him for that passion… not as much as I love my dog, but I still loved him.
Happy Valentine’s Day, Grandpa.
Just So You Know 
