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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.
I Couldn’t Get a Dog so I Got a Gun
Conflict among people is normal, and most of us accept it as a routine part of life. Conflict within ourselves is just as normal, but something with which we often struggle.
As a licensed social worker, I couldn’t get out of bed every morning if I didn’t believe people can change, that humans have an innate responsibility to support each other and that no good comes from belittling others.
As a rational human, I couldn’t get through life if I simply tolerated and never called out stupid and ridiculous beliefs and behaviors.
As a licensed social worker, I have to ensure that my conduct is appropriate, that I abide by a code of ethics and that I participate in ongoing continuing education.
As a rational human, I am dumbfounded by people who complain when they are required to meet expectations and criteria before they are provided with opportunities and privileges.
As a licensed social worker, I have an obligation to listen, try to understand the perspective of others and validate their feelings.
As a rational human, I simply cannot understand why others choose to ignore facts, scream conspiracy and throw around accusations that are hurtful. I have to call out people who choose to believe and spread all of the vile, ridiculous and illogical propaganda about gun control that I have been witnessing over the past few weeks.
The rabid followers of the NRA propaganda machine remind me of children blindly hitting a piñata at a birthday party. For most people, hitting the piñata is just fun game that results in children scrambling for a few pieces of candy. But the NRA is turning gun control into a piñata that must be destroyed and is putting the blindfolds on people as they swing at it. Those swinging the sticks are convinced that if they don’t break the piñata, they will never have candy again.
In reality, if the piñata doesn’t break, the children won’t be denied candy. They just won’t get the immediate gratification they are seeking.
Most parents allow their children to have candy, but they don’t want them to make a diet of it. Similarly, gun control advocates are not screaming that everyone’s guns should be confiscated. Instead, they are recognizing that too many lives are being broken and destroyed by guns and that something must be done. To counter that, claims are being made that the gun death statistics in the United States aren’t that bad.
Tell that to someone who has lost a loved one to a gun. For them, one death is too many.
Just ask Jackie Barden, whose son Daniel was killed at Sandy Hook Elementary school in December. Jackie recently noted that the process for adopting a kitten is more difficult than getting a gun.
I don’t know much about adopting kittens, but I do know a lot about adopting dogs. As a volunteer for a dog rescue group, my role is to process applications. In other words, I do background checks. I check national “do not adopt” lists. I do a criminal background check. I conduct property checks. I review living arrangements. I talk to animal control and veterinarians about the applicants. And I call references. If I don’t find any red flags, another volunteer conducts a home visit.
Many families who want to adopt a dog are denied for a variety of reasons: they’ve had pets hit by cars; they haven’t spayed or neutered their current or previous pets; they aren’t home enough to spend quality time with an animal; they don’t have the money or space for a dog; they already have too many pets. The list is long and varied, but the bottom line is the same. Rescue groups want to ensure the dogs have a good quality of life and, most of all, that they are safe.
We should want the same for people. And yet, in the United States, people who are denied adopting a dog can walk into a store or a gun show and buy almost any gun they want.
We might be keeping dogs safe, but I have to wonder about the people.
The Dog, the Derecho and Me
The fence around the pool where we had been swimming minutes before the derecho hit. It literally looks like a whole section was just lifted up.
Living in West Virginia, I’ve been fortunate to escape dealing with any significant natural disaster. That’s probably because floods are the most common disasters in the Mountain State, and since I’ve never lived in a floodplain, I’ve never had to experience one.
But over the past few years, I’ve had warning signs that my time was up.
In 2010, about four feet of snow fell in four days. I spent that week shoveling snow while my husband spent that week in a hotel in D.C. at the courtesy of his employer.
Last October, we were hit with an abnormal autumn snow that knocked down 2 1/2 trees in my yard. While I was listening to the cracking of limbs and the thump of trees, my husband was in D.C. working.
With these warning signs, you’d think I’d have been preparing to handle a real disaster on my own. Instead, I chose to ignore the signs. That’s probably because I’m a complete wimp when it comes to any kind of danger I can’t control. At such times, I always grab my dog and hold on tight.
Last Friday night, I almost suffocated my poor dog.
My neighbors had gone out for the evening, so I was at their house keeping an eye on our ten year-old daughters and our dogs… my German Shepherd and their Golden Retriever. Since it was extremely hot, all of us spent at least some time in their pool.
My neighbor is worried about letting her dog run in the backyard since there is now a big hole in her fence.
At some point, I commented that the sky had gotten unusually dark. I probably shouldn’t have listened to a ten year-old who told me that was normal, but I hadn’t heard that we were in for any severe weather.
So, when lightning began to flash in the distance, all activities moved to the “pool room.” I worked on my blog, the girls flipped through television channels, the dogs romped and the wind blew. And then the rain came and the wind blew harder… a lot harder. Then it began to howl.
Being a weather geek, I checked the radar and saw a dark red mass moving towards my town. Being a naive weather geek, I didn’t get too concerned since I hadn’t heard any sirens or warnings.
My warning came with a roar when the wind blew open the pool room door and raged around the room. The next few minutes are a blur. I remember telling the girls to move into the hall. I remember trying to shut the door. I remember grabbing my laptop, and I remember grabbing both the dogs.
And then the power flickered and went out.
I was surprised at how many trees missed houses and cars… but many landed on roads and utility lines.
We sought refuge in the room of a ten-year old girl. And while I did worry about the girls, I have to say it was the dogs that I held fast. The neighbors’ dog sat in my lap, and my dog stood guard. The girls screamed, lightning flashed and the storm raged. And then, my neighbors’ son and his friend came home. Ever protective, my German Shepherd decided that his barking would be a great addition to Mother Nature’s latest composition.
It wasn’t.
I eventually convinced my daughter that we could dash across the yard to go home, and we spent the remainder of our night in the basement.
By the time my husband went to work shortly after midnight, all the remained of the derecho (also known as a land hurricane) were downed trees, downed power lines and a woman who wouldn’t sleep for days.
This car was entirely covered….
The next morning, my dog and I took our normal walk. Neighbors were already up removing debris from their yards and their roofs.
A common site for the first couple days.
Highway workers had already blocked roads, and Potomac Edison crews were already out trying to repair the damage. And the homeless guy at the park was eating his breakfast in his normal spot.
But nothing seemed normal to me except that my favorite dog was on the end of his leash walking happily over broken branches. He was even willing to pause while I used my Blackberry to document the impact of the derecho on my little corner of the world. He obliged for the next couple days as well.
In retrospect, we were lucky. We were only without power for a couple of days. My parents, who live nearly six hours away but experienced the same storm, still don’t have power. And, even with all the damage, what I’ve noted most is how many tall trees are still standing. For every tree that went down, hundreds more didn’t. To me, that’s nature’s way of reminding us all of how resilient we can be.
And, for the most part, I know I am. As long as I have my dog by my side.
My giant German Shepherd, Rodney, looked so small compared to some of the downed trees.
One of many beautiful trees the derecho claimed as victims.
This once beautiful Pine has now been entirely removed from the neighborhood.
The City of Martinsburg is helping out by collecting all the debris residents drag to the curb. Here, Rodney surveys one street in our neighborhood.
Everyone I know was very appreciative of how hard Potomac Edison worked to restore power. The biggest complaint I heard was how much we all lost when we had to throw away the contents of our freezers and refrigerators.
Rodney was very happy when power and air conditioning were restored. He took a break from all the walking around the neighborhood to sleep on the cool vent.
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.
I don’t want advice. . . I just want answers
If someone were to ask me the absolutely best thing about getting older, I wouldn’t even hesitate to answer that I actually expect less of myself even though I am capable of accomplishing more than I ever have. But ask me the worst thing about getting older?
Once I wade through all the usual complaints about my body not being what it used to be or that I don’t even know what cool is (according to my nine-year old daughter), I can say, without a doubt, it’s the expectation that as I age, I am expected to become wise. And with wisdom comes the ability to give great advice.
Not that I am incapable of giving advice. I give it every day… whether people want to hear it or not. But as is true with so many things, I can dish it out much better than I can take it.
I HATE getting advice. I took a dislike to it as a child, and my opinion hasn’t changed much since then. In other words, if someone suggests I go left, I often go right just to prove I’m not stupid or incapable of making my own decisions.
Unfortunately, in most cases, I really should have gone left. Eventually, I figure that out. But that doesn’t happen without first getting a lot of bumps, bruises and even major injuries. Needless to say I have a lot of scars… and even a few wounds that still need to completely heal.
But, here’s the thing. Those scars are great reminders of the mistakes I’ve made. And I do give myself credit for being someone who learns from her mistakes. And yes, I’ve learned a lot. But there are still a lot of things I’d like to know.
So instead of getting advice, what I really want is answers:
- I want to know why people who have money are given more power and attention than people who care for and teach our children or people who help those who are disadvantaged.
- I want to know why some parents treat their children as extensions of themselves and insist on rubbing all their accomplishments in your face while blaming others for their child’s mistakes.
- I want to know why some people insist they have a right to own dogs, but then keep them tied up all day and don’t give them the love and attention they need.
- I want to know why some people call themselves Christians , but then spend so much time and energy judging others.
- I want to know why some people think that tearing others down serves to build themselves up.
- And most of all? I want to know why people believe their way of thinking or doing things is THE way. Why don’t they recognize that each of us is different, and, because of that, there is no right way. We all have different needs, wants and desires.
And my personal desire? As I get older, I just want genuine answers to these questions.
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 
