Snowy Perspective

New Hampshire vacation.
Snow storm.
Lovely.
Nice long walks on brilliant crunchy virgin surfaces.
Magical ice crystals draping pines.
Hot toddies and a crackling fire.
Business trip to NYC. Same snow storm.
Grey, ugly slush.
Careening taxi splashes semi-frozen muck.
Best (and only) designer business suit covered with sooty wet blobs.
Back home to Delaware. Same snow storm.
Shovel massive driveway, endless curving sidewalk.
Bonked on head by killer icicle.
Raw, wet dampness invades half-dozen layers of snow gear.
Move to Arizona.
Look at snowstorm pictures. Sigh.

© 2011 Marilyn Stevens

Dog Training

We've been taking the dogs to training  for the last several weeks. They are in the "beginner" class.
Lily, the 4-year old probably German Shepherd-Whippet Mix has to wear a muzzle to training so she won't try to eat the other dogs in the class. This is quite embarrassing. She is a sweetie with people, but for some reason other dogs make her blood boil.
Charlie, the 9-month old probably German Shorthair Pointer-Jack Russell Mix doesn't need a muzzle. But he thinks of Lily as his mom, so he has separation anxiety and cries when he sees Lily ALL THE WAY ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE CIRCLE. This, too, is quite embarrassing. Unlike Lily, Charlie doesn't try to eat other dogs, however, he likes to bark at them. Incessantly.
We've never gone to dog school with any of our other dogs. Michelle was a mild-mannered Great Pyrenees who lumbered peacefully through life. As long as my mom gave her a "3-o'clock treat," and she went for a walk every day, she was fine. Paul made her an enormous dog house with a covered front porch. She regally reclined on her front porch, surveying the land and probably wishing for a few sheep to guard.
When Michelle was about 10, Nesta came into our life by way of our son and daughter-in-law, who rescued her from abandonment at the Farmer's Market. A sweet and loving black coon hound, Nesta's major fault was finding and rolling in decomposing squirrels, of which there were a ready supply in and around our property.
Michelle went to Dog Heaven at the ripe old (dog) age of 14, and we were glad to have our dear Nessy to comfort us. But poor Nesta experienced a string of bad luck. First, while Paul was walking her in the park, a pit bull in a yard facing the park jumped over three fences in order to attack her. He bit her in the haunches and fortunately, she had some extra fat on her, so the bite, while serious, wasn't as bad as it could have been. But that's when we found out that the extra fat was the result of hypothyroidism, so she had to go on thyroid medication. That was fine for awhile, until one evening when we were heading over to our son's to babysit. We always took Nesta with us because the kids loved to climb all over her. Walking to the car, Nesta walked right into the side of it. When we got to Michael's, she couldn't find the front steps. Inside the house, we noticed that she had her eyes closed. We looked at them and the whites were purple -- we rushed her to the emergency vet, who told us she had a rare blood disease. Cortisone might help -- in six months she'd either be cured or dead. She never recovered.
Dog-less, I was inconsolable. I cruised the Humane Society until Buddy emerged as the sure winner. A Golden mix, Buddy had been tagged as a potential therapy dog, and he definitely provided needed therapy for our mourning family. Sweet and gentle, his feather-duster tail and deep topaz eyes let us know we were his. He was pretty much the perfect dog. Like his predecessors, there didn't seem much need to take him to obedience school. He was already obedient.
Buddy survived the cross-country move to Arizona even though he spent part of the trip wearing a jade plant in the tiny cocoon of space he had in the overflowing station wagon.
For some reason, we felt it was important to get Buddy a pal after we'd lived in Phoenix for about a year. After a few unsuccessful matchmaking trials, Lily met his approval. Always the perfect gentleman, Buddy tolerated his little "sister's" continual antics, never complaining as she bounced around him, tugging his ears, dancing between his feet. Lily quickly became the alpha dog in the family. Even before she was fully grown, we had to stop taking both dogs to the dog park, because Lily would turn on some dog she'd just been playing with, and her loyal big brother felt it his duty to jump into the fray.
It was right about that time that we should have signed Lily up for obedience classes. But we didn't. Instead, we struggled with her on walks, as she strained against her leash, Buddy calmly loping behind her. She made a ruckus anytime anyone walked past the house, and our only response was a flaccid and unsuccessful "Lily, NO!"
We lost Buddy to an acute brain disorder shortly after he'd had surgery to remove his eye. All three if us, Lily, my husband and I sunk into a deep sadness. I had a new obsession: cruising the online rescue websites for a new puppy. Not a replacement for Buddy; there could never be a replacement. More, I was looking for something positive and joyful to focus on. Charlie became that something. A 16-pound puddle of puppy pudding when we adopted him, Charlie amazingly melted Lily's anti-dog heart. She quickly became Charlie's mom and we all focused on turning Charlie into a fine young adult.
Except that Lily couldn't help in that regard. Strong-willed and domineering, Lily might show Charlie the best place to go potty -- outside, not inside -- and how to sit for a treat, but she also taught him how to bark at anything coming anywhere near the house, the car, or us.
I bought a 5-hour training video that came with special collars and leashes. They ate the leashes. They didn't respond to the collars -- shaped like a mama dog's teeth, they were supposed to remind the dogs to be good. Our dogs didn't even seem to notice them -- the snap/tug made no impression.
We began interviewing dog trainers, settling on a company called "Sit Means Sit." They use electronic collars to "tap" the dogs, reminding them to pay attention. They also use cute little doggie cots, where the dogs are supposed to "place" when they're not otherwise engaged. As I write this the doggie cots sit empty. Lily is happily dozing on a chair in the living room; Charlie on the bed.
Paul and I are what you might call "laid back." So we are having to train ourselves even more than training the dogs. But we have a goal. We've never taken the dogs camping with us. Previously when we've gone camping, there's always been someone living at the house to watch the dogs. Now there isn't and our goal is to have wonderful, well-behaved dogs that can remain calm and off-leash on their little cots at our campsite, totally oblivious of all distractions -- unless there is a bear. Somehow we have to train them that it's okay to bark at bears.

Feeling Like Crap

I'm getting worried about me. Ever since September when my thyroid medicine stopped working, I have not felt like myself. Well, I had a nice blip of good-feeling-ness at Christmas, but that was totally supported by a cortisone shot and a prednisone pack. I always feel like superwoman when I take prednisone. But I guess it's worn off, because I'm back to feeling like crap.
It is hard to teach when you just want to stay in bed with the covers pulled over your head.
We're supposed to be planning our future and I want to curl up in a nice warm cave and hibernate. 
I had to bail out of my equine science class because I don't have the energy to stay up until 10:30 at night.
Several times I've had to call Horses Help and tell them I can't make it. That makes me feel even worse. I hate backing out on commitments. Plus, I love working at Horses Help.
I haven't been riding for months. I have my saddle sitting on this little room divider between what is supposed to be the living room and what is supposed to be the dining room -- so I look at it every time I sit at my laptop.
We signed the dogs up for training classes and I've missed two of them because I'm so dead. Paul takes one dog and the other dog looks at me and makes me feel guilty.
Our house is going on the auction block in less than three weeks -- have I done anything to prepare for the fact we may be homeless by the end of the month? No.
There was just a commercial on about depression. I know that's what I have, but I also know that it's related to my thyroid meds, so no anti-depressant or "talk therapy" will help. I'm beginning to not recognize myself.
I feel so sorry for my husband -- he's so good and patient, but the most he sees of me is when I leave for school in the morning or sometimes when I feel up enough to walk the dogs with him. He wants us to apply for teaching jobs in Abu Dhabi -- okay, whatever. Just put me on a plane and I'll do what you say. But just make sure we can take the dogs.
I miss everybody in Delaware, but I don't miss Delaware. I'm glad we're living in the West -- just not Phoenix. It's too big. I've had trouble staying awake on the freeway driving home from school -- more than a few times. This makes me really nervous. One day I realized that my eyes had actually closed when I was on the off-ramp.
I went to church and prayed for myself. I also told the woman in charge of the prayer chain what was going on with me -- I didn't think she was going to send it word-for-word to the entire prayer chain. Oh well, maybe it will help.
I think I'm scared. But I'm posting this because I'm hoping that someday soon I will be able to look at this and say, "Wow, that was creepy; glad it's over!" That's what I want.

My Crooked, Nonsensical Career Path: Chapter 2: When I Grow Up, I'm Gonna ...

Vacillating between large animal vet and Christian martyr, I must explain

Large animal vet, a reasonable choice

Horse crazy since the age of 2

Linda and I made plans.

We’d take over her grandparent’s farm, Chestnut Hill (this was before all the chestnut trees died of blight)

We’d both become vets

Caring for the cows and horses living in Ingleside, Maryland

Cows who licked our faces with their fat, warm tongues

We’d reach in and help mama birth her babe

Releasing the nose from afterbirth, helping direct mouth to udder

The horses … oh, the horses

We’d care for them so well that their grateful owners’d

Name foals after us

And once in a while give us one or two to raise

That was our dream

As we flopped back on the cool grass

Our plans as expansive as the bright sky overhead

Nothing, would stop us …

All this would occur of course

After we’d biked our way across Europe.

At least that was the plan.

Until I entered my religious phase

At the age of 12 I knew I had to become a nun

Was there a coincidence in the fact that my dad’s favorite niece

The one who baked him chocolate chip cookies every Christmas

Who’d been like a daughter to him all the years before I came along?

Could it possibly have anything to do with the fact

That she was a postulant in a convent in New Jersey?

We went to visit her

Awed by everything …

The convent/college on the grounds of a former manse

Nuns, enamored of the artwork that had been donated along with the property

Still, for the sake of modesty

Carefully painted soft linen draperies

Across all the private parts of the reclining (former) nudes

Along the hushed corridors

Nuns floated. I could almost see halos.

As soon as we got home, I signed up

For monthly vocational visits

To various convents around our city

There were lots.

My dad would drop me off.

Some nuns showed slide shows

Others prayed.

I fell in love with two different orders:

The first worked in Appalachia; nuns wore khakis and plaid flannel shirts

The slides showed them hiking up to remote cabins

Ministering to miners’ families

Little kids skipping by their sides.

And then I visited the cloister.

A bell at the heavy gate granted entrance into the walled fortress.

Through a grate at the door, I glimpsed a celestial face

An angelic novice smiled warmly, slowly opening the massive door

A vow of silence part of the deal.

Sitting around a worn oak table, Mother Superior read from scriptures

In the chapel, divine voices swelled heavenward

Latin hymns familiar, yet completely rebirthed in this environment.

Entranced, I was ready to sign on the dotted line

Except I also loved the missionary nuns.

What to do? What to do?

A life of prayer, hymns, making jams, kneading bread

All for the greater glory of God …

Versus …

The possibility of finding an abandoned pagan baby in the jungle

And baptizing him/her by a stream

Thus avoiding the possibility of an eternity in Limbo

(which is where all the unbaptized end up).

Chopping wood and not wearing a habit and being able to talk.

Until, surrounded by a marauding mob I would be martyred in some martyr-ish way:

Boiled in oil, crucified (upside down) … even a firing squad would get me a first-class ticket

To heaven. Martyrdom, I’d learned early on, had great bennies for the afterlife.

Then a boy named Pat kissed me

And amid the explosions going off in parts of my body

(That I had no idea had the capacity to explode like that)

I completely, and totally, and fully

Dropped the concept of becoming a nun (who becomes a martyr).

Just. Like. That.

© 2011 Marilyn Stevens

My Crooked, Nonsensical Career Path: Chapter 1: Child Labor

Shall I begin with dusting the knick-knacks?

I think yes.

Because I earned 25 cents a week

And became such an avid reader

That it led me to later, more lucrative pursuits

An explanation: the task, so dreaded, so heinous,

So every-freakin’-Saturday-morning –without-fail

It resulted, also without fail, in an internal peristalsis

Whose urgency was not to be ignored

And yet, once ensconced on the pink potty seat

Heavy tome in lap – sometimes fairy tales, or adventures

Mostly something to do with dogs or horses

Staying so long my legs fell asleep

Lost in the confluence of words on page

Staying way after the necessity had been completed

But …

Once a year we did the hardwood floors

With a product called Renuzit

I took my time on the stairs, soaking in the noxious fumes

The fragrance so heavenly (and may explain, I’m thinking now,

Some future health problems, also assisted by obsessively trailing after the mosquito truck on summer evenings on my bike)

I earned a little more working for my father

When he’d buy a house at auction

A house that had been unloved, steak grease on walls

And filthy carpets

But I earned a dollar, and rough hands, and getting to hang out with Daddy

© 2011 Marilyn Stevens