Independence...and Stealing from Small Children

Today is the 4th of July. I’m sure that means something. Independence. Freedom. Gratitude for all we have in the United States of America. The pure luck of being born in a place without all the oppression and complete rule our founding fathers sailed thousands of miles to escape.  Wait...sailed?  They didn't just get on a plane?  No, and they didn't sail on luxury cruise lines, either.  This was a big deal.  They sailed thousands of miles without a GPS or an open bar or on-ship entertainment.  That's how pissed off they were.

And so we celebrate. We gather with friends and family to swim, boat, eat hot dogs, hamburgers, and wait for dark to set off fireworks.

Fireworks. That’s how we celebrate the great sacrifice of many men and women for our independence. We light a small piece of string on fire that causes an explosion that makes a noise and sends a momentary spark of color into the sky, hoping against hope that we don’t set a tree or the house on fire in the process. Hoping that the guy in charge of lighting said string doesn’t get his face blown off.

Do I sound jaded? Sorry.

I enjoy fireworks very much. I think they are pretty. I enjoy listening to the reaction of small children, the reaction of complete wonder and excitement when they see that spark of color in the sky, wondering how daddy made that happen, and can he do it again and again?

Pepsi and I loved little naps.

I rarely go out see fireworks anymore, though. This is a choice. My childhood dog, Pepsi, was terrified of fireworks. Indeed, she was terrified of all things that made noise – thunder, lightening, a car backfiring, an explosion on the television. This has made me a little cynical, and a lot overprotective.

I housesit, and am almost always doing so on holidays, including the 4th of July. I choose to not go anywhere on the night they set off fireworks (rarely on the actual fourth in the town I live in). I prefer to stay and make sure the dogs are not going to go into complete panic meltdown, like Pepsi used to. I would rather make sure they are okay and well taken care of. Luckily, I can usually see them from where I am staying, either in the front or backyard.

As usual, I am housesitting on this holiday. I have three Yorkies in my care, and my dog, Spencer Bean, is with me. Last night was the fireworks show. Once I felt comfortable that all the dogs were okay with the noise that was happening outside, I took them to the backyard to watch. As they were running around playing as if nothing was happening above us to the west, I began to think of Pepsi. I always think of her on occasions like this, even in thunderstorms. It is a weird feeling of loss, sadness, happiness, and gratitude that is hard to define.

My Spencer Bean

As I was sitting on the step looking up, thinking of the dog that was such a part of my life, my own dog, Spencer Bean, stopped running to come over and sit next to me. He didn’t announce his presence, didn’t make a big “I’m a beagle and here I am!!!” entrance. He simply walked over and sat down to my left. He sat there looking up at the fireworks with me, and didn’t move until I got up.

This was the most incredible experience. As I watched him out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that from time to time he would turn his head toward me, and then back up at the sky. He knew, as dogs do, that I was feeling something. And he did, as dogs tend to do, take care of me by standing beside me.

A friend, who knows about this, called me a little while later to see how I was doing.

There is something to celebrate. Freedom and love. Gratitude and hope. And the knowledge that all our friends, even the furry ones, are here to protect and love us, and we them. Take care of yourselves and your loved ones today and everyday.

Maybe I’m not so jaded after all…

Oh, and one more thing.  I overheard the most wonderful thing from a child's mouth. A neighbor kid, who, from the sound of her voice, I would guess to be about four, said with all the excitement her little body could handle:
"Daddy! What's that word you say when something is so pretty it makes you happy all over?"
Her dad responded, "The word is cool."
And she yelled back, in a voice that led me to believe she was about fall face forward into the pavement from excitement, "YES! COOL! I LOVE EVERYTHING ABOUT THAT WORD!!!"

Ladies and gentelmen, a future writer lives next door to where I am housesitting.  Don't you just love that description?  "...so pretty it makes you happy all over"  I hope she remembers that and puts it in a book someday.  Truth be told, I hope to beat her to it.  I love it.  I just stole from a child.

D is for Spencer Bean the Wonder Beagle

Okay, that's a little much.

D is for Dog.

Way back in May of 2010, I told you about my dog, Pepsi. And that I was going to get a tattoo of her on my left side. Way back in September of 2010, I did it. A beautiful picture of my childhood dog, now with me forever. And, as I had hoped, it truly brought more healing to the pain of her death some seventeen years prior.

Somethings I have a hard time letting go of. Pepsi is one of those things. I don't know that I ever will, completely. However, it was time for me to begin the work so I could finally have another dog of my own. I have been looking on rescue sites for years, visiting the humane societies in my area, going to pet adoptions at stores in my town. I would never walk away with a dog, though, only a broken heart.

Tattoo in place, and Pepsi always with me, I began the work. I began to journal. I began to do serious research on breeds and sizes and temperaments. I began to formulate and ask questions and find answers.

Pepsi. With me forever.

I was ready to find my little male dog, the one whose name would be Emmett.

In short, I got serious.

In February, I found him. I found the perfect dog. I saw a picture of him online and knew he was mine. All I needed was that one look in his eyes on my computer screen. I don't know how I knew, I just did. I could feel something, something I hadn't felt about any of the other dogs I had looked at in pictures or in person.

The description was Beagle mix. His shelter name: Pinto (stupid).

I called the shelter he was in and asked them to please hold him until the weekend when I could come up to meet him. I would need to bring my roommate's dog along to ensure they were compatible. No matter how selfish and how much I wanted this dog, I knew the animals in my home had to get along, or it wouldn't be pretty. That was the only obstacle I could think of. Saturday morning, Chloe in tow, I drove two hours to the shelter. All the way there, begging Chloe to love this dog. Not that she cared what I was saying. The radio was on and the windows were down. She was happy.



I got to the shelter and got out Pinto (stupid). I walked him around a little on my own before going to get Chloe. He was so happy. He was peeing on everything and smelling even more. He was licking me and peeing again. SWEET FREEDOM! Once I got Chloe out of the car, it was like magic. This boxer and this beagle walked side by side, in tandem for the entire time they were together. Sure, they smelled each others' butts, but that was it.



It was decided. I got him. I had to leave him to get his shots, and fixed (because his previous owners were lame), and be microchipped.

I went shopping. Crate. Dog food. Treats. Toys. Blankets. Leash. Collar. This dog is going to have a whole new life. A life better than ever. His story is that his previous owner, the lame one, left him tied to a tree on a rope for 14 or more hours a day. Animal Control took him away. None of that crap in my house.



Spencer Bean coming home.



I kept thinking that he didn't look like an Emmett. I would have to figure out a new name. Even though I have always planned on naming my dog Emmett, I couldn't do it if it didn't fit. And it didn't fit. I thought he kind of looked like a Spencer. And, in honor of the shelter for rescuing him, I made his middle name Bean (because Pinto is stupid).

A week later, I drove another two hours to get my dog. Kelly went with me. Spencer Bean is better than I could have hoped for. Those eyes told most of the story, but not all. He is completely and totally the love of my life.

He isn't a Beagle mix.  He is a Beagle.  A Bluetick Beagle.  All that means is he has the ticks on his white fur, which you can see in the picture.  In all my life, I never thought I would have a full-breed dog, because I am an adopter. 

He is brilliant. I have had him since March 1st. In that time, he has learned sit, stay, lay down, come (though that one is still in progress, he does well), up, bed, and he sits down and waits patiently while I get his food ready and doesn't eat until I tell him to. He has gone hiking once. Him and Chloe get along like old friends. We stay at a friend's house a lot and he and her Beagle/Rottweiler mix are the best of friends. He stayed with my dad last Sunday and had a great time, my sister brought her two yorkies over and they played all day. Every person and dog he has met is his friend. He is not angry or aggressive, does not bark or anything. He has only pooped in the house once. Completely (and surprisingly) house-trained, he has not had to be in the crate at all.  He has only got in the trash once.

Spencer Bean, Chloe the Boxer, and Maggie Mae the Beagle/Rotweiller.
Two littles and a big.

When I got him, he would sleep in bed with me, but at the bottom of the bed and over. Now, as his trust is growing and he knows this is where he belongs, he sleeps right up against me or between my knees.

I know it took a long time for me to get to the point where I was ready for a dog of my own again. I think it was worth the wait. I think I could not have done any better. Spencer Bean is my personality. We are a perfect match. I am so thrilled to have him. I know, I just do, that Pepsi would agree and she would love him, too.

Running!  Oh Sweet Freedom!

Unconditional Puppy Love

Yes, I KNOW it's been a while. Nearly three months, in fact. And I apologize. Life got away from me and so did my writing.

I got a journal for Christmas. And I've been using it. Does that count? No, it really doesn't. Journalling is a whole different kind of writing.
I've been up to a lot and up to nothing. Life just happened, and things got lost. One thing that was lost was this blog. I'm not going to recap, not right now.  Today I need to write.
Just know that as in all times - times of writing and times of not writing - life has had good moments and bad ones since we last read together.

Why am I back? What has pulled me into the blogosphere? Sadness. Deep, painful sadness that I cannot express otherwise. I cannot journal about this. Yet. It's even hard to cry.

As some of you know, I am a dog person. I even have a little motto "puppies before people". I would rather hang out with your dog than with you. If you call me and tell me you need something dog-related, I will abandon my life.
I have always been a dog person. It's in me. It's my nature. There is something in me that attracts them to me and me to them. A friend calls me the 'dog whisperer'. They just come up to me and lay down and say, "Pet me, because I know you want to".  And I do.  Because, in fact, I want to.
As a housesitter, I have the good fortune to 'own' many dogs. I take care of them when their owners are out of town or having super busy days. Within minutes, these dogs become mine. I consider them to be my pets, my children, mine.
As a housesitter, I have also lost dogs. No, not lost as in they ran away. That would make me a very bad housesitter. Lost as in end of life. And it crushes me beyond belief.

Today is one of those days. One of my dogs is being put to sleep. He has had cancer for some time now, and it's time. He is no longer comfortable. He is losing weight by the day. The tumors are spreading faster and faster.

Max knows all my secrets and my joys and my pain from the last four years. He has been there for many relationships starting and ending. He lays next to me when I'm sick or sad. He has seen me bat-shit crazy. He has been there for some of the happiest times of my life. We have watched television and movies together, and meditated in the silence of music. We have been together through countless books, and he has laid quietly and encouragingly beside me while I stressed over homework.
I went to see him last night. I just sat on the living room floor and rubbed his back, his belly, his head. I didn't cry. I wanted to be with him. We talked a little. But mainly we just held on.

I am more than sad about this. I am more than crushed at the realization that I will never pet him or lay next to him or feed him again. There's a part of me that cannot believe that I will never call his name again.

But there's something bigger.

I am very grateful he was in my life. He was a kind-hearted soul who just wanted to be next to me when I was around. He always seemed to want to know that I approved - when he came in from going to the bathroom, he would look at me before going in the house; when it was time for bed, he would look at me to make sure I wanted him next to me; when he was done eating, he would come up to me so I knew he had finished. He laid at my feet in the living room as I sat or laid on the couch. He would lift his head every so often so I could pet him and take a break from what I was doing.   His eyes seemed to always tell me of the love he had in his heart for his surrroundings. 

These are traits humans can only dream of having.

I will miss him. So very much. But I am happy there is no more pain. I am happy to have had the opportunity to consider him mine. I am so very happy to love and be loved. I love you, Max.

52 years ago today, the music died.  I think it is very symbolic that my Max goes out on such a day as this...

Peace, Love, and Music

A lot has been happening in my life. Not a lot of writing, but a lot of other stuff. Good stuff. I'd like to share it with you. Another day. Because I need to take a few moments and celebrate an anniversary.

Forty-one years ago today (and yesterday, and tomorrow), The Woodstock Festival took place. Was I there? *sigh*, no. I wasn't even born yet. Would I have been there had I been born then? Hell yes!

I know many things about this festival, probably more than many of the people who were actually there. The advantage, I suppose of being a product of the information age and a fanatic. I have the DVD, special edition of course, commentary and all. I have books about it. I have read as much as I possibly can on the internet. Last year, on the 40th anniversary, I spent the whole weekend on the couch, watching VH1 Classic and their tribute to all-things-Woodstock and the bands that were there.

What is it about these three days in my life? How does this effect me? Well, for one, I wasn't there. It is just one more thing on my list of born-too-late-for... But things tend to happen to me, both good and bad during these three days. It is the time when I hit the wall, so to speak, with a very bad behavior nine years ago, and turned my life around. I have gotten some of the best jobs I have had in August. I tend to move in August, once five years ago and again last weekend.

But most of all, it is what it is supposed to be. Music. It is another day (or three) that reminds me that peace and love is possible, if I strive for them. If I keep my mind focused and my side of the street clean, I can have peace and love with all of mankind. When I cannot find that focal point and my mind doesn't clear, I can listen to the music and figure it out. I want to always be of service to mankind for the greater good. Whether it be for a group of 2 or 400,000 to 500,000 (estimates vary on the actual number), I can practice love and tolerance, and spread love to those around me.

I would like to leave you with Creedence Clearwater Revival's John Fogerty's words on preforming at 3 a.m, 41 years ago today, at the Woodstock Festival:

"We were ready to rock out and we waited and waited and finally it was our turn... ...there were a half million people asleep. These people were out. It was sort of like a painting of a Dante scene, just bodies from hell, all intertwined and asleep, covered with mud.  And this is the moment I will never forget as long as I live: a quarter mile away in the darkness, on the other edge of this bowl, there was some guy flicking his Bic, and in the night I hear, "Don't worry about it John. We're with you." I played the rest of the show for that guy."

How I Got Here

I love to write and observe what is around me.  I used to write it all down.  My pants pockets were filled with scraps of folded up paper with random sentences and fragments, hopeful that they would someday turn into something.  Anything.  When laundry day would come, I would either file them away in the ever-growing pile next to my bed (strategically located just behind the clock stand) or they would end up in the trash.  Very little ever came of my musings.  Very little.  College kind of killed the writing spirit.  All I ever wanted to do was write, so I majored in English.  Wow.  WRONG DECISION.  I quit writing.  I quit musing.  It all became papers and reading and required.  I felt as though my creativity had been squashed.

When I graduated in July, I set off on life.  Without writing.  Something kept kicking me, though.  I didn't recognize it for a while.  I didn't know what that missing piece was.  I have a job.  I have friends.  I have a gym membership.  Haven't I arrived? 

No.

I wrote what became my first entry on this blog to share with some friends.  Really, I wrote it for myself, inspired by a new-found feeling of joy.  The feedback was amazing.  My friends reminded me that I am a writer.  I even had to remind myself.  It felt good to write that short piece about something as simple as a new feeling in the morning. 

Now, I feel as though I have arrived.  Writing, everyday so far, has been a great pleasure and excites my soul.  I feel alive again.  Things around me are crazy.  So I log onto blogspot and write.  I notice new things, things I wouldn't have noticed a week ago.

I was at Wendy's for lunch today.  I opted to sit at the table next to this elderly couple, thinking they would be quieter than the group of twenty-somethings or the booth of construction workers.  These people were 85 if they were a day, and I thought that would be a safe place to sit and write for my next blog.  What I was going to write about, I did not know, but I certainly never imagined they would end up in my blog.
It turns out, the twenty-somethings were all studying for a test or something of that sort.  The construction workers obviously didn't like each other - they barely talked.
The elderly couple, in all their livelihood, talked to each other excitedly and LOUD.  It was clear they were in love and crazy about each other.  They talked about going to see their grandkids this weekend.  They talked about going to the grocery store on the way "Because you know she never has anything for me to cook - those children could use a decent meal!"  LOUD.  Okay, maybe they were hard of hearing and had to talk loud, but I don't think so.  I think they were just like two teenagers in love.  They had matching canes and were about the same size in stature.  They were beautiful. 
No, I'm not married, nor am I in any kind of relationship at the moment.  But I appreciate love when I see it.  I know "all you need is love", and I was reminded again. 
Wow. Lesson learned. Good lunch.