“The mama dog is pregnant!” My daughter sang out with glee. Our daily phone conversation that links her evening commute along the streets of Scottsdale, Arizona and my dinner preparation in the Huson, Montana kitchen was exceptionally celebratory. At last, the anticipated puppy purchase was nigh.
“It’s my pretend baby girl, you know,” she pointed out—a psychological transference I’d already intuited since she has been married for nearly two years and visibly drools every time she so much as sees an empty stroller, let alone an infant in it.
To an extent, a newborn pup will mimic the labor of a human bundle of joy—provided you consider that there are no labor pains suffered leading up to home arrival and no episiotomy from which to heal while you arise from slumber in the middle of the night to rock and walk and cuddle and coo. The responsibilities will resemble—as long as she realizes that a female puppy grows up to be a female dog. In my experience, girl dogs don’t decide one day that they have no friends to play with, won’t cry for days when the boy dog doesn’t like them back, and will never forsake all nourishment save for dry lettuce leaves because she doesn’t think, no matter what anyone tells her, that she looks decent in a bikini. Dogs don’t drive, go to college, need new clothes. Once they are housebroken and sit, stay, and heel, you’re done.
No sooner does the heralded birthday arrive than Katharine sends weekly-progress video clips taken by the breeder who has tied different colored ribbons around the neck of each member of the litter. She oozes with joy over the tiny creatures that, at this point, resemble moles.
“I wonder which one is Lucy—or Abby—or Leia?” she squeals. Among the group, there is not so much as a single distinguishing characteristic. The only counsel I can offer is to “pick the one that comes to you.” Of course, I did that after my husband had selected, between the two, our slightly better behaved German shepherd. Mine is the complete nut case.
Katharine’s mother-in-law is flying in from Seattle to stay for two weeks to help with the newest family member while Katharine finishes up her last days of teaching. I suppose one could view that as infant prep—I’ll be there when the human baby arrives. I’ve easily acquiesced to Chris’ mother on this one—she owns a dog who is well behaved and adjusted, who leaps with joy when heading to the vet or boarding kennel. My three dogs run the other way when I call them, even if I yell “Dinner!” One has accidents in the house, her brothers broke my ankle last year, and unless my husband is home, they are in charge. I would not make a productive mentor.
“Should we name her Lucy, Leia, or Abby?” Katharine zapped a blanket e-mail to everyone with whom she has ever exchanged contacts.
Various responses fly around cyberspace from whomever opts to “reply to all.” I am supportive of whatever moniker the mutt answers to when she’s called (in fat, my advice to the happy couple is to screech each prospective name over and over and see which one sounds best when blasted all over the otherwise silent neighborhood), but when I rate them in order of preference and select Leia as my least favorite, Katharine is dismayed. Seems she has an inclination towards that one.
“All three are cute,” I backpedal.
“But I want you to love it!” Katharine moans, as if she were christening my first grandchild. I live a zillion miles away and since one of my shepherds is so dog unfriendly that whenever one mistakenly wanders up the driveway thinking it’s found a friend, it never returns, how often am I likely to spend time with this animal whose life is in jeopardy just looking at mine?
On second thought, considering the anguish my own dogs are creating in my otherwise peaceful retirement (let’s just say the veterinary bills are formidable and the disciplinary actions unsuccessful), perhaps loving my daughter’s dog as my own is just the ticket! Blithely I can visit and not have to lose sleep after I open the front door to witness all three of my canines catapult over each other and jet out into the woods until past my bedtime. Happily, I will have her here to spend the weekend, pet and pamper, and then either go home or send her back home to Mom and Dad.
Recently, frustration with my own brood has heard me inserting “doggie heaven” into casual conversations. I’ve discussed my next breed options—it will be hairless, healthy, trained, docile, and downright dull. This animal will be utterly content to lie at my feet, will announce to me clearly when it needs to go outside, will require no medical intervention other than annual vaccinations, and will eat so sparingly I won’t have to entertain the idea of returning to the work force to bolster my budget.
Or perhaps… it will be a grand-dog.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
A lovely view-group converstaion takes wing
“What are we going to talk about?” asked one elderly resident.
I’d arrived at the local Independent and Assisted Living Facility, a volunteer armed with news magazines for the monthly “News and Views” discussion group. The group gathers every first Thursday to talk about current events, not my favorite topic since I’ve decided to stop watching national news and avert my reading eyes from international crises and health care debates. I had no idea what we were going to talk about—had hoped against hope that one of them would.
“What would you all like to discuss?” I boomeranged the challenge so the ball would be back in their court, a strategy I’d learned long ago while selling advertising. They hemmed and hawed over celebrity hjjinks: What had Tiger Woods been thinking?
“He’s only human after all!” one empathetic woman chuckled.
I turned the page of one magazine and held up for all to see a photograph of the man who had spent years searching for his birth father, only to discover he’d been sired by none other than Charles Manson.
“That would take some getting used to,” acknowledged one wheelchair restricted man who had actually long ago discovered that the father he’d thought to be his, was not. “I may not have always known mine, but at least he wasn’t a murderer!”
Politics and religion had been forbidden after a proposal by one of the group carried the majority vote that such intercourse might make neighboring under the same roof “ a bit dicey,” as a sensitive-natured woman put it. Despite my voiced concern that to omit two such broad categories would leave us virtually nothing to discuss, including the success of Sara Palin’s book, they all agreed to adhere to the policy. This wasn’t going to be easy.
Following a brief interlude of silence during which several hands reached for a brownie on the small round table in the middle of our circle, a quiet woman who had not yet uttered a sound, cleared her throat.
“I have a view I would like to share,” she announced. She smoothed the right side of her white hair that was very long, braided to perfection nearly to her waist. Her eyes gleamed as she surveyed the rest of the group, awaiting their response. When there was none, despite the fact that all eyes had turned to hers, I encouraged—basically my job description.
“Go right ahead—what is your name?” I’d not seen her here before.
“Suzanne,” she glanced at me and explained, “I’ve just moved in; I’ve been her just six days.
The others welcomed her, asked her where she had come from, and offered assistance and companionship—it’s a considerate, caring group who unite based on the premise that none of them have come here expecting ever to leave again. There is empathy for the one who has not yet adjusted, commonality in the vulnerability of little time left.
“My children are happy I am here,” she added, this being the most popular reason for residents having unpacked past life into an apartment either on the Independent or Assisted Living floor.
“So, I have view to share,” she brought us back to her intention. “This morning—and you know I’ve only risen here on very few mornings yet,” she spoke clearly in a lovely British brogue as she chose each word slowly, carefully, awed by the message she wished to deliver. “This morning, when I awoke I felt…well…disoriented and not brimming over with joy. “ Still, she smiled graciously.
“I knew this was going to take some time—you know, before I felt like I really belonged to anything in this room, when suddenly I saw that out my small window there was the bluest blue sky I think I’d ever seen! I was called to that window, don’t you know?” All eyes were upon her now, uncertain as to her state of mind.
“I walked over and looked out, and you know it was just so blue!” I, for one, felt this was to be her point; winter in Missoula, Montana is unforgiving and yields very few clear horizons. Any cloudless vista would be newsworthy.
“And then I saw it—heading straight for my window, overhead, was the most perfect V-shaped flock of geese. They were flying in a flawless V. It was a miracle right before my very eyes. “ She reverently lowered her head.
“That was my view.”
Why, I wondered, would anyone want to discuss any other viewpoint? Sure enough, I was not alone as the conversation shifted. We left world turmoil. Budget crises, and celeb chaos in the dust and spent the rest of the hour chatting about geese and their migration pattern, the trip I’d taken last Fall to Freezeout Lake, Montana where I’d witnessed hundreds of thousands of geese glinting in the sunrise at liftoff from the water’s surface.
“When the light was behind them in flight, they gleamed like strands of pearls,” I futilely attempted to describe such a wondrous scene.
“Pearls of great price,” Suzanne enunciated—and everyone agreed.
I’d arrived at the local Independent and Assisted Living Facility, a volunteer armed with news magazines for the monthly “News and Views” discussion group. The group gathers every first Thursday to talk about current events, not my favorite topic since I’ve decided to stop watching national news and avert my reading eyes from international crises and health care debates. I had no idea what we were going to talk about—had hoped against hope that one of them would.
“What would you all like to discuss?” I boomeranged the challenge so the ball would be back in their court, a strategy I’d learned long ago while selling advertising. They hemmed and hawed over celebrity hjjinks: What had Tiger Woods been thinking?
“He’s only human after all!” one empathetic woman chuckled.
I turned the page of one magazine and held up for all to see a photograph of the man who had spent years searching for his birth father, only to discover he’d been sired by none other than Charles Manson.
“That would take some getting used to,” acknowledged one wheelchair restricted man who had actually long ago discovered that the father he’d thought to be his, was not. “I may not have always known mine, but at least he wasn’t a murderer!”
Politics and religion had been forbidden after a proposal by one of the group carried the majority vote that such intercourse might make neighboring under the same roof “ a bit dicey,” as a sensitive-natured woman put it. Despite my voiced concern that to omit two such broad categories would leave us virtually nothing to discuss, including the success of Sara Palin’s book, they all agreed to adhere to the policy. This wasn’t going to be easy.
Following a brief interlude of silence during which several hands reached for a brownie on the small round table in the middle of our circle, a quiet woman who had not yet uttered a sound, cleared her throat.
“I have a view I would like to share,” she announced. She smoothed the right side of her white hair that was very long, braided to perfection nearly to her waist. Her eyes gleamed as she surveyed the rest of the group, awaiting their response. When there was none, despite the fact that all eyes had turned to hers, I encouraged—basically my job description.
“Go right ahead—what is your name?” I’d not seen her here before.
“Suzanne,” she glanced at me and explained, “I’ve just moved in; I’ve been her just six days.
The others welcomed her, asked her where she had come from, and offered assistance and companionship—it’s a considerate, caring group who unite based on the premise that none of them have come here expecting ever to leave again. There is empathy for the one who has not yet adjusted, commonality in the vulnerability of little time left.
“My children are happy I am here,” she added, this being the most popular reason for residents having unpacked past life into an apartment either on the Independent or Assisted Living floor.
“So, I have view to share,” she brought us back to her intention. “This morning—and you know I’ve only risen here on very few mornings yet,” she spoke clearly in a lovely British brogue as she chose each word slowly, carefully, awed by the message she wished to deliver. “This morning, when I awoke I felt…well…disoriented and not brimming over with joy. “ Still, she smiled graciously.
“I knew this was going to take some time—you know, before I felt like I really belonged to anything in this room, when suddenly I saw that out my small window there was the bluest blue sky I think I’d ever seen! I was called to that window, don’t you know?” All eyes were upon her now, uncertain as to her state of mind.
“I walked over and looked out, and you know it was just so blue!” I, for one, felt this was to be her point; winter in Missoula, Montana is unforgiving and yields very few clear horizons. Any cloudless vista would be newsworthy.
“And then I saw it—heading straight for my window, overhead, was the most perfect V-shaped flock of geese. They were flying in a flawless V. It was a miracle right before my very eyes. “ She reverently lowered her head.
“That was my view.”
Why, I wondered, would anyone want to discuss any other viewpoint? Sure enough, I was not alone as the conversation shifted. We left world turmoil. Budget crises, and celeb chaos in the dust and spent the rest of the hour chatting about geese and their migration pattern, the trip I’d taken last Fall to Freezeout Lake, Montana where I’d witnessed hundreds of thousands of geese glinting in the sunrise at liftoff from the water’s surface.
“When the light was behind them in flight, they gleamed like strands of pearls,” I futilely attempted to describe such a wondrous scene.
“Pearls of great price,” Suzanne enunciated—and everyone agreed.
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