I am a ninety-niner on the lower fringe of the middle class, I pay taxes and share the angst of the Occupy Wall Street movement. I've ranted at the unfairly-tilted playing field and the fat Wall streeters who would steal from Joe the Plumber. Ingrates! I've seethed at the United States Supreme Court which has ruled that corporations are people and therefore are unfettered in political campaign contributions. As lying attack conservative ads proliferate I've wondered 'where is the outrage?'
The conservatives got their way by a landslide, getting established members of Congress in their "gun sights", to paraphrase Sarah Palin. Demonstrations convened against federal regulation and incipient socialism with the singularity of defeating Barack Obama. His attempts to fix the economy have been rejected by right-wing extremists. Do you really think right-wing ideologues want to revive our moribund economy and put people back on their feet?
Wake up America! The GOP and the (elite) 1% want America to return to the America of the early 1900s, the golden age of wage slavery. Workers died in factories, packing houses and our local mines. Regarded as expendable, they were replaced by other desperate souls and the process repeated ad infinitum. No safety and health regulations in those years. No minimum wage, unemployment compensation, child labor laws or social safety net. If you got hurt on the job for the lack of federal safety regulations you paid for your medical treatment but more likely you applied a poultice to the injury because of your poverty. While you were disabled, you received no pay. Your position at the company was not preserved. You had no money, no job and would beg to work for $3.00 a week as you limped from your unhealed injury. Ten-year-old kids worked to aid in their family's subsistence. Senior citizens worked until the job killed them. There was no limit on the number of hours per week companies could impose on workers. The corpses of workers laid the foundations of financial dynasties.
Will obstructionist members of Congress feel the pain wrought by the trend of increasing financial disparity? Do the billionaires and the newly-personified corporations have pangs of conscience? I suspect opulence has seared their conscience. They worship mammon, not God. They are more concerned about preserving their tax loopholes. Beware! We are returning to 1900 as the obstructionism continues in congress.
Occupy!
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Thursday, October 13, 2011
The Adventures of Skittles
During the autumn my body goes into the valley of fatigue and my mind into a state of torpor. This lackadaisical state of being will right itself with the first serious signs of winter, infusing my body and being with new found vigor. Until then impromptu naps are common. On Tuesday night I was watching The Cosmos by Carl Sagan and drifted into a blissful nap punctuated by snores that woke me occasionally. My sleep was of an appreciable duration, ending when Skittles dashed to the davenport, perched upon the backrest and peered through the window into the evening blackness. Beagle radar had detected that Lois was home from work! The car was entering the garage. I went back to sleep until my beloved wife entered via the front door.
"Uh-oh! Uh-oh! What's this? What have you done, Skittles?"
I squinted at Lois and acknowledged her presence. Her exclamation must be about a torn sock or a new bite mark on one of our shoes. Lois picked up Skittles' new craft and brought it into my view.
My eyes widened at the gash in the upper region of my beloved steel-toed work boots! I've had those boots for thirty-six years. Thirty-six bloomin' years! Paid seventy dollars back then. Those boots were in the copper mine; they protected my feet as I worked in the woods with a chainsaw. They had the lug soles and higher heels; Logger's boots they were.
An amalgam of emotions washed over me from grief to anger and back to grief as I tenderly fingered the mortal wound in my boot. I flashed back to anger and lashed out at Skittles, who had no idea why Daddy was yelling. Her head bowed and her tail sagged and she looked up with woebegone eyes that melted my anger. I felt rotten for my outburst, but even Lois sympathized at this attack on my footwear.
It took about an hour before I could forgive Skittles. I thought about last fall when I was repairing the front porch trim and I had to go back to the basement and saw another piece on my table saw because the piece did not fit.. The new piece fit perfectly. Common sense told me to drill pilot holes for the nails since the piece was pine and would split easily. I decided to skip the drilling and indeed the piece split and I ripped it out of the nails and flung it and although it was inamate I pronounced it to be the offspring of a bitch.
Later on guilt settled in and I realized that I had over-reacted and spewed some unclean language. I asked God to forgive me. (God has had to forgive me many times since.)
An analogy spun in my mind. God loved me enough to forgive my profanity and he must love me at least as much as I love this mischievous beagle with pleading eyes. I bade her to light upon my recliner and sit with me. She did this tentatively. I caressed her and forgave her, then apologizing for yelling at her.I admonished her to never ruin any of our possessions again. Of course, Skittles had no idea what I was talking about. She was only basking in my tone of love and forgiveness. She licked my face, jumped out of my recliner and went about playing with her toys.
I have coined a term that we use in our household for beagle sins. I call it beaglearity.
"Uh-oh! Uh-oh! What's this? What have you done, Skittles?"
I squinted at Lois and acknowledged her presence. Her exclamation must be about a torn sock or a new bite mark on one of our shoes. Lois picked up Skittles' new craft and brought it into my view.
My eyes widened at the gash in the upper region of my beloved steel-toed work boots! I've had those boots for thirty-six years. Thirty-six bloomin' years! Paid seventy dollars back then. Those boots were in the copper mine; they protected my feet as I worked in the woods with a chainsaw. They had the lug soles and higher heels; Logger's boots they were.
An amalgam of emotions washed over me from grief to anger and back to grief as I tenderly fingered the mortal wound in my boot. I flashed back to anger and lashed out at Skittles, who had no idea why Daddy was yelling. Her head bowed and her tail sagged and she looked up with woebegone eyes that melted my anger. I felt rotten for my outburst, but even Lois sympathized at this attack on my footwear.
It took about an hour before I could forgive Skittles. I thought about last fall when I was repairing the front porch trim and I had to go back to the basement and saw another piece on my table saw because the piece did not fit.. The new piece fit perfectly. Common sense told me to drill pilot holes for the nails since the piece was pine and would split easily. I decided to skip the drilling and indeed the piece split and I ripped it out of the nails and flung it and although it was inamate I pronounced it to be the offspring of a bitch.
Later on guilt settled in and I realized that I had over-reacted and spewed some unclean language. I asked God to forgive me. (God has had to forgive me many times since.)
An analogy spun in my mind. God loved me enough to forgive my profanity and he must love me at least as much as I love this mischievous beagle with pleading eyes. I bade her to light upon my recliner and sit with me. She did this tentatively. I caressed her and forgave her, then apologizing for yelling at her.I admonished her to never ruin any of our possessions again. Of course, Skittles had no idea what I was talking about. She was only basking in my tone of love and forgiveness. She licked my face, jumped out of my recliner and went about playing with her toys.
I have coined a term that we use in our household for beagle sins. I call it beaglearity.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
A Heretic of Sorts
I am a born-again believer in Jesus Christ with a guarantee of an afterlife in heaven. I believe that Jesus has paid the penalty for my sins on the cross and no power on heaven or earth can negate this.
My beliefs are not in lock-step with other believers, however. I believe in the Big Bang theory of the dawn of the physical universe. I believe this beginning was 13.5 billion years ago. I do not believe in a six-day creation. Each day in the Genesis account could be any time interval, say 2.25 billion years. God certainly could have created the entire physical universe in six days but the scientific evidence makes this unlikely. The red-shift in the most distant objects detected in the universe indicates they are moving away from us and calculations determine that their light would have to travel 13.5 million years to the lens of the Hubbel Telescope, as defined by the velocity of light.
There is nothing blasphemous about this. It is merely the observation of science. The "Young Earth Society" , those who espouse the literal six-day creation refute this as a blasphemous assault on the tenets of conservative Christianity. This is not surprising since Roman Catholicism considered the science of Copernicus and Galileo heresy against God and the church. Galileo lived his later years under house arrest even though he recanted his theory of the heliocentric solar system which is now a basic truth of astronomy.
I stand in awe as I look to the heavens on a clear, still night, seeing myriads of stars that look small and cold - mere points of light. In reality each star is maybe a hundred times the size of our sun and may have a million times more mass. Each star is a sphere of white-hot gas, kept hot by an inferno in the bowels of that star, called nuclear fusion. I believe that God created each star with skill and craftsmanship. He created a universe full of stars. He just did not do it in six days, since He is not subject to the constraints of time.
Since I do not march with the evangelicals in lock-step in this respect I am a heretic of sorts.
My beliefs are not in lock-step with other believers, however. I believe in the Big Bang theory of the dawn of the physical universe. I believe this beginning was 13.5 billion years ago. I do not believe in a six-day creation. Each day in the Genesis account could be any time interval, say 2.25 billion years. God certainly could have created the entire physical universe in six days but the scientific evidence makes this unlikely. The red-shift in the most distant objects detected in the universe indicates they are moving away from us and calculations determine that their light would have to travel 13.5 million years to the lens of the Hubbel Telescope, as defined by the velocity of light.
There is nothing blasphemous about this. It is merely the observation of science. The "Young Earth Society" , those who espouse the literal six-day creation refute this as a blasphemous assault on the tenets of conservative Christianity. This is not surprising since Roman Catholicism considered the science of Copernicus and Galileo heresy against God and the church. Galileo lived his later years under house arrest even though he recanted his theory of the heliocentric solar system which is now a basic truth of astronomy.
I stand in awe as I look to the heavens on a clear, still night, seeing myriads of stars that look small and cold - mere points of light. In reality each star is maybe a hundred times the size of our sun and may have a million times more mass. Each star is a sphere of white-hot gas, kept hot by an inferno in the bowels of that star, called nuclear fusion. I believe that God created each star with skill and craftsmanship. He created a universe full of stars. He just did not do it in six days, since He is not subject to the constraints of time.
Since I do not march with the evangelicals in lock-step in this respect I am a heretic of sorts.
Friday, September 2, 2011
Friday Nights
Girls flirted outside the Pinball Palace,
Outside the din of Rock and Roll
And clouds of pungent cigarette smoke,
With stern-faced boys in tight white t-shirts
Tucked inside their tight blue jeans
Proclaimed their manliness.
Pedestrians crossed the hot blacktop,
Wary of the evening ruckus,
Wary of the aggregation,
They went about their business urgent,
In the heat, the heat, the inescapable, clinging heat.
The payday cavalcade went slowly,
Cars as far as eye could see
Crawled, inched past traffic cops
In the payday parade.
The boys and girls,
The luster and bluster
The hubris and the boasting
The laughter and the smoking
Soon became a throng
As some boys sat on car fenders
And their black engineer boots swung
Back and forth, back and forth.
G. robert Nordling
Friday, July 29, 2011
I'm an Observer of Life
It's dark- as dark as nightfall and the rain pelts the windows on this Saturday morning. Cafe business is booming. The business comes in waves of a dozen people or more, then there is no one coming for a while until the next wave. Many of the people are not locals, as I can see by their clothes and the vehicles they drive. No one from out of town has an old or rusted vehicle. Seems the American Dream, or what is left of it, has never touched Ironwood.
People are attending the softball tournament and I hope they like playing in the rain. There are funerals, weddings family reunions and sojourners passing from one end of Canada to the other, using the U.P. as part of their route. Ironwood has become a hub for many summer activities.
People, unaware that the weather was to cool to fifty-three degrees run through the rain, clad in tank tops, shorts and sandals. They must be chilled, to the least. Thunder shakes the gloomy overcast canopy. Puddles in the parking lot ripple with raindrops.
A young father in khaki cargo shorts holds the hand of his little daughter who holds an umbrella. The mother is at the girl's other side, deeply tanned and tattooes proliferate her limbs.
An elderly man shuffles from the street corner with an umbrella. I think he lives in the Pioneer Park Apartments a block away. I wonder if he is a widower. Is there sadness in his life manifested by his slow, melancholy shuffle? At least he is able to brave the inclement weather and eat a meal in the presence of others.
The parking lot and the street are full. But there is an anomaly. There are no pickup trucks. People with pickup trucks usually make up most of the cafe clientele on Saturday mornings.
The mini-vans and cars are inanimate yet the setting makes them forlorn in the gloom of dark weather. It is a shame that Mother Nature is so moody this morning so that the motorists have their lights on. I miss the knots of people chatting and hugging in the sunshine and I know that there will be other times of conviviality outside the cafe but the gloom is intolerable now, blinding me to that fact.
I recall that these halcyon summer days will yield to the dreary autumn and the interminable dreary winter and I will long for next summer's embrace of warmth and brightness.
People are attending the softball tournament and I hope they like playing in the rain. There are funerals, weddings family reunions and sojourners passing from one end of Canada to the other, using the U.P. as part of their route. Ironwood has become a hub for many summer activities.
People, unaware that the weather was to cool to fifty-three degrees run through the rain, clad in tank tops, shorts and sandals. They must be chilled, to the least. Thunder shakes the gloomy overcast canopy. Puddles in the parking lot ripple with raindrops.
A young father in khaki cargo shorts holds the hand of his little daughter who holds an umbrella. The mother is at the girl's other side, deeply tanned and tattooes proliferate her limbs.
An elderly man shuffles from the street corner with an umbrella. I think he lives in the Pioneer Park Apartments a block away. I wonder if he is a widower. Is there sadness in his life manifested by his slow, melancholy shuffle? At least he is able to brave the inclement weather and eat a meal in the presence of others.
The parking lot and the street are full. But there is an anomaly. There are no pickup trucks. People with pickup trucks usually make up most of the cafe clientele on Saturday mornings.
The mini-vans and cars are inanimate yet the setting makes them forlorn in the gloom of dark weather. It is a shame that Mother Nature is so moody this morning so that the motorists have their lights on. I miss the knots of people chatting and hugging in the sunshine and I know that there will be other times of conviviality outside the cafe but the gloom is intolerable now, blinding me to that fact.
I recall that these halcyon summer days will yield to the dreary autumn and the interminable dreary winter and I will long for next summer's embrace of warmth and brightness.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Like the Name of a Kind of Candy
Lois and I went about our daily tasks and routines in the wake of the passing of Cookie and Corky. Still, we would unwittingly expect them to be lying in their favorite spots and those voids are still sore spots. Cookie, half poodle and half husky (a "hoodle") had her "nappy bed" in front of the TV and Corky, had her spot on the floor next to Lois' recliner. In the evening Cookie would sit in front of me, telling me in dog-speak that she had eaten her supper and qualified for treats. Corky, a Bishon Frise had the apex of her day in Mumsie's lap, often napping.
We shuffled through life in grief that no one could share, save fellow dog lovers who have lost their beloved pets. It was not an incapacitating grief, but the kind of grief that we could forget in busy moments at work or when dealing with a recalcitrant computer or suffering the irritating antics of certain neighbors riding noisy ATVs at breakneck speed through the alley and raising great clouds of dust.
The grief caught up with us at the horizon of sleep and the sleep would be delayed by reverie. Cookie ran like a deer when she was a yearling. We played with a frisby or with tennis balls and Cookie had greater acceleration than the ATVs. We often played behind the Little League field and she was so eager to trundle up to the field and play. This tradition ended when a Rottweiler set upon her, seeming from nowhere and it would have killed Cookie if I had not driven the attacker off by throwing rocks.
Cookie changed after her own version of 911 and would not venture out of sight of the house unless accompanied by Both Lois and me. When she did go with us she was on Red Alert, apprensive and sometimes she wanted to double back to the safety of home. This worsened with age.
During pre-sleep reverie I recalled Cookie's and Corky's pictures pop up as screen savers on the computer; views of Christmas and camping and sleeping in the cool grass alongside the front steps on torrid days. Sometimes tears seeped out.
Each time I came down the stairs for breakfast I expected the dogs to be asleep, Corky in her kitchen kennel and Cookie in front of the front door. No dogs to feed in the morning, no dogs to take outside at bedtime. No one to share popcorn with during movie time.
Their recent euthanasia weighed on our minds as we were with each dog at her final moment. We both convulsed in tears, we loved our dogs so much. I shared this with our dear friend Lloyd, of Hole in the Night (blog) fame and sought out his sage advice.
"Get another dog," he said. "You two have too much love to keep it bottled up with grief." We eventually heeded Lloyd's advice and ventured out to HOPE, the local animal shelter. The visit was intense with a canine cacophony that drowned afforts at conversation. The girl took us on a tour of the cages and just about all of the dogs were big and some were ornery. I guest I'd be ornery too if someone abandoned me and I ended up like a kid in a Dickens novel.
All, except two of the dogs were large and some were either nervous and shy or angry and combative, giving off threatening body language and hostile barks. Some of these dogs were found in K-Mart or Wal-Mart parking lots. Some were abandoned because they had physical defects or medical issues and the owner probably thought it would cost too much to keep the dog. I can't fathom that.
The facility reflected fastidious housekeeping and the young lady accompanying us was knowledgeable and transparent as to the condition of each dog. She was professional in her conduct as well as helpful as to the proper fit for our household.
I thought it strange that most of the orphans were large breeds and only a fuzzy powderpuff and a sad-faced beagle remained. The beagle wagged her white-tipped tail when I looked at her.
I have been a skeptic toward intuitive knowledge in general and favoring the empirical approach and the logical way of interpreting data and the data was right there in front of us and yet I had no emperical approach, no logic for favoring the beagle. I had been sandbagged by beagalis connivis and I was hooked.
"This one is a good fit. She'll be a loving companion and she'll ease our grief but she's not Cookie or Corky."
The attendant brought a leash and we took out the beagle for a spin. She was thrilled at getting out of the cage and she pulled Lois with the force of a diesel pickup truck. I think that she was trying to impress us with her vitality and strength. We walked around the industrial park with the beagle in control. The weather was sunny and cheerful, a break in a string of 9 dark and rainy days. I imagined the beagle as our dog, taking long walks, of play times. Lois was probably thinking more on the practical side; no, I believe this was more an emotional issue than a practical one.
The beagle ran with her nose precariously close to the ground and with reckless abandon. We were both used to our frail girls and now we had this "kid", this upstart so full of energy that she could not contain herself. the beagle had taken us for the industrial park tour and we felt it was appropriate to return her and do the paperwork and take her home. but it didn't turn out that way.
I waited for Lois to indicate that we should take the beagle but the dog was returned to her cage and we were returning to the car. My spirits fell and so, I imagined that the beagle was disappointed as well.
We left the beagle in the cage and headed for the car. I realized, when I had gotten into the car that Lois was crying. The grief was still raw for Lois. I would not discuss the issue.
I thought of the beagle often that evening, how hard she tried to be adopted. She probably wanted a family, a new home and yet she was apprehensive, one would think. Somehow she ended up at this shelter, a doggie orphanage. there was no family to spoil her or provide for her emotional health, only food, veterinary care and shelter.
I take long walks, for medical benefit and to clear my mind. Sometimes I listen to music, sometimes I talk to God. I got the thought in my head, "Don't press the matter. Let Lois bring it up. Lois is struggling to let go of the old girls. Be gentle about this matter. If Lois doesn't want to take the beagle don't fight it."
I returned to our too quiet home and we went about the regular business of the evening. I went to work at 11 p.m. and got lost in my work. I came home after Lois had gone to work and I slept my usual sleep until mid-afternoon. The downstairs had furniture and the smell of fresh coffee and I knew it was Friday but there was the emptiness, the vacancies where our dogs would be. I wondered how Lois felt about the matter of the beagle. If she didn't want to take the dog, I would be disappointed but I would agree. We would have to be of the same mind.
I took my coffee upstairs and attended to my ailing laptop.It's frustrating when you can't remedy the situation. I tried a virus scan but the computer would not run it. I had re-started it and was waiting for it to revive when I heard Lois come home. I went downstairs to greet her, mindful that I shouldn't press the beagle matter.
"Hello," I said with as much cheeriness as I could muster. Lois echoed the hello.
"Ugh!" She said as she put down her purse and some things she had bought after work.
"That kind of day?"
"I'll tell you all about it later but we'd better get going if we're going to take home the beagle. Get your shoes on! What are you waiting for? You're the poke of McLeod Avenue just like your mother said."
The day was dark and cold but it felt like Christmas morning. I forgot all about my laptop.
We took the beagle home that day and we were told of the Prednisone we would have to give her for her eczema. That's the same disease I've had all my life so I could sympathize. We took her on a walk in the rain and then we took her to the front door. The Beagle paused warily. We gave her somforting assurances and she went in. She nervously checked out the house, probably because of the canine signatures that were in the house. She was tentative but she would adjust and we would be patient with her.
The name Skittles was on her collar, like the name of a candy.
We shuffled through life in grief that no one could share, save fellow dog lovers who have lost their beloved pets. It was not an incapacitating grief, but the kind of grief that we could forget in busy moments at work or when dealing with a recalcitrant computer or suffering the irritating antics of certain neighbors riding noisy ATVs at breakneck speed through the alley and raising great clouds of dust.
The grief caught up with us at the horizon of sleep and the sleep would be delayed by reverie. Cookie ran like a deer when she was a yearling. We played with a frisby or with tennis balls and Cookie had greater acceleration than the ATVs. We often played behind the Little League field and she was so eager to trundle up to the field and play. This tradition ended when a Rottweiler set upon her, seeming from nowhere and it would have killed Cookie if I had not driven the attacker off by throwing rocks.
Cookie changed after her own version of 911 and would not venture out of sight of the house unless accompanied by Both Lois and me. When she did go with us she was on Red Alert, apprensive and sometimes she wanted to double back to the safety of home. This worsened with age.
During pre-sleep reverie I recalled Cookie's and Corky's pictures pop up as screen savers on the computer; views of Christmas and camping and sleeping in the cool grass alongside the front steps on torrid days. Sometimes tears seeped out.
Each time I came down the stairs for breakfast I expected the dogs to be asleep, Corky in her kitchen kennel and Cookie in front of the front door. No dogs to feed in the morning, no dogs to take outside at bedtime. No one to share popcorn with during movie time.
Their recent euthanasia weighed on our minds as we were with each dog at her final moment. We both convulsed in tears, we loved our dogs so much. I shared this with our dear friend Lloyd, of Hole in the Night (blog) fame and sought out his sage advice.
"Get another dog," he said. "You two have too much love to keep it bottled up with grief." We eventually heeded Lloyd's advice and ventured out to HOPE, the local animal shelter. The visit was intense with a canine cacophony that drowned afforts at conversation. The girl took us on a tour of the cages and just about all of the dogs were big and some were ornery. I guest I'd be ornery too if someone abandoned me and I ended up like a kid in a Dickens novel.
All, except two of the dogs were large and some were either nervous and shy or angry and combative, giving off threatening body language and hostile barks. Some of these dogs were found in K-Mart or Wal-Mart parking lots. Some were abandoned because they had physical defects or medical issues and the owner probably thought it would cost too much to keep the dog. I can't fathom that.
The facility reflected fastidious housekeeping and the young lady accompanying us was knowledgeable and transparent as to the condition of each dog. She was professional in her conduct as well as helpful as to the proper fit for our household.
I thought it strange that most of the orphans were large breeds and only a fuzzy powderpuff and a sad-faced beagle remained. The beagle wagged her white-tipped tail when I looked at her.
I have been a skeptic toward intuitive knowledge in general and favoring the empirical approach and the logical way of interpreting data and the data was right there in front of us and yet I had no emperical approach, no logic for favoring the beagle. I had been sandbagged by beagalis connivis and I was hooked.
"This one is a good fit. She'll be a loving companion and she'll ease our grief but she's not Cookie or Corky."
The attendant brought a leash and we took out the beagle for a spin. She was thrilled at getting out of the cage and she pulled Lois with the force of a diesel pickup truck. I think that she was trying to impress us with her vitality and strength. We walked around the industrial park with the beagle in control. The weather was sunny and cheerful, a break in a string of 9 dark and rainy days. I imagined the beagle as our dog, taking long walks, of play times. Lois was probably thinking more on the practical side; no, I believe this was more an emotional issue than a practical one.
The beagle ran with her nose precariously close to the ground and with reckless abandon. We were both used to our frail girls and now we had this "kid", this upstart so full of energy that she could not contain herself. the beagle had taken us for the industrial park tour and we felt it was appropriate to return her and do the paperwork and take her home. but it didn't turn out that way.
I waited for Lois to indicate that we should take the beagle but the dog was returned to her cage and we were returning to the car. My spirits fell and so, I imagined that the beagle was disappointed as well.
We left the beagle in the cage and headed for the car. I realized, when I had gotten into the car that Lois was crying. The grief was still raw for Lois. I would not discuss the issue.
I thought of the beagle often that evening, how hard she tried to be adopted. She probably wanted a family, a new home and yet she was apprehensive, one would think. Somehow she ended up at this shelter, a doggie orphanage. there was no family to spoil her or provide for her emotional health, only food, veterinary care and shelter.
I take long walks, for medical benefit and to clear my mind. Sometimes I listen to music, sometimes I talk to God. I got the thought in my head, "Don't press the matter. Let Lois bring it up. Lois is struggling to let go of the old girls. Be gentle about this matter. If Lois doesn't want to take the beagle don't fight it."
I returned to our too quiet home and we went about the regular business of the evening. I went to work at 11 p.m. and got lost in my work. I came home after Lois had gone to work and I slept my usual sleep until mid-afternoon. The downstairs had furniture and the smell of fresh coffee and I knew it was Friday but there was the emptiness, the vacancies where our dogs would be. I wondered how Lois felt about the matter of the beagle. If she didn't want to take the dog, I would be disappointed but I would agree. We would have to be of the same mind.
I took my coffee upstairs and attended to my ailing laptop.It's frustrating when you can't remedy the situation. I tried a virus scan but the computer would not run it. I had re-started it and was waiting for it to revive when I heard Lois come home. I went downstairs to greet her, mindful that I shouldn't press the beagle matter.
"Hello," I said with as much cheeriness as I could muster. Lois echoed the hello.
"Ugh!" She said as she put down her purse and some things she had bought after work.
"That kind of day?"
"I'll tell you all about it later but we'd better get going if we're going to take home the beagle. Get your shoes on! What are you waiting for? You're the poke of McLeod Avenue just like your mother said."
The day was dark and cold but it felt like Christmas morning. I forgot all about my laptop.
We took the beagle home that day and we were told of the Prednisone we would have to give her for her eczema. That's the same disease I've had all my life so I could sympathize. We took her on a walk in the rain and then we took her to the front door. The Beagle paused warily. We gave her somforting assurances and she went in. She nervously checked out the house, probably because of the canine signatures that were in the house. She was tentative but she would adjust and we would be patient with her.
The name Skittles was on her collar, like the name of a candy.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Life Goes On
I have said goodbye to Mom and Dad, to friends, family and I have helped bear the caskets of Bill and Louise, my second parents. I was shocked at the notifacation of Dad's death. Dad's death was particularly hard since I feared his death since I was a small child. I was led, by Mom to believe that Dad lived on the edge of death because of his previous coronaries when I was less than two. I listened for breath sounds at the door of my parents, bedroom at night, fearing his sudden passing. These vigils trumped my fear of the dark. When Dad died it left me alone and it hit me hard.
So the passing of our two elderly dogs last month should be relatively easy, one would think, but each of their deaths affected Lois and me profoundly.
Our niece, Missy, sent me an e-card after Corky's going home and I couldn't open it for a week. I did so today and the tears gushed uncontrollably. I thought it wouldn't be as bad as if I would have viewed the card last week and I was ambushed. The grief is still there, a grief that only dog-lovers can understand.
You have to live with a pet and their uniqueness and experience their unconditional love to understand this.
So the passing of our two elderly dogs last month should be relatively easy, one would think, but each of their deaths affected Lois and me profoundly.
Our niece, Missy, sent me an e-card after Corky's going home and I couldn't open it for a week. I did so today and the tears gushed uncontrollably. I thought it wouldn't be as bad as if I would have viewed the card last week and I was ambushed. The grief is still there, a grief that only dog-lovers can understand.
You have to live with a pet and their uniqueness and experience their unconditional love to understand this.
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