tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29965135311425970912024-03-14T11:02:33.473-05:00Patience-pleaseDays of dog poop and writing stories and anyway I'll never have a blog.Patience-pleasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13262203054740351060noreply@blogger.comBlogger515125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2996513531142597091.post-13250454041622845392022-01-11T08:22:00.020-06:002022-01-11T08:30:46.850-06:00Want to learn to needle felt? <p><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;">I'm giving a fun beginners class at the Art Guild of Paducah.</p><p style="text-align: center;">The class size is limited to five participants. I'll provide coffee and some home baked snacks and everything you need. We will take our time and make a darling little sleepy mouse, following the proven Sarafina Fiber Art techniques. Once you learn the basics of needle felting, there will be no stopping you! </p><p style="text-align: center;">Just follow the link! </p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://fb.me/e/1Aft6BugY" target="_blank">Introduction to Needle Felting</a> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://fb.me/e/1Aft6BugY" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1920" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhqDdcTmDyVOff9g8qwGUOwJvTDXZY9XQ2-5_vqTTvAY4q71a4dV_g0xIh7lbV7QCMe0tFf-rnO8_c6_8qkm1puinTVuTe7HXgTglJazr_BIQTr8hMn4j3xbbCiwFyoerpcoLDrk95dfvZINKhWTYzCG9_da2u4ZNldotnXrGi8sA9D6sV6FrWIRNHW=w369-h208" width="369" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEibbTEmK-Ddx3_oGmA1UOD2QrDITizrkButI1918ro0tgL1aJ2PnqPjjj19rWU13SwDybTryrDoSEsrkQZvn9Gf_iS0ROTB6_3H_B9NWiXAphfTeABO6KPFn-uqDRM8ro70-xFO5VXrPo3-kVn5Zrb-IFmQmaDmiGxCNU73YKwndEiRQkb0CqDqlztq=s2477" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1932" data-original-width="2477" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEibbTEmK-Ddx3_oGmA1UOD2QrDITizrkButI1918ro0tgL1aJ2PnqPjjj19rWU13SwDybTryrDoSEsrkQZvn9Gf_iS0ROTB6_3H_B9NWiXAphfTeABO6KPFn-uqDRM8ro70-xFO5VXrPo3-kVn5Zrb-IFmQmaDmiGxCNU73YKwndEiRQkb0CqDqlztq=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg_ayz7fsxgRiyEXsRtPSYf1MYNwAdYni1scVnLAhreRNrvtfiPvqfd8LbLy-BjQxcFIilqf2FOyRCjsOl3sqBl_sQ630i3FjveVww5Y5_tPvPHwdxmT9jCJRuq0sFSKD6yHqxghW7P8kcgyhwLoZbZnLAiZnRrK4SehW1xPHUDJ3JztQTPCyvi7coS=s1925" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1925" data-original-width="1506" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg_ayz7fsxgRiyEXsRtPSYf1MYNwAdYni1scVnLAhreRNrvtfiPvqfd8LbLy-BjQxcFIilqf2FOyRCjsOl3sqBl_sQ630i3FjveVww5Y5_tPvPHwdxmT9jCJRuq0sFSKD6yHqxghW7P8kcgyhwLoZbZnLAiZnRrK4SehW1xPHUDJ3JztQTPCyvi7coS=s320" width="250" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://patience-please.blogspot.com</div>patience-pleasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04329226681297801285noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2996513531142597091.post-59330308735606275432021-12-14T15:03:00.000-06:002021-12-14T15:03:03.521-06:00Needle felting class at Ephemera Paducah 12-11-21<p> It was the morning after a tornado leveled the town of Mayfield, KY, just 27 miles to our south. One dear soul who had signed up for the workshop had been up all night helping family, so of course he got a full refund. The rest of us said prayers and acknowledged our gratitude at being able to come together. </p><p>We had a class of ten, five of whom had never touched a felting needle. The workshop room at #EphemeraPaducah is magic. A projector system allows participants to see the finest detail of what the instructor is doing. Hostess Kristin Williams recognizes that chocolate is an art supply and has plenty on hand. We did require vaccination cards and we masked. </p><p><br /></p><p>I wanted a project that would teach technique to the experienced felters, but wouldn’t overwhelm the beginners. No small task, so I chose three! We would make Christmas ornaments starting with the easiest, a little gnome, and building on what we learned from that to make a little penguin, and finishing with a cat. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgxzAw9VuPcss71V1ZQjATR2-Hm4iw5fwWib9owD5Q3i4ZQlE0i8iTL8ALcY5RhBqb3U347I9s2WAqR2IhEuoOyVnh5syE7Rbd0dFZuSHZ8Aqm5yJSr5ZxNH-sYopyli3fMXflazfkdjb5k0muqbg7i4Ru9CaGZUmtF33QaG7AL6Er7uLg3j4U6zsDa=s3740" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3740" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgxzAw9VuPcss71V1ZQjATR2-Hm4iw5fwWib9owD5Q3i4ZQlE0i8iTL8ALcY5RhBqb3U347I9s2WAqR2IhEuoOyVnh5syE7Rbd0dFZuSHZ8Aqm5yJSr5ZxNH-sYopyli3fMXflazfkdjb5k0muqbg7i4Ru9CaGZUmtF33QaG7AL6Er7uLg3j4U6zsDa=s320" width="259" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Practicing the gnome and penguin</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiLvMskVQVU7KgT6Y88oO9D6vZRoqYOWFG0J53B3OoVFJy_Mn1YGmk4RVzsCwk8EclDg64zJl2NqM8xmqNNMCalcD14e49IgS1_4l9o86J3rLUqcMyp9LjjGVmtKNLD37h4dc0axnoIbq0q5gAdQ-RC8esbafEI4HpCY5X_TqXazKLPsUZlXg7S5Au0=s4032" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiLvMskVQVU7KgT6Y88oO9D6vZRoqYOWFG0J53B3OoVFJy_Mn1YGmk4RVzsCwk8EclDg64zJl2NqM8xmqNNMCalcD14e49IgS1_4l9o86J3rLUqcMyp9LjjGVmtKNLD37h4dc0axnoIbq0q5gAdQ-RC8esbafEI4HpCY5X_TqXazKLPsUZlXg7S5Au0=s320" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My first attempt at a kitty ornament<span style="text-align: left;">. </span></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjeCHpxLAYatOOFJT4kCxnhLADKe7piiYePQMwvww8YvkkwrRRgYEmLEoFdw5IwGZGfAaZICYU_eQQpfF46m-MnvR6KuLPnxOVebfKdr4A2Mf4h3hPAPry1ZwB2oZc_dtNnoDETCnWc2u_w2sIOHu1tH9BIJ9YOUWkSHqRp83FNbNoBYrRWzdVv-fgS=s4032" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjeCHpxLAYatOOFJT4kCxnhLADKe7piiYePQMwvww8YvkkwrRRgYEmLEoFdw5IwGZGfAaZICYU_eQQpfF46m-MnvR6KuLPnxOVebfKdr4A2Mf4h3hPAPry1ZwB2oZc_dtNnoDETCnWc2u_w2sIOHu1tH9BIJ9YOUWkSHqRp83FNbNoBYrRWzdVv-fgS=s320" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After a lot of practice</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiq_IwfhdfeGg-qP6G3VL45olkNUT2_PZBZi1GwSKoFMjSswQPCJiQVxRNduKHt8kfozhM7hBT6oo0fEeid2QVGeZM-Ol5801Fsff5EfJbV4UjBkLEoVHmb2rlcwIZ8ZC2xZcJQthA5kAgZ_rVE2TWD-BJjqJyd11ihdzrOCWCR52HNQ5q4e0Vl5l4R=s3401" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2650" data-original-width="3401" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiq_IwfhdfeGg-qP6G3VL45olkNUT2_PZBZi1GwSKoFMjSswQPCJiQVxRNduKHt8kfozhM7hBT6oo0fEeid2QVGeZM-Ol5801Fsff5EfJbV4UjBkLEoVHmb2rlcwIZ8ZC2xZcJQthA5kAgZ_rVE2TWD-BJjqJyd11ihdzrOCWCR52HNQ5q4e0Vl5l4R=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A <i>lot </i>of practice!<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p>I was delighted with the results! It was a LOT for us to do between 10 AM and 4:30 PM. We finished at 4:28, with some homework to do. And look what they made! I love teaching and these fun ladies made it easy and a joy. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgI2gyOWV_O7MKxK1iJ7uhiw4cEXagdzPRy-Wrv2fVNnBrLEM4KWJ8j09KKXPFKpyPOGkjOmhlM59A5-w6OcotU3C-ZOmj8bxV26fCqCh6MKB85-ZQ4ZVwfce2VgHqRQgUx55yOEd04v9cVuz-XLNX4yRBRKCk7ft4_M0mX0AV5gSGPYxO6xrZjO3vH=s2048" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgI2gyOWV_O7MKxK1iJ7uhiw4cEXagdzPRy-Wrv2fVNnBrLEM4KWJ8j09KKXPFKpyPOGkjOmhlM59A5-w6OcotU3C-ZOmj8bxV26fCqCh6MKB85-ZQ4ZVwfce2VgHqRQgUx55yOEd04v9cVuz-XLNX4yRBRKCk7ft4_M0mX0AV5gSGPYxO6xrZjO3vH=w150-h200" width="150" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg9JRmu_w3LEN6o2JwQ0uRBqGWbQ-DOckfPzj-U1XUEqZo29IWhyB0YBelDmG-PGlwj-ZtnNVv0Ag3gtQr0AHgp2asKDTu2Qz5kRr2wqNZg5vdq2lidsVyKedVK9Gc82XYemSROC60bXRTIFtoBETha1EIvpf-hzPLVWU3I6ZrtTd242A34MkP9A4dD=s2048" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg9JRmu_w3LEN6o2JwQ0uRBqGWbQ-DOckfPzj-U1XUEqZo29IWhyB0YBelDmG-PGlwj-ZtnNVv0Ag3gtQr0AHgp2asKDTu2Qz5kRr2wqNZg5vdq2lidsVyKedVK9Gc82XYemSROC60bXRTIFtoBETha1EIvpf-hzPLVWU3I6ZrtTd242A34MkP9A4dD=w150-h200" width="150" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgZShWS40jtHfQVBtObGqorf7g_V5z8Bnqn2vZDNueSoJOrDQj0Pq8JuvmriMNaZs1huOsp0J8r8k0q_PGEhLCespsM5EvmO77Q2hla1pEugDpx226IraP0GI_HsUzwLpvq4OtlfclPwWWD3HBFKzdMJJhT-joWwIeoGCetpaLcbpB6_V2KH0cb2RX2=s2048" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgZShWS40jtHfQVBtObGqorf7g_V5z8Bnqn2vZDNueSoJOrDQj0Pq8JuvmriMNaZs1huOsp0J8r8k0q_PGEhLCespsM5EvmO77Q2hla1pEugDpx226IraP0GI_HsUzwLpvq4OtlfclPwWWD3HBFKzdMJJhT-joWwIeoGCetpaLcbpB6_V2KH0cb2RX2=w150-h200" width="150" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhg0DLecJgNJhrLvLIPYGr4JjC9Kk1z00XtB9QWcItAEwxKFITNHkJ64r9TG9H-BlV9VtS7TPCUIgiVY6_O2mH601zmYzIet9o9E6Tb8bCjwHxHEQk5hgr28NQERTcGNa0UriYK7cVJuhUO0LE-IH64OWDwRV6WPIyJilyGzwXZ--CL9w1usA0p4Js0=s2048" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhg0DLecJgNJhrLvLIPYGr4JjC9Kk1z00XtB9QWcItAEwxKFITNHkJ64r9TG9H-BlV9VtS7TPCUIgiVY6_O2mH601zmYzIet9o9E6Tb8bCjwHxHEQk5hgr28NQERTcGNa0UriYK7cVJuhUO0LE-IH64OWDwRV6WPIyJilyGzwXZ--CL9w1usA0p4Js0=w150-h200" width="150" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhtAd9vOYWUD7HqGXi9o-JUXUN09lKF1XLy0LZv_h4T5fuy__xtgn6g0J3dK1fwSXtAm5n0cYQ2k3eH-BdA3N_8_d2IV-IKwFbBG-pyMAI-G4lE3Hncjzqz9g1zxY_Dce97dN570bWxz9BSvUnMId9ISr_zCt7Z_LNu1eSXfctgJFu47akNOwdArLNg=s2048" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhtAd9vOYWUD7HqGXi9o-JUXUN09lKF1XLy0LZv_h4T5fuy__xtgn6g0J3dK1fwSXtAm5n0cYQ2k3eH-BdA3N_8_d2IV-IKwFbBG-pyMAI-G4lE3Hncjzqz9g1zxY_Dce97dN570bWxz9BSvUnMId9ISr_zCt7Z_LNu1eSXfctgJFu47akNOwdArLNg=w159-h211" width="159" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEijaMZkKCKNgHJaZRVQds6Lt8lFK9m8od5T-DaSWcsHKCF3p8Y9zvhJOuCrbRG0vj9Nun-rd8H8wwGh0N3_DQmW-xLr5Od7dsugesLpBdXfJd6YXrNpAbZvxStoIy-GUTh5ZyxSnIIfwAP-k5mLQ5DeXhHkAjJOP0IbI_QXAO1KeYn48ijKMJdXWZW8=s960" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="205" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEijaMZkKCKNgHJaZRVQds6Lt8lFK9m8od5T-DaSWcsHKCF3p8Y9zvhJOuCrbRG0vj9Nun-rd8H8wwGh0N3_DQmW-xLr5Od7dsugesLpBdXfJd6YXrNpAbZvxStoIy-GUTh5ZyxSnIIfwAP-k5mLQ5DeXhHkAjJOP0IbI_QXAO1KeYn48ijKMJdXWZW8=w154-h205" width="154" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://patience-please.blogspot.com</div>patience-pleasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04329226681297801285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2996513531142597091.post-23787362587626200092021-12-01T09:05:00.002-06:002021-12-01T09:05:43.250-06:00I am a Sarafina Certified Instructor. I teach needle felting!<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiqHV0m6f4z-84TnqTcSz-S6f53HKYL04FuyCpMd_FcHjI4oaYrt6j9wUYLrDoMC2LotxXD00F1APz1D00gCVslFHHbM5J1RQFnPsC_xLbmEdXK_H51uolANL7oUm1leTpXsdPouOo6fU/s2048/doe+n+fawn9+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1485" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiqHV0m6f4z-84TnqTcSz-S6f53HKYL04FuyCpMd_FcHjI4oaYrt6j9wUYLrDoMC2LotxXD00F1APz1D00gCVslFHHbM5J1RQFnPsC_xLbmEdXK_H51uolANL7oUm1leTpXsdPouOo6fU/s320/doe+n+fawn9+2.jpg" width="232" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">I have been teaching needle felting workshops at #EphemeraPaducah for several years, and now I'm bona fide certified! I love needle felting and I love to teach and I love most of all seeing people's faces light up when they see what they can create. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">To sign up for a workshop in #EphemeraPaducah's fantastic space, where you will also find all the supplies you need to get you started, go to the fantastic <a href="http://www.ephemerapaducah.com" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Ephemera Paducah website</a> and sign up for the mailing list.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">For private or private event instruction (now that's a fun party idea) <a href="mailto:pcrenzulli@gmail.com" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">email me </a>or message me on Facebook. Honest, I am the only Patience Coale Renzulli on Facebook. Sometimes having an unusual name pays off!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Now I'm just going to plop in a bunch of photos of fun things I've made. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ7poW5shtPdxU3Fs-J4mmfJcytD0LDGfSEJxTDHd6AOYa1WreeBWf3_PZUxbfjytu0aXaHUda_1WOsauJQLmR2GGBBQlrquUdFHwfAxwu7-8EpDLX5L4_vWoeVKaVWfBkPd1seMRHMLY/s960/santa+w+cloak+2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="628" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ7poW5shtPdxU3Fs-J4mmfJcytD0LDGfSEJxTDHd6AOYa1WreeBWf3_PZUxbfjytu0aXaHUda_1WOsauJQLmR2GGBBQlrquUdFHwfAxwu7-8EpDLX5L4_vWoeVKaVWfBkPd1seMRHMLY/s320/santa+w+cloak+2.jpeg" width="209" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNb7LJw0vsUN-SsJTXJvhif1M9ugR6k7mGcQ4pzc82Fue9qv5exQJfkG4Naady8Yi8EIoQ7gDL5lYji79aRyfKF-TCq1zHnA8e84CodZoomwdo6k-8gA7G5OXqg34N3gHWEA1SplwFaf0/s2048/Dora+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1933" data-original-width="2048" height="302" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNb7LJw0vsUN-SsJTXJvhif1M9ugR6k7mGcQ4pzc82Fue9qv5exQJfkG4Naady8Yi8EIoQ7gDL5lYji79aRyfKF-TCq1zHnA8e84CodZoomwdo6k-8gA7G5OXqg34N3gHWEA1SplwFaf0/s320/Dora+3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ9Lf4Hnr70A0_2TGytnsOErv1ND54adgRbd4VVcvelwnKjl5Ug_gY8B25Qwd76QKRjukLODv4S1log8UN7uBodzn-okQ8EITQ7UFw3S7HtsR6Y3wDC0_Rspsqqt5u_oc98fZJUbDQL9U/s960/fawn+4.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="688" data-original-width="960" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ9Lf4Hnr70A0_2TGytnsOErv1ND54adgRbd4VVcvelwnKjl5Ug_gY8B25Qwd76QKRjukLODv4S1log8UN7uBodzn-okQ8EITQ7UFw3S7HtsR6Y3wDC0_Rspsqqt5u_oc98fZJUbDQL9U/s320/fawn+4.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; 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text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMHRwCt_Acm82FUtymItNBHUgBVmE6PQrwS-ojo6-iOrgdTRk0eicG55XJh4Vzughyphenhyphenuw3nXIX_higNHMxy1hRGfiIneEDD3Q26vYxvL62wuMSoUc-4RMm_Ec9y6EHG57bBvzXfxYj2TCU/s1440/possum+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1440" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMHRwCt_Acm82FUtymItNBHUgBVmE6PQrwS-ojo6-iOrgdTRk0eicG55XJh4Vzughyphenhyphenuw3nXIX_higNHMxy1hRGfiIneEDD3Q26vYxvL62wuMSoUc-4RMm_Ec9y6EHG57bBvzXfxYj2TCU/s320/possum+3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR3Ya6V6UVqc9PQc6lM-eHc2a1L0OOMKn7egOENaZ5WOfEgD-ZUgtBHhQt_9pw4MDQAMZxTJd5qRgg_1LgTsSUTXqKz9E-K2NHPD5xhHe9UUBSwET0phuGCtKxZGMuEluzAntRkNqo2GQ/s1654/RENP201_125+d.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1394" data-original-width="1654" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR3Ya6V6UVqc9PQc6lM-eHc2a1L0OOMKn7egOENaZ5WOfEgD-ZUgtBHhQt_9pw4MDQAMZxTJd5qRgg_1LgTsSUTXqKz9E-K2NHPD5xhHe9UUBSwET0phuGCtKxZGMuEluzAntRkNqo2GQ/s320/RENP201_125+d.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><br /><p></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://patience-please.blogspot.com</div>patience-pleasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04329226681297801285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2996513531142597091.post-79368285613745906692016-11-12T10:53:00.000-06:002016-11-12T11:01:28.323-06:00Our New Reality<div style="font-family: uictfonttextstyletallbody;">
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #660000; font-size: large;"><i><b>We must accept finite disappointment, but never lose infinite hope.</b></i></span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"> </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">Martin Luther King, Jr.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqSk7DSZXrLKlx0Ib0iszjOQ00S7rai2o5K0j8X5vXWqyuE_rGnZKIog6HH1ex_hhayOEzCHhLnc6QIzRsSYaof9TFWPMDe5jHB5WA6lCcmkNWZIv15gJBkNlN_XwEHhdvtSZHnb1ihnzr/s1600/constitution.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqSk7DSZXrLKlx0Ib0iszjOQ00S7rai2o5K0j8X5vXWqyuE_rGnZKIog6HH1ex_hhayOEzCHhLnc6QIzRsSYaof9TFWPMDe5jHB5WA6lCcmkNWZIv15gJBkNlN_XwEHhdvtSZHnb1ihnzr/s1600/constitution.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">My new reality: that Awful Man is <i>my</i> President-elect.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">And make no mistake, to me he truly is an Awful Man. But folks, unless I move to another country and renounce my U.S. citizenship, the Awful Man is going to be <b>my</b> President.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">There are countless essays, written by people far more qualified than I am, which attempt to explain the social science and politics of how and why this happened. I <b><i>want</i></b> to believe that the Russians messed with the polls, but no. "Rigged" is not part of <b>our</b> vocabulary. We believe in our country. We take comfort in the popular vote, but still we must stomach that close to half of the Americans who voted chose that Awful Man. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I went to work on Tuesday wearing an optimistic glow and a white pantsuit. I went to work on Wednesday draped in black, tear-swollen and fragile. I felt as if I were a lone woman of color, wearing a burka in a men's Bible study class at a Southern Baptist church. How could I face the fact that these people who mean the world to me had voted for that <span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Awful Man? The county where I live voted for him by a 2:1 margin. I imagined smugness in my friends' expressions and I felt like I was in the wrong place. The entire world was the wrong place.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Now, I'm experiencing another dismay. I read of violent protests and I wail, "No!" I read people encouraging the Democrats in Congress to be every bit as obstructionist as the Republicans were under President Obama, and I want to scream, "We are BETTER than that!" I see swastikas and KKK marches and black Freshmen targeted at Penn and I wonder in what alternate world I'm living and I want to do something. But what?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">If I believe in America, and I do, then I must act like an American. We who supported President Obama and Secretary Clinton would be wise to listen to their advice. DO SOMETHING! Don't post yet another inflammatory photo or meme, which accomplishes nothing but to create more division and angst and depression and anger. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Face it. We have been a lazy people. We have been content to bloviate on our pages and let Fox News propagandize to their hearts' content. We've allowed the gerrymandering to continue Willy O'Nilly. And we are paying dearly now. But rather than sinking to the Republican leaders' destructive levels, let's rally and act like Americans.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">If we feel that the Electoral College system is no longer the best, <b><i>after</i></b> studying how it works and why it was instituted, then we should press our elected officials to do something about it during the upcoming legislative session. Not now. Studying about the Electoral College is nowhere near as much fun as liking an outrageous meme on Facebook. But we have become illiterate in our laziness, haven't we? Even though information is easier than ever to access, do we educate ourselves?</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255 , 255 , 255 , 0); font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Let's organize and WORK to put an end to gerrymandering. We have allowed it to steal our legitimate voting power like a proverbial rug being ripped out from under us. We sit baffled on our collective butts with our eyes doing cartoon whirligigs. Why have we allowed this? Because we are ignorant and lazy and content to tsk-tsk-tsk without doing a damn thing? </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255 , 255 , 255 , 0); font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">We need to support effective leadership. Let's coalesce behind Elizabeth Warren and Bernie Sanders and find out what they need US to do. How long has it been since we asked what we could do for our Country and then actually did it? Let's serve on committees at the local levels; heck let's FORM committees if none exist. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255 , 255 , 255 , 0); font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">This is what this horrible election <i>has</i> accomplished: we have learned a great deal. Racism, xenophobia, misogyny, bigotry, sexism, greed, and fear are endemic. They are part of the human condition. Perhaps we didn't know the extent to which they thrive; or perhaps we knew, but we didn't want to face it. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255 , 255 , 255 , 0); font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">We didn't appreciate the alienation and dismay felt by rural America. We have ignored their poverty, their opioid addiction, their dismal lack of education and opportunity, They wave their flags and stand with hands appropriately over their hearts, proud of their patriotism all the while decrying the Government as evil and elitist and crooked. What is America, what is this country, if not its Government? A People without an effective, representative government is lost. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255 , 255 , 255 , 0); font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">We need to make our Government represent <b>us</b> again. We can't do that by posting memes. We need to get off our complacent coccyx and work. We need to get the damned corporations <b><i><u>out</u></i></b> of <b>our</b> elected officials' pockets. We need to volunteer. We need to write letters. We need to be heard. We need to invest time - and money - where our passions lie.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I belong to three secret groups on Facebook where people feel safe in discussing their politics. I understand the need for these groups, but if the only way we discuss our nation's policies is in secret with like-minded folks, how do we ever find common ground? How could we possibly work together to accomplish anything? How do we make our elected officials, the folks who are supposed to work for all of their constituents be accountable?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Let us follow the words of President Obama, whom many of us believe to have been one of the best this nation has ever elected.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255 , 255 , 255 , 0); font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b><i>"That’s the way politics works sometimes. We try really hard to persuade people that we’re right. And then people vote. And then if we lose, we learn from our mistakes, we do some reflection, we lick our wounds, we brush ourselves off, we get back in the arena. We go at it. We try even harder the next time."</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">We live in a country where we do have choices. We can choose to be violent. We can choose peaceful protest in the face of injustice. We can choose to sit and complain on our computers.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Or we can get to work.</span></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://patience-please.blogspot.com</div>Patience-pleasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13262203054740351060noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2996513531142597091.post-33315070006832257432015-03-30T16:54:00.000-05:002015-03-30T16:54:00.188-05:00Multi BIF, FC Warburton Mama Pajama, CD, FCh, CR, AV, CGC June 29, 1997 - March 30, 2015<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
She had a great weekend. She had tortellini for breakfast and cleaned her bowl this morning. She was enjoying glorious warm sunshine today at lunch time. Something went in her neck. I had promised her no more pain ever. I have kept my word. </div>
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I know she was everybody's dog. She loved to tell stories and make people laugh. I can't bear that her death will make so many so sad. Please, <i>please </i>celebrate her long, generous life. </div>
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Please think of her and smile.</div>
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<i>hug your hounds</i></div>
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<i>Many thanks to Laurie Erickson, Tim Caro, Steve Surfman, Linda Solano, and Susan Kirkham for the photos. </i></div>
<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://patience-please.blogspot.com</div>patience-pleasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04329226681297801285noreply@blogger.com29tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2996513531142597091.post-64926225939882544802014-02-25T21:15:00.000-06:002014-02-25T21:15:24.677-06:00Everybody Loved Jessie<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Jessie was one of the most beautiful dogs I've ever known or seen.</div>
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She did amazing things in the show ring. </div>
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She was from a magical litter. Jessie, Breezy, Colby, Mollie, Emma, Fat Charlie, and Mama Pajama.</div>
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I don't know another litter that has brought their owners more joy. </div>
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(I agree. All dogs bring infinite gifts, when allowed, to their owners.)</div>
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But please permit me the luxury of saying that this particular litter was magical.</div>
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Extrordinary.</div>
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Linda took Jessie visiting at Johns Hopkins, NIH, and more. She went to see Roger Caras when he was in the hospital, and he said, "Have you come to see me, my beauty?"</div>
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Because the Willow Award was named for Jessie's half sister housemate, Jessie could never be nominated for the Therapy Dog of the Year. But I can tell you right now there are angels returning her love. </div>
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So many did she comfort quietly.</div>
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Linda took her beautiful dog and brightened folks' days, warmed their hearts, made them smile, let them forget for a while.</div>
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If a patient was too fragile to have a dog on the bed, Linda would put a sheepskin on the over bed table. You know, the thing they put the meal trays on. And Jessie would lie there while the table was being rolled over to where the patient could reach her.</div>
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That kind of dog.</div>
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Before the litter was even conceived, Terrie and I had decided to give Linda the pick bitch.</div>
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The moment when Jessie was born, we all laughed and said, <i>there she is! She's Linda's.</i></div>
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<i>She is so beautiful!</i></div>
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When a dog lives to be sixteen years and eight months old, you can think they will go on forever.</div>
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Of course she will, in our hearts, especially Linda's.</div>
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But the Earth is a little bit less lovely now.</div>
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Heaven is even more so.</div>
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Jessie 6/29/97 - 2/22/14</div>
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<i>hug your treasured hounds</i></div>
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<i>and hold Linda gently in your hearts for a little while</i></div>
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<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://patience-please.blogspot.com</div>Patience-pleasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13262203054740351060noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2996513531142597091.post-33335632471645429202014-01-25T09:06:00.001-06:002014-01-25T09:06:22.480-06:00Call for Nominations for the Willow Award: Attention Therapy Whippets!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeGaO2nBr9nw4ZdqXBwE75bP-UIUCMXl6mgegWTRCHkGYQhCsyKb490WdRqq1oOPS9K6L4kIzKvskIaeYItyYeabFwontLneQspgTxG_WdeXD0YqgXNz0URTkOR_t8EKluCmOR7KT5eloR/s1600/bronze.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeGaO2nBr9nw4ZdqXBwE75bP-UIUCMXl6mgegWTRCHkGYQhCsyKb490WdRqq1oOPS9K6L4kIzKvskIaeYItyYeabFwontLneQspgTxG_WdeXD0YqgXNz0URTkOR_t8EKluCmOR7KT5eloR/s1600/bronze.jpg" height="320" width="257" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It's time to nominate a therapy whippet for the Willow Award. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Our breed is full of quiet heroes whose stories deserve to be told and heard. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">We all know whippets who brighten lives immeasurably; not for ribbons or points, not for fame or glory, not even for win photos. This is the chance to shine a little spotlight on these dogs. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Every nominee is a winner, and every nominee will receive a rosette in this year's American Whippet Club's National Specialty colors. The nominees' stories are exhibited throughout the week in the ballroom at the National. Throughout the week, people read the stories and quietly reflect. (I always place a box of tissues nearby.) </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">People think,<i> "My whippet would be great at that,"</i> and more miracles happen. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>If you own, or bred, or simply know of a whippet who is doing therapy work, please share their story in 1000 words or less. </b>You may include up to 3 photographs, respecting privacy laws of course, in or out of the therapy setting. Holly Parker, Director of Animal Assisted Therapy at the NIH, will choose the recipient of the Willow Award, and their story will be featured in the Whippet Newsletter and the Whippet News Annual. </span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1UtZAmtIdYzhvY2pvfVw4WoKNRjFgz5fDtTGMsyuvbi8xtTOlRUgc6AyUDp1UIqvcX_kAN_E6IUNoPskcl21fyIlS6zhv2IJGqp0hLvYZbQ6-NMZOmfDbBK3QIX3aP7DU9zUJM4A7ciIA/s1600/Jazz+eyes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1UtZAmtIdYzhvY2pvfVw4WoKNRjFgz5fDtTGMsyuvbi8xtTOlRUgc6AyUDp1UIqvcX_kAN_E6IUNoPskcl21fyIlS6zhv2IJGqp0hLvYZbQ6-NMZOmfDbBK3QIX3aP7DU9zUJM4A7ciIA/s1600/Jazz+eyes.jpg" height="239" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">2013 Willow Award recipient Jazz making miracles with owner Christine Heath</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>Please submit your nomination (remember: 1000 words or less, and up to three high res photos) to pcrenzulli@gmail.com. Entries close midnight on March 31st, because I HAVE to order the rosettes!</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i><b>A note about Willow:</b></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>Linda Solano's very first whippet, a little white bitch with a blue brindle mask and ears, is the only whippet in history to earn a prestigious <b>AKC Award of Canine Excellence</b> - the ACE Award now presented at Eukanuba </i></span><i style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">- for her extraordinary therapy work. Willow's life was too short, yet in her time on our earth she touched the lives of so many people in need, the way </i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">only a whippet </span><i style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">could. To honor Willow's contributions we ask you to tell the story of the whippet you know who is making people feel a little better, who is bringing about those quiet miracles, who is making people smile.</i></div>
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<b style="font-size: x-large;"><i>Pass It On!</i></b></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://patience-please.blogspot.com</div>Patience-pleasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13262203054740351060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2996513531142597091.post-52638126948885504212013-12-21T09:46:00.001-06:002013-12-21T09:56:48.736-06:00It's raining, it's pouring, Mama Pajama isn't snoring!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB3b_0ejJaRIsX1qje0y4bB_8l5orCG4aLZ4JfGM1hiaHCreTAJ2NuyyLcOEm_IwL7UHThX4cvJ-xf6tifaPFAhNGwSchqcGCygm4fhisR76sDvll86VLrbGP4Ab094xuerfWjWzHG_XAY/s1600/Mama+Pajama+coursing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="148" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB3b_0ejJaRIsX1qje0y4bB_8l5orCG4aLZ4JfGM1hiaHCreTAJ2NuyyLcOEm_IwL7UHThX4cvJ-xf6tifaPFAhNGwSchqcGCygm4fhisR76sDvll86VLrbGP4Ab094xuerfWjWzHG_XAY/s320/Mama+Pajama+coursing.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">When you look at the photo above you see a two-year-old smiling Mama Pajama, covered in mud, running. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">This morning</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">if I had somehow been able to video her in the dark, in the <i>pouring</i> rain, you would pretty much have seen the same thing. She hasn't done a zoomie in weeks. First we had the bitter cold and ice forever. Then she did an accidental splits with her hind legs on the hard wood floor, which made her yelp, made me cry, and left her spooked. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Today it is balmy. In true Western Kentucky style, the winter solstice (hooray for days getting longer and lighter and inching towards Spring!) dawns warm, muggy, and sodden. Mama Pajama was never a fan of damp in her youth, hence my delight with her grin captured in the photo; when </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">a lure</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">was involved, she noticed nothing else. In her dotage, she has become unawares. She stands in a deluge, la la la, and I put on my shoes to retrieve her. Come on sweetheart, you are getting rained on. Time for dinner, or breakfast, or bed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Mama Pajama had attempted one zoomie, before the splits, when the yard was covered in ice, and she smacked into the fence on her first spin. Want your heart to shatter like your very most precious Christmas ornament dropped in slow motion from the top branch? Have your very most precious sixteen year old dog smack her head into the fence mid-spin and then turn her unbelieving eyes to yours and ask, "Why did you do that to me? I was only having a bit of fun."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Damned stupid fucking ice.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But yay for today! </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">This morning, the ice has finally surrendered, and my old dog is back to trusting her hind legs.</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Yay for the pouring rain and mud and muck! Mama Pajama leapt off the breezeway and splashed in her crazy reigning horse spins, around and around, this way and that, running willy-nilly with eyes blazing. She stopped, still in butt-up play bow pose, and smiled at me. And this was no drizzle! Thunder lightning downpour. She came into the kitchen with mud all up her four legs, splashed on her underbelly, and even splattered on her back and her face.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Merry Christmas to me!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Happy solstice to you!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>Hug your hounds...</i></span></div>
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<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://patience-please.blogspot.com</div>Patience-pleasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13262203054740351060noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2996513531142597091.post-78147526889194230282013-11-28T08:58:00.000-06:002013-11-28T08:58:01.909-06:00Thanksgiving With A Silly Bill <span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I've been trying to get a video of sixteen year old Mama Pajama interacting with the rest of her pack, without much success. When she sees me pointing the phone or the iPad at her - realizing that it will steal her soul or eat her biscuits or do something equally heinous in dog-think - she gives me a righteous stink eye and departs. Pronto.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">She had a mighty perky day yesterday. In fact, this blog post might not have come to fruition, what with how the morning started and my near death experience, and all.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">You see, Mama Pajama woke up in fine fettle yesterday morning. So much so that she started her zoomies when her feet first hit the floor. This was amusing and delightful to my sleepcracked brain; she sparkled and spun and did wobbly leapies at 5:30 AM, and my heart went right along with her. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Until she bounded ahead of me down the hall. Toward the Stairs of Satan. Twisting narrow hardwood eleven-foot uneven opportunities for neck-breaking disaster. Slo-mo </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">sleep addled </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">me with some lonely synapse firing, "Danger Will Smith, or old dog, or whatever precious being is careening towards the brink!"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">WAIT! STOP! LIE DOWN!!!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I grabbed her by her skinny, bald tail as she hurled her fragile bones over the precipice. Gack.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">When I got home from work in the evening Mama Pajama was still having a good day. I thought I would try to get a video - yet again. I want to share how she boinks the younger dogs; how she bows at them and pounces in fun. How they respond so gently to her, even the wild ones. I want to let you smile with your heart the way I do. So I tried again.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I don't have to say one more word about what I'm grateful for on this Thanksgiving morning, do I?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>hug your hounds and your silly humans and Happy Thanksgiving, friends!</i></span><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://patience-please.blogspot.com</div>Patience-pleasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13262203054740351060noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2996513531142597091.post-28025564933096451872013-11-10T12:47:00.000-06:002013-11-10T14:03:29.437-06:00Mama Pajama's Eyes<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Yesterday I shared an old post about what I see in my <a href="http://patience-please.blogspot.com/2008/09/this-i-believe.html" target="_blank">old dog's eyes</a>, and I promised I would write about Mama Pajama's eyes today. I've never had a dog as old as Mama Pajama; she is sixteen years and five months. She and her brother, Fat Charlie, were Very Old Souls even when they wore very young bodies. Mama Pajama's eyes carry stories of centuries.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5llcdG5Ud2inFTbG5JmYRz3Eu_ZwMrCrXKIygetg9OVdPv9kJmmNmqrEnKS4qzUoJjaSRRFWAMQp33uJxnHChAwREqcGjvBJFIZxH0TdfV3E0RI_Ak-a23Lq2H4xCpgw5hyphenhyphenE7Yg7Mygep/s1600/Mama+pajama+puppy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5llcdG5Ud2inFTbG5JmYRz3Eu_ZwMrCrXKIygetg9OVdPv9kJmmNmqrEnKS4qzUoJjaSRRFWAMQp33uJxnHChAwREqcGjvBJFIZxH0TdfV3E0RI_Ak-a23Lq2H4xCpgw5hyphenhyphenE7Yg7Mygep/s320/Mama+pajama+puppy.jpg" width="173" /></a></div>
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</span> <span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I think she is around nine or ten weeks old in this photo - taken by Rhonda Gold, maybe. She looks quite serious, doesn't she? She had a solemn, pensive quality from her earliest moments. <i>She seemed to know things. </i> She had stories to tell. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjihoK4HGKc0QVP1WV_dPpwKIgJnMWuo3zR1DXCvuuryW-IXHNZN-JlEzOKxNc6dWdWZnVahmU1jxO4nLllSmkg3GxcI-3OxO2i0qHpezSwKaVrrGw5GRMThxLaZv6ROVgdfrMnTH6tHPOS/s1600/Mama+first+story.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjihoK4HGKc0QVP1WV_dPpwKIgJnMWuo3zR1DXCvuuryW-IXHNZN-JlEzOKxNc6dWdWZnVahmU1jxO4nLllSmkg3GxcI-3OxO2i0qHpezSwKaVrrGw5GRMThxLaZv6ROVgdfrMnTH6tHPOS/s640/Mama+first+story.jpg" width="393" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In this photo she is twelve weeks old. She was promised to a home who couldn't take her until she was six months old. She was going to be a hearing dog. It didn't work out - on the other end - and I think she is telling Bill that we were being foolish humans; that she would be with us for life. She knew better than we did. She's always known better. I was trying not to become too attached to her at this point. How ridiculous was that? I thought she was going to leave me and I couldn't bear it.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqcU2rDZzMIe-z5K3TiHIvMyLNr1m6F7wTVJbdRJUnRteoYhKu8R48TtqRcSAHsXBP445EuiNp1WAcT3rqPgPp2Ol2jQW-9kr8mJgH4gbGF69vby410wQnOR0_pN8mSCXwFrH_o0pHNuvX/s1600/mama+pack+couch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqcU2rDZzMIe-z5K3TiHIvMyLNr1m6F7wTVJbdRJUnRteoYhKu8R48TtqRcSAHsXBP445EuiNp1WAcT3rqPgPp2Ol2jQW-9kr8mJgH4gbGF69vby410wQnOR0_pN8mSCXwFrH_o0pHNuvX/s400/mama+pack+couch.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The pack: Gracious, Caruso, Mama Pajama, Giacomino, Fat Charlie, Maria. All gone now, except Mama Pajama. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I don't want to give the impression that Mama Pajama was dour or humorless. Far from it! One of her first nicknames, one that sticks to this day, was Bright Eyes. Her eyes sparkled with fun. She and Fat Charlie spent hours playing chase, dodge, bob and weave in our big old yard at the farm. That yard was two acres of fenced frenzy. Squirrels and leaves and room for a whippet to get up to full speed. Plenty of sun and shade for a perfect lay-down in the grass with one eye scanning for witless squirrels who weren't paying attention. Mama Pajama always paid attention. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn5ylGe011ImLBPJaz1tzcvV7kqlAq9XsFPQtO7c_E3GH9QVvtqlYXU8rEz6PZzcS8_ixJ398nk5zKG7bxiLDOPCRW-t7nPTIGlhiGZIqahX6Qd1Kzl6tsCw9irYuf_M2bDYb36gWNyQMo/s1600/Mama+bunny+talk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn5ylGe011ImLBPJaz1tzcvV7kqlAq9XsFPQtO7c_E3GH9QVvtqlYXU8rEz6PZzcS8_ixJ398nk5zKG7bxiLDOPCRW-t7nPTIGlhiGZIqahX6Qd1Kzl6tsCw9irYuf_M2bDYb36gWNyQMo/s400/Mama+bunny+talk.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She is around nine months old in this picture and she is giving the lure a piece of her mind. This dog loved to run. She's a small whippet. At her heaviest she was twenty-five pounds. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She ran against bigger whippets and she beat them. Look at her smile. Look at her go!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She ran against Irish Wolfhounds and Borzoi, she ran against Rhodesian Ridgebacks and Salukis, she ran against Scottish Deerhounds and Afghans and she beat them all.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I know there are other dogs who love to run as much as Mama Pajama did, but I don't believe there has ever been a soul who loved to run <i>more. </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have never laughed more while training a dog for obedience competition. She got her title in three trials, wagging and smiling every step of the way. Doing her trademark leap into my arms when we left the ring, and right along her shining eyes telling me I had done a good job. I don't remember teaching Mama Pajama. She just knew.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The photo below was actually after she got sick. It was a leapie for old times' sake. You can see it in her eyes.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgANP9uwg8T3mi23SXyEXR8kpMrm7fLCBqb5z6NesKn8DEAQumD-0L7r3yy-31AEHfZjzXlFJayB4YhUTgH7huLObP_9m0QR42mIXNVyw6jq2AXhyQ21XLblAsxiZ89m-vUwtts_p2ni9do/s1600/Mama+Leapie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgANP9uwg8T3mi23SXyEXR8kpMrm7fLCBqb5z6NesKn8DEAQumD-0L7r3yy-31AEHfZjzXlFJayB4YhUTgH7huLObP_9m0QR42mIXNVyw6jq2AXhyQ21XLblAsxiZ89m-vUwtts_p2ni9do/s640/Mama+Leapie.jpg" width="366" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When Mama Pajama got sick, her eyes told a story I didn't want to hear. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTLlUWlRVDTA_xa17MQf7rMBYtWWx2WH50XWl3yZ58VmMzFy2PhD3R9GQnAS7TKvcNCabB12-14eJR-9-G9_d4dOIQvyi4vOSWAyPqYGEd4Eb6sXIrnxWeDEA-DNqbGCe9dyThVCuuZvkE/s1600/Mama+sick.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="327" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTLlUWlRVDTA_xa17MQf7rMBYtWWx2WH50XWl3yZ58VmMzFy2PhD3R9GQnAS7TKvcNCabB12-14eJR-9-G9_d4dOIQvyi4vOSWAyPqYGEd4Eb6sXIrnxWeDEA-DNqbGCe9dyThVCuuZvkE/s400/Mama+sick.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At first, in the face of her god-awful disease, her eyes were pure courage, while her ears rotted off and abscesses formed in her feet. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> As she got sicker her eyes changed. She could not comprehend her world - what her world had become. She was tired. My brave little dog was frightened. If any of her pack bumped into her she screamed in pain. </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She went off by herself.</span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> She stopped looking at me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She stopped having fun.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I thought she was going to leave me and I couldn't bear it. But she didn't leave me. She beat that damned disease. She went into remission - physically. Because for years, after her body was healed, her mind and spirit weren't. </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I don't have photos of this time that I am willing to share. </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She was afraid of everything. She was afraid to run. My throat closes and burns like fire as I write these words: </span><i style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">she was afraid of me. </i></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My little brave Bright Eyes was afraid of me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I thought she had left me and I couldn't bear it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I don't know what miracle brought her back to me. I had told Ol' Poke and Stick* that I had some serious thinking to do. That I didn't know what quality there was to Mama Pajama's life. That I couldn't find a drop of joy. That maybe it was time. "No," said the man who had saved her life, "No, Patience. She's still eating, isn't she?" Yes. "No," he said. "You don't need to be thinking like that now. You don't need to be thinking like <i>that.</i>"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It wasn't long, maybe only a day or two after that conversation that Mama Pajama started to wag her tail again. Once in a while she would smile at me. She started sniffing Fat Charlie and she would greet him with a play bow! Oh my heart!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">One day when she went out in the little city yard to pee, out of the blue she did something she'd never done before. She channeled her half-sister Willow and did backwards spins, like a reining horse. I laughed like a four-year-old child on Christmas morning. I blinked my eyes; surely they were playing a trick on me. Her eyes sparkled and danced faster than her feet! She spun until she was dizzy. Her one remaining lung sucked great gulps of air through an enormous open-mouthed grin. That tail of hers, bald now, wagged just like it had all those years ago.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Can you blame me for sounding like a silly old fool? Can you blame me after all of those years?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She rejoined the pack. She adores her youngest great grand niece, Tindra the wild. She plays with Tindra and Jabber.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFb45GF0seVeZgAbAFiT1h4PAaZZE3Sf6PCCnhPf9kZ0y4SAFQBZ1ZZaZk4DIhxSwK-SyP1uuktifrVYho5aEZNmJfBnw0M_6cc0iuh4aG-GqcZRD_Hyn-vusDojcyHFKC0IXV9mPnwayj/s1600/Mama+Pajama+welcome+home.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFb45GF0seVeZgAbAFiT1h4PAaZZE3Sf6PCCnhPf9kZ0y4SAFQBZ1ZZaZk4DIhxSwK-SyP1uuktifrVYho5aEZNmJfBnw0M_6cc0iuh4aG-GqcZRD_Hyn-vusDojcyHFKC0IXV9mPnwayj/s320/Mama+Pajama+welcome+home.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At sixteen, Mama Pajama's eyes are cloudy. When we all go to bed, Mama cries. She never cried. Not when she was dying. Not when she sat in her crate in the van when it wasn't her turn to run, and I had forgotten to close her crate door, and she waited with the door wide open until I picked up <i>her </i>slip lead. Then she exploded out of her crate, but she didn't cry.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When she cries at night now - such a strange sound - I get up and I love on her. I massage her neck and her bony shoulders. She quiets, until I've gotten back in bed and am nearly asleep. (We still can't convince her to sleep in our bed; God knows we've tried.) She cries again. I get up and offer her a drink. Ah that was it; she was thirsty. I tickle her tummy and kiss her nose and this time we all fall asleep.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am the luckiest servant alive. I have my little dog back. Those eyes. They don't see much any more but they sparkle again. I see my little Old Soul. I see her courage, her fun, her spunk, her fire. I see her brother and her uncle and her father, her sister and her mother. I see my friends and my past and my future in my little dog's eyes. I probably am just a silly old fool, but that's okay.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy25zg8Doik7hXuVTMiFHPNxpwty9t3Ix6tFqLu6opPXedRMe03pyJH3R4nFRMxfk5-COug8tBbvODuFBHBqo5BJoWJYoCFU1Y9hyphenhyphen49HOZkKmYQ1Lwt46iYUVQI3p_0ND-gCMo45xcanri/s1600/mama+16+kiss.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy25zg8Doik7hXuVTMiFHPNxpwty9t3Ix6tFqLu6opPXedRMe03pyJH3R4nFRMxfk5-COug8tBbvODuFBHBqo5BJoWJYoCFU1Y9hyphenhyphen49HOZkKmYQ1Lwt46iYUVQI3p_0ND-gCMo45xcanri/s400/mama+16+kiss.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpXlS7z5KMmMWrIXySOXfn4R0EzJYciAgB74YuoZyZcYrKa4QvqFT6lIyOxptzSdBoeCnDnOkTKRZ2Pm9d6db0P6oKv-Ux_YrlGtd_CukqlENuWnqTo1baXkEdtLkbZrrAldpHgQRP7S63/s1600/mama+16+kiss.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></a><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> <i>hug your hounds</i></span><br />
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</span><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://patience-please.blogspot.com</div>Patience-pleasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13262203054740351060noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2996513531142597091.post-18044005356454708682013-11-02T13:52:00.000-05:002013-11-02T13:52:12.240-05:00Gracious<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjtHAzyDD50XdgX6kjUI8wMoMZ1FpLTa4jtFQtKFhUVCn98J-3TaAeXdwNl8xkMwoHpE7dVpjEaB3PkcJVnpkvZj1Bc5HSLhh7t2DNXinTgQrewYLuY9smzApxgm8Vs8pFxEv2bWyUGwIx/s1600/gracious+young.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjtHAzyDD50XdgX6kjUI8wMoMZ1FpLTa4jtFQtKFhUVCn98J-3TaAeXdwNl8xkMwoHpE7dVpjEaB3PkcJVnpkvZj1Bc5HSLhh7t2DNXinTgQrewYLuY9smzApxgm8Vs8pFxEv2bWyUGwIx/s320/gracious+young.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">On the first of November in 1991 my first whippet was born. A</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">t the time n</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">either she nor I had the slightest inkling that we would meet and that she would change my life rather dramatically; or maybe <i>she</i> knew. Dogs do know things.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I got Gracious when she was six months old. I was her fifth home. After she had been with me for three months, I went to visit a faraway friend for a week. When I returned, Gracious was nearly bald. Her hair had fallen out. I promised her I wouldn't leave her again. And I didn't.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Gracious had the best memory of any dog - or human for that matter - I've ever encountered. I nearly lost her at a dog event when she saw Lesley Potts. I didn't know Lesley. Gracious had lived with Lesley for a few weeks when she was an eleven week old pup. She was eight months old at the time, and she saw her old friend and bolted to greet her, nearly pulling her lead from my hand. I learned to hold on to Gracious's lead extra tight whenever we were somewhere that Lesley might be.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Then there was Linda. All of my dogs adored Linda. Well, so do I! Gracious bestowed her highest honor upon Linda: she gave my dearest friend her one and only puppy, Willow. There was absolutely no question of her gift, or of her pleasure and satisfaction at Linda's acceptance.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Throughout Willow's life, at least once a week Linda would drive the hour to our farm to visit and walk, and Gracious and Willow would revel in the fantastic-ness of their reunion. Gracious would greet her daughter, and thank Linda and share her glee. Light would shine in our farmhouse kitchen. It was a delicious contagion; a warm smile erupts even now as I remember.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Gracious got me started with my appreciation of European whippets. Her dad was the ultra-traveled, highly successful Kiwi: AM, DK, FR, Int CH Beautiful Dreamer du Sac à Malices. I think he even went to Japan an got his championship there, as well. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Gracious got me started. She got me started showing. Got me started lure coursing and racing. Got me started in obedience and agility. The fun, </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><i>the joy</i>,</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">the friendships, </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><i>the joy</i>,</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> the addiction, <i>the joy</i>, the commitment, </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><i>the joy</i>,</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> all of that love, and all of that <i>joy</i>. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_6QAAviIx_Ju9WKkH4UqVHD10Q9vCf7yD0IXbKmFGL6CR0aOmmDw8lWLjB8yqU799Gj2Qw9_nEOX3chwqEVa12TefMI4zoAaWWSNadsIeKkTROUjE2wl9zpnCkHwiQrWt0oKORhGe9rjs/s1600/gracious+kiss+ss.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_6QAAviIx_Ju9WKkH4UqVHD10Q9vCf7yD0IXbKmFGL6CR0aOmmDw8lWLjB8yqU799Gj2Qw9_nEOX3chwqEVa12TefMI4zoAaWWSNadsIeKkTROUjE2wl9zpnCkHwiQrWt0oKORhGe9rjs/s320/gracious+kiss+ss.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>Top photo by me, middle photo by Laurie Erickson, bottom photo by Steve Surfman.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>hug your hounds and hold your memories close</i></span></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://patience-please.blogspot.com</div>Patience-pleasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13262203054740351060noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2996513531142597091.post-67348622396721730882013-09-29T10:48:00.000-05:002013-09-29T13:02:59.911-05:00Sucky day I laugh at you hahahahahahahahaha. Be gone.<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="344" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/z3D5zObUFH4" width="459"></iframe><br />
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Mama Pajama hadn't done her trademark morning spinzoomies in a week. This was not unheard of, but troubling. She had left some food in her bowl on a few occasions, and a couple of times she couldn't make the stairs and had to be carried. Today, the 29th of September, she is sixteen years and three months old, so none of this is surprising. But.<br />
<br />
Yesterday morning, I could tell from the way she bounced and wagged from our bedroom to the kitchen door this was going to be a zoomie day, and I was ready, iPad in hand.<br />
<br />
She outdid herself!<br />
<br />
We came in (juggling the breedable Tindra with the Boys with Balls - her father and brother - so we would have NONE OF THAT), fed everyone their breakfast, gave Tindra a chewie in her protected castle tower, and sat down to my own. (Breakfast, not chewie.) I went to upload my treasure to YouTube. (Have I lost you? I need more coffee. I'm back to the video of Mama Pajama doing her zoomies.) (And this is probably enough parentheses for one post.) (Already.) I pushed the 'upload to YouTube' button.<br />
<br />
Crash.<br />
<br />
Again.<br />
<br />
Crash.<br />
<br />
Again.<br />
<br />
Crash, crash, crash. I hadn't had but a sip of coffee at that point and the Boys with Balls were singing, as they had been since about 5:00 AM, addling my two functioning brain cells further, so I repeated the futile behavior about 1,738 times with, surprisingly, the exact same results. Crash. And then I surmised the problem.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">iOS 7. The dirty little bastard. Dammit!</span><br />
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</span> If you haven't downloaded it, friends: don't. Enough on that. You can thank me later. Nothing works, what does work takes ten times longer, and it's oh so frustrating.<br />
<br />
Since Wednesday Paducah has been hosting BBQ on the River. Six blocks from our house, according to the official Paducah.gov website, "50 plus BBQ teams from Western Kentucky and beyond cook up over 60 tons of meat" slowly over hickory. I told Laurie it was 150. Close. Our normal walking route is crowded with 200,000 - guessing, probably more - people who come to 'pig' out. So I thought, "This day started sucky, and I'm going to change that. I shall go for a lovely walk, two actually, <i><b>now</b></i> while the streets are empty, and the sidewalks are all ours. That will lessen the frustrations of the Boys with Balls and I will get over my frustration with iOS7. The dirty little bastard."<br />
<br />
The first walk was Sam I Am, Lindy Loo, and <strike>Horny Butt</strike>, I mean darling Tindra. It's a shorter walk because Sammy is eleven and has an old back injury. Strange how many cars were in the neighborhood already. And people, very strange. It wasn't even 8:00 AM yet. I put the first three back and got the howling Boys with Balls. Their walk is two miles, so it's a much broader circle. I saw the cones. Then my friend Heather pulled up. "Hi Heather!!! Whatcha doing?" "Signing up the kids for the race." "Race?" "Yes, there's a 10K and a 5K and a 1K or 1/2 K later on for the kids." "Oh."<br />
<br />
So, I got to visit with my friend Heather, which is always a good thing, but instead of dealing with 200,000 people with greasy fingers, we dealt with 500,000 people running <i>at</i> us, up <i>behind</i> us, zooming<i> by</i> us. It all started two blocks from our house. So much for a peaceful morning walk. So much for my big idea.<br />
<br />
I will skip the three hours I assassinated trying to design an ad for the dogs. That is normally a rewarding activity for me. It was not. In fact, I was a foolish old woman crying to my computer, trashing every futile attempt, thinking well, that's three hours of my life I'll never get back and I still don't have an ad.<br />
<br />
I am the luckiest woman on Earth for a bazillion reasons. One of those is that when <strike>Horny Butt</strike>, I mean darling Tindra gets to the point in her season where the Boys with Balls start panting, shaking, and throwing up, Saints Lee and Dee let her come live with them. This is a love/hate situation for me. I LOVE that they are generous enough to do this, thus preserving everyone's sanity and my marriage. I HATE having to send away my puppy who is not a puppy but is two years old, though since she is the youngest dog in the house, she is my puppy. I cry.<br />
<br />
So, I thought, "I'll do a happy thing." Some amazingly generous souls had recently given me a gift certificate for a new iPhone. I got my last one for a buck at the AT&T store because it was so outdated. I thought, "I'll go to the AT&T store and get my new, fancy iPhone and shew this sucky day to oblivion. Then I'll come home and do the 43 loads of laundry, and zip through the 21 hours of continuing ed I need to complete by the end of October to keep my nurse's license." Which just might be the thing weighing the most heavily on my head, making the day sucky no matter what.<br />
<br />
I bounced into the AT&T store. Odd. There were people sitting in groups of three at tables as though it were a coffeehouse. A check-in man at a podium at the front of the store spoke to another man. They both went out of their way to ignore me. I circled them, much the way the Boys with Balls have been circling <strike>Horny Butt</strike>, I mean darling Tindra's crate for the past two weeks. I may have even kicked imaginary dirt, such was my excitement.<br />
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After a good five minutes of ignored circling I said, "Excuse me. I'm sorry to interrupt. I'd like to purchase the new iPhone!" I knew the check-in-man would be tickled: a customer! And for a new model, not the $1 variety.<br />
<br />
Without remotely turning in my direction, or acknowledging my meager existence, the check-in-man said to his ear piece, "There's at least an hour wait."<br />
<br />
I looked around to see to whom he could be speaking. I tried again. "Excuse me, sir. I'd like to purchase a new iPhone!"<br />
<br />
This time he made eye contact. "An hour. Or more."<br />
<br />
Which is why I'm writing this from Jail. I feel bad for the cleaning people at the AT&T store, though the new enzyme products get blood out of carpet pretty well. I don't have a new iPhone. I think Bill has started on our laundry. And I won't need to complete those pesky 21 hours of CEUs if I'm incarcerated, now will I?<br />
<br />
It's a whole new day!<br />
<br />
<i>hug your hounds</i><br />
<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://patience-please.blogspot.com</div>Patience-pleasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13262203054740351060noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2996513531142597091.post-22698671699783378892013-09-17T07:35:00.000-05:002013-09-17T07:35:03.534-05:00Walking Nekkid?I have been walking for so many years like this:<br />
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That if I have to walk anywhere without my dogs, I feel as though I'm walking like this:<br />
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<i>Hug your hounds, fully clothed please and thank you!</i><br />
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<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://patience-please.blogspot.com</div>Patience-pleasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13262203054740351060noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2996513531142597091.post-88808264620850414742013-09-14T12:08:00.001-05:002013-09-14T12:08:13.184-05:00Life With A Sixteen Year Old Dog<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Here is Mama Pajama this morning. We celebrated her sixteenth birthday in June. She was born on June 29, 1997 into my hands, so we are not guessing her age. Her sister, Jessie, is also thriving in Baltimore and loved by her Linda. We lost their brother Fat Charlie just this spring. Good genes.<br />
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Those of you who have shared your world with a Very Old Dog will understand. You'll nod and your heart might feel a bit full and for a moment you'll have to think about breathing. In. Out now. In again. Okay.<br />
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It's that juxtaposition of one moment you're staring hard: oh please! Are you still with me? And you see your old dog's ribs moving and yes everything is fine. You go back to getting dressed, or doing the laundry. And the next moment your old dog is looking at you through her cloudy eyes and wagging her tail. She smiles at you, which makes her sneeze. You laugh. You scratch her neck and she's not sixteen, she's just your dog like she has been for sixteen years. More than half of your thirty year marriage. Feels like she's been with you forever.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiymfgKxmQoZ8LtAcn68ubibPdY5e0YdW8cq8bOGZU8bF3dBMLQ6FF0gTg2BaxJmg7JKSyMfhbaEybOJVf-Iy5mRAxSiQp9DzCWpiO8J_pJSl5mPgmn_A9D81_HzDx3YgUUFPSKhpSJH_UU/s1600/Mama+Pajama+scratch.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiymfgKxmQoZ8LtAcn68ubibPdY5e0YdW8cq8bOGZU8bF3dBMLQ6FF0gTg2BaxJmg7JKSyMfhbaEybOJVf-Iy5mRAxSiQp9DzCWpiO8J_pJSl5mPgmn_A9D81_HzDx3YgUUFPSKhpSJH_UU/s320/Mama+Pajama+scratch.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Mama Pajama is particular. She always has been, in her quiet little way. She will not sleep in our bed. Will not. We have seven crates in our bedroom. Mama Pajama's "crate" is the first soft-side (mesh) I ever bought, back in the '90s. The zipper broke somewhere around 2001, so the flap stays open 24/7. She has always been an upper-berth-er. No bottom crates for her. Which means she still jumps in and out of her crate. Which means I try to help her every single time and every single time she sees my approach, gets a stubborn look on her face, jumps in or out by herself, and then turns around and tells me told you so.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8r0vGkPm8w1G2xcaufre1Ayiol3bgn1X9UMpodGn-hry80KC-MLRZHo83LyK_YDv5pH1vPDHgbO3JU6V0A8KvfiUgGwLio6hGs_QPNsWfAzL8wXAnN2QOASvXLDg1ByoF5cH9-jO1Naiy/s1600/Mama+Pajama+crate.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8r0vGkPm8w1G2xcaufre1Ayiol3bgn1X9UMpodGn-hry80KC-MLRZHo83LyK_YDv5pH1vPDHgbO3JU6V0A8KvfiUgGwLio6hGs_QPNsWfAzL8wXAnN2QOASvXLDg1ByoF5cH9-jO1Naiy/s320/Mama+Pajama+crate.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
We have - mostly - come to an agreement concerning stairs. She agrees to wait for me, unless she is absolutely positive she doesn't need my help, in which case she launches herself willy-nilly and I have a heart attack every single time.<br />
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There are more agreements. I give her a nightly all-over massage. She gives me one kiss at some point during said massage. I stick to her schedule. You can't have a Very Old Dog without sticking to their schedule. And even though I stick to her schedule like it's Velcro and I'm dog bed fluff, I understand there will be Accidents and the Accidents are All My Fault. You have the immense privilege of a Very Old Dog in your life? You pay for that privilege with clean up. That's the deal and it's a great good deal.<br />
<br />
I feed her her very favorite food, until she decides it's poison, then I find her new very favorite food, and feed her that. She holds up her end of the bargain by licking her bowl of Grape-Nuts and goat milk, or boiled meat and oatmeal bread with the sugar snap peas cut up into indiscernible bits shiny clean. Woo-weeee now that is some happiness: the shiny clean bowl of a sixteen year old dog!<br />
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Sometimes, because I am only human, I do not live up to an agreement. Last week I forgot to turn on my bedside lamp in the evening. We were watching TV in the other room and I thought, "Crap! I forgot to turn on a light for Mama Pajama." I spilled all the dogs who were using me for extra cushions and ran in to our dark room and flicked on the light. I found Mama Pajama facing the <i>back</i> of her crate, staring hard with her filmy eyes and special ears at the <i>wall</i>, wondering why on earth I had shut her in. "Oh honey, I'm sorry!" I told her. "Here!" I clapped my hands. "Here! You're not closed in, you're just backwards, sweetheart!" Because she is <u>not</u> only human, she forgave me.<br />
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She has forgiven me for so much in 16 plus years. Only dogs and God are capable of that. All the nail dremelings, tooth scalings, late dinners. The getting left behinds, that whole nightmare of her illness, the accidental toes stepped on, the empty water dishes. I mean really, as you know, it's infinite.<br />
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But after all of that, with all of my disappointing shortcomings, she is here, welcoming me home.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPbMypDHreTjdTvOEz7N8-FRdFbm89KMSx99D0yTFYdVfjLZTKLKrR_hl0n4ktinMO6oHN3V7nJAMd1XpkcYq9Dx9ZEteavdm79LkiADdzp-8-nNkAqirpNFgZsd4gAIXQaULmIhLLrqy7/s1600/Mama+Pajama+welcome+home.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPbMypDHreTjdTvOEz7N8-FRdFbm89KMSx99D0yTFYdVfjLZTKLKrR_hl0n4ktinMO6oHN3V7nJAMd1XpkcYq9Dx9ZEteavdm79LkiADdzp-8-nNkAqirpNFgZsd4gAIXQaULmIhLLrqy7/s320/Mama+Pajama+welcome+home.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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And I am the luckiest person on earth.<br />
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<i>Hug your hounds...</i><br />
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<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://patience-please.blogspot.com</div>Patience-pleasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13262203054740351060noreply@blogger.com41tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2996513531142597091.post-28584736765204822412012-11-27T11:08:00.003-06:002012-11-27T11:08:48.941-06:00My thought for the moment:<br />
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<i>hug your hounds - in private or splashed all over your facebook page!</i></div>
<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://patience-please.blogspot.com</div>Patience-pleasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13262203054740351060noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2996513531142597091.post-73634016938773878852012-11-25T15:24:00.001-06:002012-11-25T15:48:54.915-06:00Hey BOOK Lovers! Read Kathryn Magendie now!Want to read a good book - or four?<br />
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<a href="http://www.bellebooks.com/shopexd.asp?id=60"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://www.kathrynmagendie.com/images/stories/tgraces.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
Early in my blogging adventure, I found the blog of a magical man in Canada. We became friends. I developed a deep affection and admiration for this person I'd never met. So much so, that when he died after contracting esophageal cancer, I<a href="http://patience-please.blogspot.com/2010/07/barry.html"> mourned.</a> Barry introduced me to another blog writer, Kat. "I think you will enjoy her writing," he said. "She's good."<br />
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And, as was often the case, my friend Barry was right. Kat is a good writer. In the time that I've 'known' her, (we've never met), she has had four, count 'em<b><i> four</i></b>, novels published. Four! Plus she contributed to a collection of short stories, <a href="http://www.bellebooks.com/shopexd.asp?id=124">The Firefly Dance</a>, and she edits an online literary journal, <a href="http://www.roseandthornjournal.com/">Rose & Thorn</a>.<br />
<br />
Three of her novels are a trilogy: <a href="http://www.bellebooks.com/shopdisplayproducts.asp?Search=Yes&sppp=10&page=1&Keyword=magendie&category=ALL&highprice=0&lowprice=0&allwords=magendie&exact=&atleast=&without=&cprice=&searchfields=">Tender Graces, Secret Graces, and Family Graces.</a> (This link takes you to her publisher's website, where you can purchase the paperbacks. All of Kat's work is available in ebook form and from Amazon, etc., but since yesterday was Small Business Saturday, well, there you go. She also wrote a stand alone novel,<a href="http://www.bellebooks.com/shopexd.asp?id=98"> Sweetie</a>, which I loved, loved, loved. Oh I love them all.<br />
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Kat's characters are real. Her language is musical, lyrical, lilting, what? I'm no book reviewer, but I am a snobby reader. The writing takes me to impossible places, and I am right there, hanging on, smelling the mountain, and shaking my hair in the wind. You know the books. You pick up your book so that you can fall asleep after a long day. Sure enough your eyelids get droopy because you are tired, but the book makes you fight with all your strength to keep on reading, because you can't stop. You are sad when the book ends because the characters have become important to you and you'll miss them. You end up thinking about them years later, and you reread the book, finding a new layer this time.<br />
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I don't know how a writer gets 'discovered'. (Obviously! ha hahahahaha!) But I know this: you will enjoy her books.<br />
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So what are you waiting for!!!<br />
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Curl up with a great book, and<br />
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<i>hug your hounds</i><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://patience-please.blogspot.com</div>Patience-pleasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13262203054740351060noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2996513531142597091.post-22598325423272119652012-11-20T11:36:00.001-06:002012-11-20T11:37:33.612-06:00I am a Tiger. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVXcloJjkMUdkr5vq-nXo8HLPH-1fdMiDpoQ8LIwcDoAg7pz73CM_ZDYFUkbItKC3G2x-IWTijWywmygO-puhkgtGZsJl5Qr7YeFnjJtJh9QVqoxaAEinkewI8AB8FgqAVXuquT8R0i8GF/s1600/me+work.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="201" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVXcloJjkMUdkr5vq-nXo8HLPH-1fdMiDpoQ8LIwcDoAg7pz73CM_ZDYFUkbItKC3G2x-IWTijWywmygO-puhkgtGZsJl5Qr7YeFnjJtJh9QVqoxaAEinkewI8AB8FgqAVXuquT8R0i8GF/s400/me+work.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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I worked the weekend. It wasn't a horrible weekend. I finished work and left the hospital at 8:00 PM on Sunday. </div>
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Not bad at all.</div>
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Monday morning the dogs let us sleep until 6:15, woohoo! Fat Charlie had some diarrhea during the night, sometime after he asked and we let him go out at 1:30 AM. It wasn't hard to clean. He can't help it. I don't care. Oh I hate cleaning dogshit as much as anyone, but I don't care. He is the World's Best Oldest Dog In Our House.</div>
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Pottied dogs, fed dogs, washed dog bowls, fed me, remarked on day's news with Bill. (Mostly I grunted unintelligible 'unh's' while Bill remarked on the day's news stories.) Settled onto the couch in the teal hoodie footie (only have photographic evidence of the Big Pink Thing, so you'll have to imagine it in dark teal) to watch my new favorite morning show, CBS This Morning.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm too sexy for my ... to sexy for my ... No, I'm really not.</td></tr>
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I got up to pee. (That's a good thing!) Bill was in his study. I said, "It is purely amazing how my body feels after working the weekend. It feels like in the old days when I had a bad fall from a horse at speed. Even my toes hurt." <br />
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"Well," said dear Bill, "All you have to do today is keep the couch in place."<br />
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I walked into our guest bathroom. "BILL!" <i>Crap! </i>"There's a bird in the guest bathroom." I promptly walked out of the guest bathroom, closing the door so quickly that I caught part of the ass of my teal hoodie footie in it.<br />
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I don't do birds in the house. Bill doesn't do bats in the house, so it all works out. Bill opened the window and out flew the grateful bird. The guest bathroom was, er, bathed in birdshit. Walls, tub, sink, floor, toilet, paintings, birdshit birdshit birdshit. It's a white tile floor.<br />
<br />
I have a confession, or maybe two. Bless His Heart Bill returned to the guest bathroom with inappropriate cleaning equipment. He was going to try to clean up the birdshit birdshit birdshit. He is truly a Good Man. I (ever the ingrate) said, "That won't work. I'll clean it. Thanks anyway." And then I decided it could wait until the next time I had to get up.<br />
<br />
The couch, the dogs, and the I were one.<br />
<br />
My phone rang. The number was my unit at work. DON'T ANSWER THE PHONE!!!! Oh I had to. What if they had a question about something with one of my patients from the weekend.<br />
<br />
"Croak," I said. (Translation: hello.)<br />
<br />
"Hi, Patience." It was our unit coordinator. "Is there any way you could come in? Two people are out sick, and they're already up to six patients each, and we're still admitting."<br />
<br />
"Croak," I said. (Translation: think, brain, think! Please think of an excuse! Come ON BRAIN, THINK!) The best I could do was to say I would check with Bill and call right back. Six patients is a nightmare. More than six is plain old dangerous. Oh how I wish I had a not my problem brain. All my life, I can't even watch a scary movie, because I can't do the not my problem. Bill would be my salvation.<br />
<br />
"They are short at work and want me to come in." I just knew Bill would tell me no, you are way too tired, and I love you, and I'm putting my foot down. You get back on that couch and hold it in place!.<br />
<br />
"Well, that's up to you," he said. And then he uttered the unutterable, the bastard traitor. "You do whatever you think is right."<br />
<br />
I showered, dressed, grabbed a piece of bread, and went in. It was fine. Eight hours is a piece of cake! A tiny piece of cake. I had wonderful patients and I got to see my patients from the weekend who had stuff going on and I wanted to see them anyway. It's always nice when you can make other people's day better, and because of my your problem is my problem brain, I knew that just my being there made the five other nurses' days instantly better like magic. That's pretty darn potent.<br />
<br />
Bill and I have tickets to see West Side Story at the Carson Center tonight. I might nod off, and I can't say I'm looking forward to leaving my dogs and couch, but I'm sure it will be fun once I get there. Now I need to walk the dogszzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.<br />
<br />
And then ... there's some birdshit I need to clean up. Even after magic, life goes on.<br />
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<i>hug your hounds</i><br />
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<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://patience-please.blogspot.com</div>Patience-pleasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13262203054740351060noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2996513531142597091.post-5519399517739530982012-11-16T14:02:00.000-06:002012-11-16T14:02:48.309-06:00A Fitting Life<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG-WbO3KbD8TOxx9HSYmakIKHqukE9z4bughQhxRkAxYzX-hhyphenhyphenRe5tHgu0iWSjAR7QXJ2-p3n2OdqBbd3y9YdG9KP_TyrT2ahfQ1NI9WEFrUAVgokET7dFs8ZKMbb9vLWY19Xubo1qCraE/s1600/me+MN+LE+001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG-WbO3KbD8TOxx9HSYmakIKHqukE9z4bughQhxRkAxYzX-hhyphenhyphenRe5tHgu0iWSjAR7QXJ2-p3n2OdqBbd3y9YdG9KP_TyrT2ahfQ1NI9WEFrUAVgokET7dFs8ZKMbb9vLWY19Xubo1qCraE/s400/me+MN+LE+001.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo credit: my dear friend Laurie Erickson</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Do you ever feel that you were plopped into someone else's life? Or that your life is somehow a size too large or small? That whole drink me eat me Alice in Wonderland scene.<br />
<br />
I do.<br />
<br />
It is difficult to acknowledge, much less write about; then again, the writing gods have been partying elsewhere for so long, might as well.<br />
<br />
<i>"Might as well, as well as not, once the pants is down." </i>I cannot say 'might as well' without hearing my sainted mother-in-law's voice. <i>"Might as well, as well as not, once the pants is down." </i> Who knows where she got that, but it still makes me laugh.<br />
<i><br /></i>
I live in a southern city. On a river. I grew up, first in the Berkshire Mountains of western Massachusetts, and then in the rolling horse country north of Baltimore, Maryland. My family was full of generations of educational snobs. Princeton, Vassar. My ancestors were Presbyterians and Quakers. I was confirmed in the Episcopalian church. I now work at a Baptist hospital. One of my co-workers, who was worried for my soul, asked, "Episcopalian? I've never heard of that. Is that like Amish?"<br />
<br />
I sound funny here. Though I must admit to saying, more than once, at the end of a twelve hour shift, "Yes, I'm<i> fixin'</i> to get your pain medicine now." I'm fixin'. I've always been a parrot.<br />
<br />
I love the people I work with. They are good people. Smart, caring, funny, highly skilled, and professional. Dedicated. And they are kind to me. In our crowded nursing station when someone asked who I would vote for, and I said, "President Obama," there was a stunned silence. Eyes met each others' but not mine. "Are you really?" They were still nice to me.<br />
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And then I say I have eight dogs. Two fifteen and a half year olds, a twelve year old, a ten year old, two six year olds, an almost two year old, and a yearling. <i>Are any of them indoor dogs? </i>"They all sleep in our bedroom," I say. <i>Really! </i>They say. They look at me a little sideways, with an involuntary narrowing of their eyelids. They feel compelled to tell me about a wonderful dog they used to have, who got hit by a car in front of their house.<br />
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I feel like I have landed on a planet that looks like Earth.<br />
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If you had ever told me that I'd be living without horses in a city, I'd have told you to keep smoking whatever you were smoking. Me without a horse? Not in this lifetime. After that lifetime of nothing but wide open countryside, I walk my dogs on sidewalks. The same sidewalks as the day before, and the day before that, and now it's been ten years of day before that.<br />
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I love it here. I love the people, and the spirit, and the heart of this place. I love Victoria's Secret push-up Angels Fantasies bras, too, but that doesn't mean they fit! Hahahahahahahahahahahahaha! If I'm going to shop at Victoria's Secret, I better find myself a pair of flannel PJs and the free matching slippers; or maybe just go for the slippers and call it a day!<br />
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I need a hair cut. Badly. Maybe that's all it is. There<i> are</i> times when I feel I fit just right. Any time I'm with my husband. (Oh, alright. <i>Almost </i>all of the time. That's the worst whack-a-doodle - when Bill and I get out of sync.) Being on the couch under a pile of whippets fits just fine, you may have noticed from my incessant Facebook photos. When I am listening to my patient who has just received a horrible diagnosis, or news of a cure, and my empathy makes a difference, or I'm re-positioning my hospice patient and am able to make them comfortable, that feels like a <i>perfect</i> fit.I sail through those moments.<br />
<br />
Howsa bout it? Does your life fit? Is it just me being a spaz?<br />
<br />
I know one thing that helps, so I'll pass it on:<br />
<br />
<i>hug your hounds</i><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://patience-please.blogspot.com</div>Patience-pleasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13262203054740351060noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2996513531142597091.post-31614791682345937632012-11-15T15:28:00.001-06:002012-11-15T15:28:56.726-06:00Fat Charlie is OkayI was going to title this simply "Fat Charlie" but when you have a fifteen and a half year old dog, and you title your blog post "Fat Charlie" everyone would gasp and think that he died. So I added the "is okay" to prevent heart attacks among Fat Charlie's many dear friends.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6ZoQRBUTpMC8sm8qL26_hsaD8cH1CU07i3TNufGuv5kR4dVCYql-nh0RUg8NfBTl-8AL62V35HBAcnGd8knKufc2gdE8YScobdOEtw5jOGOeX0bRFT3AEAAOp8SEBVwHzWEBMBjFfOiHi/s1600/fat+charlie+11+12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6ZoQRBUTpMC8sm8qL26_hsaD8cH1CU07i3TNufGuv5kR4dVCYql-nh0RUg8NfBTl-8AL62V35HBAcnGd8knKufc2gdE8YScobdOEtw5jOGOeX0bRFT3AEAAOp8SEBVwHzWEBMBjFfOiHi/s320/fat+charlie+11+12.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Here he is, right this very minute, lying next to my chair as I type. He's okay. He has laryngeal paralysis. It doesn't bother him mostly, but three times in the last year (most recently Monday morning before I left for work) his larynx has gone into spasm. He can't get air in or out. He gets so oxygen starved that he is incontinent and his legs slowly buckle. The first time it happened, I thought I was watching him die.<br />
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As he is about to lose consciousness, the larynx muscle doesn't have enough oxygen supply to stay in a spasm and it relaxes. Air goes whooshing in and out, and Fat Charlie looks up at me with big eyes that understand more than I can. The first two times it happened, I screamed for Bill in a panic. This last time Bill happened to be right there in the room. I calmly held Fat Charlie, and told him you're okay bud you're okay, and when he started getting some air in and out in big deep hungry gulps, it was Bill - my steady, one you want in an emergency, keep his head and assess the situation, Bill - who said, "Well. I am certainly glad THAT didn't happen while you were at work! My God, that was awful."<br />
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Now Bill understands why I screamed for him the other two times. In a high pitched help me I ain't birthin' no babies terrified Friday the Thirteenth aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa Biiiiiiiiiilllllllllllllllllllll kind of scream. By the time he got to me the other two times, Fat Charlie was already at the whooshing air in and out stage, and Bill (might have) thought I was being a nanny booboo. Now he understands.<br />
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Mama Pajama fell down our entire staircase the other day. She hates to be helped. Hates, hates, hates it. I try to get a gentle hold of her collar at the top of the stairs. She dodges. And wham! Thump! Crash! Down, down, down. My heart hits each step with her little sideways body. She gets to the bottom, stands up, and looks at me.<br />
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"Oh, Mama Pajama! Are you okay?"<br />
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Mama Pajama is okay.<br />
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I, on the other hand, have 25,007 new grey hairs.<br />
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Having two fifteen and a half year old dogs is not for sissies. Just sayin'.<br />
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<i>Hug your hounds</i><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://patience-please.blogspot.com</div>Patience-pleasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13262203054740351060noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2996513531142597091.post-12493219029592103902012-10-25T22:44:00.002-05:002012-10-25T22:44:25.908-05:00On the subject of sags-----<br />
I bent over to give Mama Pajama some fresh water and some scritches; it's part of our bed time ritual.<br />
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"Do you realize how much weight you've lost in your butt and your legs," asked Bill?<br />
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We have changed what we eat. Radically.<br />
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I looked at my thighs and, as best as I could, my butt.<br />
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"They sure are saggy," I said. "I have old lady saggy thighs."<br />
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"Yes," said Bill.<br />
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We laughed. He tried to make it better.<br />
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"I mean," he said, "you have other parts that sag <i><b>much</b></i> worse than your thighs."<br />
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We laughed more.<br />
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<i>hug your hounds, and people who make you laugh</i><br />
<i><br /></i><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://patience-please.blogspot.com</div>Patience-pleasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13262203054740351060noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2996513531142597091.post-4936499941863330572012-10-21T14:55:00.000-05:002012-10-21T14:55:47.354-05:00Of Dreams and Friends<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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... I woke this morning from a dream about my late best friend, Alison. I was crying. Oh, thank God, it was only a dream.</div>
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I have a history of these dreams. I waited for two years to dream about my mother. She died when I was twenty. I looked forward to seeing her in my dreams. When I finally did, I dreamed I found her, alive and well. It had all been a misunderstanding. </div>
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"You're alive," I cried! Thinking her to be dead had been a strange and terrible mistake, and she was not only alive, but glowing with health. "You're alive, alive, alive!!!"</div>
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"Yes." She dismissed my elation with a roll of her dream eyes, something she would never have done in real life. "I have a doctor's appointment. Can you drive me? I can't find my keys."</div>
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The dream was in dull black, white, grey. I drove my mother to the doctor's office, where we were told that she had cancer for real now, and was dying. </div>
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Sucker punch.</div>
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I had that dream over and over again, and each time I woke sobbing and exhausted.</div>
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So, I should not be surprised that when I dreamed of Alison this morning, she was in a coma, and I was solely responsible for her care. I also had to walk the dogs - all of them, past and present, all at once - on a steep ledge in a slippery wet snowstorm. I came in from the walk and rolled my best friend Alison over, so she wouldn't develop bedsores, but my hands were so cold. I felt horrible because I wanted to put fresh linens on her bed, and a cute pair of flannel pajamas on her, but there was no time. I was late.</div>
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In <i>real</i> life, the<i> real</i> Alison and I loved to talk about our dreams and what they meant. She was the first I told about the dream about my mother. We spent hours together. Each of us in not great relationships. We rode our horses together. We spent hours driving to horse stuff. Alison was generous enough to take me and my horse in her truck and trailer. We talked and laughed and listen and understood and valued each other. We talked religion and spirituality. We talked personal growth and politics. We talked food and oh we talked about those relationships we were in, each of us wishing better for the other, and we talked horses, horses, horses. We talked family. We talked, and talked, and talked. We encouraged, supported, and believed in each other.</div>
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She went back to school - Johns Hopkins, no less - to get her Master's, and then her Doctorate. I went to nursing school and got remarried. We moved and lost touch. We reconnected because Alison found this blog, and we became friends on Facebook. Those missing years evaporated, poof, and unlike my dream of my mother, Alison had survived an unsurvivable cancer, and we were right where we had been. She was enamored of the whippet puppies, and was seriously considering one from my next litter.</div>
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And then my friend Alison, in real life, died. At the height of her career. Married to the love of her life, thank God, a wonderful man whom she adored. Inexplicably, she was gone; sudden cardiac death. </div>
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Why did I dream of her last night? </div>
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Because beautiful Ali the whippet had come to visit? Alison the person had thought Ali the puppy (then cleverly called Brindle Girl) was beautiful. Ali the whippet is so well-named, that when I am around her, it is as though there is a tangible part of Alison present. And part of her spirit. I can't put words to it, without sounding like a candidate for an intervention in a long term care facility. But it's real and powerful.</div>
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Because I miss my friend Alison's professional voice in this maelstrom of political blah blah blah about economics? She would have made it all clear; that was her field and she was quickly rising to the top of it. She was brilliant. (Anyone who could make me understand economics had to be.) Paul Krugman quoted <i>her</i>.</div>
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Because I am at a Strange Place in my life? Oh how I wish she could read this and email me her thoughts. </div>
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She would make me laugh about it, I know. I mean, acrophobic me walking my dogs up a steep, narrow, slippery, icy, frigid ledge in a blinding storm, while my comatose friend needed to be turned? Gee, what could it mean? We would laugh until the water we were drinking would come out our noses. (Okay, that would be me. Alison had more class. But we would have laughed until our bellies hurt.)</div>
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I miss her. </div>
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And now I'll go and walk my dogs on this beautiful sunny day.</div>
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<i>hug your hounds and treasure your friends</i></div>
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<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://patience-please.blogspot.com</div>Patience-pleasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13262203054740351060noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2996513531142597091.post-77688964314896291782012-10-17T14:48:00.000-05:002012-10-17T14:48:01.260-05:00.. TEN! (Or The Kindness Of Friends And Strangers)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Mia and Ali are visiting. </div>
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That means the canine population in this (crazy) house consists of:</div>
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<li style="text-align: left;">Fat Charlie who is 15 and almost a half</li>
<li style="text-align: left;">Mama Pajama who is 35 minutes younger than Fat Charlie</li>
<li style="text-align: left;">Delia who will be thirteen in March. (Oh how we miss her brother Luciano, who died in August.)</li>
<li style="text-align: left;">Sam I Am, a youngster at 10 and a half.</li>
<li style="text-align: left;">Swede William. He's six.</li>
<li style="text-align: left;">Lindy Loo. She's six, too.</li>
<li style="text-align: left;">Jabber who will already be two in December how is that possible.</li>
<li style="text-align: left;">Baby Tindra who already turned one in September how is that possible.</li>
<li style="text-align: left;">and 10. Jabber's litter sister Ali, and her housemate, the ever ebullient Mia.</li>
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And Bill went away. He went to McKinney Texas where he exhibited his work in a dazzling one man show at the<a href="http://lauramooreart.com/home.html"> Laura Moore Fine Arts Gallery</a>. (If you clink on that link, and then click on portfolio, and then click on the first image - phew - you can see the paintings in the show. Which are, by the bye, for sale.)</div>
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Now, when Bill goes away and I have to work, Lee and Dee let out my dogs. Only this time Lee and Dee were going away too, and I would have <i>their</i> dogs oh..good..Lord. Enter dear friends and neighbors Deb and Karen and Steve to the rescue.</div>
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The dogs have been exemplary! Fat Charlie wasn't quite continent on the days I worked, but he did fine and Mama Pajama was excited to see her special friends. Delia and Sam I Am have been uncharacteristically gracious and have surrendered the best seats in the house to Mia - never imagined that, in my wildest dreams. Ali remembers that she was my darling pup pup and has snuggled, woo-woooed, and sparkled her way back into my heart, deep into my heart, that it's a Very Good Thing I am so fond of Lee and Dee. That's all I'm saying about that.</div>
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I've been walking them in three groups. (Today Bill walked Delia, so she isn't pictured, but she went on the first walk on the other days.)</div>
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The first walk was Sammy and Lindy Loo. We went a bit over a mile. The weather was perfect. Sixties and breezy.<br /><br />
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The second walk was Swede William and Mia. We walked two and a half miles. During the first half a block we saw two squirrels. Two STINKIN' STOOPID CITY SQUIRRELS, who chattered at us and flicked their hideous bushy tails. I was ready; I held a leash in each hand. My arms are now longer. So much longer in fact that my knuckles are dragging on the ground when I stand. This will be quite helpful at work, as I will henceforth be able to empty foley catheter bags without ever bending down! And if I'm charting, and I drop my pen? Ha! Sweet!</div>
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The third walk made me happy just because; all these related Swedish Americans on one walk. Jabberwonkus, beautiful Alison, and spunky Tindra. (In the above photo, L to R are Tindra, Ali, and Jabberdude.) I was happy - for a moment, at least. One block from our home, a large saunter-y, penultimately evil C.A.T. spat at us. Oh, really? Whippet gods you think this is funny, don't you? Ali <i>hates </i>C.A.T.s. Tindra? Tindra must have been a mouse which was tortured for days on end by a <i>gang</i> of C.A.T.s in her last life, so great is her loathing. And then there is Jabber who is only good. He takes after his Swedish grandmother, Sotis, and his American great granduncle, Fat Charlie. He is purely goodness in a dog body. He is one of those rare souls who has no concept of the meaning of "NO", because he's never heard it applied to his dear self.</div>
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When we spied the devil C.A.T., Jabber looked at me and said, "Oops. A nasty! Over there, Dear Servant." Which is<i> exactly</i> the behavior I've been training for, so he got a Good Boy treat from my pocket. Good Boy! His sisters? I will skip over the events of the next several moments other than to let any neighbors reading this know that there wasn't actually an axe murderer wreaking havoc in the neighborhood at 8:30 this morning. It was just the whippets. Sorry.</div>
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I walk these days with Pandora radio in my ears. It makes the city walks less ... city? I listen to songs from my youth: Paul Simon, Cat Stevens, James Taylor, Carol King, Elton John, John Mellencamp, and Abba. Crosby Stills Nash & Young, Rod Stewart, 60's folk, and 70's rock. I am a singer along-er. I was singing along as I walked past the Quilt Museum, when I thought I heard my name. I focused on the real world and saw a lady in the museum parking lot calling to me. I didn't recognise her.</div>
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"Patience," she called. "Are you Patience?"</div>
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"Yes," I said, pulling Sweet Baby James out of my ears.</div>
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"Oh! I thought you must be! I'm from Tennessee, and I read your blog! I knew you live in Paducah and you're always walking your dogs, so I thought that has to be Patience!"</div>
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Oh how happy this made me. And oh how sad. My poor, neglected, cobwebby blog.</div>
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"You make me laugh out loud," she said. "That <a href="http://patience-please.blogspot.com/2008/12/adventures-in-walking.html">Sexy/Taxi story</a>! I could see it all, just like I was there!"</div>
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"That happened, um, right at that corner," I said, pointing a block over, to 4th and Jefferson. We spoke some more, me apologizing for abandoning my blog, she being gracious, acknowledging the difficulty of writing and maintaining a job.</div>
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I miss my blog. I especially miss my blog friends.</div>
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I thanked this kind and timely stranger for her kind words. I hadn't thought to ask her how she had found my blog. She mentioned that she had cats, for goodness sake! I put James Taylor back into my ears. We walked over three miles on that last walk, giving me a total of six miles today. </div>
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I decided somewhere around Dolly McNutt Plaza that I would come home and write a blog.</div>
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So I did. </div>
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<i>hug your hounds and be grateful for the kindness of friends and strangers</i></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://patience-please.blogspot.com</div>Patience-pleasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13262203054740351060noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2996513531142597091.post-35273336063027098222012-09-12T12:22:00.003-05:002012-09-12T12:22:17.904-05:00Now Breathe<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1aq9P5atijVvSKWjNtk9v7vMDsyH1jO81kY3iS-c5e7PpNXAadOnMTQPwUpXQWopiwFqvjOMFWmMqFM3qj7rPaXcpGIm4ERvwQqy520deDIcH0utzx5nOGVdnskrfMQYsD8z8F6MkY_R7/s1600/bill+n+me+2009.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1aq9P5atijVvSKWjNtk9v7vMDsyH1jO81kY3iS-c5e7PpNXAadOnMTQPwUpXQWopiwFqvjOMFWmMqFM3qj7rPaXcpGIm4ERvwQqy520deDIcH0utzx5nOGVdnskrfMQYsD8z8F6MkY_R7/s320/bill+n+me+2009.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">photo Ober Kline</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Bill had his gallbladder out on August 16th. Plain old
laparoscopic cholecystectomy. Only, when his surgeon (whom I know professionally
pretty well from work) came into the surgical waiting room to tell me
everything went fine, he was not wearing his "everything went fine"
expression.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He face said, "God I hate having to tell people stuff
like this."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My heart screamed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There was something wrong in the intra-operative cholangiogram. (After they take out the gall
bladder they put dye in the common bile duct to make sure a gallstone isn't
lodged in the duct.) Only this didn't look like a stone. Or sludge. Or a benign
stricture. It <i>could </i>be one of those
things. But.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It looked like the infamous <i>'something else'</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Bill would need to have an <b>ERCP</b>. (<b>E</b>ndoscopic <b>R</b>etrograde <b>C</b>holangio<b>p</b>ancreatography).
They don’t do that at any hospital in Paducah. It’s a long, risky procedure
which makes malpractice rates go up and our gastroenterologists have plenty of
business without doing ERCPs. Bill needed to have an ERCP so they could
biopsy the common bile duct and the pancreas. To rule out pancreatic cancer. To
rule out a malignant bile duct stricture.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This couldn’t be happening.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That was Thursday. On Sunday, Luciano was put to sleep. He
hadn’t kept anything down for nine days, despite IV fluids, anti-emetics, and
pain meds, and now the ultrasound showed that <i>he</i> had a mass on <i>his</i>
pancreas. How was that possible? I had taken him in to Ol’ Poke ‘n Stick in the
early spring, saying I thought something was wrong. Nothing specific. I was afraid; Looch wasn’t quite himself. All his blood work was fine, and we decided
that I was being neurotic. I was happy. Now, he was lying in my arms, giving me
a sweet kiss, and then he was quietly gone. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpnHQRECQMLVR3Asqo9Ib86D3onff3rTKzYD_N8SfJ2WLPuHickl2I4B8qkb4zcAFv0A9_gdUFDNiOGZKwUY0xJ2DoXy3BgJ_kN0amAqQFX-84goi-LWrNha7F3mqTbL-sC7uj7yeuSqqD/s1600/LJE+7+11+006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpnHQRECQMLVR3Asqo9Ib86D3onff3rTKzYD_N8SfJ2WLPuHickl2I4B8qkb4zcAFv0A9_gdUFDNiOGZKwUY0xJ2DoXy3BgJ_kN0amAqQFX-84goi-LWrNha7F3mqTbL-sC7uj7yeuSqqD/s320/LJE+7+11+006.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-align: center;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small; text-align: center;">photo Laurie Erickson</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I was all tangled up in Looch and Bill and I was a wreck and
my vets are so very, very compassionate. What a blessing they are in my life.
Pure and simple.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The one doctor in a hospital forty-five minutes south of
here who does ERCPs was out of the country.
We saw her nurse practitioner and finally got the ERCP scheduled on
9/11. We liked the office staff very much, and we liked the folks at
registration at the hospital. Everyone had a ready smile and a sense of humor,
and there was no waiting. The first day back from the doctor’s vacation (her
European family had never met their grandson) was Monday the 10<sup>th</sup>,
so we were grateful that they scheduled Bill on the 11<sup>th</sup>. (Though we
worried – just a tinch – about jet lag.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">On Tuesday, August 21st I ran into our primary care doctor
at work and I asked him about a CT scan. “Yes,” he said. “Yes we should do one.
I’ll order it.” I saw Bill’s surgeon at work later that day and I told him I
had asked about a CT scan. The surgeon’s eyes got huge and he
patted/rubbed/grabbed my arm. (The surgeon is NOT a touchy/feely kind of guy.
At all.) “A CT scan is fine, Patience, but he still <b><i><u> has </u></i></b>to get the biopsy.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Yes, yes, we understand. It’s just … the waiting is awful,
and at least the CT scan would be doing <i>something</i>.
And if it’s normal, we can be happy about that.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Okay, of course.” (Still patting/rubbing my arm. Earnestly.
) “But he has to get the ERCP and get those brushings, even if the CT scan is
normal. He can have a CT scan, sure. But make sure they do pancreatic cuts.
They have to do pancreatic cuts.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I ducked into the locker room and crumpled. My kind Nurse
Director came in after me to see if I was okay. “It is inconceivable,” I bawled.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am surrounded by the most wonderful people. My friends!
Oh! How they put up with me! And I am
surrounded with kindness, compassion, and prayer at work. My Best Ever Charge
Nurse quickly rearranged my schedule so that I would be off when I needed to
be. My fellow nurses hugged me and switched around their schedules and prayed
and stepped up. I vacillated between
feeling overwhelmed, and touched, and silly, and terrified.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Bill and I planned a Sludge Party. If we found out that all
this fuss was because of some leftover gallbladder sludge in Bill’s Common Bile
Duct, we decided to have a potluck, bring your own Sludge, party. We’d give
prizes for the food that most resembled sludge, and for the best tasting
sludge. We joked about pesto, guacamole, chocolate mousse. Maybe hummus? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Bill was scared. I’d never seen Bill scared. In thirty years
I’d seen him concerned, angry, sad, and dismissive, but I’d never seen him
frightened; he has such faith. He didn’t
want to leave me and the kids. He didn’t want to have pancreatic cancer, or a
malignant bile duct stricture.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">From </span><a href="http://emedicine.medscape.com/article/186850-treatment#a1128">http://emedicine.medscape.com/article/186850-treatment#a1128</a>:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">The treatment of malignant bile duct strictures
(biliary strictures) requires consideration of a number of factors, the most
important being the extremely low survival and cure rates associated with the
disease. Most patients die from malignant bile duct strictures within 6-12
months.</span><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The ERCP was yesterday. A diverticulum arising from his
duodenum was mimicking a mass and pushing on his Common Bile Duct. My New Very
Favorite Thing in the World, a diverticulum. Oh how I love that sneaky little
out-pouching of intestine! I may have to name my next whippet Diverticulum. I
could call him Pouch! Warburton Duodenal Diverticulum: catchy, yes?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Bill is home. He spent a morphine-drunken night in the
hospital, unable to relieve the pain from the ERCP, but the pain is abating
now. All of those years prescribing morphine, and he’d never had it himself. He
has a huge fat lip (apparently he is a difficult intubation) and he is feeling
pretty puny. Isn’t that just the most wonderful thing? We have to wait for the
official biopsies, but the specialist was confident and y’all better start
planning your dish for the Sludge Party. Now I can miss Luciano, the way I
should. He had a good life and was a sweet dog.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It feels so good to breathe again.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>hug your hounds and everyone whom you hold dear</i></span></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://patience-please.blogspot.com</div>Patience-pleasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13262203054740351060noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2996513531142597091.post-54544437933798786692012-06-29T10:48:00.000-05:002012-06-29T11:28:38.238-05:0015th Birthdays Deserve a Blog Post!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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On June 29, 1997 my husband and I had invited friends to the farm for the first steamed crab feast of the summer. Linda and her husband and Willow, Rhonda, Terrie, and I believe Amy was in town visiting. Sara and Jake could have been there and some non-doggy friends, too. I don't remember, as the coming events have obscured the details in my memory.<br />
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I had the outdoor tables all ready in the generous shade of the old beech and hickory trees in the front yard. Newspaper covered all, held in place by stones. Mallets and nutcrackers were distributed, and rolls of paper towels made lovely centerpieces. Several tubs had been borrowed from the horses and filled with ice, beer, soda, and water. Bill returned with the bushels of crabs and we were ready.<br />
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Lilly was due around July 1st. Terrie called. "Lilly's in labor."<br />
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"What?"<br />
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"Lilly's in labor!"<br />
<br />
"But all of these people are going to be here in the next half hour."<br />
<br />
"That's nice, but Lilly's having her puppies."<br />
<br />
"Oh my God!" (I react so well in an emergency.) "Lilly's having her puppies?" (There we go: the train finally pulls into the synaptic station.) "Right! I'll be right there!"<br />
<br />
Again, my memory fails. Maybe Rhonda had spent the night at Terrie's? At any rate, soon Terrie, Rhonda, Linda, and I were ministering to dear Lilly, while Bill and guests ate crabs. (Terrie's house was three miles from our farm.)<br />
<br />
I was a newbie at this whole whelping thing. I had been present when my Gracious plopped out Willow, but that was all there was to that. I had foaled a fair number of mares, but that was of limited help here. Terrie was our expert, and of course Rhonda had been a labor and delivery nurse, but at that time she was an executive in a medical publishing conglomerate. In fact, Linda, Rhonda, and I were all R.N.s. For what that was worth.<br />
<br />
Lilly had her first two pups without a problem. They were gorgeous!!! The third one was big. I called our vet. She was in surgery, so her husband - a beef cattle farmer - parroted my words to her, and her words back to me.<br />
<br />
"She's had two puppies, and this third one seems stuck at the shoulders," I said.<br />
<br />
"She's had two puppies, and the third one seems stuck at the shoulders," he said. <br />
<br />
"Is the bitch in any distress?" asked my vet in the background.<br />
<br />
"Is the bitch in any distress?" my vet's husband asked me.<br />
<br />
"No."<br />
<br />
"She says no."<br />
<br />
"Okay, have her push one foreleg back, and pull gently on the other, during the next contraction, pulling down toward the belly, not out."<br />
<br />
"She said push ..."<br />
<br />
"I heard her," I said. "Will I hurt the bitch?"<br />
<br />
Okay, time out. When I asked if I would hurt the bitch, I <i>meant </i><b>could</b> I cause her injury. I have told you, dear readers, that my vet's husband raised beef cattle. When they calve, if there are problems, they hook up a tractor and chains to the calf, put the tractor in gear, deliver the stuck thing, and mom and baby go out and eat grass.<br />
<br />
My vet's husband did not relay my question to his wife. "Well, <b><i>of</i></b> <b><i>course it will hurt!</i></b> She's having puppies! Just get the puppy out of there." (His voice inflected, "You little twit," but he was too polite to put that into actual words.)<br />
<br />
I did as I was told and out sluiced a big, white pup. He had black ears and a brindle patch over one eye and was a huge white marshmallow. I had made a list of names from Paul Simon lyrics. "Well, there's Fat Charlie!" I said. "He'll be Warburton Archangel." No one else wanted him, and I had named him, so he was mine.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCHb7vHDLe1AcAXUlhIc3tA-kO1FHWyG2Dp5bSyqkxCPJ_UsRZRioJglVvEJ1Axol9bkn0VFG-FjF5pXUlLzl3e5sTXY3ovzb-xbIDh79C76OALrd1S2rRjOyQ2tk79ZP0PN20A5obUlQJ/s1600/fat+charlie+pup.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCHb7vHDLe1AcAXUlhIc3tA-kO1FHWyG2Dp5bSyqkxCPJ_UsRZRioJglVvEJ1Axol9bkn0VFG-FjF5pXUlLzl3e5sTXY3ovzb-xbIDh79C76OALrd1S2rRjOyQ2tk79ZP0PN20A5obUlQJ/s320/fat+charlie+pup.jpg" width="292" /></a></div>
<br />
Jessie was born. Perfectly marked, breathtakingly beautiful even at the gerbil stage, and we knew she was exactly what Linda had ordered. CH Warburton Hearts And Bones, SD, CR, OTR, Delta Pet Partner. Best of Breed at the Eastern Supported, Therapy Partner for ten years or more. Everybody loves Jessie.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgghtbVtnEEJxz_UW-I90cl-HNd19ZnqUUTxY0dv5lKpB6K6wcLhaqSi6GRU8S10I7XxTpVC5Wxq9ThrAS5ZI3-w_0abcWbxWtpRn2hhEaXCeGTgYsjF-QBpLoTMbtl50qdiGtU6yBvrmMa/s1600/Jessie+AWC+Eastern+win.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="273" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgghtbVtnEEJxz_UW-I90cl-HNd19ZnqUUTxY0dv5lKpB6K6wcLhaqSi6GRU8S10I7XxTpVC5Wxq9ThrAS5ZI3-w_0abcWbxWtpRn2hhEaXCeGTgYsjF-QBpLoTMbtl50qdiGtU6yBvrmMa/s320/Jessie+AWC+Eastern+win.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSD2-swBuGOqk9XtD2217S0T7GemBHV4_f9_6dRilN0h7QvuQXtyYgIh6wgtZz94wxNjbZfD-4bwyAm0deA0fuCSv7ARRGeYYMl3qALy6-vvp5C_muymfy6erNkf6Ar4UpQ7s0AbilEMCJ/s1600/Jessie+best+vet+win.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="289" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSD2-swBuGOqk9XtD2217S0T7GemBHV4_f9_6dRilN0h7QvuQXtyYgIh6wgtZz94wxNjbZfD-4bwyAm0deA0fuCSv7ARRGeYYMl3qALy6-vvp5C_muymfy6erNkf6Ar4UpQ7s0AbilEMCJ/s320/Jessie+best+vet+win.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>Jessie and her Linda</i></div>
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<i><br />
</i></div>
While we were still oohing and awing over Jessie, without any effort on Lilly's part, a tiny puppy fell out into the world. The runt. She was split-faced like Fat Charlie, with the same black ears, but she had brindle down three quarters of her right front leg, and a brindle saddle on her back. "She has a pajama leg," I said.<br />
<br />
Mama Pajama.<br />
<br />
When the seventh pup was born, Terrie and Rhonda took Lilly out to potty. "I'll clean up the whelping box," I said. I moved the pups aside, gathered up the dirty sheets, and placed them at the top of the stairs. Luckily I did not put them in the washing machine. Rhonda came in before Terrie and Lilly. I boasted about how fresh and clean the whelping box was.<br />
<br />
"Um, Patience?" said Rhonda.<br />
<br />
"Yes?"<br />
<br />
"You are missing a puppy."<br />
<br />
"No I'm not. There are one, two ... oh my GOD!"<br />
<br />
We ran to the dirty laundry pile. All balled up, toasty and happy as could be, was the little pajama legged puppy.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0kYWWEgHPu56t5UYECdjYfxFGdBI1BvxSJeWiFteP8QkOs6x5nMq6ahz0eMO4aRulYRKu_AgXItMiNXcl1BVPfM_TrOU4sZcJcPy2UdKqPurVBcn9Ghv6Rd7h89F0DPvzT6KEUEOQhX0e/s1600/Mama+Leapie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0kYWWEgHPu56t5UYECdjYfxFGdBI1BvxSJeWiFteP8QkOs6x5nMq6ahz0eMO4aRulYRKu_AgXItMiNXcl1BVPfM_TrOU4sZcJcPy2UdKqPurVBcn9Ghv6Rd7h89F0DPvzT6KEUEOQhX0e/s320/Mama+Leapie.jpg" width="183" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNRjWfnbzR724I6uAWNOGZRuFkFLR6If1WPva3OXnF5y4Ggo2Gt9poLadLdcmjfmcinQ0YZEbLIReTahovbAJxCMhp3DW4H9bIGyLDSkqJxL3_665u3r59hT-79kiyg3ZL-LgtypzCIsLv/s1600/fat+charlie+win.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNRjWfnbzR724I6uAWNOGZRuFkFLR6If1WPva3OXnF5y4Ggo2Gt9poLadLdcmjfmcinQ0YZEbLIReTahovbAJxCMhp3DW4H9bIGyLDSkqJxL3_665u3r59hT-79kiyg3ZL-LgtypzCIsLv/s320/fat+charlie+win.jpg" width="260" /></a></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
She wasn't supposed to be mine. The plan was we would keep her for six months and then she was going to be a service dog for a woman who was hearing impaired. Only the woman's circumstances changed. Thank God. Oh THANK YOU GOD!!!!<br />
<br />
Mollie, Colby, Breezy, and Emma are no longer on this good green earth. They were treasures who made their people's lives better.<br />
<br />
But today we celebrate Jessie's, Fat Charlie's, and Mama Pajama's FIFTEENTH birthdays.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEx6VVJyQzCR0Zjjs0eq96RXz1qVfg7V99oFkCLwxFBomVZ_0duFiRo3i8fHh-65YVmJzVXFjS2TyMd57WkJDKuXBIjxPFYKYDOSYe-NjRlOhmRz2w5D_ewl3t4wXx9jLr14ZTUh1wnvk_/s1600/Jessie+15.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEx6VVJyQzCR0Zjjs0eq96RXz1qVfg7V99oFkCLwxFBomVZ_0duFiRo3i8fHh-65YVmJzVXFjS2TyMd57WkJDKuXBIjxPFYKYDOSYe-NjRlOhmRz2w5D_ewl3t4wXx9jLr14ZTUh1wnvk_/s320/Jessie+15.jpg" width="238" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_JEXxM6cCubfCj-RULfKMsBNVdsUsG5fUBBFIK1J0rzNJ7z3byQsVGaj4h9UWXGodMYGpKpi8s8oqhEOENh-xpP5-J093hwJLTZb2dR0_e6lyxW6LWTyi6DD0DY7r5vJhCkL30BtNOuEp/s1600/friendship.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_JEXxM6cCubfCj-RULfKMsBNVdsUsG5fUBBFIK1J0rzNJ7z3byQsVGaj4h9UWXGodMYGpKpi8s8oqhEOENh-xpP5-J093hwJLTZb2dR0_e6lyxW6LWTyi6DD0DY7r5vJhCkL30BtNOuEp/s320/friendship.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Today we celebrate.<br />
<br />
<i>hug your hounds, tight to your hearts</i><br />
<br />
<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://patience-please.blogspot.com</div>Patience-pleasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13262203054740351060noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2996513531142597091.post-31152754138870989522012-04-09T11:25:00.005-05:002012-04-09T13:35:00.554-05:00The difference between dogs and humans, part 2<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjidFKKWZX6WDrk95U0wezPaxFJaZEfCi58MtzyGBwk1B9TnitWj0rKsJABqkfFMivmAzxyrV1VwKoUHpxgx6TXqNXgDwBpAFv84XbTjLaafYhg6C-p79kM8Csn1oMSnSe5328NXAaw-nLt/s1600/lindy+loo+js+face+sm.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729441934073206194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjidFKKWZX6WDrk95U0wezPaxFJaZEfCi58MtzyGBwk1B9TnitWj0rKsJABqkfFMivmAzxyrV1VwKoUHpxgx6TXqNXgDwBpAFv84XbTjLaafYhg6C-p79kM8Csn1oMSnSe5328NXAaw-nLt/s400/lindy+loo+js+face+sm.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; height: 320px; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
<span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span><br />
<div>
Time means nothing to a dog.<br />
<div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: 100%;">To us, it's everything. We measure our lives in years, our </span>existence in weeks,<span style="font-size: 100%;"> days, minutes. We make split-second decisions, and get paid by the hour.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%;">Dogs measure their lives in love, their existence in companionship, fun, purpose, and treats. They live to welcome us home, to sleep by our side, to chase a fly, and for bacon.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%;">We have so much to learn.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%;"><i>hug your hounds</i></span></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
<div>
photo credit Joe Stewart</div>
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