Saturday, November 12, 2016

Our New Reality

We must accept finite disappointment, but never lose infinite hope. 
Martin Luther King, Jr.

My new reality: that Awful Man is my President-elect.

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 my President.

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 want to believe that the Russians messed with the polls, but no. "Rigged" is not part of our 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. 

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 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.

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?

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. 

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.

If we feel that the Electoral College system is no longer the best, after 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?

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? 

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. 

This is what this horrible election has 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. 

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. 

We need to make our Government represent us 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 out of our 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.

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?

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.

"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."
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.

Or we can get to work.

Monday, March 30, 2015

Multi BIF, FC Warburton Mama Pajama, CD, FCh, CR, AV, CGC June 29, 1997 - March 30, 2015

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. 

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, please celebrate her long, generous life. 
Please think of her and smile.

hug your hounds

Many thanks to Laurie Erickson, Tim Caro, Steve Surfman, Linda Solano, and Susan Kirkham for the photos. 

Tuesday, February 25, 2014

Everybody Loved Jessie

Jessie was one of the most beautiful dogs I've ever known or seen.
She did amazing things in the show ring. 

She was from a magical litter. Jessie, Breezy, Colby, Mollie, Emma, Fat Charlie, and Mama Pajama.
 I don't know another litter that has brought their owners more joy. 
(I agree. All dogs bring infinite gifts, when allowed, to their owners.)
But please permit me the luxury of saying that this particular litter was magical.

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?"

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. 
So many did she comfort quietly.
Linda took her beautiful dog and brightened folks' days, warmed their hearts, made them smile, let them forget for a while.

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.
That kind of dog.

Before the litter was even conceived, Terrie and I had decided to give Linda the pick bitch.
The moment when Jessie was born, we all laughed and said, there she is! She's Linda's.
She is so beautiful!

When a dog lives to be sixteen years and eight months old, you can think they will go on forever.
Of course she will, in our hearts, especially Linda's.
But the Earth is a little bit less lovely now.
Heaven is even more so.

Jessie 6/29/97 - 2/22/14

hug your treasured hounds
and hold Linda gently in your hearts for a little while

Saturday, January 25, 2014

Call for Nominations for the Willow Award: Attention Therapy Whippets!

It's time to nominate a therapy whippet for the Willow Award. 

Our breed is full of quiet heroes whose stories deserve to be told and heard. 

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. 

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.) 

People think, "My whippet would be great at that," and more miracles happen. 

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. 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. 

2013 Willow Award recipient Jazz making miracles with owner Christine Heath

Please submit your nomination (remember: 1000 words or less, and up to three high res photos) to Entries close midnight on March 31st, because I HAVE to order the rosettes!

Willow and a friend.

A note about Willow:
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 AKC Award of Canine Excellence - the ACE Award now presented at Eukanuba - 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 only a whippet 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.
We ask you to

 Pass It On!

Saturday, December 21, 2013

It's raining, it's pouring, Mama Pajama isn't snoring!

When you look at the photo above you see a two-year-old smiling Mama Pajama, covered in mud, running. 

This morning if I had somehow been able to video her in the dark, in the pouring 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. 

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 a lure 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.

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."

Damned stupid fucking ice.

But yay for today! This morning, the ice has finally surrendered, and my old dog is back to trusting her hind legs. 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.

Merry Christmas to me!

Happy solstice to you!

Hug your hounds...


Thursday, November 28, 2013

Thanksgiving With A Silly Bill

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.

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.

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. 

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 sleep addled me with some lonely synapse firing, "Danger Will Smith, or old dog, or whatever precious being is careening towards the brink!"


I grabbed her by her skinny, bald tail as she hurled her fragile bones over the precipice. Gack.

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.

I don't have to say one more word about what I'm grateful for on this Thanksgiving morning, do I?

hug your hounds and your silly humans and Happy Thanksgiving, friends!

Sunday, November 10, 2013

Mama Pajama's Eyes

Yesterday I shared an old post about what I see in my old dog's eyes, 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.

 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. She seemed to know things.  She had stories to tell. 

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.

The pack: Gracious, Caruso, Mama Pajama, Giacomino, Fat Charlie, Maria. All gone now, except Mama Pajama. 

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. 

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. 

She ran against bigger whippets and she beat them. Look at her smile. Look at her go!

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.

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 more. 

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.
The photo below was actually after she got sick. It was a leapie for old times' sake. You can see it in her eyes.

When Mama Pajama got sick, her eyes told a story I didn't want to hear. 

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. 

 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. She went off by herself. She stopped looking at me. 

She stopped trusting.

She stopped having fun.

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.  I don't have photos of this time that I am willing to share. She was afraid of everything. She was afraid to run. My throat closes and burns like fire as I write these words: she was afraid of me. 

My little brave Bright Eyes was afraid of me.

I thought she had left me and I couldn't bear it.

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 that."

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!

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.

Can you blame me for sounding like a silly old fool? Can you blame me after all of those years?

She rejoined the pack. She adores her youngest great grand niece, Tindra the wild. She plays with Tindra and Jabber.

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 her slip lead. Then she exploded out of her crate, but she didn't cry.

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.

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.

 hug your hounds