Dog of my dreams

 

Jacob with Scooby, the only Aussie I've ever hard (several years ago, obviously)
Scooby deserves his own story--a wild hard but as sweet as he could be

A frustrating weekend dominated by the ongoing search for the perfect dog. Last week, we met a dog named Merle Haggard—I love his name!—a medium black dog billed as a Border Collie but what in Missouri we called a farm collie. He had been abused somewhere along the way and the foster said is terrified of everything. Indeed he was shaking with fear when we entered the foster’s house, though he went quickly to her for protection. Eventually he warmed to me enough that he would tentatively come close enough to take a treat from my hand. I felt so sorry for this baby, and, yes, I thought he would probably come to trust me so that I could keep him safe. But there are enough people in and out of my cottage that he’d spend half his life terrified and a trip to the vet would be an ordeal for man and dog. Jordan felt so sorry for him and wanted to take him, but I told her I didn’t fall in love. Someone from the rescue agency called about our meeting, and I told her the same. I have concluded this will probably be the last dog I have, and it has to be just the right fit. My intuition has to say to me, “This is the dog,” and I have to sense that the dog feels that way too. What makes it hard is that I swear this baby’s eyes were pleading with me.

I asked to meet another dog—an Aussie mix, billed as trained, calm (if Aussies are ever calm), easy I thought. The rescue person told me he was scheduled to be shipped to a rescue farm in Washington in late April, so I thought “Good, we can meet him before then. And if it goes well, he won’t have to be shipped.” The case work or whatever nixed that, saying it had been in the works for a long time and the paperwork was done. All that, of course, is reversible to me, if their mission truly is to find him a home. I felt like I’d hit a brick wall. The woman said they had a couple of Aussies and she’d send me something—she hasn’t.

I heard that this rescue agency—a big one—advertised a dog adoption at a dog park. When the day came, they said they didn’t have any dogs. They have hundreds in foster care. How is this possible? The world of dog shows is a thing unto itself, and now I am finding so is the world odf dog adoption.

Christian found a site called Rescue Me (rescue me.org)—you punch in your state, the animal you’re interested in—dog, cat, bird, horse, and some odd ones. Voila! Forty-some Aussies in Texas. I spent hours scrolling through them, marked a few as special, and landed on one I really thought was a fit. The dog is in the Houston area, very close to Colin, so he could go meet him. The dog was to have his vaccines updated and a wellness check today, and then the owner said she would like to arrange a meeting. So we wait. Meantime, I do keep scrolling.

It dawned on me in the wee hours of the morning that the Houston dog reminds me of the farm collie I had in Missouri when I was oh-so-young! My brother and the man who would become my husband were at a horse auction when a farmer came in carrying a litter of pups in a bushel basket. They bought one for me and brought her home. Joel named her Bathsheba Finkelstein, which he swore was the name of a girl he dated in the Bronx. We called her Sheba.

Sheba was a wonderful dog, sweet, easily trained, I guess, because she was fine in the house, and I don’t remember doing much. She could sit in front of a six-foot fence and fly over it. She had a litter of puppies with a beautiful, purebred mahogany male collie we had. Once, when nursing puppies, she jumped up on a counter, in my absence, and ate an entire pan of fudge. Chocolate is supposed to be lethal for dogs, but it didn’t faze Sheba. For days, when you picked up the puppies, they smelled like chocolate. When we left Missouri, we reluctantly found her a farm home where she could roam far and wide.

I sent a picture of the possible dog today to an old friend from Kirksville days, and he immediately remarked on the resemblance. So a part of me would say that six-year-old boy was meant to be mine, but adoption people everywhere warn against such magical thinking. We wait.

Christmas sitting down

 

Christmas at home was everything it should be. We have traveled for the holidays for so many years—to the other kids’ homes and, more often, to B&Bs in ski locations or a few other places, like the year we went to Boerne and rented a huge house with a guest house—all seventeen had a place to sleep.

But this year we were right here in Fort Worth, and I think Jordan and Christian were so pleased to host that they went all out. We began the day opening presents, and that in itself was a break in tradition. At Alter Christmases we eat breakfast before presents, because that’s my family tradition. But this was a Burton Christmas, and their custom is different. So we opened a huge stack of presents, and I now have a new wardrobe of sweaters, jeans, and a shacket (think shirt and jacket combo). A friend told me recently that his family put a limit on the number of presents, and all I could think was that would stifle the Christmas spirit of giving. We know no such limits in my family.

While we were opening, a delicious cheese-and-sausage egg casserole was in the oven, served with poppy seed bread from a neighbor. Christian’s family arrived in the afternoon, and we began snacking on cheeseball and fruit and a dip that his family is partial to. Jordan’s table was beautiful, set with Spode Christmas china, and her dinner bountiful—two kinds of turkey (the Burtons like smoked, the Alters like fresh, and Christian did the latter in the air fryer), traditional green bean casserole, scalloped potatoes from Christian’s sister, mac and cheese (Jordan made Christian’s mom’s recipe), dressing, rolls—so much food that we will eat leftovers for days.

The dinner table

As I’m sure was the sentiment around many American tables, we were grateful for our blessings but acutely aware of those who are less fortunate—the homeless, those immigrants bussed to DC in the dark of winter last night (and a Merry Christmas to you, too, Greg Abbott!), the people of Ukraine. It is a time for outreach. We did talk at the table about how, as children, we were urged to clean our plates and think of the starving people of …. it was a different country, depending on when you grew up. I remember China, Christian remembers Ethiopia, and I think one year it was Yugoslavia.

For me, Christmas was dimmed just a bit by Sophie, who has a bladder infection or UTI (diagnosed by one Judy Alter). She wouldn’t eat her breakfast this morning but drank lots of water—until this evening. I have made her a bowl of weak chicken broth, hoping to get some liquid into her. She’s up and about but obviously doesn’t feel well and won’t come in from the cold when I call her. So the kids are going to get her for me.

Sophie guarding the house

And a lesson I learned over again—it was, for me, a sitting down holiday, and that makes a difference. At breakfast, Jordan waited patiently while I ate half a second helping. Then I was whisked out the door and helped back to the cottage. I know it was because Jordan had lots to do to clean up from breakfast and get ready for dinner. That was fine—I had some things to do, wanted a nap because neither Sophie nor I had slept well last night, etc. But the thing is, if I weren’t sitting on a walker, I’d be rushing through those dishes, helping make sense of the kitchen, feeling like I was useful. It’s a hard adjustment, even if it’s not new. For some reason, today I was particularly aware of it.

My favorite elf

We had dinner early, so Christian’s parents could get home—and by six o’clock I was whisked out the door again and found myself in the cottage. Jordan had a mess to clean in the kitchen, but I thought, “Wow! Six o’clock, and Christmas is over.” The evening loomed long before me. I played around on Facebook for a while and then got in my pajamas and took another nap—why not?

Now it’s nine-thirty, and I am back at my computer. Sophie is so disinterested in food that she won’t come in when I call her, so I had to ask Christian to get her. I made her a bowl of weak chicken broth, and she seemed a bit interested in that. I’ll ask Christian to take her out one more time and hope by morning she’ll have drunk all the broth. Our vet doesn’t open until Tuesday, but I’ll be first in line.

So an almost perfect day ends with a note of worry. Isn’t that how life always is? I’m still feeling the glow from last night’s service, now magnified by the plenty of our day and dinner table. So I’m making a new year’s resolution—to reach out more to those who need a hand up, a warm meal, a toasty blanket. There are so many worthy causes that I’ll have to explore until I find one where I think I can make a difference. But I’d like to carry the Christmas spirit of giving and caring into the new year.

Hope everyone had a blessed day. No doubt there was one thing amiss, be it big like a loved one missing or small as in I burned the turkey (it has happened), but I hope nonetheless you found the joy of the season.

National Sons Day

 

Colin and Jamie
a marathon somewhere, sometime.

Losing my grip as a doting mother. First, I almost missed Daughters’ Day, and now I’m about to miss Sons’ Day. Who knew they came one on top of the other? But here they are, after a race though I'm not sure where. And a shout-out to sons-in-law Christian, who puts up with me daily, and Brandon, who shares my love of books. And to grands: Sawyer, Jacob, Ford, and Kegan.

I seem beset these days with AI—took me a while to figure that is artificial intelligence. But between ads online which seem to know every little detail of your life and automated conversations with service companies, I’ve about had it. Only the hardiest of us can resist those ads that broadcast an alarming health symptom and suggest something dire may be wrong. We read on. The one that caught my eye recently asked, “Do you wake at 3:00 a.m.?” Well of course I was hooked because I do wake at three. And at one and at five. But three is a dark hour, and I sometimes have to bat away negative thoughts at that time. I remember my brother talking about three-o’clock-in-the-morning thoughts, most of which led him to say, “Ooh. Wish I hadn’t done that one.”

Well this ad suggests you may have sleep apnea and I forget what other serious conditions, but if you read on, in small print, it says that wakefulness may be due to a list of other causes, among them drinking too much (either alcohol or non-alcoholic or even water) just before bed. I keep an insulated glass of water by the bed and sip frequently which means I wake frequently needing to pee. And finally, it says, we wake more often as we age. Sleep cycles for the elderly are about an hour and a half. Well, hello! That describes me perfectly. I don’t need ads suggesting I have sleep apnea, which seems to be a fashionable thing to have.

I have given up the hunt for my missing keys and moved on to the process of acquiring a new key fob. I recounted my long and fruitless chat with an ADT representative the other day, but the part I left out was my first chat. I told an automated chat person that I needed a new key fob because I lost mine, and she/it/whatever responded with directions for reactivating my key fob. How can I reactivate what I don’t have? Today I dealt with Protection One, the company that installed my system but was subsequently bought by ADT. Three representatives, each apparently with a specific duty. It took at least forty-five minutes, but they were all pleasant and sympathetic, and I got a discount for being a long-term customer. Still, nothing happens fast –a service tech will come out October 10. By serendipity, Jordan and Christian have a tech coming tomorrow, because their system was disarmed when they replaced the back door. Christian said he’d ask if they couldn’t do mine at the same time, but I am sure life is never that easy.

My good friend Melinda came and brought lunch today—chicken salad on croissants. Melinda was production manager when I was director at TCU Press, and we have remained close though we don’t talk often. Being both of the same strong political persuasion, we intended to watch the January 6 committee hearing, but it worked out just as well because we got to catch up on kids and grandkids and talk politics and have a lot of good laughs. I think the longer the committee waits, the more stuff that turns up. Timing is a delicate matter with that committee. I’m sure out of good manners they won’t announce anything until after the mid-terms, but surely people can figure out for themselves what happened. You think? On the other hand, my personal opinion is they need to make a final recommendation before trump truly launches a presidential bid.

Meanwhile, DeSantis, now trump’s rival, is in big trouble. We’ll see how he weathers the storm—and I mean that literally. The pictures coming out of Florida this evening are horrifying. God bless those with damaged homes and protect those stranded by flood waters. Seems even worse than Harvey. Until we reverse climate change, the storms are going to continue to worsen. I can’t wrap my mind around the idea. Nor the idea that people see the storms and fires and floods and still deny climate change.

Despite all the bad in our world today, do have sweet dreams. Seems an oxymoron.

 

The one-trick pony

 

  

I”ve just had a lesson in—what? Humility? Practicality? I’ve learned that I’m like the pony who knows only one trick. Take away that trick, and the pony has nothing. My lesson came when my computer refused to boot yesterday morning. In the interest of full disclosure, I admit I had spilled half a late-night glass of wine on my desk—not on the computer, but some seeped under it and apparently shorted it out.

Frantic, I sent messages to son-in-law, Brandon, a software engineer, and son Jamie, who was instantly ready to rush out and buy a new computer. In fact, he was gleeful at the thought. Brandon advised some steps to take, which I followed after a few wrong turns. Am I the only one who disconnects the remote keyboard and then tries to use it? His best advice was to let it sit. It could “come back to itself” as it dried out. Jamie added the advice to put it out in the sun. I would have been leery on a hot summer day, but this was five o’clock on a pleasant evening with a gentle sun. Still, nothing worked.

I had spent a long, useless day, wondering what to do next. You see, take away my computer, and I honestly don’t know what to do with myself. I fretted because I had an audition tape to listen to, an online class coming up to teach, and a Zoom call today with a book festival panel next weekend, although I couldn’t imagine going the whole week without a computer.

There were little things too—trying to log in to various sites on my iPad was impossible because I didn’t have the passwords; on my computer, those sites come up automatically. Jordan wanted to check our planned menus so I could place a Central Market order—couldn’t get to those files. I wanted to call our dog sitter for a grooming reference, but I could only remember her first name. Needed to go into the files to find her business name.

So I spent the day reading a mystery  But even ordering a book was difficult on the iPad. I missed my remote monitor with its nice big screen, my remote keyboard on which my fingers can fly.

About eleven last night I thought I’d give it one more try. Voila! It came on, without any of the externals, but the laptop was working. I went to bed happy, This morning, after a bit of trial, error, and patience, the keyboard and remote mouse began working but not the monitor. Jamie suggested the port was damaged, and I began to wonder if they can replace a port. Then the monitor flashed on; after a bit later it stayed on for a minute or two, but if I lowered the lid to the laptop, it went blank. And then, a miracle—it came on and stayed, just in time to “attend” church.

I’ve learned several lessons—just updated my list of passwords and printed it out to be hidden in a safe place. Cleared a place on the credenza so I could have tea or water or wine handy without risking more spills. The one I didn’t learn—find something else to do with my time. I am not a TV fan, and I can only cook so much, but I can spend the entire day at my computer. And today, I’m thanks for narrow escapes—or miracles.

A Pet Peeve

I know there are a lot more weighty things on Americans’ minds these days, but I want to start a movement to abolish automated phone systems. I settled at my desk this morning thinking I had just one or two small matters to take care of and then I could revise, revise, revise. Not so. Between the bank, the United States Postal Service, and a fabric outlet, I spent almost all my morning on the phone, being shuttled from one option to another, put on hold, assured it would be just a minute, and put on hold again. To say I was frustrated would be an enormous understatement.

In the midst of all this, the upholsterer I had called came to pick up my wing chair. He had one helper with him but I could tell immediately his was a single-person shop. He asked, “How did you hear about me?” Not how did I hear about his company or anything, but him. To my embarrassment all I could say was that he was recommended by someone whose taste I trusted but now (several months later) I couldn’t remember who.

He had a nice sense of humor and a gentle way of telling me I hadn’t ordered enough fabric—I’d ordered the 8 yards he told me, but he meant 64” wide and what I got was 48” Back to the drawing board. But because I instinctively liked and trusted him, he left with not one but two chairs. We decided later by phone to wait until next week when the fabric was due to be in stock again, order more, and order a separate fabric for the second chair—a barrel chair. He explained that the original fabric—a horizontal pattern—wouldn’t work on the barrel chair because he would have to cut on the bias. That personal, individual explanation, kindly and even humorously delivered, was worth its weight in gold.

Whenever I can, I deal with mom-and-pop businesses, and I vow now to deal with businesses where, like the upholsterer, a real live, speaking human answers the phone.

Oh, to go back to the good old days—at least that aspect of them.

Eating my own words

Had to eat my own words today. Last night I posted about not getting in a flurry about the holidays—sit back, relax, and let the holidays happen. Today I had a whole long day ahead of me—planned to cook a little, wrap some presents, and proofread. And then, about ten or so, the power went off—suddenly, totally, completely. You know of course how helpless that makes you feel. Oncor said it would be restored at noon. Every once in a while it would bleep on momentarily and then go off. Sophie was terrified.

So I set about doing what I could—but even your iPad is out of commission if you don’t have an internet connection. Couldn’t cook because I’d been about to use my hand mixer. Did my physical therapy exercises but couldn’t, obviously, lie on the hot pad—part of my routine. Wrapped a few presents but felt generally trapped.

Jordan arrived, power came back on, and medical alert company called to see if I needed help. Jordan explained about the power which must have triggered the alert when it came on. We started to fix lunch…and the power went out again, but only briefly this time.

Tonight I couldn’t figure out why my Christmas tree and other lights on timers didn’t come on—duh. The timers were behind in time for the intervals without power. All is well now, though Jordan has cautioned me that we expect severe storms tonight and I should sleep with my cell phone next to my bed, along with the flashlight I always keep there. Right now, it’s unseasonably warm and oppressively humid.

Friend and I had dinner at The Tavern tonight, and had a nice visit with the parents of a good friend of Jordan’s—her first boyfriend who is like another son to me. And they, parents of two boys, claim Jordan as a daughter. Those kids are all out tonight celebrating their son’s birthday. Old ties go way back, and that’s nice.

Oh, frabjulous day!

For a writer in these modern days, being without a computer is like a chef being without a stove or a painter being without a brush or charcoal. My computer simply didn't boot yesterday morning--it acted like all was fine, took my password, and then did nothing more. Son-in-law in Austin did what he could over the phone but it didn't work. So I took the computer to Staples, where I was both impressed by the thoroughness of their check-in process and frustrated by the time I stood there. But I left, sans computer, and went to the grocery store.
Then I was home, wondering what to do. I have an iPad and I could answer email and sort of follow Facebook. But it's not easy for me to be as fluent on an iPad keyboard--I am much more conversational on a keyboard. And I had a chapter in my head--or at least a scene--that I wanted to write on my novel-in-progress. I can't tell you how many times I jiggled the mouse, trying to wake my computer. Of course, I was staring at a blank remote screen because there was no computer attached to it. Very frustrating. As I told probably too many people, I was like an addict in withdrawal, and even my daughter worried about what I would do in the evening. No worries, I'm in the midst of reading The Mockingbird Next Door, but there were still emails I wanted to answer more fully, Facebook exploring I wanted to do, and that scene that was playing out in my head.
Today I had several helpful phone calls from the Staples technician, a really nice man named Sean. We established, to his disbelief, that I didn't have an original form of Microsoft Office--it came on the computer which is less than a year old. He told me it was a virus, but he would have it fixed soon.
About five-fifteen he called and said it was ready to go. I said I'd be in tomorrow, though I really wanted it right that minute. But I was having a glass of wine with Jordan and Jay and didn't feel I should jump in the car. Jordan said she'd take me, and off we went. (Jordan wants credit as #1 daughter for this--sorry, Megan; I know you'd have done it if you were closer.)
So tonight I even put dinner off for an hour while I caught up with calendar dates I'd made a note of, password changes,  59 emails, and all that stuff.
And now I'm a really happy camper. Many thanks to Staples and Sean for quick, fast, and efficient services. Amazing what a difference that has made in my outlook on life!

Huh? The world of the hearing challenged

I had an appointment with a new and very helpful audiologist today. I've been "hearing challenged" for twenty years or so, many of them spent in denial. Not me, I said. I never listened to loud music much. I didn't fly in a lot of airplanes. I finally got over my denial when I read that women who had been given a certain combination of hormone therapy were experiencing early hearing loss. My family pushed, shoved, and threatened not to talk to me if I didn't do something about it. The first EENT doctor I went to said I needed an aid in at least one ear, he didn't care which one, and had his audiologist hand me a pair to take home and try on. No testing, no fitting, no directions. I declined, went to a commercial audiologist and was tested, fitted with aids, and seen every three months. Three pairs of hearing aids later (and they are not cheap!) my hearing is still a problem.
In really noisy restaurants, I might as well rudely pull out my cell phone and occupy myself because I can't hear a word; church is difficult but I catch most of it; even a gathering of six for happy hour in my own home was difficult for me today. I kept waving my hands and saying what we say to the grandchildren, "Inside voices! Inside voices!" The phone is impossible and particularly difficult with my brother who gets upset when I can't hear and don't tell him. And this morning Jordan was trying to say "warm, wet washrag" to me and she might as well have been speaking Greek. I had to hand the phone to Jacob. Sometimes, you can hear the person talking clearly but the comprehension just isn't there. As a result, I'm probably really rude to telephone solicitors, and every once in a while I come close to missing an important call because I don't understand what's being said.
Today I learned that I haven't had my hearing tested in four years; nor have my hearing aids been adjusted to my changing needs. I was tested (actually improved a bit), the aids adjusted. I learned how to hold the cell phone so that the speaker is directly over the receiver of my aid instead of squarely in my ear. I was challenged to wear my aids all day every day so my brain wouldn't have to keep trying to adjust. Other hints included sitting as far from loudspeakers as possible in restaurants, and sitting with my back to the noise. There's more to be done, but I feel encouraged tonight. When I came home at lunch, even the domestic sounds of rattling around in the kitchen sounded loud.
Hearing loss, as I've learned, can isolate you, even from friends you care about, and it frustrates those around you. I'm going to keep working at this. And if you're in denial, as I was, go do something about it. You'll be glad.