The Year of the (crazy) Dog

Family photo at Pawnee Buttes.
The Good Dog joined right in. The Crazy Dog, not so much.

In terms of the Chinese Zodiac, 2011 was actually the Year of the Rabbit. We don’t have a rabbit, but we do have two dogs: The Good Dog, and The Crazy Dog.

Tonka was thrilled to learn he had been elevated in status to The Good Dog, a title previously held by sweet Raven.

Soon after we brought Daisy home from the Longmont Humane Society, Tonka was promoted to good dog status and Daisy quickly earned her nickname, Crazy Daisy.

Yes, she’s crazy. Afraid of her own shadow and terrified of people (with the exception of Dave’s sister Barb), Daisy eats bark chips, runs headlong through the house, uses the furniture as a springboard to pounce here and there, crawls under Tonka’s belly, and flings Nylabones willy-nilly into the air. She is also a sweet, cuddly little thing and quite the novelty out in the world.

Wherever we take Daisy, people stop us with a puzzled grin and ask, “What kind of dog is that?” (cattle dog/corgi with a side of hound-dog DNA thrown in just for fun… in other words, a mutt). Because she is so darned cute, everyone wants to meet her. Daisy will have none of it. She either backs away, big round eyes darting left and right while plotting an escape route, or she hides behind one of us for safety. Fortunately, she trusts us completely and loves Tonka with all her might. We know nothing of her history but think she may have been kept locked up for most of her young life. The first few months she lived with us, it was obvious the world outside was completely foreign to her, filled with frightening sounds and danger everywhere. Slowly but surely, she is being transformed into a deliriously happy little dog.

In other news – following an MRI where she was squished into a teeny-tiny tube and forced to listen to sappy soft rock music on gigantic headphones – Debbie finally learned the cause of her chronic back pain and sciatica, then was told that spinal surgery was the best option for relief. After much second-guessing and indulging in a host of irrational fears, she decided to go through with the surgery. It was successful and five months later, she is feeling better with some minor lingering pain.

In the weeks following surgery, Dave took on a new role as home health care aide. He has also become quite the respectable househusband and doggy daycare provider. His continued job searches brought forth a flurry of interviews in spring and fall; still no offers. We remain hopeful.

Much time was spent on the road this year, with three visits to Salida, road trips along the Front Range, dog park adventures, and plenty of doctor appointments. The dogs joined us as often as possible, where Daisy discovered her new favorite thing, riding on the center console.



Ever the trooper, Dave added yet another duty to his expanding job description: Driving Miss Debbie, and Driving Miss Daisy.   J

Merry Christmas * Happy New Year * Peace on Earth

Debbie and Dave
Tonka and Daisy

(from our Christmas newsletter)

First Love

It must have been sometime in late 1975. Barely out of high school, a friend and I were drawn to cruising in downtown Denver.

At the time I had a Mustang, a pretty little car. My friend owned a Camaro. Between the two of us we had lots of fun making the rounds.

Then one weekend I met Bob, a handsome fellow in an orange-and-black muscle car, a Chevelle. After some initial flirting across lanes of traffic, we finally pulled into a parking lot and took the time to get acquainted.

We were inseparable after that.

A year older than me, Bob was from Kodiak, Alaska. His parents sent him to Denver to attend the Denver Automotive and Diesel College, so he could learn engine maintenance in anticipation of taking over the family fishing business: mostly crab, salmon, and halibut.

We grew close very quickly. Then at the end of spring semester in 1976, he returned to Alaska.

Bob left his beloved car with me. We parted with hugs and kisses and promises, and Bob suggested I visit Kodiak later that summer. His parents were eager to meet me, and I was eager to learn more about what might potentially be my new home.

And such a wonderful visit it was! Bob took me all over the island and introduced me to some of the wildness that is Alaska.

There were places on the island where you had to stop and look both ways before crossing a dirt airstrip. Ridge top bunkers installed during World War II remained, silent sentinels looking out to sea, still watching for a Japanese invasion. The beaches were filled with black volcanic sand that formed soft round rocks around sea fossils.

Bob showed me rivers filled with spawning salmon, and taught me about his business. The time we spent together seemed to have “future” written all over it. But did it, really?

In re-reading the letters Bob sent before my visit, the tone seems soft, romantic, filled with repeated proclamations of love, tales of his daydreams about us, and his hopes for the future.

After I returned home, the letters became more matter-of-fact, less about romance and more about providing me with detailed instructions on the care and feeding of one super-hot Chevelle.

The story ends just as you might imagine. Eventually we broke up, although I never really understood why. Bob returned to Denver for his Chevelle (quite possibly his real love) and went back to Alaska.

And I mourned the loss of my first love.

This journal was spurred by a writing prompt: Found, by San Diego Momma. Thank you for the inspiration!

A Table in Time

From a letter I wrote to my nephew, Clark

Thought I’d write a note with a little history about this table. I’m happy to give it to you so that it stays in our family. You seem like the logical person to have it next, too!

Do you remember that Cork and Kathy Snyder lived behind us? Mom and Kathy took me to visit Kathy’s grandmother at their family farmhouse. It was located at the corner of 112th and Riverdale Road, real close to where you lived when you were a little boy. The farmhouse is still there, although they sold it and the land years ago.

I don’t know what year we got it but it must have been the early 1960s, I was just a little girl. Behind the farmhouse was a separate garage and in there was this desk. They were using it for potting plants. Seems like I recall it being painted black or maybe brown, but I could be wrong about that. The drawer was off to the side, it did not have drawer pulls and the brackets to hold the drawer in place had been broken.

Mom really loved the look of the table, even though it was painted and she didn’t know what was underneath. After we brought it home, she painted it barn red (the color of the shake shingles on the house, probably with leftover outside paint!). Dad put in some boards to hold up the drawer and then he added the drawer pulls. He used that colonial variety to keep the drawer from being pushed too far back.

The table was usually in the basement bedroom, right underneath that little window between mom’s drapery room and the bedroom. By the way, don’t you just love the quirkiness in that house, I mean really… who puts a window in between a utility room and a bedroom? Oh wait, I know, my parents!

Your dad used the desk for years, for assembling and painting his model airplanes, plus any other painting projects he worked on. Soon the top was covered with little marks of different colors, yellow and blues and whites, from when his painting went astray.

Then sometime in the early 1970s, mom discovered a furniture refinishing company. It was in the strip mall at 88th and York. She had lots of furniture pieces that needed some work and the guy who owned it gave her a good deal. She decided to have this desk dipped and stripped.

When we all saw the desk, we could not believe how beautiful it was! That quarter-sawn oak is so lovely, who would ever paint over it? But I guess that was common years ago, to paint over fine wood. Sad, if you ask me.

I have always loved this desk, especially with its imperfections and because it reminds me of special times in my life. Mom loved it too, and your dad as well. I know they both would be happy that it’s going to be in your hands.

Stuffed

This picture of my husband Dave was on the front page of the Rocky Mountain News, the day after Thanksgiving (about 1962).

Dave's dad was an editor at the paper.

Word Cloud

A word cloud based on my journal: A Mother's Touch.

Happy birthday mom!

Scared of the Dark

There was a nightlight in the little room with pale pink walls. Plugged into the east wall, I insisted that it be turned on each night after mom lovingly tucked me in, always with a sweet hug and kiss goodnight.

“I don’t get you,” she once told me. “When we go camping in the mountains, sleep in a tent, where wild animals roam around in the dark and you can’t see your hands in front of your face, there--of all places--you fall asleep instantly!” She could not understand why her little girl had such a phobia in the safety of her own home, when she was not scared of the dark out in the wilderness.

Before an extra bedroom was built in the basement, my brother and I shared that little pink room. Well, it wasn’t pink at the time, more a turquoise color as I recall. We had bunk beds in a cute colonial style, the kind you could take apart and make into separate beds if needed. When the basement bedroom was complete, the bunk beds came apart. Ted got his own room: The Middle Bedroom.

That’s how they were known, much like in Goldilocks: The Little Bedroom, The Big Bedroom, and The Middle Bedroom, which was located straight down the hallway from the living room.

My nightlight was on that night, but as usual the shadows cast eerie shapes here and there. The wind was blowing. I listened to the metal threshold plate on the front door screaming in the wind, a frightening sound peculiar to our house.

When I could take no more, I crept into The Middle Bedroom and woke my brother. “Can I sleep with you?” Ever the protector, he always agreed.

Now, I don’t know why he had his bed facing straight out the door and down the hallway. I would never have set it up that way, much too spooky. I sandwiched myself between my brother and the wall, and promptly fell asleep.

Later, after midnight, we both woke to hear the hardwood floors creaking and groaning. Soft footsteps. A sound near the front door. What’s that? It was unspoken but we shared those silent words. Two little heads popped up from the pillow, eyes big as saucers, peering into the darkness down the hall.

And then, just then, we saw a figure in white gliding across the end of the hallway from right to left. Our hearts began pounding in our chests.

Another noise quickly followed, that of a chair being kicked, its legs scraping across the wooden floor, followed immediately by the thundering low, loud sounds of the bass keys on the upright piano.

“Dammit!” The kitchen light flicked on, followed by muttered words and the sound of a match.

This was no ordinary ghost. It was mom, pacing in the middle of the night, checking to make sure the front door was locked, indulging in a bit of late night worrying over one last cigarette. She had tripped over grampa's chair near the kitchen entrance and slammed her hand into the piano keys.

Phew. We were safe. At least for one more night…

The inspiration for this story came from a writing prompt: Spooky Story, by San Diego Momma. Thanks for the idea!

Anniversary Tribute

Today is our ninth anniversary. Dave and I were both late bloomers, we met in mid-life and each married for the first time at age 45.

Similar in many ways yet complete opposites in others--the sensitive, romantic dreamer and the sensible, logical science guy--we are a good match. He has been especially kind to me this year, helping me prepare for and then recover from surgery. His recent unemployment has been stressful at times but turned out to be a blessing in disguise. Dave was right here with me when I needed him most, and was my very favorite nurse during this entire experience.

I never knew you could love someone the way I love Dave. So this video is my tribute to my one true love.

I Can't Read

Throw the ball already!

Scenes from a Surgical Ward

Apparently every hospital patient is treated to a pair of non-skid socks. I did not realize I'd be given such lovely footwear. You might not know this about me (few people do) but I was quite the sock queen in my younger years. I owned multi-colored toe socks and loved to buy socks with strange color combinations: ruffles, stripes, polka dots, any crazy pattern to suit my many sock moods. One night I even won a "Most Unusual Socks" contest at a local bar where I was celebrating with my brother, his wife, and a few friends. I don't remember what I won, maybe a free drink? Winning the contest was memorable, the reward was not.

Anyway, I was happy to get my neon yellow MediChoice® hospital socks. I loved the color and found them to be the most fashionable of the hospital garments I was required to wear. They were accompanied by a tired old gown with ties in the back, and a pair of white surgical compression hose that squeezed my legs so tight I nearly fainted, plus they looked like something you might find underneath the skirt of an 1890s spinster school marm. By those standards, my yellow socks made me look downright stylish.

Well, that is if you don't count the huge stitching on the ankle announcing my sock size: "XX – LARGE" which reminded me of renting roller skates or bowling shoes with a gigantic number on the heel that displayed your shoe size for everyone to see. Being a big, tall girl, mine was always a much larger number than all the other petite darlings at the roller rink or bowling alley.

But I digress...

In the recovery room, I had a very cool nurse who probably had a name but due to my drug-induced state I could not possibly tell you what it was. She was inspecting the enormous scar on my lower back when I asked her whether I looked like Frankenstein back there. Her reply? "Oh no honey, we use super glue now!" Of course I thought she was just making this up and told her so, but apparently she was totally telling the truth. No stitches, no staples, just some weird kind of surgical-grade Gorilla Glue holding my skin together. I was hoping they didn't keep duct tape in the surgery room, too. That would freak me out.

The surgical center had all private rooms and I got some pretty nice digs, including a walker in a hot rust-red color. The nurses and aides made a point of telling me that I scored the best room: the one with the red walker. Everyone else on the ward was stuck with your basic silver metal walker. Lucky me!

Eight hours after surgery I was ready to take my first walk. Mollie, the day nurse, tied up the back of my lovely gown. Before we ventured from the room, she assured me that all was quite discreet and there was no hint of my backside hanging out. Mollie held tightly to my gown as I plodded along, much like a baby taking their first steps in mom and dad's living room. At that moment, I was so grateful for my non-skid neon yellow socks.

You spend a lot of time in bed at the hospital and it's really not much fun. One of the nurse aides, Stuart, helped me get out of bed later on. I wanted to watch TV sitting up so I could feel like a normal person. It's not easy getting out of bed and into a chair when you're attached to a multitude of tubes and lines. Stuart carefully guided me to the chair, and we giggled about how if someone walked by, they might think we were engaged in a slow-motion ballroom dance.

The night nurse, Hans, was a fun fellow. One of his primary duties was to ensure that all of us made it through the night with minimal agony. Much of his evening was spent assisting my next-door neighbor, Charlie, who was in a horrible amount of pain. I felt so bad for Charlie after I heard Hans tell him that he couldn't have more pain medication for another 25 minutes, did he think he could manage that long? Then there was the elderly woman two doors down calling out in the middle of the night, "Hello? Hello?" with no response, then she began crying. I wanted so badly to get up, go straight to her room, hold her hand and comfort her. But I simply could not move.

Have you ever noticed that doctors and nurses have this fixation with numbers? In the hospital, it drove me crazy when they insisted you assign an identifying number to your level of pain. For instance, 1 = You're ready to shout out a James Brown version of "I Feel Good!" 10 = Well, honestly I never want to know what 10 feels like. Hans visited my room regularly with his rolling computer stand to check on me. "How are you doing? Do you hurt?" Well, yeah, Hans, actually I do hurt. A lot. "Give me a number," he'd say. Umm, 6, maybe 7? What kind of drugs do I get for a 7? It all seemed so silly, so subjective.

Then came my second night on the ward. I wanted to sleep on my side, not my back, so the aides accommodated my request with lots of pillows and shuffling about to get me in just the right position. Later I awoke in agonizing pain. All I wanted, a simple thing really, was to turn over onto my back, and discovered it could not be done. I pulled and tugged at the pillows, and attempted to move the mechanical bed but pushed all the wrong buttons. It was then I realized my lovely yellow socks were dangling off the foot of the bed. Now, I'm not good at asking for help, never have been. But obviously it was time to hit the buzzer.

Along came Cliff, the night aide. When Cliff asked what I needed, I burst into tears, like a little girl lost in a great big department store who couldn't find her mommy. And that's what I really wanted to tell him, I need my mommy! Through the sniffling and blubbering I managed to explain my predicament and tell him also that I was in a great deal of pain. "When was the last time you had meds?" he asked. I struggled to remember but decided it was about seven hours ago.

Hans showed up soon after, surprised to find me crying. "My Deb is in pain?" he asked, incredulous. I had worked so hard to be a low-maintenance, easy-to-care-for patient so that the nurses and aides had extra time for the patients who really needed them. "Tell me your number right now," Hans asked. Without hesitation, I told him it was a good, solid 8, maybe even flirting with 9. Hans administered the most wonderful drugs ever and the pain subsided quickly. He and Cliff moved me into a more comfortable position, then asked me questions like, "Do you want the light on or off?" or "Should I leave the door open?" -- questions that seem nearly impossible to answer after a heaping dose of pain medication.

But what I want to say more than anything is that these people are angels. In spite of the cheerful disposition I maintained during my stay, I spent a rough two days in that hospital and many of the other people on my floor were in much worse shape. The nurses and aides did their level best to make sure that our experiences were as good as they could possibly be, given our circumstances. They were our heroes. So if you know someone who is a nurse or nurse aide, be sure to give them an extra thank-you from me. I'm sure they don't hear it nearly often enough.

Oh, and I got to keep my neon yellow socks. I love them and had them on the other night, just because my toes were kind of cold. They keep me from slipping on our hardwood floors. I wish they had given me more than one pair. You know what, I just might wear them the next time I go out dancing! (which probably won't be for a while yet...)

Balloon-a-rama

Two weeks ago, shortly after my surgery, a sweet co-worker sent me an Edible Arrangements as a get well gift. It was filled with strawberries and red grapes, plus plenty of chocolate-covered strawberries, apples, and even some flower-shaped pineapple slices dipped in chocolate. What a treat! Attached to the bouquet of fruit was a brightly-colored "Get Well" balloon.

After the typical flurry of activity over the doorbell and associated worries about strangers approaching the castle, the dogs then became intrigued not with the food, but with the rather unorthodox object attached: that crazy balloon, which bobbed and weaved and spun around unnaturally.

Tonka sounded the first alarm soon after the Edible Arrangement was placed on the dining room table. Hackles immediately began to rise along the ridge of his back and he began growling at the cheerful helium interloper. He moved carefully behind the object and sniffed, inspected, sniffed, then commenced with barking. Loudly. Repeatedly. The balloon didn't care, it had landed in a fun location where the ceiling fans kept it perpetually in motion. It was happy there, dogs be damned.

Daisy, ever the coward, let Tonka take the lead in ensuring our safety. She did sneak a peek or two at the balloon but mostly cowered behind the recliner, just in case. You never know when one of these things might explode, after all. Daisy managed to let out a few half-hearted barks in support of Tonka's efforts. Eventually we could no longer stand the commotion. We untied the balloon and let it find a high point behind the pantry door, then commenced with the eating of chocolate-covered fruit.

The next day, Dave decided to bring the balloon back out where it could serve its rightful purpose: to cheer me up. He tied it to the back of a dining room chair where it looked gloriously happy and fulfilled. For nearly two weeks, it bobbed and weaved with the breezes coming in through the window, and later in the day it spun in circles, performing a cheerful dance accompanied by the whirring of the ceiling fans and the air conditioning vent located just underneath the window. Later a new bouquet of flowers that perfectly matched the balloon's colorful exterior arrived to share this prime location, directly across from my favorite chair. By now the dogs had grown bored with the balloon; it had become nothing more than an additional piece of furniture.

Until yesterday.

Slowly over time the balloon grew flatter. Just like we all do, as time takes its toll on our outer layers, its skin was no longer tight, it drooped and sagged a bit more with each passing day. Then on Saturday morning we woke to find the balloon resting, weary and exhausted, against that beautiful bouquet of flowers, nearing its death throes.

With this turn of events, the balloon again drew the interest of Tonka and Daisy. What the heck is wrong with that thing? they wondered. Tonka approached the balloon carefully, cautiously, as it was no longer in its lofty perch and was now bobbing wearily into his territory, which posed a problem. The rest of the tale unfolds in the video attached below.

We finally decided to put the balloon out of its misery with a quick poke in the belly. Its job was done; the cheerful design made me happy each time I glanced its way, I am getting well, and the poor, sad balloon needn't be harassed by our crazy dogs any longer.