Some Things Just Take Time

Our family has suffered quite a bit of loss this spring.  Between the fog of grief that obscures the view of the outside world, and the mountain of tasks, both physical and legal, that comes with putting an end to someone’s existence on our planet, we have had little time for “normal”.  You know, like mowing the lawn.  And making a dinner beyond heating refried beans in the microwave to throw on a tortilla.

We finally cleared a few monstrous hurdles last week, and to celebrate our return to normal we decided to dig in the dirt!   Finding ourselves in late-May without a single bloom in our flower pots, Ella and I were determined to bring some new life to our sunny deck that becomes our living room in the summer months.

Ella has always been the champion of the under-dog.  When she was tiny she would rescue mosquitoes and flies from spiderwebs (and then, of course, feel terribly guilty that the spider would be hungry).  After a rain storm we would all walk the neighborhood and save hundreds of earthworms that had been flooded out of their earthen homes and stranded on the pavement.  I know I started the worm-saving tradition, but it is a job that Ella takes very seriously, often chasing a Robin away from a fat, writhing earthworm then tossing the slippery fellow into the bushes for safety.

This devotion to the weak and vulnerable carries over to Ella’s gardening.  Well, gardening is an overstatement as we merely fill pots and containers on our deck with pretty flowering plants and tomato-bearing greenery.  So when we head to the plant nursery we pass up the colorful displays of bloom-laden plants and healthy green starters.  We stroll past the rows of bright petunias, tall geraniums and delicate ground cover and head to the racks way in the back marked CLEARANCE.

I am the sort of shopper that always has to check the bargain racks before paying full price for anything.  But once I brought Ella with me to the nursery and she discovered the botanical version of The Island of Misfit Toys, she was hooked.  While I’m looking for a "score", say a plant thats blooms have faded but the rest is healthy with potential for a season full of color, Ella is looking for the sorriest, most pathetic looking green being (sometimes not so green) that no one, ever, would take home.  THAT is the plant she wants to save - the one that nobody else wants.

She showed me a couple of wilted, and even somewhat crispy, plants that I was convinced were a waste of a whole dollar.  She pointed to a spot of green on one that would be the start of its come-back to life and I let her place it in our cart.  The other had no such bright spot, but I also could not say no to this pathetic little fella.  She found a half-dozen bougainvillea and insisted we needed one more to keep our

The Pathetic Poppy

existing fussy plant company.  I gave in and she inspected each to find the ugliest, most pitiful in the bunch.  She did.

So we loaded our cart with my nearly good-looking rows of flower starts and her hopeful little misfits and checked out at the store register.  One fellow shopper commented that they’d better give us Ella’s chosen poppy plant for free, because it has no hope.  They DIDN’T give it for free, but we’ll show ‘em - that plant may be the prettiest one on the porch soon.  Maybe.

We plopped all of our new plant residents into their pots and Ella carefully watered her under-dog projects.  Now only time will tell.  Today we may not have a gorgeous floral display around us as we sip our tea and watch the birds, but in time we will enjoy every little bloom and will celebrate any life that appears in Ella’s pots.  And they will be worth the wait. Some things just take time.

We kept the tag for this one so we'll know what it is supposed to look like!

Pet or Pest? (the difference is only one letter)

About a month ago we found ourselves with a new pet mouse.  Not the kind you get from a store that runs on a squeaky wheel inside a cage.  We have the wild kind.

Lucky for us, we have a cat named Roger that practices catch and release when hunting.  He catches the critter outdoors, in their natural habitat, and brings them into our home.  He keeps them alive, not out of any merciful motivations, as he still murders them once he has them trapped between four walls.  

Our first thought was that he was bringing them in to teach his dim-witted runt sister, Lyra, that the cute little creatures are for killing and eating.  She may have learned a bit from him, as she now brings in moths and then tackles them as they flutter around.  But I have a feeling she would simply snuggle a mouse if she had the chance.

It is more likely that he is showing off his hunting prowess to his human subjects. Without fail he announces the catch with a loud yowl as he pops through the cat-door.  This guarantees we stop what we are doing and take notice of his awesomeness.  However, as soon as we hear that signature hollow “Me-OW-ow-ow!”, my daughters and I jump to action.  Thankfully nobody in our house is the type to jump on a chair and squeal "EEK" if we see a rodent, like in the old TV shows.  We hop into rescue mode.  

If we see feathers, we throw a shirt or towel on his head.  If we’re lucky he backs away while the bird stays tangled in the fabric, soon to be returned to the outdoors.  Mice are a little more difficult to catch, but we have made many-a-live catch, removing the rodent from his jaws and out to the greenbelt at the end of the block.  The mouse hunt often takes two of us, several containers and plenty of lively hoots and hollers as we chase the brown tail along the floorboards.

About a month ago we noticed Roger poised in front of the stove with ears and eyes aimed at the gap beneath, tuned to every sound and movement.  That usually means that there is food under there - the living, breathing kind.  Our guess was correct, he brought in a mouse when we were sleeping and lost the little fellow in the kitchen before he could dine on its flesh.  

Since then we have seen very few signs that the mouse is here, except for Roger’s obsession with staring at various appliances and cupboards.  No torn food packaging or nibbles on the fruit in the bowl on the counter.   

Once in a while we will hear a scuffle and squeak under the sink when the cat finally has the mouse cornered.  We all come running and the girls grab and toss Roger outside while we try to safely grab the mouse…with no luck.  One day Ella and I had the little guy trapped between us, behind the microwave.  We each held a plastic popcorn container and a lid.  I dropped a banana behind the oven and flushed the brown fur-ball out toward Ella’s side.  For a moment she had him in the container, but soon he launched out over her head and ran down her back to the safety of the gap under the stove. 

We usually know approximately where the mouse is based on where Roger chooses to hang out.  We purchased a humane trap to place near the stove, as that seems to be a favorite haunt, and loaded it with cheese.  But I’m beginning to think it is a myth that mice love cheese.  We found out that OUR mouse loves chocolate flavored energy gels - specifically the GU brand.  The neglected gel drawer was finally opened this weekend. Inside we found that of the variety of 30-40 GUs, Hammergels and Shotblocks, our friend not only opened, but licked clean the chocolate GUs, sampled other flavors of GU but did not eat much and did NOT touch a single Hammergel or Shotblock. We were quite surprised by the picky nature of our little friend.  And if you ask me, he has rather good taste!

We have strangely become attached to this mouse.  After cleaning out the energy gel drawer, my husband re-stocked it.  Not with energy gels, but with three tiny bowls: one full of water and the other two with different types of food. We wouldn’t want him to get hungry or thirsty while out-witting our cat, of course.

I think that, due to the mouse’s discriminating taste and his clear preference for the GU brand,  the GU company ought to sponsor this mouse and make him a spokesmodel.  I mean, there are tigers, camels, ducks and even a very popular lizard that represent many companies.  Why not a cute little mouse?  Heck, look what a grand job Mickey does for Disney!  

Our only job now is to reload the humane trap with chocolate GU, catch that little fella, outfit him in a GU t-shirt and get ourselves a sponsorship.  He’s gonna be rich and famous, and all because of our cat.  Thanks Roger!

Dear Mr. Smoker Guy

Dear Mr. Smoker Guy, driving down the street in your itty-bitty Fiat that is oh-so fuel efficient while puffing clouds of tar and nicotine out of your cracked driver’s window.  

Please help me understand something that has been a mystery to me since the beginning of my time on this earth.  Why is it that when you are done inhaling all of the tobacco and are left with the tar-stained stub, that you find it acceptable to toss this trash from the window of your environmentally friendly car? This butt of the cigarette rolls a few feet on the pavement and lays to rest, where it sits for days and days, flattened by hundreds of tires.  Rain will probably eventually wash your butt to the gutter of the road where it will tumble down into the storm drain out of sight.   Once there it will travel to the nearest body of water to become poisonous animal food, or just decorate the shore of our lovely beaches and foul the water with nicotine residue.

Of course, you are not the only one to do this, so maybe you think that it’s okay, because…you know, why not?  You see butts fly from the windows of crusty old Chevys, gas-guzzling Hummers and even modest mini-vans.  So, what’s one more?  

Someone once told me that butts are biodegradable so it is okay to toss them where ever you please because they will, at some point months or years from now, disintegrate and become part of the soil.  In that case, maybe I should have thrown my banana peel, apple core and orange rind out my window today during my trip home from work!  Hmmm.  That gives me an idea.  I am not planning to plant a garden this year, so why don’t I start throwing my compost out onto the street with yours?

Maybe because you are a tax payer you believe that you deserve to throw your stinky trash onto the street because you pay good money to the city government to keep our town shiny and attractive?  Those bureaucrats probably have nothing better to spend money on anyway.  Heck, who needs streetlights, safe crosswalks and pot-hole free roads?

Or, could it be that you just don’t give a rip?  You don’t need to consider litter laws or a healthy environment because you will be dead soon from lung cancer and for all you care the world can fester in garbage without you?

Whatever the reason, I’m glad you stared me down through your rear-view mirror when I gave a short toot of my horn as your smoldering butt rolled into my path this morning.  Maybe for one second you thought about the consequence of your action, or maybe you didn’t.  I know I will sleep better tonight if I believe you’ll think twice next time you hold a butt in your hand.

If You're Lucky...

If you’re lucky, you’ve had your heart broken by the loss of a beloved pet.  Yep, that’s what I said, lucky.  In the moment, it is impossible to feel fortunate as your heart is broken, but you are.  You are so lucky to have had that unconditional love and wordless connection for the fleeting period of time that is your pet’s life.  The painful hole in your chest that comes with loss is there because the furry little bugger burrowed deep into your being. Then she must leave you, and in her absence a big, fat, cavernous hole that you think is going to swallow you up.  But it won’t, because you are so lucky to have all of those great memories to fill that hole, and your pet can reside there forever.  Right there.

Some of us lose our furry loved ones suddenly, in an accident or disappearance.  Some of us watch life leave their bodies and their eyes incrementally, wondering how many days or hours we have left with our companion until they are gone.  We find logical things to make us feel better, “She lived a long and full life” or “Thank goodness it was quick and she didn’t know what happened.”  But it hurts just the same - real bad.  The fact is, we are stuck with the ridiculous reality that our pets’ life spans are limited to a fraction of our own, therefore the loss is unavoidable.

Forgive my emotional meanderings as I sit on the floor next to my best friend.  My girl is labradorable in every sense.  My fearless trail running partner in her youth, leading the pack over hills and through streams.  My joyful partner around the house, flashing her big brown eyes in hopes of tasty acknowledgements. And more recently on tail-wagging strolls through the neighborhood.  Of course she has always been the guardian of the night, snoozing at my bedside to ensure the family’s safety from raccoons and squirrels lurking in the trees outside the window.  

I believe that our pup’s joy and playful spirit is what has brought her well beyond the average life expectancy of her large breed.  Her head was too hard to be damaged by the deer that gored her (rather than be chased by a silly dog), and the determination to explore every trail kept her bad knees moving along.  Up until three weeks ago people were calling her “puppy” on the trail, consistently shocked to learn her real age in human years - a hair shy of 15.

Unfortunately, the Doc confirmed the worst last week.  She has cancer demons attacking her organs.  Those little suckers, like tiny lilliputians tying her down one thread at a time, are weighing her down and robbing her of her voracious appetite.  My dog loved to eat.  Even a few days ago roasted chicken was the magic that would get her tail thumping, but now we are running out of tasty tricks.  The most delectable meats, canned food and even peanut butter have her turning her nose.  She watches with hope and desire when I open the fridge, but turns away in queasy disappointment at each offering.

My girl still takes comfort in our presence and her eyes twinkle with happiness when we gently stroke her ears.  Her joyful personality is still sparkling, although in progressively smaller ways.  Our goal is to do everything we can to bring out the precious eye-twinkle with affection and the occasional perfect treat.  When there is no more twinkle we must let her go, in peace.

Even though I feel like I have a grenade in my chest, and the anticipation of pulling the pin is about killing me, I still feel like the luckiest person on the planet.  Fortunate because I have had the honor of loving, and being loved by, this beautiful dog.  I will carry her with me always.  I am very lucky indeed.

What If...

My dog isn’t feeling well.  Sure, she’s old.  She’s likely outlived her litter-mates and the average life-span of her breed.  However, my pooch has always had the appetite and lust for life of a pup half her age, so this sudden turn of behavior, her sudden decision to “act her age”, has me quite concerned.

This situation has me playing a game quite common among my peers (peers, as in the children I teach and coach as professional child-wrangler).  The What If? game.  You know, “What if all we had to do is think of our favorite food and it would just appear?” or “What if the rain turned into peanut butter and whenever we were hungry we could just lick our coats and umbrellas?”  Well….that would really suck for anyone allergic to peanuts.

I have a much more practical use for the What If? game.  Seriously.  What if, upon bringing a pet into our family, we were granted a limited amount of communication with our pet.  I mean real english language understanding - one on one idea exchange with clearly defined words.  

Keep in mind, I have a well thought-out rationale for why this verbal communication should be limited.  Because one of the reasons that having pets is so wonderful and good for the soul is that they cannot argue with you, accidentally say the wrong thing or deliberately insult you.  Instead we look, cross species, into each other’s eyes and see pure devotion,

affection and unconditional love.  Words would undoubtedly mess that whole magic up.  So as it is, when we get home at the end of the day and see the tail wagging and the happy bounce in her step we think, “Oh, you missed me and I’m happy to see you, too!”  When it is entirely possible that the dog is wagging and thinking, “FINALLY…dinner time!  I don’t care why you’re late, just gimme food!”  Sometimes less is more.  I don’t really want my dog to tell me how my jeans look, or what snack would be healthier than that leftover piece of cake, or that my job as food-deliverer is the reason she is ecstatic that I am home.

What if the rule is that we limit our communication to, say, 100 words per lifetime…or ten ideas exchanged per decade.  That way we/they would have to choose very carefully how to use these opportunities.  A smart dog would save their chances to communicate for the most important circumstances, such as today.  My pup could tell me exactly where it hurts, what she needs to feel better, and then life goes on as it should.  A selfish dog would waste all of his/her words on desires and cravings and would have nothing left for important times like this.  Not my dog.  An ugly human might use his/her opportunities for dominance or scolding.  Not me.

What if the idea exchange should only happen when both parties agree.  Like the Wonder Twins’ fist bump, (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ktUx57i63e0) when both parties offer a fist or paw, and upon contact a spark flies, and so do the words.  That way words would never be misused or wasted.

All I know is I want to know why my girl is feeling punky so I can fix it.  I need her to feel better.  For now I’ll keep looking into her eyes for hints, and waiting for the vet to call with test results with fingers crossed.

What if?  

Atta girl!

Will Run for Cookies

Another soggy Thursday afternoon - we have been lucky that way.  No matter what the weather during the early week, we can count on plenty of rain and mud for our Trailblazers' run each Thursday.  Trailblazers is a program at the Whatcom Family YMCA that brings kids to trails, so they can blaze.

Wipers are thumping in a steady rhythm across the broad windshield of the YMCA van as I turn the red beast into a dark tunnel of evergreen trees that leads to Lake Padden Park.  Sitting directly behind me are 11 little people, bouncing in their seats with tons of boy energy.  Once parked, my co-pilot slides open the van door and the occupants bust out, racing to the playground to climb all over the equipment like ants on a picnic.

Our number doubles after the second van arrives.  Two girls, three coaches and a whole bunch of boys.  We move to the basketball court for drills.  “High knee skips!” Coach Jen hollers as they bolt across the pavement.  “These are warm-ups.  This is NOT a race!”  she reminds them.  Yeah, right.  For a good number of these kids EVERYTHING is a race.

Last week I had the pleasure of leading the route through the trails in my own neighborhood.  “Leader” is probably not a realistic term.  I was designated Chaser.  The general rule is that no Trailblazers should run ahead of the lead coach, or behind the rear, or sweeper coach.  The reality is that the competitive, high-energy, louder-than-life top-dog kids are going to duke it out the whole time for the lead, and the front coach hangs on for dear life.  

The run with the front pack was actually quite fun, and I called it my interval training for the week since we had to stop at all major turns to let the rest of the runners catch up.  We would run full-out for a quarter mile or so and STOP, gasping for air while the group gathered again.  When the sweeper coach approached along with the lolly-gagging stragglers, the top-dogs would start to walk up the trail in order to get the best position at the start of the next sprint.  And then we were OFF!

The mid-pack coach probably has the most peaceful, pleasant job.  You get to run with the level-headed kids who can run a steady pace and chat and don’t need to stop to catch their wind.  These kids breathe hard going up the steep trails, but then enjoy rolling effortlessly down the winding, wooded paths on the other side.

On THIS soggy Thursday, I am the sweeper.  My job is to stay with the tail-end group for safety, and to nudge them along the way.  Turns out I have three fellas to walk/jog with through the horse trails of Lake Padden.  These guys are so busy planning how they were going to turn one boy’s pet kitten into a super-hero that their minds are not on running.  A steady jog on the flats turns into a power hike on the hills and eventually a gentle stroll.  I hear all about the green and blue color-coordinated mittens and cape, and how this feline will carry a cannon that shoots popcorn and every kind of chip you can think of.  One fellow, Hank, would tire of the conversation and take off for a bit, running his heart out, but when the big group gathered he would rejoin his two pals and try to motivate them to run more.

Then I find out why Hank wants his two friends to run.  Apparently the Car Pool Mom told them at drop-off that she would give all three boys Girl Scout Cookies if they ran their hearts out today.  Hank’s mind is on cookies.  And each time he reminds his pals of the deal, they break out into a sprint…temporarily.  While we jog we chat about cookies.  How my dog will do ANYTHING for dog cookies - she doesn’t even need a leash on walks because she follows me for cookies.  Hank thinks it would be cool to cover a jet-powered car or spaceship in dog cookies so she would chase it into space.  Good idea.

When the boys slow to a stroll I shout “cookies!” and they pick up the pace.  During the last half mile each of the three boys ask me more than once, “Do you think we ran our hearts out today?”  

Each time I answer I try to choose my words carefully, “Well, I think you pushed yourselves,” and “Sure, and your goal next week can be to run even more!”  All they need to hear is the “Sure…” before they agree that they should ask me this question in front of Car Pool Mom.

In the end, the boys covered over 3 miles in the rain.  They climbed a few steep hills and slogged through some sloppy mud.  Their faces were damp with sweat and their cheeks were pink from the effort.  With visions of cookies dancing in their heads they felt like they ran their hearts out.  Bring on the cookies.

I think we have found a new motto to put on the back of the Trailblazers’ t-shirts:

“Will Run for Cookies!”

Love and The Three-Legged Race

On a recent afternoon, after I had said my goodbyes to co-workers at the Y,  I headed out the back door and up the steep concrete steps leading to the alley.  Ahead of me was a retired couple.  They stopped climbing and stepped aside to allow me to pass.  “We have bad knees,” the woman said.  “It’s gonna take us a while!”

“Oh, my knees have their bad days, too,” I replied.

We reached the alley together, more or less.  The man told me, as he linked arms with his wife, “Yep, I have a bum left knee, and she has a bad one on the right!”

“Well, you two ought to sign up for a three-legged race.  You’d do great!”  I joked.  We all laughed.  We parted ways and I could hear them giggling and chatting as they shuffled to their car.

My guess is that this charming couple had been together for decades, likely their entire adult lives.  They moved and talked together with ease, anticipating the other’s words and movements like Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers on the dance floor.  I’ll bet their feet had danced together countless times, nimbly prancing, weaving in a complicated pattern upon many-a-dance-floor.  And now, in their golden years they lean on one another, just a little, with their bad knees in the middle.  

If we are lucky, we all have somebody in our life that we share this connection with.  Somebody who knows what you are thinking without hearing the words.  They recognize a look in the eye or a gesture that tells all.  And because they know, they react predictably and the dance of life continues.  

My sister once described my husband and I as using the Vulcan Mind-Meld to communicate.  For those of you who didn’t grow up in the 70s when, in my family, we marked time in Star Trek episodes, the Mind Meld is a technique for sharing thoughts, experiences, memories, and knowledge with another person (or alien).  The VMM is a form of telepathy that usually required physical contact.  From the beginning of our time together, we have shared this connection with only a few hiccups along the way.

If we are super-fortunate, we have more than one kind of partner in life.  The most typical  partnership is initiated by romance and results in love, but often this connection exists through family ties or platonic friendships.  You know each other so well that you don’t have to explain yourself.  My sisters and I have an extensive vocabulary and plenty of silly phrases that would sound like a foreign language to an outsider.  My daughters and I have simple gestures that will send each other into belly-laughs.  There are some long-running themes among my running group (pun intended) that, although we cannot speak of them in the company of others without blushing, can be alluded to with one single letter.

I think of all of these things on this red-heart emblazoned holiday, this day of love.  I have never been a believer in the obligation to buy roses and chocolates to express my affection.  I don’t expect a romantic dinner during which we gaze at each other under the light of twinkling candlelight.  I feel like love and appreciation should be understood every day of the year. 

Beyond February 14th my husband and I will continue to put our foreheads together for the Vulcan Mind Meld if we are lucky. We will tie our ankles together with an old rag, his left to my right, and continue trudging through this crazy life in our own personal three-legged race.