Purging Demons: Skinning Cats (and the time I pantsed my gym teacher)

Last night I was jolted awake by a disturbing dream about skinning a live cat.  Since I’m the type that will save big hairy spiders rather than squish them, I was wondering aloud at the breakfast table why I would have such horrible images in my head.  My daughter reminded me, “I’ll bet that comes from your jerk PE teacher in junior high.”  She had heard the story before, or at least part of it.

I attended junior high school in the late 1970s.  Junior high was basically what we now call middle school, but with grades 7 through 9.  Title IX was new (1972) bringing equality for girls and boys in sports and physical education, but there were clearly plenty of male chauvinistic attitudes and behaviors ingrained in the “old school” teachers of the day. 

Reigning over my junior high was the gym teacher, Mr. T, a muscle bound yet pot-bellied has-been athlete who tried to extend his glory days by surrounding himself with young athletes.  From the polyester shorts and tube socks to the sports jersey and slightly greased back flat-top hairdo, he was a type.

When not coaching football or barking out directions to a PE class, he could be seen sauntering up and down the hallway flanked by a couple of broad-shouldered ninth grade boys who shadowed him like bodyguards or henchmen.  There would often be a uniformed cheerleader close behind to complete his hallway posse.  Proximity meant popularity.  He favored the football players and humiliated the scrawny, but always with humor.  Most kids wanted to be on his good side so readily joined in his banter, no matter how demeaning.

It was considered a compliment to the girls if he flirted with you — yes, FLIRTED with your 12-, 13- or 14- year-old self.  The boys watched and learned.  They yearned to be one of his side-kicks.  He was their hero.  He was, on the surface, well-liked.  If he teased you in class, or mentioned the short length of your skirt, your unwritten popularity score would climb.

One day during passing time I entered the gym, crossing the striped shiny floor to get to the girls locker room.  There Mr T was, surrounded by the usual chuckling adolescent male primates…I mean classmates.  He muttered something to them and then hollered, “Hey Stone!  Get over here and hold this for me!”  The boys guffawed in anticipation, each trying to out-laugh the other to gain the favor of their middle-aged hero.  I entered their circle and the teacher put my hands on a preserved, dead, pregnant cat.  “Here, hold this cat while I skin it for my biology class,”  he said loudly enough for everyone in the gym to hear.  He only kept me there long enough to watch my skin turn green and tears fill my eyes.  Long enough to get a good laugh out of his groupies and send me on my way. This “joke” traumatized my pubescent self, and was a perfect example of his use of degrading humor to hold power over us.

In my ninth grade year Mr. T started a game with myself and a few of my girl friends.  During PE he would sneak up behind one of us and give a light tug on the corner of our shorts to make us jump - a pretend attempt at “pantsing”.  We would gasp and laugh, and in return would tug on his shorts when his back was turned. Shorts never came down more than an inch or so, but we would yank ‘em up fast in a game of tit-for-tat. 

One day there was a murmur of commotion at one end of the hall as our FIRST crap-food vending machine was being installed in the entryway to the school.  A crowd of awkward teens and tweens were admiring the shiny new machine while Mr T stood in the back, arms folded across his puffed-out chest - trying to make it more prominent than his ample belly, with the usual football player poised on each side.

My friends and I approached from behind to try to see what was so exciting.  What we saw was our opportunity.  There he was.  His back to us.  The usual polyester shorts.  The three of us decided to play the game, this time with ALL THREE of us tugging at once.  We tiptoed up so as to not alert the boy henchmen of our approach.  One, two, three….TUG x 3!  Three tugs - all at once.  As I bent over, the next thing I saw, the only thing I could see, were two pale, round, fleshy cheeks speckled with black wiry hairs and a greyish-white jock strap.  We jumped back and squealed, frozen in shock.  That is, until Mr. T, one hand clutching his shorts and pointing with the other, yelled, “TO THE OFFICE!  THE THREE OF YOU!”

We sat all alone, D, K and I, in the small conference room awaiting our punishment.  Visions of angry, disappointed parents, school suspensions and at least a swat or two (yes, there was a paddle in the office) filled our anxious thoughts.  Mr. T finally came in, still red in the face (from anger? or embarrassment?),  probably after he made sure that NOBODY saw what happened except maybe his young goons. He sat across from us in the big bad principal’s chair and blew out a frustrated sigh.  He did his best to scare the crap out of us (heck, we were already terrified) but we soon figured out that this incident would be kept a secret.  He didn’t come out and say so, but we figured out that if he told our parents or the principal, he would have to explain himself.  He would have to tell how this inappropriate game came about and he was at least smart enough to steer clear of that sh*t show.  We were sworn to secrecy in order to avoid punishment.

This all happened so long ago that I’m not quite sure which of these events took place first.  In my memory the cat skinning came first and I got him back with the pantsing.  But the reality is probably the reverse - the cat-skinning was perhaps his revenge.

Either way, this is all in the past and I’m happy to send it back there.  Maybe Mr. T was less evil in reality than how he lives in my memories and more a victim of the times, a product of a chauvinistic generation. I’m just glad that my daughters are flabbergasted by these stories. Happy that they cannot even imagine such a scenario in their schools. 

Now that I’ve written about this demon of middle school, I will consider it purged. The images will no longer haunt my dreams.  I shall take a deep breath and blow them away!  Good riddance, Mr T.

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!”