Merry Christmas

Posted on December 20, 2013 by Kate

If Wilson was here, he’d let us, like the ninja that he was, decorate him for Christmas.

Lucy, on the other hand, will have nothing to do with it, eating the tinsel faster than we can sprinkle it over her head. It’s a bitter-sweet tradeoff. We miss our old friend, but take great delight in the puppy energy that now dominates our household.

Letter to the Editor: People running for office such as the Fort Bragg Fire Protection District Director and Mendocino Coast Recreation & Park District director should submit biographical summaries that pertain to the office when they file to run for a position. How is the voter supposed to make an intelligent choice when they have no information. (I am considering voting for my dog because at least I know about him.)

Gary and I remain as boring as ever, yet somehow manage to have fun. Our children and grandchildren have exciting lives—and we love hearing about their adventures.

Police Report: Officers received a call from the 200 block of Main Street reporting that a shoplifter had stolen a pair of long johns.

Laine recently moved from San Jose to Oakland, having transferred with her company to their San Francisco office. Harrison is still with Okta and living with his darling girlfriend Kasi.

Police Blotter: Officers were dispatched for a report of domestic violence assault. Upon arrival, they determined the victim had been struck in the head with a glass vase while trying to leave the apartment of his ex-girlfriend. Further investigation revealed that the ex-girlfriend had left her 10-month old child alone and unsupervised in her apartment while she walked to the victim’s apartment and tried to persuade him to come back to her. When the victim walked back to the apartment to check on the welfare of their child, the ex-girlfriend struck him in the head with the vase to try and prevent him from leaving.

Jennifer wrote and published a novel entitled Four Rubbings. She’s happily busy promoting the book, writing a sequel, writing a blog, illustrating other books, painting…oh and raising two darling girls and a puppy. (I need a nap after writing that sentence.) Granddaughter Ellie will have her driver’s license within a month; and “baby” Bryn is in fifth grade.

Court Report: Mikel E. Rexrode admitted violation of probation for spitting on someone while riding his bicycle. He was ordered to perform 50 hours of community service and write a letter of apology to his victim.

Garth’s elementary school teaching job is keeping him extremely busy. Granddaughter Ceri is in her second year at MIT; Marcus a junior in high school.

We offer warm wishes for a happy holiday season. In the New Year, we hope you will remember:

Vote for your dog in upcoming elections.
Always pay for your long johns before leaving the store.
If you want to prevent someone from leaving your home, you should avoid the technique of striking them in the head with a glass vase (apparently it can result in criminal charges).
If your original condition of probation was that you were to refrain from spitting on people, make certain you don’t violate it by spitting on someone while riding your bicycle. You may fare better by hitting them in the head with a glass vase (or at least incur a new condition of probation). (The letter to the editor, police report, etc. were lifted throughout the year from The Fort Bragg Advocate News.)

My Love Affair with Fort Bragg

Posted on December 13, 2013 by Kate

Guest Blog by Jennifer Hotes

Fort Bragg has provided a respite to my family for decades. Before it was the permanent home of my father’s second family, Fort Bragg was our yearly escape from the stagnant, hot, dusty Central Valley. We’d overstuff the car with luggage and kids, boom the La Bamba soundtrack on the stereo, and wind our way to the coast. Twisting, lurching, singing, laughing and puking, we’d cut through the woods to Fort Bragg. When we finally spilled to the curb, we were coated in goldfish crackers and barf. Sure, the fancy B & B’s of Mendocino would have turned us away with one sniff, but not Fort Bragg. You welcomed us with open arms. Loving.

Back then, Fort Bragg wore a layer of gritty industry, a lumber mill blocked the view to the ocean. Locals scowled at the sight of seasonal tourists and the marina still bustled with crusty fishermen and their weathered boats. No wonder we fit in so well. We were not pretty, but we had substance—a salt of the earth quality no layer of silk or perfume can feign, just like Fort Bragg.

Fort Bragg, you do what all of us should. You make no apologies for who you are. Like us or get the hell out of town. Authentic.

When I first dared to dream of writing a novel, I knew I’d come back to you, Fort Bragg. I’d been away for sixteen years, but needed to wander your streets, eat at your restaurants, sleep with the sound of trains in the background, walk your cemeteries. And that’s what I did. Adventuresome.

Sure, you’d grown prettier over the years. The revamped Pudding Creek trestle, the new North Coast Brewery, the renovated historic homes—God, if only I had aged so well. I got reacquainted with you surrounded by my loving parents and old family friends. Over the course of three days, accompanied by my father and Jared Williams, I visited a handful of local cemeteries. Jared shared the story of a baby whose burial was delayed by the county because she had died from meningitis. Once cleared by the bureaucracy, Jared lovingly dug the grave by hand. I was touched by his tenderness and intimate care of the child. Tender.

There were places in the cemeteries where the terrain made it hazardous to walk, but we treaded softly, our steps light and slow. This was the poor part of the cemetery, Jared explained, where the deceased were buried in thin, redwood boxes, boxes that decomposed within months of being lowered into the ground. Fragile.

Over the next few days, I returned to a few cemeteries with my loving step-mother and her dogs. We visited the graves of her friends who had passed, and Kate related their stories. We laid stones on their graves to mark our visit and acknowledge that their lives continue to matter. We cried a little. We laughed. And all the while I wrote down names, took pictures and scratched sentences into my journal. Mindful.

As the airplane carried me home, I felt as though I’d been wrapped in a security blanket, safe and snug. The visit had healed me somehow. I’d spent three days in the loving care of Fort Bragg, and not once had someone mocked my idea to write a novel. In fact, I was encouraged. I left your loving arms, Fort Bragg feeling bold, strong and determined. I was ready to wear the title of ‘writer’ and complete my working manuscript, which is what I did. Emboldening.

Today, after trading in my title of ‘writer’ for ‘author,’ I can’t help but wonder. Would my dream have died without you, Fort Bragg? Magic.

Thank you Fort Bragg, friends, loved ones and strangers who make this unique place your home. I hope to see you again soon.

Jennifer Hotes is author of Four Rubbings, the first novel in the Stone Witch Series. She illustrates children’s books, designs book covers, and blogs when she’s not helping to raise funds for Providence Hospice of Seattle Foundation. She loves to hear from her readers, so drop her a line at www.jenniferlhotes.com.

Wanted

Posted on December 6, 2013 by Kate

Lucy and I cross Franklin Street at Alder, from the post office to The Purity. We walk north on Franklin. Up ahead, a large woman with tightly curled gray hair and black-framed glasses gets out of a blue van. She moves to stand on the sidewalk and looks in our direction. She’s obviously waiting for some puppy lovin’.

Lucy’s impression of The Flying Nun

As we grow closer, I notice her expression differs from that of most people who see Lucy for the first time—she does not smile and giggle at the goofy dog with the brown eye patch. There’s a deep crease between her eyes. She gnaws her lower lip.

“That your dog?” There’s a muscle to her tone that would have frightened me in my younger years.

“Yes ma’am.” I smile. “Would you like to pet her?”

She squints and gives me the once-over. “Just saw a missing dog poster. Looks exactly like the dog on the poster.”

“She’s not. She’s mine.” I continue to smile.

She raises one eyebrow. “Where’d you get her?”

“The Humane Society.”

Lucy does all she knows to entice this woman to pet her—fanatic tail wagging, piddling on the sidewalk and wiggling into a sit. She throws herself on her back to offer a submissive tummy, mopping up piddle with her fur.

“What’s her name?”

“Lucy.”

Lucy looks up at me.

“Good thing for you that she knows her name.” The woman takes a few steps away before stopping and turning around. “You live in town?”

“Yes I do.”

“Give your dog bottled water. City tap water is polluted.” The woman points west towards the former Georgia Pacific mill site. “Because of all those years of toxic waste they dumped into the land, there’s a high incidence of cancer among dogs in this town. Don’t risk it. Give her bottled water.”

“I will.” (No I won’t.)

“You should drink bottled water, too. A lot of people in this town get cancer from drinking tap water.”

I give her a thumb’s up and coax Lucy away.

“You’re sure that’s your dog?”

“I’m sure,” I holler over my shoulder.

Shooting Blind – Part II

Posted on November 15, 2013 by Kate

(If you haven’t read Part I, please scroll down and read it first.)

Erik describes his vision as looking through the slit of a fence. The closer something is to the fence, the fewer parts are visible. Further away, a greater number of parts can be seen. For example, if a truck is parked right next to a fence, a person can see the door keyhole. Park the truck across the street, and a person will see nearly the entire vehicle.

A couple of years after his accident, Erik attended a school for the blind to learn how to navigate his visually-impaired world. His roommate Jeff was also partially sighted and, like Erik, an adventurer. They discovered a grassy hill behind the fenced off grounds of the school perfect for “sledding.” They stole a couple of large cardboard boxes from the garbage to use as sleds and began sneaking out of the school on a regular basis. They had so much fun on these outings they wanted to share them with classmates who were completely blind.

One late afternoon, Erik and Jeff escorted eight of their classmates over the three-foot fence.

“Jeff put a person on the ‘sled’ at the top of the hill and gave them a push. I caught them at the bottom. Everyone laughed and hollered.”

Once it began to get dark, Erik became concerned about getting caught by school officials who would expect the students to be in their rooms.

“Jeff hopped the fence to the school grounds and helped the kids over one at a time. I stayed at the back of the line to make sure everyone got over. After the last guy was safely on the school grounds, I tried to hustle to the other side so I could help Jeff get the group into the building. I didn’t realize I was parallel to a loading dock area with a 30-foot drop to the ground. I took a hard fall and broke my leg.”

Three days later, he was asked to leave school.

“If I had to get kicked out for having the most fun any of us ever had, it was worth it.”

He returned to Fort Bragg to teach himself how to rebuild his life in familiar surroundings. He was welcomed by friends and family who supported his desire to resume his active outdoor life.

His softball team convinced the pitchers on opposing teams to make sure Erik could locate the ball before it was pitched. He became the team’s star hitter. Running to first base was another matter. He once ran toward the pitcher’s mound. The pitcher, thinking he was charging the mound, threw down his glove, ready for a fight. The solution was to paint a big orange “3” (in homage to Dale Earnhardt) on a sign and hold it above first base. Once safely at first base, his team sent in a pinch runner.

His hunting and fishing buddies serve as his guides in the field. Erik refuses to let anyone physically guide him over rugged terrain. His friends warn him about potentially hazardous branches and rocks.

“It doesn’t stop me from taking some nasty falls. My shins and knees are constantly bruised and scraped.”

He is grateful his friends make it possible for him to continue to hunt. “I can get a buck in my sights and shoot, but once it runs off, I can’t see where it went. My buddies help me track it or spot another shot.”

Erik lowers his head and chuckles when he begins to relay one youthful hunting adventure. “About 10 years after my accident I went deer hunting a few miles northeast of here. My buddy and I were heading home about ten at night when we came across a bear standing in the middle of the road. My buddy pulled the truck over, we got out and ran after the bear. Don’t ask me why, but at the time, it seemed like a fun thing to do.

“It was dark and I couldn’t see a darned thing. I just followed the sound of my buddy and the bear. We got to an old railroad boxcar bridge and I could hear the bear’s claws running across the metal. The bridge turned, but I kept running straight and flew over the side 25 feet down to the dry creek bottom. It knocked me straight out.”

His friend revived him and took him home where his wife insisted he go to the hospital for a CAT scan. The scan showed no brain trauma. When compared to the scans of his original brain injury, the blood clot that is the source of his blindness had shrunk by a third.

“It gives me hope that someday it will totally shrink and I’ll get all my eyesight back.”

***

Erik’s wife, Bobbi, is a former high school classmate. They have two boys, Cody (twelve) and Emmett (eight). Erik would like to get off disability and have a job.

“I’ve applied for things like city maintenance worker and tree trimmer, but nobody wants to take on the liability of having a blind employee doing physical labor. I guess I could enter a program to get trained for something else, but it would kill me to be locked up in an office eight hours a day.”

In the meantime, Erik is a stay-at-home dad who teaches his sons in the tradition of his father and grandfather.

Winter is the time for steelhead fishing and setting crab pots. Spring and summer bring herring fishing and abalone picking. Fall is deer hunting. Despite his blindness, Erik’s ability to carry on this family legacy is as important to him as the recreation it provides.

Attack of the Seniors

Posted on October 18, 2013 by Kate

As I approach senior citizen status, I’m beginning to experience what it means to belong to this age group—young people look upon me with pity and I probably should schedule a facelift. On the bright side, I’m allowed to become cranky with anyone who doesn’t respect my opinion as the only one that matters.

I’ve also started to take a modest interest in things labeled “senior.” Thus I was attracted to the recent headline in the Fort Bragg Advocate News: “Senior Center Vote to Fire Bush Baffles All.”

On the surface, the senior center board had silly reasons to fire their executive director Charles Bush. He allegedly has a messy office, spends too much time in the dining room, not enough time fundraising, and refuses to fire a crabby volunteer.

Of the 9-member board, the vote came in 4-2 with 2 abstaining. The ninth member claimed that the vote was called for illegally and walked out before it was taken.

Tensions ran high at The Purity as people wondered aloud: Was Charles fired or not?

The plan to dump him began brewing over the summer. The seniors who frequent the center are highly supportive of him and none too happy with board members who favor letting him go.

After the “firing,” the board president was spat upon one afternoon while walking through the halls of the center. Another time, she found her car had been keyed. She received a death threat. All board members suffered harassing telephone calls.

How could I not be captivated by a story that included death threats, crank calls, car keying, senior citizens spitting on one another, sex, drugs, alcohol and adultery?

(The sex, drugs, alcohol and adultery claims have not been corroborated—so it’s probably best not to repeat them.)

Suffering from a lack of drama in my life (new puppy notwithstanding), I decided to attend the senior center board meeting on September 27th.

I arrived 15 minutes early to find people pouring into the vast dining room faster than Charles Bush could haul out chairs to seat them.

I looked toward the open kitchen and saw two people stirring a large cauldron. Others plucked feathers from chicken carcasses. The thick scent of tar hung in the air.

The room was packed with a growling gray-haired mob, worrying stones in their pockets and hoping their aim was as good as in years past. I estimated 10,000 people, but it was probably closer to 200.

A weary looking vice-president attempted to call the meeting to order amidst problems with the sound system.

Angry cries of “I can’t hear you!” and “Put the microphone up to your mouth!” reverberated throughout the room.

The glitches were worked out. The vice-president’s first announced was that the president (who had previously been spat upon and received death threats) and three other board members would not be at the meeting. The crowd grumbled.

What would become of all that tar, all those feathers?

The collective expression of the five board members present was a mixture of fear and disdain, self-protection and disgust. They would not cower before a bunch of peon vigilantes.

Charles pleaded with everyone to simmer down, to treat one another with respect. This harkened me back to the days when my daughter Laine attended Redwood Elementary. Each Friday, the student body gathered on the playground for “Friday Opening.” The short session ended with everyone reciting the Redwood Oath: Be kind. Be safe. Be responsible.

Fort Bragg Advocate News photo

The crowd grudgingly shifted from feral to nearly calm. A half hour was set aside for public comment. Each person who wished to was allowed a few minutes to express his or her opinion. The opinions were overwhelmingly in favor of keeping Charles as executive director.

At the close of public comment, four letters of resignation—from absent board members—were read into the record. The crowd gasped.

Another letter of resignation was read, then one more. The crowd gasped again as the two grim-faced quitters got up and walked out of the room.

In less than one hour, the Redwood Coast Senior Center Board of Directors went from nine members to three. I have not witnessed such drama since “Dynasty” went off the air.

The senior center should have no trouble filling the vacant board seats. Perhaps the person who spat on the former president will apply. And the one who keyed her car. And the one who issued a death threat.

The final three seats can be fought over by those who made the threatening phone calls.

Before each board meeting, the principal of Redwood Elementary can lead a recital of: Be kind. Be safe. Be responsible. Don’t threaten to kill one another.

Are You Purious?

Posted on October 11, 2013 by Kate

Purious is the feeling you get when you wake up and wonder what treasures you might discover at The Purity today. Purious will send you to the store to wander up and down the aisles where you’ll find such amazing things as:

Nearly any type of flour you can imagine.

Locally-produced mustard. (If I didn’t write this blog, I’d write one called I Love the Roundman.)

Vinegar, vinegar, and more vinegar!

And what’s this? Gluten free hoodie-doodies!Specialty dog food. (Lucy-puppy won’t eat this because her name’s not Spot and it’s not made of fuchsia bush branches, dirt and cat poop.)Exotic foreign candles!Taaka Vodka that also comes in what Marcia (the one who works at The Purity, not my friend MW) calls “The Lover’s Size.” And there’s more. Much, much more. But I’m going to withhold showing you because I want to inspire your puriousness so you’ll take time to wander around The Purity and discover for yourself.

Get Your Motor Running

Posted on September 27, 2013 by Kate

Did you know that “Born to be Wild” starts out: “Get your motor running”? If so, I’m impressed. (Or you’re lying.)

That song came out 45 years ago. Until I looked up the lyrics a few minutes ago, I thought it began: “Pitchin’ for a runnin’.”

I never gave any thought to what pitchin’ for a runnin’ might mean. Ever since the sixties I don’t care if lyrics make sense as long as the music is loud.

Big truck, little trailer

I recently learned that someone I’ve known for nearly a decade is pitchin’ to do some runnin’.

Her name is Lynn. She sold her home, bought a large pickup truck, a 1989 trailer and will soon leave her campground at Dolphin Isle to head out on the highway.

She is 81 years old.

Lynn

The desire to travel has been with Lynn since before she retired. But soon after her salary ended, she found she had to take a part time job in order to make ends meet. Between that commitment and little discretionary income, she felt stuck.

She also felt tethered by her possessions. “Some people are limited in what they can do by children or grandchildren. I was limited by my stuff.”

Lynn gave a great deal of her stuff away, including family heirlooms, and narrowed the remainder down to what would fit into a small storage unit, her trailer, and the back of her pickup.

Sparkle

While she knows there are risks involved with an older single woman traveling alone, she’s willing to take those risks to have one last adventure in this life. Besides, she’s not truly alone—she’s got her dog Sparkle for company.

We all make choices on how to live. These are limited by circumstances of time, health, money and age. Lynn’s choices came down to (1) stay put and wait for the inevitable or (2) get moving and let the inevitable track her down.

Here’s to Lynn’s Born to be Wild rebirth at the age of 81. I wish her many happy miles and amazing adventures.

I Wonder

Posted on September 13, 2013 by Kate

Every now and then I wonder about people. This is usually provoked by the Crime Blotter report in the Fort Bragg Advocate News. I wonder about their lives, so foreign from mine. I wonder how they get themselves into such pickles and what course of action could have prevented their being listed in the Crime Blotter.

***

On August 30, about ten in the morning, officers were called to 140 E. Oak Street “for a report of theft of money.” The victim claimed that “a man unknown to him” came into his apartment and asked for a cigarette. He was invited in by a friend who was visiting at the time.

The unknown man, sat down, “grabbed approximately $1,000” that was on the table and “ran out of the building.”

The unknown man got away in a black Infinity SUV driven by a woman.

I wonder if this crime could have been prevented had the victim done a “scared straight” treatment on his friend by insisting he read my July 19 blog post “The Europeans Are Coming! The Europeans are Coming!”

I wonder what would have happened if the victim had no spare cigarettes. What if he only had one to get him by until he could walk to The Purity and buy a pack? Without a cigarette to smoke, the stranger may not have sat down at the table where he spotted the $1,000 in cash sitting there plain as day and begging to be taken.

I wonder if the victim is doubly angry that the dude who took his money also has a relationship with a woman who drives a black Infinity SUV while he lives in a crummy apartment on Oak Street.

***

On September 2, again about ten in the morning, a police officer observed a suspect “standing in some bushes next to the First Baptist Church.”

“He was cutting bushes and told [the officer] he felt [they] were a fire danger and wanted to remove them from the property.” When he was finished doing that, he planned to unclog the drain pipes. Apparently this was not the first time the guy had engaged in this type of activity on property not his own.

It was the third time.

After a church member confirmed that the guy had not received permission to trim the bushes, he was arrested.

Lucy doesn’t have to worry. I won’t let him hack at her favorite hiding place.

I wonder if there might be better therapies available other than throwing this guy in jail. He’s obviously a frustrated landscaper. Perhaps the police could escort him to a property, such as mine, where he could be put to work on an overgrown section to hack away to his heart’s content. When he’s finished, he could clean out my rain gutters.

The community could organize a fundraiser to supply him with canisters of salt. He could travel around Fort Bragg sprinkling salt on sidewalk crack gardens. He could earn the nickname Johnny Crack Garden Destroyer and become a hero throughout the town as he saves sidewalks from being eroded by weeds.

My vision goes beyond the criminal. I see a future sidewalk preservationist.

***

As sympathetic as I am with the eccentric landscaper, I’m equally unsympathetic with the following report. I have a problem with adult males who ride round town on their skateboards. I want to tell them to confine their riding to a skate park. And you might consider getting a job—a real grown up man kind of job.

On September 2, about two in the morning, an officer was flagged down in the 400 block of south Main Street. The victim—age 26—claimed that “two males had taken his skateboard and assaulted him with it.”

I first wondered why a 26-year old was riding a skateboard at two in the morning. I read on—

Apparently, the victim met a couple of guys—ages 22 and 28—in a downtown bar. When he went to the restroom, the two out-of-towners took his skateboard.

The victim located them in the 400 block of south Main Street where they beat him with the skateboard.

Fortunately, the responding officers were able to apprehend the two bad boys from out of town and they were thrown in the slammer.

I wonder if the victim’s parents ever warned him about talking to strangers, let alone trusting strangers with his property.

The 22-year old was from Lower Lake; the 28-year old from Cloverdale.

I have two words for them: Stay home!

And nine more: We don’t want scum like you in Fort Bragg.

And a final 11: If you come back, I’ll douse you with salt, you weeds.

***

Thanks for listening to me wonder.

We Love Lucy

Posted on September 6, 2013 by Kate

We have a puppy!

If you’re shaking your head and using the Lord’s name in vain, know that I was doing the same thing less than one week ago.

After Wilson died, our adult children asked if we were going to get another dog. Gary said yes at the very moment I snapped no. Gary looked hurt and the kids got quiet and I felt mean and controlling.

I softened my declaration by saying, “We won’t go looking for a dog, but if one comes into our lives we’ll keep it.” This was stated as a far off, someday, maybe type of possibility (as in hopefully never).

Harrison and Laine, along with Harrison’s girlfriend Kasi, visited for the Labor Day weekend. These constitute Paul Bunyan Days in Fort Bragg. Saturday morning, Harrison and Kasi said they were going downtown and Laine left to visit a friend.

We had plans to meet friends for a late lunch at Dolphin Isle Marina. My afternoon family agenda included the Ugly Dog Contest and the Volunteer Fire Department Water Fights. I was excited to engage in activities that we hadn’t shared since their childhood.

At one o’clock I sent text messages. Harrison and Kasi were running late. Laine was running late. I was running bitter. I decided not to wait for them and drove to Dolphin Isle. I was surprised when they arrived at the same time.

Laine returned home with me while Harrison and Kasi went on a mission to buy fish straight off a commercial fishing boat. I reminded them of the three o’clock Ugly Dog Contest. They said they’d be on time.

Shortly after three, Laine said, “Harrison and Kasi are here. Let’s go outside.”

Harrison walked through the front gate alone. I asked, “Where’s Kasi?”

Kasi was led through the gate by an Arctic white puppy with a brown patch of fur circling one eye. Harrison, Laine and Kasi sported impish smiles.

No! No! Oh God No! I forced a chuckle. “Take it back.”

Their smiles faded.

“Is it a girl?”

“Yes,” they said in unison.

“Okay, then her name is Lucy,” I said. “We need to get her a crate and some food.”

Our thoughtful kids had already gotten everything she needed.

Our thoughtful kids did what they felt was best to help their parents recover from the loss of Wilson.

Lucy’s pack

They had spent hours at the Mendocino Coast Humane Society “testing” every puppy to choose the perfect fit for us.

The remainder of the afternoon and evening was spent loving on Lucy and helping her adjust to her surroundings. That night, I set up an air mattress next to her crate.

My fantasy Lucy was supposed to be a poodle. Or a Yorkie. Or a Yorkie-poodle. Not a Weimaraner mix, a breed that I couldn’t even spell. I lay awake until the wee hours of Sunday morning reading online about Weimaraners, about how they need lots of exercise and how they can grow to the size of a dozen Yorkies executing a pyramid stunt.

Over the course of the night, I tossed and turned while Lucy grew to 75 lbs.

At 6:00am, Lucy whimpered. I opened the crate door and she crawled onto my lap. I marveled that the 75-lb. dog of my nightmares was so small, so cuddly, and such a sweet, affectionate baby.

Sunday was spent with a mass of humans taking care of her.

On Monday after the parade, the kids left Gary and me with sole custody of our new puppy. I stood on the porch, waved goodbye and verged on hyperventilation. Our “pack” was leaving. I wanted to go to the park with a handful of cash and sit at the picnic bench until a dealer came by to offer me narcotics.

We had not had a puppy in many years. We had not finished mourning the loss of our buddy Wilson. We suddenly had to gear up to nurture a vibrant new life.

While Lucy napped, I sat on the sofa and closed my eyes. In an effort to get my breathing and heart rate under control, the word “flow” came to mind.

The currents of life are ever changing—dang it anyway. I can struggle against this fact or surrender to it. I can accept this gift from my loving children and be grateful that they think their dad and I are up to the challenge of raising a dog that will eventually become a great companion.

I choose to honor my children and Lucy. I choose to slip into this changing current and flow.

Our Last Walk

Posted on August 30, 2013 by Kate

When we moved to Fort Bragg 21 years ago, we brought along a three-month old golden retriever named Journey. He grew to be the perfect dog. He loved people and other dogs. We took him nearly everywhere—on leash, off leash, it didn’t matter. He knew that responding to our commands meant getting petted. And he loved to be petted.

He died from leukemia five years later. We suspected we’d never again have such a perfect dog.

We were right.

Laine receiving a rare demonstration of affection from Wilson.

Laine receiving a rare show of affection from Wilson.

A year later, we got a Border collie/Labrador mix that our son Harrison named after a Wilson Jet basketball. Wilson’s response to our requests for appropriate behavior was the canine equivalent of flipping us off. He didn’t care about receiving affection. He cared about getting his own way, about climbing the ivy-covered fence in order to get out of the yard, about running as fast as he could away from us.

Each time I took him to Rose Memorial Park (a secluded cemetery not far from our house) for a run, I would cry because I missed Journey and felt guilty that I didn’t like Wilson. When he was five months old, I called dog trainer Sally Stevens to ask when she was starting a new obedience class. She said that she preferred dogs be at least nine months old before they began training.

“I want to kill him.”

“Bring him this Saturday.”

He was the worst dog in the class—barking and lunging at other dogs to herd them. However, during those six weeks, I learned how to live with a working dog. He needed a great deal of exercise and to be told what to do. We all tried to be consistent in redirecting his energy, but it was exhausting and we often failed.

It would take adopting another dog—Tucker—and another 10 years to turn Wilson into the (nearly) perfect dog.

After Tucker died in late 2011, Wilson and I moved our daily walks from Rose Memorial Park to the streets of Fort Bragg. By that time he was 13-years old—ancient by large dog standards—yet would race to the front gate each time I picked up the leash and opened the door.

A few weeks ago, we sauntered by Bainbridge Park on the home stretch of our walk. A young couple (who looked like tourists) sat at the picnic bench near Laurel Street. They were eating sandwiches while their daughter did what most toddlers do—explored the area nearby in lieu of sitting at the table.

About 100 feet away, a 60-something woman with long white hair sat in a folding lawn chair reading a book. At her feet lay an Australian Shepard with coloring reflective of his mistress.

The toddler started to walk toward the dog. The father yelled a rapid-fire series of “NO! NO! NO!” The toddler sprinted—like toddlers tend to do—away from the command. “No” to a toddler translates into “Must hurry before they catch me.”

The reader looked up. The dog rose to his feet. The toddler was on a collision course with the dog’s mouth. The father and mother untangled themselves from the picnic table, both screaming “NO!” and raced to save their child.

The reader was frozen, yet managed to tighten her hold on the leash. The dog was poised to fend off attack by the creature rapidly closing in on him. A mere three feet before the toddler reached the dog, the reader bent forward, chair and all, and collapsed to pin him to the ground.

A second later, the father grabbed the toddler and lifted her to his chest. He walked back to the picnic table, continuing to yell NO! NO! NO! The toddler screamed as only a toddler can do.

A shaggy street person crossed Laurel Street from the library. He smiled at the father. “Hey man, that was a good save.” The father did not smile back.

This was to be the last of Wilson and my adventures on the streets of Fort Bragg.

The following day, my husband Gary and I went out of town for a short vacation. We left Wilson in the care of our loving friend Marcia who has been our dog sitter for the past six years. The night before we returned home, Marcia called to say Wilson could not stand and his breathing was labored. We made the decision to end his suffering. My pain was amplified by not being able to be with my ninja buddy during his last moments.

Gary and I returned from our trip to enter a house where—for the first time in nearly 15 years—we were not greeted by a dog. It felt empty. And sad. Very, very sad.

Two weeks later, the raw edges of our sadness are starting to heal with the knowledge that we loved Wilson and made his life a good one. It will take much longer to stop missing him.

It Happened at Purity

Small town adventures on the Mendocino Coast

Category Archives: Mendocino County

Merry Christmas

My Love Affair with Fort Bragg

Wanted

Shooting Blind – Part II

Attack of the Seniors

Are You Purious?

Get Your Motor Running

I Wonder

We Love Lucy

Our Last Walk