5 Tips to Make Your 10-year old Cat Happy that You Got a Puppy

Posted on February 21, 2014 by Kate

When our adult children bestowed a puppy on us over the 2013 Labor Day weekend, we couldn’t have been more ~~traumatized~~ delighted. In the years immediately preceding this arrival, we had said goodbye to two dogs and three cats. Our remaining cat—Little Mister—is 10 years old and understandably set in his—let’s be honest—spoiled, entitled, lazy, demanding and uncompromising ways.

My ~~distress~~ elation on the first day of Lucy’s arrival caused me to forget about Little Mister until late evening when I opened the back door to coax the puppy outside for a potty. The cat stood on the stoop, ready to dart inside. He stopped and shouted, “What the hell is this?!?” Lucy froze and exclaimed, “Woo-wee, what’s this?” A high-speed chase ensued.

Little Mister didn’t reappear for three days.

The #1 Tip on how to make your elderly cat happy with the new puppy: Refrain from arranging their first meeting on opposite sides of an opened door.

Our previous cats had been introduced to our mature dogs as kittens and we rarely had a problem. I didn’t know how to get a puppy to leave a cat alone without a great deal of screaming and subsequent psychological damage to everyone. I was able to garner a couple of tips from the Internet.

Tip #2: Never leave the cat and the puppy unsupervised. Initially, you’ll find this easy if you fail to heed Tip #1 and your cat disappears for three days.

Tip #3: Whenever the cat enters the room, put the puppy on a leash and remain calm. This is super easy if (A) you always have a leash in your hand, (B) you know the exact moment the cat decides to wake for the night and enter the living room, and (C) you have not been lulled to sleep watching Nova.

Tip #4: Encourage the cat to live upstairs. This works well if you block the stairway with dining room chairs and the puppy does not discover she can take a flying leap over those chairs and race like a greyhound away from you.

Tip #5: Give up and let them work it out.

After five and a half months of Puppy Kindergarten, AKC Good Citizenship training and Little Mister puffing himself to twice his size, flattening his ears, and issuing long growls that would scare the dead, our puppy and 10-year old cat went through a brief period of detente.

However, a few nights ago, Lucy sensed the presence of the cat in the hallway and raced to confirm. Seconds later, Little Mister’s growls filled the air. Lucy barked. Sighing heavily, I extricated myself from the sofa, put on my Solution Architect hat and prepared to mediate.

Little Mister had taken up position near the front door. Lucy approached, wanting to play. Little Mister growled. Lucy barked. Little Mister lashed out with claws bared. Lucy made a hasty backwards retreat while leaving a river of pee.

At least this gave me the needed motivation to mop the hallway.

The following evening, Little Mister came into the living room and jumped on my chair to demand petting. Lucy maintained her cool and stayed on her bed. The cat left for a few minutes and came back. Lucy was highly aware of his movements, but didn’t chase after him. The cat again left the room.

Little Mister came into the living room once again. Apparently, the cat is allowed access to the living room one, even two times a night, but not a third. Definitely not a third time.

Lucy jumped up and ran at him. Little Mister stood his ground, puffed to the size of a cougar, growled and took a swipe in the air. Lucy backed off. Little Mister advanced, hissing and growling. Lucy backed away until she was under an end table. Little Mister continued to pursue.

Yes, I know that Tip #5 advises to let them work it out, but Little Mister looked poised to jump on Lucy’s face like the Salt Creature in Star Trek and suck the life out of her. I jumped from my chair and placed myself between them. Instead of telling Lucy to “leave it,” the command was leveled at Little Mister. He turned and sauntered across the room to claim my chair and meow for a pet. Lucy trembled beneath the end table.

I wish I could report that we are now living happily ever after. The good news is that I’m pretty well done trying to convince Lucy to listen to me. I realize her ears are better tuned to what the cat is saying. Whenever he says, “I’m going to kill you,” she either backs off peeing or hides under an end table. At this point, we’ll define it as success.

Good Riddens to January

Posted on February 14, 2014 by Kate

I know I’m a little late in posting this—it is, after all, the middle of February. But I’ve been preoccupied with failing to stay awake after sundown and wake up by sunrise—which in January can mean up to 14 hours of sleep a night.This leaves precious few daylight hours to accomplish all that needs to be done.

For me, January is the flip side of the whirlwind of activity that begins right after Thanksgiving. I enter into a panic over how I’m going to manage all that needs to be done for Christmas. I race to the garage and haul in box after box of decorations and completely redo the house. I make lists of presents to be bought, cookies to be baked, and food to be purchased. I spend evening after evening in front of the television, carefully wrapping gift after gift, making each as close to a work of art as I am capable.

In essence, I become a manic crazed woman. Strangely, this makes me happy.

As Christmas Eve approaches my cookie baking accelerates. I swear I’m not going to eat them, yet eat them anyway, which makes me even more hyper.

Our children arrive, the house twinkles with lights to stave off the oppressive darkness. We share a wonderful week of festivities, staying up late and sleeping in.

Then it’s over. The kids leave so they can celebrate New Year’s Eve with people who know how to have real fun.

I throw white lights around the bay window where the tree used to be and pretend that it’s the same, but it’s not. Christmas is over. There are no more presents to wrap. The kids are gone. I can no longer button my pants—a clear indication to stop eating cookies. The decorations must be put away, the everyday stuff put back into place. It’s all so oppressive and I don’t want to do any of it. I only want to cry.

January

As I pack each box and gag down kale, my heart aches. I go into a depression that lasts two solid days. If you see me on the streets of Fort Bragg during this time, do yourself a favor and avoid me. (Ask Nicole—she once made the mistake of greeting me and had to endure rants about death and despair.)

During the first week in January, The Fort Bragg Advocate News Facebook page asked the question: “How will you contribute in 2014?”

There was only one response—something about contributions staying local, blah blah blah.

Yay. I’m impressed that this person had the fortitude to write anything at all.

This got me thinking that perhaps other people share my feelings about this deplorable month. I suggest that next year’s “Face Talk” question be: “How on earth will you ever survive January?”

The question about contributing in the New Year can be postponed until the Spring Solstice—after we’ve had a chance to absorb the increasing daylight returning to our lives. Maybe by then we’ll be able to conjure up one or even two lofty goals.

Now that sunset is being delayed by a few minutes each day and sunrise is coming earlier, I celebrate having once again survived January by sleeping a whole lot less. Towards the end of next month, I may gain enough energy to respond to a “Face Talk” question.

Taaka Taste Test

Posted on January 17, 2014 by Kate

In mid-December, alert reader Laine enlightened me with a scientific fun fact: if you take a bottle of really cheap vodka and pour it through a Brita Water Filter, you can turn it into expensive-tasting vodka.

Really?

If you’ve read this blog or followed my Facebook page for any length of time, you know I’m a fan of Taaka Vodka. I have never consumed it, but did use it to invent a fabulous all-occasion gift that can be made for under $5 (see the July 25, 2012 post). Taaka’s parent company Sazerac was so impressed that they sent me a tee-shirt.

On Christmas Eve, I had a captive audience of liquor enthusiasts in my home who were willing to test the theory:

Taaka + Brita-filtering = Expensive-Tasting Vodka.

I spent a great deal of money on Ketel One ($26.99) and $6.99 on a similar-sized Taaka. The Brita Filter cost about $5.00.

When I purchased the Taaka at The Purity, I felt the need to explain the pending experiment to the cute little pixy checker. (I’ve alerted all Purity clerks that if I ever claim to buy Taaka for personal consumption they are to call the police and request a mental health evaluation).

The clerk advised that it was best to run the cheap vodka through the filter three to four times. What a great suggestion! Thank you cute little pixy clerk!

With the help of my friend MW, I set up a blind taste test. The four volunteers—Harrison, Laine, Jacob and Erica—were each presented with three shot glasses.

The first was unfiltered Taaka Vodka.

The second contained the expensive vodka.

The third held the four-time filtered Taaka.

Are you ready for the unanimous results?

The unfiltered Taaka was chosen the most expensive! Each of my vodka connoisseurs claimed it flowed smoothly across the palate.

The Ketel One tasted like rubbing alcohol yet was voted #2. (I learned something about my volunteers that I’m not sure I want to know—apparently each has sampled rubbing alcohol.)

The filtered Taaka was rated #3.

So there you have it. Why spend $26.99 on expensive vodka (or $5.00 on a Brita Filter) when you can simply pour Taaka directly from the bottle and have a smooth, satisfying experience?

(I think alert reader Laine deserves a tee-shirt.)

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.)

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.

CSI: Fort Bragg

Posted on November 1, 2013 by Kate

Twenty-one years ago our family moved to what we thought was a sleepy small town—Fort Bragg, California. In reality, we entered a hot bed of criminal activity.

Nine months later, we became victims of the crime of the decade. We were startled awake in the middle of the night by the sound of cops pounding on our front door.

Did we own the Chevy Blazer parked out front?

We did.

Did we know the tires and wheels were missing?

We did not.

The perpetrator left the car balanced on blocks of wood. At first light, a detective arrived and did his detective thing. Throughout that Sunday, strangers came to our door to ask if we knew our vehicle was propped up on wooden blocks.

We did.

The cops had a suspect in mind and quickly nabbed him. He lived down the street and owned a Chevy Blazer a few years older than ours. It was sporting fairly new tires. On the floor of the vehicle was a knife that matched the puncture holes in the dozen or so tires that had been slashed the evening of the theft of our tires and wheels.

The suspect’s explanation for taking our tires was simple: within a few weeks he was scheduled to report to the Navy in San Diego. In order to travel safely, he needed new tires.

The cops wanted this guy out of town. They asked us to forego pressing charges in exchange for the kid making financial restitution. We agreed. He went off to serve his country. This made me feel safer (not for our country, but for our town).

A mere fifteen years would pass before we once again became crime victims.

I had arrived home from my Thursday morning volunteer work in a first grade classroom. I was in my office giving thanks that I had not chosen to teach first grade for a living when I heard two male voices coming from outside. I looked out the window and saw nothing.

Gary was in the kitchen down the hall watching television and eating lunch. I shrugged the voices off as coming from the television program.

About five minutes later, our neighbor Larry knocked on our back door. (Our backyard can be accessed through a gate from the alley.)

He said, “Did you see those two guys go through your gate? I think they went into your garage. A few seconds later, they came out with what looked like a bottle of juice.”

Our garage is located about 25 feet from the house. We use the workbench inside as a pantry to store things like bottles of fruit juice and paper towels. During this period in our lives, we had a couple of ancient cats who preferred to live outside. We kept the garage door open so they could seek shelter.

It was eleven o’clock in the morning. Gary and I were both home. The voices now made sense. We’d been ripped off!

Larry witnessed the activity from his window across the alley. “They rode up on bicycles and dropped them in your driveway. I thought they might be Harrison’s [our son] friends, but I remembered he’s away at college. They took the juice and headed north.”

Gary thanked him for telling us.

My hair ignited. Two guys had the audacity to come onto our property in plain daylight and steal something that belonged to us. It was only juice, but it was our juice!

I grabbed my car keys and raced to the garage.

“What are you doing?” Gary hollered.

“I’m going to find those guys and get our juice back,” I snapped.

Gary has mobility and eyesight issues—otherwise he would have tackled me and wrestled the keys from my hands.

“I’d help you, but I have a meeting,” Larry said.

“I don’t need your help,” I growled.

I sped north through the alley and drove up and down the streets of our neighborhood. I mumbled the speech those dirty thieves would get when I found them. It contained a lot of “F” words and a guarantee to kill if I caught them on my property ever again.

I widened my search and still could not find them. It took some time for reason to grip me. “What if you issue your threats and later they retaliate by doing something like spraying graffiti on the garage or burning the house down while you sleep?”

Uh-oh!

I draped the veil of shame over my head (it was in the glove compartment) and returned home to apologize to Gary and Larry for shouting at them. I called our handyman and scheduled him to install a lock on the garage door.

I’ve spent the following six years preparing for the next assault on our property. I cannot reveal the security measures I’ve taken, but warn anyone who thinks of trespassing: Lucy is mastering some amazing ninja skills in Puppy Kindergarten.

Lucy bustin’ one of her ninja moves.

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.

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.

Puppy Kindergarten

Posted on September 20, 2013 by Kate

There’s a program called Puppy Kindergarten and I enrolled Lucy in it this past Saturday.

It didn’t start out well.

Within minutes of arriving in the parking lot of the Evergreen Barn in Mendocino, Lucy got so hopelessly tangled up with a border collie that the owner and I had to restrain our dogs while someone else removed the collie’s collar and untangled the leashes.

Flying ears.

When the puppy group was released for play in the training room, my normally mellow darling turned into a psychotic tweeker.

Cesar Milan says not to take your puppy’s behavior personally. But how do you manage that while five other “parents” watch in horror as your great white shark ruins the delicate balance of Puppy Kindergarten?

Expert trainer, Elaine Miksak, asked me to gently coax Lucy into the “time out” area and keep her there until she settled down.

Try as I might to get Lucy’s attention away from chomping on the other dogs’ necks, it was a no go. It would have been far easier to pick her up and haul her out of Puppy Kindergarten forever.

Elaine, bless her heart, finally intervened to skillfully move Lucy away from the action.

After a few minutes, she settled enough to be allowed back into play. However, I was asked repeatedly to intervene by going to her, calling her name while gently clapping my hands, moving backwards and coaxing her to follow. This simmered her down for about 15 seconds at a time.

A gorgeous four-month old golden retriever dabbled in the play, but when it got rough, took refuge at the feet of her owner. I found myself standing by him after my one hundredth “coaxing” of Lucy to stop her bullying ways.

Looking for action.

“We used to have a golden retriever,” I said. “He was perfect.”

He gave me a weary smile, almost as if I’d said I’d once driven a Mercedes and now drive a 20-year old piece of crap Geo—almost as if to say, “I don’t care to hear your tale of woe.”

His look made me realize that I believed Lucy was less than the others, that she would never be more than the snapping, barking creature that she was at that moment.

A few minutes later, play time was thankfully called to a halt and we were asked to leash up our dogs. Lucy thrashed as we walked to my chair. She lunged to incite the other dogs to play. I quietly soothed her into a sit.

Elaine gave a sweet lecture on I don’t know what because I was giving myself a silent lecture to straighten out my thought process with my dog.

This was Lucy’s first experience with playing with puppies outside of her littermates. In her defense, littermate play is like my childhood—a turbulent mob of sibling rivalry. Lucy took what she had learned in her kennel at the Humane Society and transferred it to these strangers.

Most of Lucy’s experiences are first-time. It is up to us, as her owners, to be patient with helping her learn. It is a daily process. Unfortunately, I am not good with daily processes.

New mantra: I am good with daily processes.

After Elaine’s lecture, the puppies were allowed two additional mosh pit sessions intermixed with two basic training periods. (It was the longest 90 minutes in recent memory.) In the end, Lucy sat quietly at my feet before slumping into a down position. One of the “fathers” commented on how well she was behaving.

Too tired to misbehave.

I wanted to proclaim, “This is the puppy I know, not that monster from before. She is a good puppy, I swear she is.” I wanted to cry. Puppy Kindergarten was hard. It was really, really hard.

This class helped me realize that my initial two weeks with Lucy had turned me into a neurotic mess. My desperate need to make certain she is well behaved and the dog everyone loves gave me occasional bouts of vertigo.

As I write this, she is quietly chewing a rawhide bone on the rug in my office. She has had two walks today. She has met people on the street and exhibited great affection towards them. She has been played with and loved.

Serenity

She is perfect right now.

She will be perfect as she grows older.

I need to calm the hell down.

It Happened at Purity

Small town adventures on the Mendocino Coast

Category Archives: Self-Help