Barking at Angels

If he were still in our lives I literally would not be sitting at the computer writing.  You see, it made him crazy when I sat at the computer.  But he’s not.  So, I’m writing. 

“He” was not an abusive husband or boyfriend.  “He” was a protective, sweet, 60-pound collie.  He looked just like Lassie in the movies and TV shows of my youth, with a silky, sable and white coat, resulting in dog hair in everything everywhere, and a prominent, white blaze down his nose, for which we named him Blazer.

Blazer came into our lives about five and a half years ago on a cold, wet, March day.  He was a snuggly ball of fluff with warm brown eyes that looked into your very soul.

Yesterday, we sent Blazer over the rainbow bridge, as the euphemism goes, after his short, difficult, and, not to mention, very expensive encounter with a deadly T cell lymphoma.

Although Blazer seemed incredibly young to have acquired what the veterinarians described as a very lethal illness, we learned that even young puppies can be stricken with the disease.  Due to additional unfortunate circumstances (before the lymphoma diagnosis Blazer had developed Lyme disease despite having been vaccinated, and been treated with steroids) any treatment for the lymphoma would, at best, be palliative.

We were told Blazer likely had 1 to 2 months to live after diagnosis.  Yesterday the palliative treatments no longer allowed Blazer to eat or even keep fluids down, breathe comfortably or enjoy his formerly regular park walks.  With the remainder of his time going to be one of discomfort and no hope of improvement we eased him from this world.

I won’t go into the regimen of medicines, infusions of fluids we learned to give, or hospitalizations to bring him back from the brink.  Rather, I’ll tell you about how Blazer came into our lives and some of his many endearing quirks that keep him in our hearts.

Blazer was a 9-week-old rescue puppy originally named Romeo, a particularly ironic name we thought to saddle a pup when we had agreed as a condition of adoption to neuter him as soon as he was old enough.

We’ve known the peculiar heartbreak that comes from opening your heart to any dog—as George Carlin called a puppy--the “heartbreak in the making”. Our lives have been enriched a thousand times over from sharing them with a number of collies in succession. Our last dog before Blazer was a sheltie who had what you might call “issues”. You can read some of what I’ve written about this difficult, but nevertheless endearing, sheltie on my blog.  

https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1065221421354487608#editor/target=post;postID=7055901705156988833;onPublishedMenu=allposts;onClosedMenu=allposts;postNum=7;src=postname

We deeply loved all our dogs. All were unique. 

What seems just a heartbeat ago, but in reality, was less than six years, we spotted a small litter of collie pups on a collie rescue site. After filling out more forms and questionnaires than if the would-be adopters were hopeful immigrants from a Middle Eastern country, we were notified we had been selected to adopt the one male puppy named Romeo. We had to take him at 7 or 9 weeks of age, apparently both particularly good ages when puppies are more accepting of strangers.  Only two hitches, Blazer had an infection and would likely not be ready for adoption at 7 weeks.  And by the time Blazer—or Romeo if you prefer—was 9 weeks old, my husband had just had surgery and would be restricted from lifting and other activities.

We both readily agreed to adopt the ball of fluff whenever he was available.  So, Blazer came home with us on a cold, wet March day.  The weather stayed miserable for the first week of his life with us.

Having learned from previous training and experience that most collies can be successfully housetrained in one, very intensive week of vigilance and positive reinforcement, we embarked on training Blazer.  That meant one person in the household always having eyes on the puppy unless he was sleeping in his crate.  And taking the puppy outside at least every twenty minutes, plus after eating, drinking, or playing, and then staying with him and praising him profusely when he responded to nature’s call in an appropriate location.  The idea is, if at all possible, to never let your pup make a mistake indoors and to know only praise when he or she does the right thing.

My husband and I watched Blazer like two parent-hawks and I scooped him up, immediately hustling him outside whenever we even suspected he might need “to go”, in the inevitably pouring rain that week.  We praised him effusively every single time he did what he should.  The training worked like a charm on Blazer.  In a week’s time he was completely housetrained.  He also NEVER made a “mistake” indoors during his lifetime.

Unfortunately, this also demonstrates the law of unintended consequences.  By the end of the week I had developed a severe case of bursitis in my right hip from which I have never completely recovered.  I wasn’t as young as I thought I was or had been the last time I’d housetrained a pup.

Going outside with Blazer involved carrying him down the stairs to the yard.  I suppose I should mention Blazer, at 9 weeks of age, weighed over 9 pounds and was crafty enough to pretend he didn’t know how to go up or down stairs until the end of training week.  At that point, Maxie, a large black Labrador retriever, appeared in a neighboring yard.  Blazer was out with me, in the rain, and, frightened by Maxie’s bark, to my amazement, was very able to scurry up our back stairs.  When I went over to the fence to pet the very friendly Maxie, who must have been on vacation or hiding from the rain for the previous week, Blazer then hurried back down the stairs to get a closer look at Maxie. From the start Blazer had demonstrated his cleverness.

Blazer had an exuberant, protective, fun-loving and somewhat quirky personality. As with many puppies, Blazer loved to chew. Blazer never chewed shoes, most furniture, socks or the majority of things he shouldn’t. But he had two forbidden, but insistent, chew targets: the timers we had around the house attached to electrical cords of lamps and also our expensive, oak grandfather clock. The timers made a very faint ticking sound which apparently drove him to distraction. Only now has it occurred to me that the tick-tock of the grandfather clock may also have done the same.

Blazer’s persistent attempts to get his teeth on the timers and the grandfather clock led me to fantasize about finding, or even creating some snap-together rubbery blocks that could wall off the objects until Blazer grew out of this puppy-chew stage. By the time I was considering inventing rubber bumper blocks and incorporating the first Blazer Bumper Blocks, LLC, to make and sell something for other dog families driven to distraction by chewing pups, Blazer abruptly stopped his chewing, but not before he left teeth marks on the grandfather clock and destroyed any number of timers.

Unlike our previous sheltie who was quick to bite, Blazer never met a stranger. He loved everyone: kids, adults, and other dogs.  However, for some inexplicable reason, he hated bicycles, and most anything with wheels. He would bark uproariously at them if they dared to pass us on a park path. We often walked one particular path to avoid bicycles. The path showed the universal sign for prohibited, a large circle with a bicycle in the center with a backslash through the bike.  Almost made us wonder if he knew the meaning of the sign and had appointed himself the enforcer.

The longer Blazer lived with us, the more careful we had to be about our words in front of him.  We could not say, even casually while eating dinner, “do you want to take a walk after dinner”, “go to the mailbox”, “have a treat”, or any of a number of words and phrases.  He constantly anticipated actions based on our words in ordinary conversation.  He also anticipated what we would do based on time of day (meals, walks, treats, getting the mail, or sitting in the sunroom) as well as other nonverbal behavior. There were times when the only way we could account for his prescient behavior was by his reading of our minds or deciding what he thought we should do.

Weekly our lawnmowing service parked down the road. If my husband, who usually opened the gates for the mowers, was not at home Blazer would lead me to the dining room window from where I could see their truck before they had started. Then he would lead me to the back door where I would need to go out and open the gate. I have no idea if he knew what we did in the back yard when the mowers arrived. But he sure seemed to know I needed to do something and where I needed to do it. Blazer never led my husband to those locations—we guessed he figured “Dad” could figure it out on his own.  

Blazer had many little quirks and unique qualities.  Like all of our collies he liked to run and play.  But Blazer alone loved toys of rubbery material with little bumps on them.  One favorite toy—actually we have two identical toys—is called a zoober.  It’s a long, rubbery, hollow tube that you can throw and it bounces in unpredictable ways.  Blazer could run after one of his zoobers to the point where his human companion was exhausted.  But the game never got old to him. Blazer also liked to catch a tennis ball, putting one in mind of Yadier Molina with his deftness. He also, alone amongst our other dogs, threw it back as if he were channeling Bob Gibson.  Afterwards, Blazer would settle in to watch the latest St. Louis Cardinal game, no doubt, we were anthropomorphizing him as we thought he was trying to learn some new tricks. 

Like most collies we’ve lived with, Blazer was a barker.  He had what seemed an irrational irritation at anyone walking in front of our house or anyone he could see from the windows.  Though he would be friendly if the same people, with or without their dogs, came to visit or were encountered on a walk.  But he simply could not abide their parading anywhere near his home.

As I mentioned to start this piece, Blazer also would not tolerate without protest my writing at this computer.  Long story, I’ll try to make short—in a previous house I’d used a computer monitor that occasionally emitted high-pitched squeals. Numerous efforts to stop the squeals, which were determined to be interference with some other electronic devices, were unsuccessful.  The squeals appeared to convince Blazer I was in danger if I was close to it, or even in the same room.  I waited too long to replace the monitor.  By the time I did, Blazer’s behavior had generalized to the now silent computer and monitor and to my doing anything in that “dangerous” computer room.  If I even removed paperwork from that room and appeared to be doing anything with the office items he would bark, try to put all 60 pounds of himself on my lap and between the damned computer or papers and me.  No amount of positive reinforcements with treats and praise ever changed Blazer’s mind that he needed to protect me from all things related to the computer, monitor and that room.

So, unless Blazer was out of the house, I improvised a solution that would not disturb his and my tranquility. I bought an iPad and learned to write on that in our sunroom.  Blazer then happily laid by my side in the sunroom.  In fact, every morning after breakfast Blazer and I had “sunroom time.”  All I had to say were those two words and he would happily trot out from wherever he was to lie by my side.  I could read or write as long as I liked as he was the most faithful of companions.

Blazer came to look forward to our “sunroom times” together.  If I didn’t promptly go to the sunroom after breakfast, he’d try to lead me there.  Other times he often initiated expanded sunroom times.  We passed many happy mornings and afternoons too in the sunroom together.

Blazer liked to sleep in our master bathroom on the cool tiled floors, often with his back wedged against the closed, linen-closet door.  But not before he had toured the walk-in clothes closet and dug in the carpet in at least two corners.  Every evening I’d admonish him to not dig.  But dig he must.  The admonishment could be brief because I knew I needed then to quickly get my contact lens supplies out of the linen closet so I could remove and clean my lenses before bed.  Once Blazer settled into his preferred sleeping position he was so comfortable I hated to disturb him.  Eventually I realized the smarter approach was to just leave the contact lens supplies out. 

Blazer’s last night was spent by our bedside rather than in the bathroom, where we could hear his restless moves and labored breathing, as well as occasional bouts of vomiting.  We had decided after Blazer’s diagnosis that in hindsight we’d kept most of our dogs alive and suffering longer than we should have for our sake, not theirs.  So, we’d vowed we’d give him a peaceful end when he was no longer interested in his many happy activities, able to eat or otherwise handle bodily necessities, or appeared to be too uncomfortable.

By yesterday morning Blazer had no interest in food, could not keep even water down, and clearly was uncomfortable just trying to breathe.  We made arrangements, then took him for a last, very short walk in the park where we’d first walked him.  We also drove past the first home he’d known.  Just driving to his first home neighborhood in the past had always produced happy notes of excitement from the backseat of the car.  But not now.  He was restless and uninterested.  By the time we got to the veterinary hospital where he’d been helped numerous times before, he walked without any hesitation.  In a quiet room, Blazer laid quietly a little away from us and, even without any sedative yet, seemed to rest comfortably for the first time in a while.

I’m not sure I personally buy into the various euphemisms for death, including “crossing the rainbow bridge.”  But if it helps anyone with a loss, that’s a good thing.  Each dog is unique and most are lovable in some way.  As I’d mentioned, the last dog before Blazer whom we had to say goodbye to was my Mother’s sheltie; she bequeathed him to me because no one else would consider taking him.  He had a nasty disposition at times and a penchant for “bite first, ask questions later.”  Nevertheless, we grew to love him before we lost him.  I’m not sure he is yet with the angels but may be in corrective, angel-training somewhere in purgatory.  I’m sorry—it’s the recovering Catholic in me.

Blazer was his own unique soul, totally filled with love and not a mean thought in his head.  Never did he consider biting any creature.  Though curious, he didn’t even hurt the baby bunnies he found in our yard a few years back.  https://dorothyideasblogspot.com/2014/09/rabbit-city-or-blazer-and-bunnies_5.html

His too-short life is over here.  I don’t know where he might still be other than very much in our and the hearts of those who loved him.  Everywhere we turn he seems just out of sight.  I like to picture him, like our other collies and maybe our sheltie someday, running and playing, and most assuredly barking at angels.

Chasing that First High

The year was 1969. The summer of Woodstock. People my age were chanting about peace and love and listening to rock music.

It was the summer between my graduation from high school and starting college. I talked my way into a minimum-wage job ($1.25 an hour) selling men’s clothes but found myself mostly doing dreaded inventory at a neighborhood, men’s retail store: 3 whiskey (color) glen-plaid (pattern), 42 R (size). I learned to tell a man’s waist and inseam measurement on sight and how to talk him into buying that pair of pants, with a shirt that complemented his eye color to boot. But I never talked the store owner into paying the commissions she’d promised.

We lived a walkable few blocks away in a smallish, newish bungalow on a tightly packed block of two-family flats, our house like a toddler riding a shiny new tricycle amongst an army of road-weary teens on dirt bikes, all looking down on us.

One Sunday, our next-door neighbor called over the fence to me as I sat in the yard, Jackie De Shannon singing “Put a Little Love in Your Heart” from my transistor radio, as I sunned myself in pursuit of a tan that would never come to my red-head’s skin, a fact it took me another ten years and more than one case of sun hives to realize.

As I walked to the fence our neighbor, someone we’d only waved to, told me she had a problem. I said what neighbors said, at least back then, “What can I do?”

She responded by handing over a bushel barrel of freshly-picked, fat, ripe peaches from her tree. “Take these. I have way too many.”

I probably said thanks before I took them inside to our tiny kitchen. That Sunday my Mom and I made endless pies, bulging with the fat, juicy peaches. We handed at least one such pie back over the fence to our neighbor and froze the pies our family couldn’t eat.

In the process of peeling and slicing peaches I bit into one. As juice ran down my chin and hands, my skin tingled and stars burst forth in that center of my brain that responds immediately with a physical high to an addictive substance. I suddenly had a little love in my heart. My vision filled with a vision of a hot, golden, summer day.

I savored that perfect peach and then gobbled a few more when mom wasn’t looking. That first, perfect-peach high. I was hooked.

For the last 49 summers I’ve been searching for another peach that good

This summer I shared part of a box of Georgia peaches from “the peach truck” that comes to Louisville several times a summer. I’ve bought bags of Georgia peaches multiple times at the fruit market. I’ve also bought bags of peaches at various farmers’ markets, some from Pennsylvania, South Carolina and one from about a mile down the lane on Tucker Station Road.  

Almost all the peaches this summer have been good. Some are outstanding, others so-so. Some have just enough of the hint of that first, perfect, summer-of-1969-peach to keep me buying and trying peaches. Each time I think: “Maybe the next one”.

Swords Drawn—Don’t Eat those Cookies or Candy. They’re for Company

Yesterday we discussed serial killers and the Mueller Sword of Damocles suspended over Trump and his administration. Or not exactly. Spoiler alert if you’ve not read yesterday’s column.

The serial killer turned out to not be a serial killer since he’d only killed two people.  And, I did not discuss Trump. I just meandered into a discussion of fawning and faulty advisors and Trump’s troop sprang into my head unbidden.

But I’m back on track of talking about advisors and advice columnists, faulty and otherwise. As promised, I also will give this post a little holiday and end-of-year spin.

The columnist in our local paper, who shall remain nameless to protect her identity and also because the name she uses may be a pen name, recently addressed a complaint. 

The inquirer seeking advice said her husband eats all the festive, holiday candy she places in decorative candy dishes around her house. (I promised a holiday theme.) The husband’s gastronomic excesses occur even though he knows he isn't supposed to eat these candies.

The writer goes on to complain her husband’s decorative-candy eating occurs despite the fact she has provided him with volumes of healthy snacks in the pantry and freezer.

He eats all of that, as well as full meals, and also all of the potato chips in the house before she has a chance to have a few chips with her measly sandwich. Her husband swallows, practically unchewed, a whole can of nuts before she has a chance to think about eating a nut. And, to add insult to injury he eats all of this without gaining weight.

In response to the writer’s plea for advice on keeping her eating-machine of a husband to at least keep his grubby hands off the Christmas candy, the columnist suggests the writer display decorative candy made of glass.

What a great idea. This strategy should certainly discourage her husband from eating the candy after that first bite. But while her husband’s bad Christmas-candy-eating habit is likely to be broken so are his teeth, all in one swell crack.

He might also be discouraged from eating anything for a while. On the downside, the savings in candy purchases could be offset by the dental bills.

Once again, though, the advice columnist fails to get the question right. What I hear the wife screaming between the lines of her letter is: “How can my husband eat all of the snacks in the pantry, the food in the freezer, every last chip and nut in the house, and then polish off all of the decorative candy--and not gain weight?

Sister, I hear you pain. As does any woman  who has watched her husband consume all manner and quantity of junk food and never seem to gain weight. While if she eats a tiny bite of brownie she gains 5 pounds overnight.

Among many other gender disparities in this world, the ability to eat whatever one wants and not gain weight, unfairly burdens the so-called fairer sex.

As far as I know, there is no cure for this or many other of life’s inherent inequities. That says nothing about the non-inherent inequities. And it doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try to even the playing field. But that’s for another day. 

For now, we’ll just try to solve the problem of keeping decorative sweets to offer company when your husband is an eating machine. I have learned a few tricks from my foremother and can offer solutions to this timeless question that do not involve glass candy.

First, wait to put the candy on display until just before the guests are to arrive. That means hide the treats until then. It gives errant husbands a much shorter span of time to run in and eat all the candy. It also gives the guests at least a fighting chance at the candy.

Or try the other “trick” my mother used. When I was a child my parents never kept candy or snacks in the house. With one exception. My mother kept one particular type of cookie in our pantry: “Windmill Cookies”, so-called because they looked like little windmills. And maybe also because they were as hard as the material used to make actual windmills.

Guests may have occasionally broken a tooth while trying to eat one. Sort of like trying to eat glass candy.  But technically they were edible and it was not such a litigious society back then. Our family members, on the other hand, never suffered a problem as we knew better than to try a windmill cookie —so no rush trips to the dentist for us.

I once asked my mother why she bought the windmill cookies, our family’s least favorite sweet. My mother's reply was edifying, "I buy them because no one will eat them. That way, I always have cookies to set out for company."

If your husband eats all the decorative, intended-only-for company candy, consider buying technically edible but disagreeable sweets. That way you always have some to put out. After the first bite even the guests likely will leave the candy alone.

But, now that folks are so much more inclined to run to the courthouse over small incidents, you might want to warn them about possible broken teeth. Or is that like the serial killer next door? Is it caveat emptor when it comes to killers and candy? Discuss and analyze amongst yourselves.

Here's hoping your “company” cookies and candy last well into the new year and that 2018 brings joy and blessings to you, dear reader, and all of God's creatures.

Sword of Damocles and Advice Columns

In preparation for a new year perhaps we should examine the advice being doled out by professional advisors.

No, not what you think. I’m not going to berate Trump advisors. They have their hands more than full trying to keep the small-handed Trump from spewing forth rambling delusions to wandering reporters.

Not to mention the Mueller Sword of Damocles hanging heavily over Trump and his merry band of reverse Robin Hoods. In the dark of night do any of the not-yet-indicted Trump family, friends, and advisors wake up to contemplate the smell or feel of a prison cell? 

The Damocles Sword analogy is so apropos to Trump and his advisors. For those not familiar or who have forgotten the tale, a short summary. As a result of Damocles’ pandering to King Dionysius, Damocles finds himself “King for a Day” in the lap of luxury. But it turns out not to be such a great gig since a huge sword, barely held in place, hangs over his head the entire time. 

Some say the tale is a reminder that with great power comes great danger. Or a reminder that pandering has its own peculiar punishments.

Feel free to draw your own conclusions. I said, I’m not going to discuss Trump and his advisors. And I'm sticking to that.

Instead, I’m turning to something more benign—serial killers next door and the preservation of hard candy. Since this essay has continued to expand, much like some things do, I’ll split it into two, with a promise to tie it all neatly with a left-over Christmas bow in time for New Years Eve.

The New York Times ethic columnist recently dealt with whether a homeowner selling his house should disclose to prospective buyers that the owner next door is a serial killer. Gee, I suppose that’s in the category of something I’d want to know but never thought to ask.

The inquirer described the next-door neighbor as someone who had killed two people when he was a young man and, after serving 25 years, had recently been released and returned to the family home, which happened to be next door to the person who suddenly wanted to sell his house. For other reasons. Ha. That’s a good one.

The columnist discussed at great length various ethical and legal considerations, real estate disclosure issues, and how particular legal issues vary from state to state while, at the same time, not really answering any of those questions.

I can see this question on a future law school or realtor exam: Discuss and analyze constraints and requirements of disclosure when selling a house next door to a serial killer. Use your own discretion weighing liability issues with questions of ethics, morality, and common sense. Use all pages of the blue book and write in the margins as necessary to fully explore all sides of the issues.

The ethicist concluded by observing that societal interests were served by the would-be seller not disclosing that his next-door neighbor was a serial killer. Which also would seem to improve the odds for the would-be seller becoming an actual seller. The ethicist observed that the convicted killer, after all, had served his time and paid his debt to society and that one journalist’s study suggested a killer who has served his time is not all that likely to be a recidivist.

Plus, according to the ethicist, if the convicted killer is at all rational, he should know he would be the first suspect if a body is discovered nearby.

I don’t find this final conclusion particularly reassuring. First, the fact my future neighbor would be the first person the police would talk to if my body were discovered in the nearby woods does not give me a lot of comfort. But maybe that’s just me.

Second, assuming the next-door serial killer is rational, he likely would decide to dump my body as far away from his home as possible. Don’t TV shows always make the serial killer particularly crafty and less likely to leave clues right out in the open—like not dumping their victims’ bodies nearby.

Finally, though, speaking of TV shows portrayals of serial killers I have to comment on the stunning omission from the ethicist’s remarks. Why does the ethicist leave unchallenged the assumption that someone who has murdered only two people is a serial killer? As anyone who has watched even a smattering of crime shows knows, the FBI does not consider a murderer to be a serial killer until there are at least three similar killings.

So, the response should have been--obviously, there is no serial killer next door. He’s just someone who killed a couple of people, and maybe the victims annoyed the killer. So, the future home buyer need only be warned to stay on the good side of his neighbors. Listen carefully to the answers you receive next time you ask about future neighbors.

My next column will answer--how are serial killers like hard candy or windmill cookies. Cheers!

Have Aliens Landed Or is that Just My Dog Barking?

Why is it on days when I don't get enough sleep and my brain is foggy a lot of funny ideas come streaming into my mind? There's probably some good neurological or scientific data to explain this. Or maybe it’s just that most of the filters in my brain temporarily are shut down due to lack of sleep—napping as I wish the rest of my brain were. In a vacuum without filters, funny thoughts bubble up. That's the theory I'm going with. Or maybe aliens have taken over my brain.

 

Last night was one of those nights without much sleep.  I had neglected to pick up Blazer’s, our collie dog, full food bowl when I went to bed. As a result, I've been extremely foggy all day.

 

You see, Blazer loves to have a post-midnight snack. So, around 1 o'clock last night he went into the laundry room where his food and water bowls reside. He proceeded to eat everything.

 

Do you remember the movie, “Gremlins”? The first rule was: “Don’t feed the gremlin after midnight”. Whoever came up with the concept of Gremlins must have owned a collie dog. After our 5-year-old-but-still-a-puppy collie eats, he has an immediate blood sugar spike. Which is fine most of the time. We play with him, take him for a walk or chase him around the house as he herds imaginary sheep and our furniture. 

 

But if he eats after we’ve gone to bed he still gets that blood sugar spike. He gets frisky, wants to play, or just goes to the back door and barks. This is not nearly as much fun at 1 or 3 AM as it is at 1 or 3 PM in the afternoon. At least for non-collie-dog residents of the house, the people who are trying to sleep.

 

I've fallen for our dog’s middle-of-the night barking tricks in the past and, thinking he needed to relieve himself, let him outside, only to have to repeat this multiple times. I’ve discovered by watching him out the window, he does nothing that would merit a trip to the backyard.  Unless you consider standing on the deck and surveying his backyard domain as a top priority.

 

So last night when he started barking sometime between 1 and 3 AM (I was too sleepy to look at the clock) I went to get him where he was barking near the back door.  He greeted me with a big tail wag, sloppy grin, and playful antics. It was clear he wanted to play: herd imaginary, indoor sheep or chase a stuffed animal or ball. Any rough and tumble game would suffice for him.

 

Instead of returning his play proposals, I strongly encouraged him to go lie down and go to sleep. By taking him by the collar, leading him to his bed and saying as firmly as possible, “Go lay down go to sleep."

 

Even though they don’t teach that command at dog training class, it worked for about an hour. Then he barked uproariously again. This time my husband got up. Our dog didn't even pretend to want to go outside this time. Instead he simply laid down in our family room with that well-known collie look of, "What?  It wasn't me who barked."

 

This morning when the sunlight started peeking through our windows, always-on-the-alert Blazer again started barking furiously. This time the ruckus was coming from the bathroom.  When we went to check to see what monsters or spooks might be worthy of such an uproar we found Blazer furiously ready to attack a small space heater.

 

I had bought said heater a few days earlier, thinking it would be nice to chase away the chill when I step out of the shower on a cold day. In fairness to our collie, the heater does look a bit like a satellite dish ET might use to phone home. Our dog appeared certain aliens had landed in the bathroom.

 

By that point, I didn’t care if aliens had landed in our bathroom as long as they would let me sleep a little longer. I rolled over and tried to go to sleep. I hoped any aliens in the bathroom would be the type willing to play with our collie.

 

Tonight, I hope to get more sleep than the previous night. I can assure you, when I go to bed I’m not leaving out food for our dog, aliens, or even Santa. They all will have to fend for themselves. And I’m going to try to remember what rule two was about Gremlins—oh, don’t get them wet--or they multiply. And one collie “pup” sure is enough for us.

Audible books--best video

Please consider going to Audible.com and voting for the video entry I just submitted. And sharing this with family and friends.

You can find my video by searching for Dorothy from Kentucky.

It was a rainy day project we put together in an hour and a half using my cell's iMovie App, various hats and what not we had at home.

There's only a few days left to get votes.

https://mobile.audible.com/audible20/apc.htm#/ 

Again, we wake to the awful news--"the largest mass shooting in America." The death toll keeps growing as I watch the news. 

I'm sick to death of having to say this: Enough already. Those of you in Washington D.C. who have sold your souls to the devil--or make that the NRA--should know, if there is a hell you will be on the fast track.

Below are two essays I wrote on the occasions of other mass shootings. They are just a sample of what I and others have expressed for a number of years. What will it take to wake up this country to the need for reasonable gun regulations?

2015
Another day, another shooting. Or several shootings. I’ve had enough talk where politicians wring there hands and say nothing can be done about guns. Or let’s look at mental health. It’s time Americans stood up and said, “Enough talk. Let’s see some action. Take their guns away.”

And it is an American phenomenon. Because we are a country of guns. Elisabeth Rosenthal eloquently and factually explained, More Guns = More Killing. http://www.nytimes.com/2013/01/06/sunday-review/more-guns-more-killing.html?nl=todaysheadlines&emc=edit_th_20130106&_r=0

Below, I am re-posting an essay I wrote back in 2012. The location of the shooting is different. The victims this time are college-aged rather than elementary age. But three years later and we are still dealing with the same problems, the lack of will by elected politicians to do something that actually will make a difference. That is, take away the military-style weapons from the general populace.

Enough with blaming mental health professionals for not identifying which particular young or middle-aged or old male will be the next mass shooter. Most of these mass killers are male—that is probably the best demographic in identifying the next shooter. Women tend not to kill a whole group of strangers first if they decide to end their lives. We do not have the ability to identify who is going to suddenly decide to take out a bunch of other innocents as he ends his life is a news-worthy fashion. But we do have the ability to prevent every-day folks from acquiring an arsenal.

Mental health professionals, even the best of them, and I’m married to one of them, cannot predict which loner, which disaffected person, which otherwise normal person is going to be that one. This latest shooter, like a lot of the other mass-shooters, while perhaps a little strange, or someone who kept to himself, did not do or say anything that under current laws would have given a clear clue he needed to be committed or kept from having access to the ridiculous, military-style, deadly weapons legally available in so many places.

Let’s stop giving a pass to politicians too cowardly to stand up and do what’s right. “Stuff happens.” That’s what Jeb Bush said of the most recent mass shooting. He used the cleaned-up version of “Shit happens.” Is that what he would have said if he had known one of the victims? I think not.

The demi-god Trump said something like, “It’s too terrible to talk about.” He who talks about everything and is not afraid to go anywhere. Another coward.

Hillary is not a god, or even a demi-goddess. But she has mustered, even before this latest tragedy, the courage to come forward and argue for sensible gun control. Good for her and for anyone else who has the courage to make themselves a target of the NRA and do something to stop the next tragedy before it happens.

That is my litmus test for a politician who will get my vote. They must be willing to take on the NRA. They must be willing to talk about sensible gun control.

These latest shooting victims could have been my children. My grandchildren. My husband. Me or my friends. Or they could have been you or yours. Do you think the families of the latest victims suffer any less than you or I would if it had been our family’s loss? Does each and every one of us have to lose someone before we put an end to the madness?

Join me and shout “Enough”. I will not support any candidate who does not speak out and stand up for sensible gun control.

CALL THE PONY EXPRESS—ANOTHER “INDIAN” MASSACRE

Written December 2012

I promised myself I would write more upbeat, happy essays. After all, life is too short to wallow in sadness. And I did claim this blog was mostly about the amusing things in life with only an occasional dose of seriosity.

But then I turn on the news and see the funerals of little children.

Local news is no better. If they are not covering the national tragedy in Connecticut, they are reporting on local violence and threats to schools in Jefferson and other counties in Kentucky.

Meanwhile, the front page headline of Louisville’s Courier Journal proclaims drastic budget cuts in Kentucky to school safety. A Kentucky state representative is quoted as saying we “need to study” what happened in Connecticut before we think about putting more money into school safety.

We aren’t back in the 1700’s, which incidentally is when the Second Amendment was adopted, and when stagecoaches and the Pony Express carried the news. Don’t we already know what happened?

A young male with easy access to military style weaponry shot his way into a locked school and massacred little children. Back in the 1700’s I suppose we would have called out the Calvary and blamed the Indians for rampaging. Maybe we would have evacuated families with children to a fort.

In the New York Times an architect writes about how we should “harden” our schools like we have done for airplane cockpits to keep the crazies with guns out. Or maybe we should just make schools, movie theaters, churches, mosques, shopping malls and wherever else a crazy person with legally-purchased automatic or semiautomatic weaponry and accouterments might go into fortresses. That would take a lot more money and for more than just school safety.

Retreating to fortresses would not protect us and our children even if we could afford it. The answer is obvious as the noses on our face and the guns in our hands.

 Our love affair with guns and belief in an inalienable right to a gun-toting “frontier” way of life with 21^st century weapons has created the opportunity for this mass carnage of innocents.  And politicians’ blind adherence, until now when some sane voices have emerged, including Louisville’s own brave Representative John Yarmuth, to the NRA’s big stick have the blood of innocent children on their hands.

What century are we in—with 21^st Century guns and an 18^th century mentality?