Book Club in the Time of Coronavirus

The Big C is no longer Cancer but Coronavirus. No doubt these are unprecedented circumstances and scary times for most of us, prompting widespread closures as well as crazy panic buying. Not only toilet paper but all paper supplies are either nonexistent or in short supply at our local grocery. But gun sales are up.

 

Really??? Maybe we should call this the Go-Crazy Virus. Coronavirus generally does not cause diarrhea. But people are preparing to guard their toilet paper stashes with deadly force?

 

There is reason for staying calm. Although Coronavirus is very contagious, about 80% of infected people will have mild symptoms at worse. On the other hand, there is reason for taking precautions. Those over age 60 or with pre-existing health conditions are at much greater risk of dying from this virus.

 

No one seems to know why advanced age makes it so much more deadly. That in itself is scary. But it’s also scary to admit that being over 60 is advanced age. Is God, nature, or something more sinister trying to weed us boomers and oldsters out?

 

When I started writing this piece last week, Kentucky had 6 cases. At that time, I had read an Atlantic article which made a good case that early stage quarantine is the only way to stop the spread of this virus. Today, I read that some cancer surgeries are being postponed to save room in hospitals for the expected tsunami of Coronavirus cases. So much for our early stage measures to stem the tide of the new and scarier Big C.

 

With all the home quarantine, social distancing, and venues of amusement closing now, here’s a new game—line of Presidential succession and age/health lottery. How far down the line do you have to go to find someone under 60 who also looks sort of healthy and is likely to survive COVID19?

 

I think you get to Mark Esper, Secretary of Defense. But it’s a judgment call—we likely all can agree Secretary of State Pompeo doesn’t look healthy. But Vice President Pence is only 60 and looks healthy-ish. I personally thought he was older. Must be his white hair.

 

What happens if Trump dies from the novel Big C, Pence becomes Prez, then gets sick, and another VP who is young and healthy is installed before Pence succumbs.

 

Or, what happens if Trump and Pence both quickly succumb to the virus?  Nancy Pelosi is next in line—but what if she is infected? All of these people are in public life and until very recently have been shaking lots of hands, mingling in crowds, and the like and are well past the age of 60. Any or all of them could become infected and are at higher risk of dying.

 

Does the Speaker of the House even have to be a member of the House? Something in the back of my head said no. When I looked it up, I found the back of my head notion is correct. The House of Representatives, now controlled by Democrats and whose average age is slightly under 60, could pick Kamala Harris or Mayor Pete to be Speaker and then she or he would become President.

 

Or maybe Kiefer Sutherland ends up Prez after all. I know—I’ve gotten silly at this point. Too much time on my hands. But if you’ll bear with me, I have another question? Will he be Invincible Jack Bauer from 24 or the ordinary mortal from “Designated Survivor”?

 

And what happens to Democratic candidates if the same death surge of oldsters occurs? Bernie and Biden are both in their late 70’s. Prime targets for a negative outcome from this novel virus. Are we left with Tulsi Gabbard? Even if she’s a Russian plant at least she dresses well.

 

 Anyway, Coronavirus Lottery could make a good parlor game if we were all still able to meet in our parlors. But the latest guidelines say no more than ten in your parlor. Or you can play it by text or facetiming.  Maybe this is a game app waiting to be developed.

 

Or, it could be the basis of a movie script, which we might end up having to stream rather than see in theaters. By the point in time when a movie is released about the new Big C will the worst of this pandemic be past? Will it have mutated where it’s killing most of humanity? Or will a new pandemic have taken its place?

 

I was predicting it was only a question of time before the MAGA groups and Democratic rallies spread the disease even further. But the President and Presidential candidates alike are taking steps to cancel those large groups. Governors across the country are starting to do the same.

 

Now, there are 25 cases in Kentucky and the Governor, in a very sensible and sober response, similar to some other governors, has closed all restaurants and bars across the state.

 

President Trump has been exposed to more than one person who is now confirmed to be infected. Notably, Trump was finally tested, even though he did not quarantine or even maintain safe distances with other people during the interim.

 

News reports state the White House says Trump has tested negative. But since he lies about everything, why should we believe him? Maybe it’s true and maybe it’s a lie. Also, it’s particularly hard to assess Trump’s health status when the color of his skin keeps to an unnatural shade of orange at all times.   

 

Last week my book club met with about 8-10 members, most of whom are a bit younger than I and are still working. At the time there were no warnings about avoiding small gatherings such as this. Nevertheless, before the meeting, planned for a restaurant, I shared the recommendations from the Atlantic article for early social distancing.

 

My fellow book lovers were all, “Meh, I’m more at risk at work than at book club.” One even has a compromised immune system. So, rather than look like the only coward, I went. We shared discussions of the book, a couple bottles of wine and also of hand sanitizer, but no common appetizers. And none of the usual hugs. Was it safe or foolish to get together?  Or more like playing music on a sinking Titanic? Who knows?

 

A large gathering in Louisville in about the same time frame, a fund-raiser at the art museum, now has resulted in a number of Louisville’s and Kentucky’s movers and shakers (the Governor ,the Mayor, a Congressional Representative to name a few) needing to self-quarantine and/or be tested after two attendees were subsequently diagnosed with the coronavirus.

 

For my retired spouse and me, most of the events we had planned over the next month, plays, concerts and dinners, now have been cancelled. We are cancelling non-urgent doctors’ appointments as the experts recommend for people over age 60.

 

We are told we will likely have scarce medical resources if we do not successfully slow the spread (or flatten the curve as the statisticians like to say) of the virus. If I hate to admit that age 60 or 65 is advanced age, I even less like the idea of perhaps rationing ventilators based on age, as they apparently have had to do in places such as Italy. In China the sickest people reportedly never made it to hospitals so the rationing wasn’t as much of a problem.

 

Sure, I’ll give up a ventilator for my children or grandchildren. But for some abstract millennial? Yes, that might be fair but not particularly palatable.

 

I have to wonder why we can’t manufacture more ventilators in the time before we desperately need them. During World War II, automobile and other factories were re-tooled to manufacture B-24s and tanks. Couldn’t we pretty quickly do the same for necessary hospital equipment? If hand sanitizer can be produced by New York prisoners, surely masks, ventilators, and gowns, could be produced in adequate numbers by manufacturers of somewhat similar products. At the same time, pop-up hospitals could be designed and built by the Corp of Engineers.

 

We also need to start preparations now for the November election. A federal law requiring mail-in ballots could be passed with sufficient appropriations to cover the cost. State election registries have the lists of registered voters and their addresses. Why not print mail-in ballots with the name and address of each registered voter on the reverse side? On-site drop off points as well as a mail-in option would avoid close contact by voters and would assure a paper record for any ballots that might be challenged.

 

With leadership and cooperative efforts these problems can be solved. America, like the rest of the world now has a common enemy. It’s not an attack from another planet but it may as well be. We should mobilize as if we were engaged in a war for the world. We are. And we should stop hoarding toilet paper and guns. Neither will save you from this virus.

 

Book Club in the Time of Coronavirus

The Big C is no longer Cancer but Coronavirus. No doubt these are unprecedented circumstances and scary times for most of us, prompting widespread closures as well as crazy panic buying. Not only toilet paper but all paper supplies are either nonexistent or in short supply at our local grocery. But gun sales are up.

 

Really??? Maybe we should call this the Go-Crazy Virus. Coronavirus generally does not cause diarrhea. But people are preparing to guard their toilet paper stashes with deadly force?

 

There is reason for staying calm. Although Coronavirus is very contagious, about 80% of infected people will have mild symptoms at worse. On the other hand, there is reason for taking precautions. Those over age 60 or

Dialing All Friends...Smarty-Pants Car—Where Are You?

I know you’ve all been there.  At least if you have an iPhone or other smarty-cell phone.  Sometime your cell phone has made a call for you that you did not intend.  If you are lucky, you stopped the call before the other person picked up.  Though, despite your best efforts to hide the fact your pocket made a call, the call’s recipient probably could tell you had called.

How did we ever manage without Caller ID?  I remember thinking it was a silly idea when I first heard of Caller ID.  Why did I need to know in advance who was calling?  Wasn’t that the purpose of telephone etiquette—where the caller says “Hello, I’m John Doe. Is this Dorothy?”  I only took Caller ID service because I worked for a phone company, and my assistant got some points if we all took the service.  Or maybe she lost points if we didn’t.  Despite my skepticism, after one day with Caller ID I was sold.  I wondered, “Caller ID, where have you been my whole life?”

I don't think I’m the only one.  No longer do most people answer a phone call blind.  We’ll want to know who is calling.  We also no longer need to be able to recognize the voices of our family and friends. Even mental telepathy and ESP are obsolete.  We now have Caller ID.

But back to that butt or pocket-dial.  Your friend or acquaintance whom you called by mistake--they either called you back or pretended to not notice you'd inadvertently placed a call.  If you’ve been less lucky, some friend or relative listened to you while you muttered over grocery prices as you pushed your cart through the aisles, or pumped gas or, worse yet, engaged in a real-life conversation with a companion that they could overhear.

I think I’ve done all those things.  I even butt, or pocket-dialed an acquaintance while walking my dog and--as I bent to pick up my dog’s deposit--dropped my sunglasses into that deposit.  Sort of the trifecta of screw ups.

You might be surprised at the words I used to express my dismay at the sunglass/dog poop situation.  I was surprised at the words I used.  Suffice it say—they would not have been acceptable to the nuns who taught me.  Or to my Mother.  And the person I had inadvertently called on my cell who was listening to the whole verbal deluge was a friend of my Mother’s.  No doubt, given the luck I was having that day I probably said a number of things that would not have been acceptable to any of my Mother’s friends.  Oh well...it was that kind of day.

Recently, I’ve topped even the “pick-up-dog-poop-drop-sunglasses-in-dog-poop-butt-call-disaster” incident.  Now my cell phone has taken to making phantom car calls on its own.

We bought a car that communicates with my iPhone through Bluetooth.  Sounds pretty cool, eh?  My car stereo (do they even call them stereos any more or is that a sound system?) will play audio books, podcasts and music from my cell.  How wonderful has technology gotten?  The car-cell collaborative strategy also will play GPS directions and probably will drive my car when I’m not paying enough attention.  I think the artificial intelligence collaboration between my cell and my car has reached the awareness stage.

I may start to call my smarty-car-cell collaborators “Car 54”.  If you are not old enough to remember the TV program “Car 54, Where are you?”  I’ll summarize it briefly.  Two police officers patrolled in a police car assigned that numerical designation.  The officers were always up to hijinks and rogue behavior.  But only in the nicest, most humorous ways. You can watch a bit at:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mQfXPGCYlfI 

As I think my car and cell are likely well intentioned, and since I am so much at their mercy, I will give them “Smarty Car 54” as an affectionate, but nostalgic  name in the hopes they use their considerable combined power in a helpful and benign manner.  Also, that way, when my car and cell phone team up and go rogue, I will have a named entity to blame.

Recently, my Smarty Car 54 decided to call one of my sons.  I had not touched my cell phone or even said anything to it.  I think perhaps I turned on the windshield wipers.  But I had no awareness that I had done anything that would result in a call to my son.

What takes the cake is the occasion when my husband’s call was answered in my car while neither my husband nor his cell were in the car.  I was leaving for an appointment, pulling out of our garage in Smarty Car 54, when a woman started talking to me from my car.  The woman appeared to think she was talking to my husband who happened to be sitting not in the car but back in our kitchen.  He had been on hold on his cell phone when I left the house.  Apparently, my husband’s cell through Bluetooth switched the call to my car sound system just as the called party picked up the call.  Luckily, my husband was not engaged in any smarty-pants behavior.  Unluckily, I was suddenly talking to his insurance provider.

So now both of our cell phones were ganging up with our car to confuse the hell out of us old folks who were just trying to do normal stuff like make phone calls on a phone.  Or drive a car.  But not at the same time.

The only thing I could think to do was to drive the car into the kitchen and let the lady talk to my husband.  No, I didn’t actually do that. I did run back inside and ask my husband to get in the car and talk to the lady who was talking to me and see if he could get the call back on his phone rather than in the car I was planning to drive away.  He did.  I drove away a bit later.  The Smarty Car 54 hijinks certainly gave me an excellent excuse for why I was late for my appointment—my car had been tied up on a call with my husband’s insurance company.

Currently I am lucky if I can get my car to play the radio. I do not even try to  replicate any of my smarty-car-cell phone hijinks, at least not intentionally.  But apparently, I can do it unintentionally.  My brother recently told me he had received a phone call, supposedly from me, and the call sounded like it was from my washing machine.  I assured him it must have been the Smarty Car 54 that called him.  As I told him—the washing machine has had it phone privileges taken away until it gets the laundry done without my having to sort the clothes, lift the baskets, add detergent and fluff or fold.

Redbuds in bloom

Yesterday I spotted the first redbud of the season. Today they are everywhere in the park near us. It’s like Momma use to say, “one of you does something you all want to do the same thing.” 

Last year I posted about the first redbuds I saw. This year it’s three weeks earlier for my first redbud sighting. Perhaps the earlier date is the result of climate change. Perhaps it’s a seasonal oddity. Or maybe its nature coming back in full force with springtime when we need it most.  

I’m reposting my redbud essay and photo from last year.

Redbuds and Dandelions

As if by secret signal known only to them, the redbuds burst into color one day last week. Appearing in between tall trees, by the wave of springtime's fairy godmother’s wand, the bright purple blooms suddenly are everywhere: in clumps and copses, on manicured lawns, and in the midst of deeply wooded parklands. Some are tall and gangly like teenage boys. Others, pruned and shaped, sit more like well-endowed, plumpish matrons, smartly attired and residing amongst pristine surroundings.

This week pink dogwoods have joined the color parade, along with yellowish-white dogwoods that in time will be more of a true cream. Purple phlox and bright yellow daffodils, along with the host of other early flowers, brave enough to face the occasional evening lows in the ‘30’s, are scattered everywhere. Along with perky dandelions and other wildflowers. Or weeds as some would call them.

Tall trees are covered with yellow-green foliage that looks from a distance like a Monet. Upon closer inspection, the “foliage” is not new leaf growth but little seed pods so delicate they quiver in the slightest breeze, giving a blurry impressionist view of pale chartreuse. From our sunroom windows I daily calculate by the foot the growth of underbrush. A week ago, our neighbors’ houses were fully visible. Now, only the rooftops can be spied. In a month’s time or less I will live in the midst of a forest.

The female cardinal who has tapped on our windows incessantly for the past months finally has quit. The ornamental cherry tree she had inhabited while tapping on our dining room and study windows now looks like a virginal bride, covered in full, fluffy-white blooms. Perhaps the blooms help Ms. Cardinal see that the window is only a reflection and not another female cardinal she needs to furiously run off. Or perhaps there’s a better explanation, she now is busy pursuing more urgent tasks, such as nest-building.

The days are almost summer-like at times. Then other days I pull out my winter coat even for a park walk on a sunny afternoon. A woodpecker on the roof has taken over the tapping for Ms. Cardinal.  Each day we check our collie for ticks. Despite flea and tick preventives, we often pull at least one from her thick fur. “Aa..ah..ah..choo…" Bless all us allergy sufferers. It’s springtime in the Ohio Valley. Wish it would last forever. 

Thoughts on Pain, Personal and Global

As a recliner philosopher I share my thoughts on a personal experience with pain and how it reflects some of the broader pain many are experiencing. You can read this essay on the Medium.


A Big Pain in the Butt by Dorothy J Chambers

Download Medium on the App Store or Play Store

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.