My Dog is Brave. Or Stupid. But Probably Brave.

Tonight, I was getting ready for bed. Fox was downstairs and started barking. I am guessing he heard a noise in the courtyard. I called for him to come upstairs, but he didn't come. He wanted to stay by the patio door. 

I went downstairs to see what was up, and Fox was looking out the door, focusing. I debated whether to let him outside to see what it was. The courtyard has rabbits, so I thought maybe he was barking at those. (There are a few rats in the courtyard as well. One of Seattle's nickname is Rat City, so yeah. Rats.)

Against my better judgment, I decided to let Fox outside to see what the fuss was about. I shut the patio door behind him. If the boogey man or a rat were outside, I didn't want them coming inside my condo.

Therein lies the difference between Fox and I. When he hears a strange noise, he wants to check it out. When I hear a strange noise, I want to hide and stay safe. Is Fox brave or stupid? Am I a coward? Should I be investigating the noises I hear, or should I hide under the covers?

"Discretion is the better part of valor." My mom quoted this all of the time when I was growing up. There are times we should explore, and there are times we need to hold the fort down.

When I think of where I have been over the past few years, I wonder how many metaphorical noises I have heard, but ignored, when perhaps I should have explored them a little bit deeper. Some of the noises were quiet whispers, telling me something wasn't right. Other noises pointed me in a direction that I didn't want to go. 

Perhaps I need to be a little bit more like my dog, and explore the noises. I doesn't mean I near to follow every bump, but I can check them out more often than I do now.

Fox & the City

Jack, the Boy and I spent the our first night in the condo last night. Yay! At first, the Boy didn't want to go because he is a teenager and has to crap on any idea that isn't his own. Whatever. He got over it and was fine after he ate and saw the Warren Miller movie.

Last night, we were all ready to go to sleep around 11:00 or so. Except Fox. Once we were all tucked in, the dog started to fuss. He'd walk back and forth between the master bedroom and where the Boy was sleeping, his nails clicking along the floor. We put his dog bed upstairs, but that didn't help. He was lost like a toddler who needs to sleep in a new place but can't get settled. I don't even know where Fox ended up sleeping last night. I think he might have slept on the Boy's bed. Perhaps the Boy had empathy for Fox, thinking, "Yeah, they dragged me down here too against my will. You can sleep with me. We are a team." As if living in downtown Seattle is a prison.

The next morning, Fox came running to my side of the bed as soon as I stirred but wasn't awake. Fox wanted me to know he was there. Jack and I walked to the Biscuit Bitch for breakfast to get bacon and egg sandwiches, and we brought Fox along. I told Jack what I wanted to eat, and he went into order as I walked the dog around the block. As we walked, Fox pulled at the leash, in a big fat hurry to get I don't know where. He was skittish as he stopped, smelled, and peed on every lamppost, tree, garbage can, building corner, planter and patch of ivy. It was like Fox was Rube in from the country walking downtown, like he had never seen or smelled a garbage can before. For the first time in his life, he had to poop on concrete. Nor could he wait until no one was around because it is the city. Someone is always around, from the cute tourist couples getting breakfast to the crazy guy wondering if he is going to barf or not. Fox survived.

As I work in the same neighborhood as my condo, I have seen other dogs walking in the city before, who look and act like normal dogs, not like my hick dog. The other dogs act normal, blase to food scraps left on the street. Fox found something to eat this morning on the ground and he acted like he had never seen food before. You'd think he was some crazy mutt, not a Pomeranian-chihuahua for god's sake. If a lapdog can't be a city dog, what is wrong with the world?

And I was worried about the Boy being the blocker for the condo. Instead, it is the dog. Hopefully, one of these days Fox will turn into a civilized city dog.


Biscuit Bitch at Cafe Lieto, 1909 First Ave, Seattle WA

Sleep, or Lack Thereof

The male creatures in my family are conspiring against me. They don't want me to sleep.


I. The Boy

The Boy doesn't turn his devices off until 9:30 or 10:00, after much pleading. After his device is locked and charged, he becomes very chatty at the exact moment I want to collapse from exhaustion. Sometimes he chats about the mundane.

"Mom," says the Boy, "Look how many times I can flip my toothbrush on my finger."

Go the fuck to sleep, I think.

Other times he want to talk about things far from mundane, like his future life plans.

"Mom," says the Boy, "I've been thinking that M.E. is going to be the right choice for me. I like building things and understanding how they are made. I think mechanical engineering is going to be a good fit for me."

Lovely, I think, but could we have had this same conversation when the sun was up?

Other times, the conversation are profound.

"Mom," says the Boy, "I just feel better after a long run. I love getting up in the morning and starting my day running cross country with the boys."

For this, I stay up and listen, and force my eyelids open as he tells me how running is transformative for him. Why does he wait until I am so tired to talk to me? Does he know that he will have an open mike, that I am too tired to respond? That I will expect him to keep it short, thereby putting no pressure on him? Perhaps.

II. Jack

Jack has been on call at the trauma center this weekend. The new residents communicate by text instead of phone calls in the middle of the night. You think this might be an improvement, but it's not.

Before:
Pager screeches at 4:00 a.m.
Jack turns pager off and goes to other room to talk.
I fall back asleep or don't hear pager screeching in the first place.

Now:
Cell phone "pings" at 4:00 a.m.

A light flashes from the phone.

tap, tap, tap, goes the text reply

Swoosh.

pause for twelve seconds

ping
flash of light
tap tap tap tap
swoosh
pause pause pause
ping flash
taptaptapswoosh

Ping...

I am wide awake after the eighth ping. It is like chinese water torture except instead of water it is noise. They could use this method to wake people from comas. I bet I could tset this on someone in a coma to see if they would revive. If they did, I could write a paper and get a grant and be famous for bringing people back to living.

I tell Jack to make a phone call instead of texting. He does. The next night he is on call again. He sleeps on the couch. Thankfully.

III. Fox

Even the dog is keeping me awake. He has been wearing a cone since he was bitten by a raccoon so he doesn't lick his wound. Now when his head itches in the middle of the night, his leg whacks the cone. Loudly. And the cone prevents him from actually scratching the itch, so he just tried harder. The harder he tried, the more it itches and the more his leg whacks the cone. Egads. I pick up the dog, scratch his head, and put him on the bed, where he sleeps like a rock.

I wish I could do the same.

Garden Therapy and Morning Walks

This weekend, instead of biking, I worked in my garden. I can check this off as one of my "activities of daily living" that I now do. I've watered some plants before and pulled a few weeds, but yesterday I spent about three hours whacking back the massive overgrowth of my parking strip. I have a giant rosemary bush that started out about six inches tall. It is now about four feet tall and four feet wide. I have approximately 64 cubic feet of rosemary bush, which is a lot of rosemary. I never used dry rosemary because I have a mountain of fresh rosemary. I whacked back a few smaller branches of the bush that were overlapping the sidewalk (about two cubic feet) and it looks like nothing is gone. I have two cubic feet of rosemary on my porch which I am giving away. If you want some rosemary, let me know. I should put it in little bundles in my car and so when I run into people I can give it away.

Last week, Jack was working at the hospital and he had to leave early for work which meant I was walking the dog in the morning. In summer, Jack would walk the dog or I wrangle one of the kids to do. Now, they have to leave for school and don't have time to walk Fox before the bus arrives. This year the kids start school an hour later, which means the dog gets walked an hour later. The dog doesn't mind, but it means my day doesn't start until I get back from walking Fox at 8:45 or 9:00. I don't mind the walk, except for the hurry between walking the dog and getting to where I need to be during the day.

It has been ten months since I have regularly been walking the dog in the morning. I like the fresh air and quietness and I like the time with my dog. The morning walk is mildly meditative and a good way to start the day. I have noticed one thing that is different: every day, I run into a friend or neighbor who is also out on a walk. I should keep track of who I meet, but I want to say I've run into people 7 of the last 8 times I've taken the dog out. Normally, my odds of running into people are about 50/50. I don't know if this is a fluke, or maybe the weather is nice so everyone is out for a stroll before the drizzle and dampness settles in for the autumn and winter. I usually end up chatting for anywhere from ten minutes to a half an hour, which is fine.

Last week I rode my bike to Fremont and stopped at B. Fuller's, a steampunk themed tea shop. They sell this awesome Wellberry tea with elderberries which is supposed to prevent cold and the flu. The elderberries are supposed to be gooey under a microscope and then they stick like a wad of chewing gum to the spiky flu viruses, rendering them ineffective. I don't know if I buy that, but I did drink lots of the tea last year and I didn't get sick so I will drink the tea again this fall.  (Maybe if I had gotten sick, I might have skipped skiing that fateful day I tore my ACL...)

I've been to this tea shop before, and the proprietor recognized me.

"I haven't seen you here in a while," he said. He sounded a little miffed, suggesting I thought there wasn't something wonderful about his teas.

"No one has seen me in a while. Last time I was here I was on crutches and wearing a leg brace," I said. The steam-punk proprietor seemed relieved. He remembered that the last time I was there I was hobbling.

And so it goes with my neighbors. The first comment of people make when they see me is that they haven't seen me in ages. When I run into people, it makes me realize how isolated I had been. Seeing all of these people makes me realize how wide my social net really is, and that is a good thing. At times during my illness, it was easy to feel forgotten. It is nice to come back from being in the sick bay and realizing everyone is still there.

More Tornados

This morning was the first day of school. School starts an hour later this year for middle and high school, and the Boy and Claire Adele were both up getting ready with plenty of time. Last year, the Boy did no grooming before school. Now, he combs and gels his hair. Last week, he got braces, and he needs more time to fully brush his teeth. God forbid he goes to school with food in his teeth. Seriously. This is a good thing. But there was a tornado in the bathroom this morning, as Claire Adele was straightening her hair and the Boy was trying to gel his. Nevermind that we have two bathrooms--there was screaming from Claire Adele. She walks to school and the Boy catches a bus. In my mind, the bus catcher gets priority over the walker, mainly because I'll have to drive the Boy to school if he missed the bus. Claire Adele doesn't have to leave as early, either. If I have to drive her to school, it is a ten minute round trip. For the Boy, it is a good half hour.

Yesterday, we had another Tornado in the afternoon. The Boy got a temper glass screen protector for his phone and it broke before he got it on. It wasn't a meltdown, but it was a Tornado. We all stopped and dropped for cover until the Tornado passed. Claire Adele stepped into the middle of the Tornado, and caused a further ruckus. Oy.

This morning was the first time since my ski accident that I have walked Fox in the morning by myself. Both kids had left, and it was just me and Fox. He brought me along some of the more secluded trails in Ravenna Woods. I was thinking about the Tornados as I walked the dog. I am also thinking about looking for a job, and I thought about the first day of school. Won't my first day back at work be like their first day at school? Stressful, but a happy occasion filled with uncertainty and excitement? Might I have a few tornados of my own before this all comes to happen?

Fox: The Prodigal Dog -- A Haiku

Fox leaves the backyard.
The bad dog returns home, then
Expects a party.

Goals and Feeling Better

Bike Time: 45 minutes 

Distance: 9.19* miles on interval training

When I first hurt my knee, my medical team asked me what my goals were for recovery. I said I wanted to walk my dog. Now I see this is a harder, more ambitious goal than I had originally imagined now that I am back walking Fox for short walks.

While walking Fox through Ravenna Park is far less ambitious than Lindsey Vonn flying down a ski slope at 78 miles per hour, it is not without its challenges for someone who is recovering from knee surgery. I am having to walk on uneven grassy fields and gravel roads that slope downhill all while holding a dog on a leash, walking fast and trying to stay balanced. I want to walk him up and down trails, not just on sidewalks. For me, this is hard. Not impossible, just hard. I was walking with Jack this morning, and he didn't realize how slowly I moved on a lumpy lawn in the park.

I am getting better, though. This week was the busiest week I've had since my surgery, which is good. I was out and about and enjoyed being with people instead of spending much of my time by myself. I ran into a friend on the sidelines of the soccer field. It turns out she was a physical therapist before she had kids.

"I bet you are a great patient," she said.

"Yeah..." I said but was thinking Not so much this week. The downside of being busy was that I found it harder to squeeze in my exercises. Tuesday, I asked my physical therapist Evan if I could take a day off and he said, "If you take one day off, then you might take another and another." (Translation: "No.") As much as I would like a day off, I can see his point. Once you are on task it is easier to stay on task. Eating one cookie isn't going to make you gain twenty pounds, but eating one cookie five hundred times will.

Part of feeling better is that it doesn't feel so awful if I start to slack. In the first few weeks after the surgery, I was terrified to skip my exercises. What if I couldn't bend my leg properly or walk up stairs like a normal person ever again because I did 35 leg lifts instead of 45? I was really motivated. It is not that I am unmotivated now, but my motivation is less since I have made progress. I am not out of the woods, but I can tell that I am going make it out.** Or maybe I am like the hare who decides to take a nap mid-race and blow the whole thing. I suppose that can happen, too.

I still have goals, I need to keep looking at them so I am motivated to keep working. Friends are starting to call and ask if I can go for a walk. I want to say yes. I need to get in shape for my vacation this summer. 

Perhaps what will also motivate me is a small, odd goal: I also want to sit on my left foot again. I used to be able to sit on my chair and tuck my left foot under my bottom. I can do it with my right foot, but it isn't that same was with the left. Again, this goal is not quite as ambitious as a Lindsey Vonn goal, but if it keeps me going, that's good enough.

* I bike every day, but I only post my milage on days when I've have a good number to report. I don't mention when I bike 7.34 miles in 45 minutes.

** Sorry about cliche day on my blog.

Retail Therapy and Slowly

My dad said he has resorted to buying stuff when he was getting down about my mother's Alzheimer's. He read in a book that caregivers should get out of the house and do something for themselves, even if it is small. He attended to my mother twenty-four hours a day, but occasionally he'd sneak out to the hobby shop and get a remote controlled airplane. I think he has acquired dozens of planes and drones and helicopters in the past few years.

While I am not taking care of my mom (I live 2,000 miles away) and I am in no way caring the burden my father is carrying, I do have a little bit of guilt that I can't do more to help him. In honor of my father, I made my own stress purchase today. Thanks to the Boy, I am a Lego fan. Like him, I look for sets with interesting pieces and parts. Birds, eggs, and an "Anger Management Class" sticker? A pig with a tattoo riding a Hog? I'm in.

I like game, but I have no desire to see this movie. Thank goodness my kids are at the age where we can see movies with real actors instead of only cartoons.

I also bought a bottle topper that seals the bubbles in leftover sparkling wine. I also bought a bottle of sparkling wine, not for celebratory purposes. QFC had sparkling wine on the endcaps and I thought it looked good.

I am also doing a lap dog therapy. Fox is happy to serve.

My dad does not have a direct communication style. He told me my mom is refusing to eat, but I had to look stuff up on the internet last night to determine she might be near the end of her life. I know he doesn't want to worry me, but still. Last night, I read on NIH's National Institute on Aging's website that not eating is possible imminent sign of death for people with dementia. It is possible my mom is dying, and giving her a feeding tube is out of the question. The NIH and my mom's living will are both against feeding tubes for people dying of Alzheimer's.

My mom could die in the next week or two. Or, she could live for another six months or two years. We don't know.  My dad said people who are in hopsice do better than people who aren't in hospice. I thought he was being optimista until my physical therapist told me that hospice patients have a longer three month life expectancy than similar patients who aren't in hospice. I guess my dad heard correctly.

It is hard to decide what kind of mode to be in: the panic, move fast mode, or the quiet, calm, take things as they come mode. Last night, everything started to move in slow motion for me as I figured out this could be the end. I knew Alzheimer's was fatal, but I also knew it is a long, drawn out way to die. I was more worried about her living in a catatonic state for years than her dying soon. I guess I am going to take this slowly.

Cat Walk and Turning a Corner

Bike Time: 45 minutes 

Distance: 8.73 miles

I was walking the dog with Jack this morning. I am just returning to walking the dog, and only for short walks. We crossed the street at a stop sign, and cars were waiting as I hobbled across. At these times, I am very self conscious of my gait and my speed. The other time I feel self-conscious is when I walk into physical therapy and Evan watches me walk. I feel like a combo of a fashion model on a catwalk and a golden retriever at the Westminster Dog Show. (At least the dogs get a treat after they are evaluated.) Jack said I was limping less. He is comparing my street walking to my gait first thing in the first thing in the morning. When I get out of bed, I have pirate leg -- my left leg is unbending and stiff. As my leg warms up, it bends and I look less like Captain Hook. My street walk looked good today, but my right leg still moves faster than my left, especially when I am trying to cross the street. I can tell, even if an untrained eye can't.

I do feel like I've turned a corner and am feeling better. Last week, I ran into friends around town, and they asked how I was doing. Each time I said I was feeling better, and I meant it. I was sincerely feeling optimistic. Normally, I would smile and grit my teeth. Now I just smiled. My plum (the fluid and stuffiness in my knee) is getting smaller and my range of motion is improving. I am less stiff and at times, my knee feels loose like a normal knee.

On the way back home from walking Fox, we stopped at the coffee shop around the corner. I saw a man in his thirties with a leg brace and a compressing wrap around his knee. I said hello and asked what happened.

"I tore my ACL," he said.

"Me too!" I said. "I am nine weeks post-surgery."

"I had surgery two days ago," he said. "They are repairing my previously torn ACL."

"Ouch," I said. It turns out he tore his ACL eight years ago, and had it repaired with an allograft. The repair didn't last, and he needs two surgeries now to fix it, the first to repair the allograft holes, and then to install the new ACL. There are two and half months between surgeries. I don't think I could stand it.

"You are going through this twice. Is it worth it?" I asked. I met another man at physical therapy last week who was on his second ACL repair. My concern isn't that this will fail, but rather there is a lot of effort in the healing process and a lot of time not being fully functional.

"Totally worth it," he said. "I play soccer and snowboard. And you look great! You can walk downhill!" I was basking in his kindness, especially from someone who has been down this track. Walking downhill is hard, and I am walking down hills, even if it takes forever.

After we walked on, I asked Jack what he thought about having a second surgery.

"The guy was probably in his early thirties, and the thought of never snowboarding or playing soccer  again for his entire life was probably unacceptable," he said. As much as this recovery is a challenge, I can see Jack's point. At times, it is hard to remember why I had the surgery. It is hard to see long-term when I've never been in this spot before. Bizarrely, I feel optimistic when I see someone going through the surgery twice. They must feel the payoff is worth the price.

Feeling better...

Since my skiing accident, I haven't been able to walk Fox, our dog. We have a lovely neighbor, Heidi, who walks Fox for us midday. She adores Fox, and we are lucky to have her. She is very kind, gentle and loves animals.

Yesterday, she asked how I was doing. Normally, I say I'm fine but I wince and moan and generally act like Debbie Downer and put out by this whole thing, which is in all senses, tiresome.

For the first time since the surgery, I said, "Fine!" and I really meant it. I was feeling better and I was only thinking about my leg 75% of the time instead of 100%, which is good. "I am starting to feel better," I said with a bona fide sense of optimism. Usually people I meet on the sidelines at my son's soccer games or at the grocery store have a very Pollyanna attitude and want me to feel just fabulous. I was feeling happy that I wasn't going to rain on Heidi's parade.

"Oh no!" she said. "Then I won't be able to walk Fox anymore!" 

Just when I thought that being optimistic and cheerful was a good thing...

First Love, or Asher

I just got my latest copy of The Sun magazine.  My favorite part is "Readers Write," where readers write a few paragraphs on a given theme.  I always read this section first.  Jack reads it, too.

This month, the topic is First Love, which remind me of the story of Asher.  I met Asher one day at U Village.  Claire Adele and I were shopping at U Village a few years ago when I saw him in the Seattle Humane Society mobile shelter.  Asher was a German Wirehaired Pointer mixed with a shepherding dog.  I walked in the mobile shelter, and Asher snuggled against my thigh, as if I were his.  "Just letting you know I am here," he said as his back met my leg.  He wasn't jumpy or trying to get my attention.  He was a comfortable and confident dog.  And he was so ugly he was cute.  He was white with a big lopsided head.  He had one blue eye and one hazel eye.  His body is a patchwork of colors.  It was love at first sight.  I had a dog growing up that I loved, but Clancy belonged to my mom.  I was being a little selfish in wanting a dog who loved me most.

I rubbed Asher's back, and my hand was covered with fur.  This was a bad sign.  I am certainly allergic to cats, and allergic to some dogs.  Would my love for Asher last if I were to spend the next next years miserably sneezing?  I wasn't sure, so I paused.  Jack was at home with the Boy, and I am sure he would not have been pleased if I came home with a dog, especially one who weighed about 50 pounds.

When I got home without Asher, I read up on Asher's breeds to see if he would be reasonable.  According to my research, Asher's breed is loyal, friendly, intelligent, affectionate, active and willful.  All good things, I thought.  The Humane Society's description of Asher matched the breed traits, which was good.  I stalked the Seattle Humane Societies website to see if Asher was still there.  I showed my family his picture.  I have never done online dating, but I imagine it is close to looking for a dog online.  You can read all about someone in the digital world, but chemistry is real.

A few days later, I got my haircut.  My hairdresser has dogs, so I asked him what he thought about Asher as his dogs were of a similar breed.

"Do you have horses?" he asked.

"Ah, no," I said.  It should have been obvious.  I live in the city in a small house with a small lot.  No horses.  I am not a country girl.

"That dog was bred to keep up with horses," he said.  "It is a hunting and cattle herding dog.  Unless you have horses, I would not recommend a dog like that.  They can run for hours and still want to run for hours."

"But he is so cute and I love him and he loves me..." I said.

"Do you have horses?" he replied.

I got the point.  He was right.  Asher descended from dogs who were bred to work.  The description of dog breeds are euphemistic.  "Intelligent" means he will eat your furniture if he doesn't get enough exercise.  He will figure out how to get in your garbage can to find the leftovers from last night's steak dinner.  "Loyal" means they only obey a small number of people.  "Affectionate" means they jump on you.  "Active" and "willful" straight forward, and are traits you want in a dog who can keep up with horses for eight hours a day.  The total picture: "We warned you this dog is a handful."

Even though Asher was the wrong dog for me, I continued to follow him online.  One day I went to the website, and Asher was gone.  The good news for the Seattle Humane Society is that good dogs go fast.  He who hesitates is lost.  Or loses.  Asher was not to be mine.

A year later, we got Fox.  Hooray!  But that is not the end.  Like many of the "First Love" stories in The Sun, the write someone finds his or her first love years later.

I was at tea with a friend who lives in Maple Leaf, and we started talking about our dogs.  I told her about my first love, Asher, and how we were kept apart by my fear of allergies and lack of horses.

"How long ago was this?" she asked, so I told her.

"What does Asher look like?"

"His eyes are off center, and his head has an odd shape. He is kind of ugly..." I said.

"...so ugly he's cute?" she asked.

"Yes!"

"Asher lives down the street from me."

I couldn't believe it.  I found Asher, and Asher found a home.  "How much exercise does he need?" I asked.

"His owner is a runner, and takes him out every day."

I was glad Asher was happy.  His new family was probably a better match, as Fox is a great match for us.  But there will always be a little spot in my heart for the dog so ugly he's cute.

Memorable Quotes

The other day Jack asked me what I wanted.  I replied to love and be loved in return.

"If you want a friend pal, buy a dog."  -- Gordon Gekko.

While I am lucky to have a great dog, I am lucky to have wise, insightful and caring friends.  They understand that life and marriage are hard, and are not calling Jack rude names.  (I get the prize for that.)

"The only thing worse than dogs are dog owners."  Jack's dad

"Death by a thousand cuts will sabotage your recovery."  -- Susan

"You can't lose what you never held in the first place."  -- Michelle

"You can't undo the past, but you can avoiding fucking up the present."  -- Susan

"Go at it with grace."  -- Michelle

Quotes from a website my dad found on the meaning of "I Love You" by Dave Willis

http://davewillis.org/the-4-meanings-of-i-love-you/

1.  I am committed to you.

2.  I will protect you.

3.  I will believe in you even when you struggle to believe in yourself

4.  I will prove my love by actions.

Dave Willis is a Christian blogger, which is fine.  Here is the final quote from my friend Susan:

"Come to Jesus or go to hell."

My writing teacher said I should try to post a picture with each blog post.  She is right, but I couldn't find anything for the most recent posts.  Anyway, here are some pictures.

A piece from the Berlin Wall on exhibit at the Pacific Science Center.  Hey, if East and West Germany could reunite, is there hope for Jack and I?

A tree in my neighborhood.

Something The Boy made out of random Legos at BrickCon last October.

A blurry picture of Fox.

A view of a pineapple island in Vancouver, B.C. Picture taken on the bike path in Stanley Park last summer.

Dogs & Honesty

Note: This is a post written on April 23, 2014 which I never got around to posting.  At the time, I didn't know my husband was keeping secrets from me.  My brain didn't know, but my heart did.  I thought I'd post this as is, in its incomplete state.  Even though this is about a job I didn't get, honesty (or lack thereof) was a theme in my life at the time.  Interestingly, I never considered honesty an issue to ponder before now.  For my first 45 years, most of my life was face value.  Since then, it has become increasingly more complicated.  

+ + + + +

Dogs are honest.

When Fox is content, he wags his tail.  When he is scared, he barks or hides.  When he is hungry, he does the hungry dance.  When he is tired, he sleeps.

People are so much more complex.  Oy.  People have to act happy when they aren't.  They drink coffee to stay awake when they are tired instead of taking a nap.  I am not saying I want to be dog, but life would be simpler.

I applied for a job that I didn't get.  I know the hiring manager, and friends say I should call her and ask why I didn't get the job.  I trust the woman, but I am not sure I'll get an honest answer.  I don't think she would lie to me, but I am guessing she might try to spare my feelings.  I don't think she'd say:

"You are overqualified!"
"You haven't worked in 14 years!"
"Some people in the organization think you are a pest!"

Fox and Parenting

Getting a dog was the best parenting decision I've ever made, which is a fairly low bar considering I second guess almost everything.  Getting a dog was like hitting a grand slam in a championship baseball game, though hitting a grand slam is not a decision.  Getting a dog is more like buying Apple stock in 1985 and holding it: the gains are way bigger than I ever expected.  Fox is a keeper.

The other night, my daughter called our dog the third child.  No, Fox is better than a child, with all due apologies to third-born children.  While I love my daughter and the Boy dearly, they can be difficult children to parent.  That is a nice way to put it.  They aren't horrible, but my daughter is a teenage girl who fits the advertised awful behavior that comes with the demographic.  Self-absorbed doesn't quite cut it.  And the Boy is intense.

I was talking to my neighbor the other day who has daughters a few years older than mine.  I run into her as we walk our dogs, and she very kindly listens to my kvetch about my kids' strong wills, persistence and intensity.

"My kids are the same.  These traits will serve them well in the long run," she said.  "It is just hard to deal with them now."  Agreed.  The hard part for me is staying calm while they are being irrational.  They get irrational, I get irrational, and we have a vicious circle of nonsense.  The dog, meanwhile, is not capable of engaging with me, the kids and our bullshit.  He is calm.  He is cool.  He is chill.  I can learn something from this dog.

In fairness to my kids, we adopted Fox when he was about three.  We missed his puppyhood where he was not housebroken and waking us at odd hours in the night.  Adopting a well behaved three year old dog is like adopting a twenty six year old person who just graduated from medical school.  The hard part is done.

So is Fox better than a child?  He makes no demands, except at 4:00 p.m. he gets a hungry for dinner and he does his "feed me" dance, which is very cute.  My daughter said Fox's life is "Eat. Sleep.  Poop.  Repeat," which is true.  Last night, after the kids were in bed, the dog came and sat with me on the couch.  He didn't want anything.  He didn't whine, ask me for something, or complain about his homework or sibling.  He just sat next to me and snuggled.

I appreciate the dog's easy-going manner, and so do the kids.  Okay, this essay is not landing where  I thought it would land.  I thought I would write something like Dogs teach kids about responsibility and empathy.  True, very true, but not the point.  Bottom Line:  I am glad we got a dog because sometimes Fox is the nicest "person" in the house, including me.  The kids get crabby, I get crabby, and Fox stays Fox.

Yes, getting a dog is the best parenting decision I've ever made.

April -- The Month of Contrasts

I've been offline for a few days.  We went skiing in Whistler for the first part of Spring Break.  Here are two scenes from my yard yesterday:

And today it rained almost all day.  We took the kids to the Pacific Science Center to see the new Spy exhibit.  (Very cool.)   Jack made a nice steak dinner with mushrooms, asparagus, mashed potatoes and spinach salad.  As we were finishing dinner, I looked up and saw this out the window.  I screamed when I saw the big flash of color.  We all rushed outside to get a look.  "This is payback for all of the rain this spring," Jack said.  My daughter grabbed her phone and mine and was taking pictures with two phones at the same time.

While we were looking at the rainbows, Fox made it to the dining room table and grabbed the last bit of my steak.  I am not sure how our little Houdini did it.  The chairs were pushed in, but obviously not enough.  He didn't touch the mushrooms or asparagus or potatoes.  Just the steak.  The Boy witnessed Fox's crime.  I offered him (Fox, not the Boy) the last sip of my wine to wash it down, but he refused.

Do Over! Wishing My Kids had a More Adventurous and Free-Range Childhood

I'd like to start over being a parent.

Yep.

I don't want to start over with midnight feedings and lack of sleep and breastfeeding, or chasing toddlers around all day.  Egads.  I never want to do that again, thanks.  I'd like to start over from when my kids were five, maybe six.

I just read "Hey! Parents, Leave Those Kids Alone" by Hanna Rosin in The Atlantic (April 2014).

http://www.theatlantic.com/features/archive/2014/03/hey-parents-leave-those-kids-alone/358631/

She features a playground in Wales called "The Land."  It looks like a junkyard where kids play with fire.  Literally.  Check out the video in the article.  My daughter, the future lawyer, asked, "Is this place insured?"

Back in the 1970s when I was growing up, kids had more freedom to explore and take risks than kids do today.  We didn't have quite as much freedom as the kids in the video, but we had significantly more than my kids.  One parent interviewed for the article estimated that his child was probably unsupervised for maybe 10 minutes in his child's first ten years of life.  My kids are probably more in the two hour range of total time unsupervised before age 10.  And I am not talking about the countless times they were in the backyard and I was in the house cooking dinner, a shout away from helping them in case of disaster.  

How many minutes were you unsupervised before you were ten?  I can't count that high.  It would add up to days or weeks, or maybe even months.  I was dropped off at the community center for dance classes on Saturday morning and given a quarter to call when it was time for my parents to pick me up in the afternoon.  I had three classes over the course of six hours.  When I wasn't in class, I would roam around the community center with the other girls.  My parents gave me $2 in coins and I ate tons of crap out of the vending machine.  My favorite candy bar was the Whatchamacallit.  When I was in second grade, I was riding my bike around the neighborhood.  I saw groups of boys playing unorganized baseball in the school parking lot.  After school, kids would walk around the neighborhood and find someone to play with.  My brother and I roamed the Disney World campus alone when I was in seventh grade and he was in fifth.  We were gone for hours, riding a boat from Fort Wilderness and then catching the monorail at the Contemporary Hotel.  I was a full fledged babysitter when I was 12.  I earned enough money to pay for a field trip to France in middle school.  Twice.  

How is this constant supervision good for kids?  Does it help them develop into strong, independent and resilient adults?  Probably not.  According to the article, Millennials have greater rates of depression, narcissism and a lack of empathy, and more college kids are taking psychiatric medication.  Kids' test scores on the Torrence Tests of Creative Thinking have declined across the past decade.

I need a minute to get over my depression.  I'll be back.

So what do kids need?  According to the article, Ellen Sandseter, an early education professor, says kids "have a sensory need to taste danger and excitement; this doesn't mean that what they do has to actually be dangerous, only that the feel they are taking great risk.  That scares them, but then they overcome the fear." (p. 80, April 2014.)  She says there are six types of risky play.  

1. Exploring Heights.  Let kids climb trees.  Daughter is taking rock climbing classes.
2. Handling Dangerous Tools.  Thank you, UW Summer Day Camp, for teaching the Boy how to use a hot glue gun.  And John taught the Boy to wax the skis today.
3. Being Near Dangerous Elements.  This means large bodies of water, like an ocean, or near fire.
4. Rough-and-Tumble Play.  I totally fail at letting my kids do this.
5. Speed.  Cycling and Skiing at speeds that feel too fast.  This one is done.  Check.
6. Exploring on one's own.  I let the kids walk the dog around the neighborhood.  Once, Daughter wore her slinky Halloween costume down to UW.  I found out where she went when I checked my phone's "Map My Walk" app.  This was before she had her own phone. 

I started thinking about point 3 and fire.  When I was a kid, we used to go camping almost every weekend in the summer.  Every camping trip, we had a fire.  While my parents were setting up the site, my brother and I would look for kindling.  Once everything was set up, my parents got firewood and my mom started the fire.  On a YMCA Indian Princess campout when I was six, I put a hot marshmallow roasting stick near my mouth.  I had a blister on my upper lip for a week.  I still have a tiny scar.

And not all of the efforts to keep kids safe have been horrible.  My husband is a pediatrician who frequently witnesses freakish accidents that can happen to kids, and as a result, he tends to be pretty strict when it comes to safety.  Seat belts and car seats have protected kids much better than when I was kid.   I remember going to the library as a kid.  My mom or some other mom would pack six or seven kids in a car, two in the front seat and four or five in the back, squashed on top of each other and sitting on each others laps, no one wearing a seat belt.  One drunk guy running a red light could have sent us all flying.

As I read this list, I begin to wonder.  Sometimes it is hard to be the trail-blazer letting your kids back into the woods by themselves, when no other parent is letting their kid do the same.  Perhaps I am more fearful of Lord of the Flies type behavior where the kids hurt each other than I am of them getting lost or hassled by a stranger.  While I certainly wish my kids were a little more free-range, maybe I am not as lame as I think I am. I should write about my adrenaline junkie husband and our trip to Whistler last summer.  Zip lining across the Fitzsimmons Creek at some ungodly height on a line that was more than a mile long was one of our adventures.  Mountain biking down a real mountain, where you had to gear up with a motorcycle type helmet with stormtrooper gear.  White water rafting.  And climbing the Grouse Grind.  All of these activities came with multi-page safety disclosures and release agreements.  I have to admit I would have been happier biking along a trail or canoeing.  Oh well.  I suppose that is why there are fathers.  Thanks, Jack, for keeping the kids on the edge.

Full squish mountain biking

But I did get them a dog.  I should get some points for that.  

Fox and his Doughnut

Those last two posts were kind of heavy.  Eh.  Here are two pictures of Fox playing with a toy to lighten things up around here.

You can also see my carpet which so badly needs to be replaced.

Thief!

Yesterday, I wrote about my sweet, small dog.  I even had an adorable picture of him standing on a dining room chair under the table.

That was before he became a thief.

Yesterday, I bought the kids croissants from a local bakery for an afternoon snack.  These are not the grocery store/Costco things that try to pass as croissant.  These are the some of the best croissants in a two mile radius of my home.  They are soft and buttery inside, and have a delicious crust on the outside.  (Dear Bakery Nouveau, How about opening a NE Seattle shop?  Thanks, Lauren)

The Boy had eaten half of his croissant, and then left the table.  All of the chairs were tucked in so Fox could not climb up and grab food.  In January, Fox stole the Boy's ham sandwich when the Boy left his chair out.  Since then, Fox has learned a new trick.  He stands on a chair, and sticks his head up in the three inch gap between the table and the curve of the back of the chair.  I didn't think he could get anything off the table, but he did yesterday.  I heard his dog tags jingle, but he wouldn't come when I called.  I went into the dining room to see a yellow Ikea plate on the floor.  That's odd, I thought.  The kids don't toss plates on the floor.  I walked into the living room to see Fox snarfing down what was left of the Boy's croissant.  When he saw me, he ran with his booty under the couch.  When I tried to get him from under the couch, he growled at me.  Clearly, I am not the Alpha when he has to choose between the pack and croissant.

Fox checking out what's on the table while his people are away.

I should mention that Fox has been on a diet.  We took him to the vet a few weeks ago and he has to lose two pounds, which is a lot when you weigh only ten.  We are now giving him half as much food as he used to get.  On the one hand, I feel sorry that he is getting less.  On the other, he should look back at those gravy days and be thankful they once were.

Since the diet began, Fox is constantly hungry and his food seeking behavior is higher than usual.  A few weeks ago he stole food right from under my daughter's nose.  My daughter had Fox on her lap at the end of dinner.  When she turned her head to talk to her father, Fox snatched her chicken pita from her plate.  My daughter said that years from now when our family gets together, we will talk about Fox's food stealing escapades.

My little burglar got me thinking -- what if he were to steal valuable things, like silverware?  Wouldn't that be a great plot to an anti-Disney movie?  "Lap dog turns into world's greatest jewel thief, taking precious gems from unsuspecting old ladies."  He could snuggle up to them, and as they fell asleep, he could take their necklaces, bracelets and earrings.  He could take their sterling place settings.  I am not sure how the movie would end.  Would the thief dog go to jail, or would he change his ways and become a Robin Hood dog, stealing from the rich to give to the poor?  Maybe they wouldn't solve his crimes because they would never suspect a dog.  Maybe he would take the money and retire someplace warm without extradition laws.  He would sit on the beach with his restored diet while his glamorous owner drank cocktails.  I might vote for the last option.

Fox's internal thoughts: *Get away from me! It's mine!* He growls and shakes butt at lady who is yelling. 

Little Dog, Lap Dog, Shorter than the Daffodils

Little dog

Lap dog

Shorter than the daffodils

We have had Fox for six months.  While the first six weeks were a little tough, he has settled down nicely and has become a regular part of our family.  It took him some time to adjust to home life after being in a shelter for two and a half months.  We are lucky to have such a nice dog.

This is our first spring with Fox.  The Seattle Humane Society got Fox from a shelter in Los Angeles. Our little SoCal dog is not a big fan of rain.  I had to drag him on his walk this morning in the drizzle.

With the spring, also comes flowers.  I knew we had a small dog, but I didn't quite realize how small he is until I saw him next to flowers.   He is shorter than a daffodil, which is wild.  I wonder what it would be like to be so small.  Is is scary to all of sudden have the world "spring" up around you?  Does it seem to him that tulips are taking over the earth?

Small can be good.  He uses his small size to his advantage.  He can climb and crawl into small spaces and walk on the top of chairs tucked under the table.  He hides out of reach under the couch or bed when he has something secret to chew or doesn't want to go on a walk.

Or, does the whole world seem be to a wonder, like when people see the ocean or climb mountains or walk through a forest?  Is every day like that to Fox?

Bad Pictures of My Dog

Like any proud parent, I like to take pictures of my new baby.  While we have had Fox for a few months now, he still feels new.  The honeymoon isn't over.  Actually, the honeymoon analogy doesn't apply to dogs.  The first few weeks we had him were hard.  Definitely not honeymoon-ish.

Some of the pictures I took of him were bad, yet I can't seem to delete them from my phone.  I need to clear stuff off my phone as I am running out of storage space.  And yet, these goofy ones stay.  What is it about a bad picture that makes me want to keep it?

There is something about a goofy picture that makes him seem more adorable.  Is it because it shows our imperfections?  That he is lovable anyway?

Did I ever tell you about the dog Asher I wanted to adopt?  He was a border collie and a wired haired pointer mix.  He was ugly.  Hideous.  He had white bristly fur, blue lopsided eyes and his nose was too big.  He nuzzled his head against my leg and I fell in love.  It was not to be, and that probably was a good thing.  My hairdresser has a similar breed.

"You know, those dogs never get tired.  Ever.  They were bred to keep up with horses.  Do you have a horse?"

No.

I guess I dodged a bullet and ended up with a lap dog.  Here are more bad pictures of Fox.

This is a blurry picture of Fox's eyes.  I must have dropped the phone in the middle of shooting this one.  He looks like an evil alien, and yet it stays on my phone.

This one was taken at Magnuson Park on the shore of Lake Washington.  He kept looking out at the water and not at the camera.

This is Fox's car seat.  The Boy took this one.  This is just a regular bad picture-- blurry with eyes closed.  A normal person would have deleted it immediately.  I keep this memory of the Boy trying to photograph the dog.  The Boy also took some good pictures of Fox, but the bad one stays with the rest of them.