Reason to Believe

“Still I look to find a reason to believe.”  Tim Hardin

The events of the last few days—no, the last few months—have been horrendous.  From the attacks in Paris and Brussels to the slaughter in Orlando and the bombing of Baghdad, it seems that every time we turn on the TV, or open up a newspaper, we are assaulted with more violence, more bloodshed, more hatred and more death.  At a time when we as scientists are on the brink of a new era in technology—a visit to Mars, cars without drivers, a “moonshot” to cure cancer—we as the human race seem to be backsliding into a new and darker Dark Age.  For me, the dregs of misery came when I read the transcript of Diamond Reynold’s video of the shooting death of her fiancé Philando Castile in front of her four year old daughter, on the front page of the New York Times right alongside of the story of five Dallas policeman being shot and killed in cold blood.   I could not watch the videos of either event.

Today at work one of my physicists gave me a gift.  He is Romanian and recently returned to the land of his birth.  He brought me back a photograph of the monastery at Voronet, in the form of a refrigerator magnet.  He said that in Romania, there has been a rebirth of spiritualism and faith.  The photograph is beautiful, and I later learned that this monastery is also called the Sistine Chapel of the East.  From Wikipedia, legend tells us that the monastery was built by Stephen the Great, who in a moment of crisis in his battle against the Ottoman Turks, came to Daniel the Hermit in his skete and asked for advice.  Daniel told him not to surrender the battle, but that if he won, he must build a monastery dedicated to St. George.  Stephen the Great won the battle and in 1488, dedicated the monastery with these words:

I, Voivode Stephen, by the Grace of God Ruler of Moldavia, son of Bogdan, have started to have the monastery of Voroneț built to the glory of the holy and well-known St George, the great and victorious martyr, in 6996 in May on 26, on one day of Monday, after the Pentecost and I had it finished the same year, in September, 1488.

In these best of times, these worst of times, we all need to find a reason to believe.  I believe that ALL lives matter—black lives, white lives, police lives, Syrian lives, children’s lives—all of us need to relinquish the fear and hatred that has taken over our lives and our human decency.  Like St. George, we need to reaffirm our faith, whether it be in God, or in love, or in kindness, or in our fellow human beings.   We need to do it now.   We have met our nemesis and he is us. Time is short and we have a dragon to slay.

A Not Quite Requiem for Big Red

Some of us think of the automobile as a means of transportation and nothing more.   Others, like me, see the car as something else entirely—an extension of ourselves, and an expression of identity.  Growing up I was influenced by my dear old Dad—our childhood was marked by a succession of American made muscle cars from the 1966 Ford Thunderbird convertible which met its sad end on the 610 freeway in the rain, to the Pontiac Firebird Formula 400 I drove out to Big Bend National Park, reaching its top speed of 160mph on a lonely stretch of interstate 10 before my new husband cried “Uncle!”  The first car I ever bought myself was a 1975 Chevy Camaro, V8 engine, bright red with white vinyl upholstery.  I was 21, and I was GOING PLACES.  I enjoyed that car for seven years until one too many spin-outs on Route 9 in the snow after I moved to Boston convinced me that it was time for something more practical.  The day I drove my brand new front wheel drive bronze Nissan Stanza out of the lot was the day I knew I had made a big mistake.  I was born for red cars with big engines.  I like people to see me coming.

Sometimes, however, we have to be practical.  By 1991 I had three children and a growing menagerie of pets.  I got my first Chevy Suburban, known then and probably now as the “National Car of Texas” on a company lease, and from then on I was hooked.  That car was indeed “like a rock.”  I drove it until the lease was up and then got another, this time the heavy duty three quarter ton with enough power to tow my house.  The menagerie had grown to include horses by then, and I wanted a car that I could both  live in and drive with three kids, 2 horses and an assortment of dogs.  There was nothing comparable to the trusty Suburban in the automotive world. A bemused trucker watched me struggle into a parking space at a truck stop and actually taught me how to park my behemoth.  By 2001 I realized that the horses were safer with professional drivers and big rigs, and I “traded down” to my current Suburban, affectionately known as “Big Red.”  That was in the spring of 2001, and I was in love—with a big red car.

I’ve had Big Red for nearly 14 years and 230,000 miles.  Shortly after the model year 2001, Chevrolet in its infinite wisdom decided to turn the historic first true sport utility vehicle into a soccer mom-grocery shopping car.  Gone was the bench middle seat, replaced by “captain’s chairs” for easier access to the third row.  Gone were the “barn doors” which opened from the middle out, one at a time, replaced by the hydraulically lifted single back window-door, which may have provided better grocery access, but was entirely impractical for those of us carrying three to four hundred pounds of dog, all wanting to exit the vehicle at the same time. Gone was the middle seat that folded entirely flat, allowing the entry of two 700 size dog crates, the only passenger vehicle to this day which had that much cargo space.  In my distress over the changes to my beloved Suburban, I spent an hour on the phone with a Chevy customer service representative from India, who duly noted my concerns, but had no idea what I was talking about.

Last week I covered a practice in El Centro, about 140 miles east of my home in Rancho Santa Fe.  I felt Big Red shudder and heave going over the Laguna Mountains.  For the first time ever, cars were passing me to the left as I struggled to maintain 55 mph. My good friends at Quality Chevrolet have been patching the air conditioning compressor together for years, but this was something entirely new.  Fearing the worst, I took the car back to the dealer today, with clear “Do Not Resuscitate” orders.  All day I waited, and finally around 4 pm I got a call from service.  Bill said, “Ma’am, I think your engine and transmission are okay.  We found a faulty oxygen sensor. We’ll replace it tomorrow.  You’ll be good to go.”

Good to go to New Mexico?  I sure hope so.  I don’t want a new car.  I love Big Red.  I am loyal and I persevere. The Chevy Suburban no longer comes in red.  My family thinks I’m nuts.

And Then There Was One

This is a guest blog, tonight from my friend Jackie, who has shared wedding stories, dogs stories, friendship stories and love stories here.  She wrote this piece a year ago, and wrote the postscript last week.  This is for anyone who has ever experienced the loss of a loved on in the most painful way possible.  It’s long, so bear with us.          From Jackie:

I think a part of me will always be angry with my sister, my only sibling.  The anger sometimes morphs into fury, but then I feel guilty.  And then the guilt makes me sad, and the sadness overwhelms me with a depth of despair that only a few might understand.  When I got the call last January that my sister had committed suicide a part of me died, too.  The part of me that always hoped and dreamed that the estrangement my sister and I had experienced over the past several years could be overcome and we could renew the wonderful sister bond that we’d had shared for over 50 years.  How did things go so terribly awry?

 

I would say our childhood was unremarkable except in hindsight it was very remarkable.  My dad worked hard as an accountant for a large oil company and my mom stayed home to be a wife and mother.   We had everything we needed but few luxuries and I guess there was so much love in our family that I never really thought we were missing anything.  We lived in a new freshly minted suburban home and could walk safely to our elementary school.    Our house was always clean and tidy, we sat down to dinner every night together, and watching Lassie on Sunday night was a ritual. To save money my mother sewed all of our clothes; not always our preferred styles, but now I appreciate how hard she worked and how many hours she devoted to keeping our home life running smoothly.   It seemed totally normal to get up, have breakfast with my family, go off to school, make good grades, come home to a clean and organized home, and know Dad would be home for dinner at 5:30.   We followed the rules, respected our parents, made good grades, and both of us completed college in less than 4 years.  Our college educations were paid for by my parents so we never worried about loans or working through school.  My sister and I were close; we played and argued and shared secrets ~ and a bedroom too since my grandmother frequently came to visit.  We were loved and we knew it.

 

My sister and I had unique differences in our personalities and talents.  I swam competitively after giving up hope of having a horse of my own – when I was little I took riding lessons and loved being around them.   My sister swam a bit too, but never gave up on that dream to have her own horse.  When I was in college and she was still in high school my parents gifted her with her first horse.  He wasn’t much to look at, but moved well and she was ecstatic.   My sister was a bit of a slob in life; messy, but her riding tack was immaculate.  She would spend hours cleaning bridles and saddles and organizing them in precision-like order. She avoided cleaning her room but would happily muck out a stall.  I was more organized and enjoyed keeping things  clean, and that was a sort of joke between us – she had no problem ignoring her domestic chores to spend endless hours with her horses.   She just didn’t care.  And I loved that about her.

 

In our adult years, when we were married, we lived about 1 mile away from each other in Houston. She was a fun Auntie to my kids, and I did my best to help her with her  boys, who each had some unique learning challenges.  Her motherhood days were not easy.  But we enjoyed those years and were together constantly.  We talked on the phone everyday – long before there were cell phones.  Caller ID had just come into vogue and I would see her number and just pick up the phone and say “hey” and we would start in.  We endured the tragic and sudden loss of our father in 1995 and helped our mom get through some very tough years.  Sometimes we would just sit together and drink wine and cry.  She and her husband decided to move out to the country so she would have more room for her horse passion and perhaps find other schools to better manage her boy’s learning issues, and I moved to the West Coast in 2001.  That is when our bond would start to crumble.

 

Around 2005 my phone calls were not returned; I left messages, and my mother who lived close to my sister would ask me if I had spoken with her as her calls were ignored too.  Finally the ugliness was revealed.  My sister had decided to leave her marriage and children and run off with a pseudo-psychologist who practiced polygamy and had a prison record and had promised her a life of ease and loveliness.  She was trancelike in her devotion to him.  Her children and (now) ex-husband would call me in disbelief over her behaviors.  She managed to chase away all of the “wives”, handed over ALL of her divorce settlement, and very quickly discovered that he was nothing more than a con-artist who abused and beat her into submission.  I had told her from the start I did not support this decision, from the research I had done I felt he was a dangerous man and her decision was ill-advised.   I begged her to reconsider.  She turned on me with a vengeance, cutting me out of her life and insisting I owed her an apology for “judging” her choices.  And so it went.  I would follow her discreetly from afar and learn that she would run away from the violence more times than I could count; she would marry him and then leave him immediately afterwards because of the abuse.  She divorced him and then remarried him.  Her ex-husband would help hide her but always, always, she would go back.  My attempts to contact her were refused.  Her only calls to our mother were for money.  Mother’s Day, Christmas, Birthdays were ignored.  The years went by and I kept hoping she would come home.  Meanwhile her ex-husband moved on with his life and remarried and moved away.  Her boys grew up. I came back to Texas in 2008 but still no connection.  I told her ex-husband to please ask her to call me, I was here with any help she needed – but her pride was too high and the rift too deep.  She would not ask for help.  The torment continued. She had trapped herself into the endless cycle of abuse.  A few more bizarre business ventures would keep her with him, and give her temporary hope,  but they would fail and the misery would continue.  Early on she ran away from him and he threatened to cut her horses’ throats from ear to ear if she did not return.  She returned.

 

In 2011 I attempted to contact her via text.  She was rude and abrasive and would have no part of a conversation until I apologized, again, for the “choices” she had made.  My last words to her were that I wanted to resolve our differences, that I loved her, and would not fight with her.  No response.  I later learned that he tracked her phone, emails and texts.  There was never really a chance for her to be honest with anyone.

 

So in January when I got “the” call, a part of me was not shocked.  Still the tragedy of the whole messy thing crashed down around us all.  She had driven 9 hours to an out-of-state locale, hidden from all.  She poured a glass of wine and poisoned herself with barbiturates.   She was discovered through her car’s GPS.  When the kind detective contacted me he was solemn and sad.  In a level voice he asked if I wanted to hear her Note.  I listened quietly as he read me her last words, how she was so very sorry to leave everyone but she could not take the physical and emotional abuse any longer.  The final straw was that he was having an affair with a woman she worked with.  The disgrace was complete.

 

When I especially missed her during our years apart, I would fantasize about coming together over a favorite bottle of wine – sitting together, face to face, and thrashing through everything so we could begin again.  I think about the glass of wine that she poured herself to wash down the pills, the glass that should have been our glass of wine ~ our fresh start, our new beginning.  When she left forever that cold day in January she destroyed all of the hope.  And that’s when the anger/guilt/sad cycle begins again.   Why could she have not called me one last time to ask for help?  Why didn’t she remember the goodness about us?  Why why why…

 

My sister would have been 58 on June 30, 2013.  She was fun and smart and beautiful, and I loved her very much.  I will miss her forever.

 

A Healing Postscript:

Dr. Miranda thought it might be a good idea to wait to post this piece about my sister’s death until I had spent more time grieving.  It was a good idea.    I originally wrote this almost a year ago.  She suggested I write a follow-up on how things are going, how the healing process has gone.  It’s taken me longer to write this postscript than it did to write the essay.   I have struggled with this all week.

 

The passage of time is an amazing thing; it softens the rugged edges of grief and lifts the darkness.  But when the death of a loved one is a result of suicide, there is always a cloud that hovers ever near.  It is a difficult process to experience and it has given me deeper compassion for others who have gone through this horror.  A few days after my sister died my mother still had not called her friends or Pastor.  I contacted him myself.  He was shocked to hear the news – he knew our family well – and wondered why no one had notified him.  I explained that she could not bring herself to tell anyone; she was ashamed.  He told me that was not unusual.  He went on to comfort me with his opinion that Suicide was the single most selfish act a human being can commit; that it leaves those left behind wrecked and ruined, the ripples run far and wide.  He was right about that.  Even now when I mention my sister passed away I am always asked “Oh that’s terrible.  Was it an illness?”  And then I have to figure out just how much of the story I need to tell.

 

I have such a wonderful family and amazing friends and a great life.  I just wish my sister was here to share it with.  When I packed up my mother’s house recently and went through all the “stuff” I would literally talk out loud to her “…here is that plate that we agreed would go to you….or……  hey look at these pictures of you in grade school, what a hoot…..or…..remember this horse trophy that you were so proud of….”  and on and on.  I have decided I will never completely come to terms with her death, so I choose to remember the happy times of her life.  It’s the best I can manage.

Moving Mom

 

Another guest blog tonight from my friend Jackie–I can certainly relate and I know many of you can too!

 

My Mother turns 90 next month. She is selling her house of 28 years and moving in with us. It’s official: I am a grown-up.

Time is a funny thing. I remember I couldn’t wait to grow older when I was young. It seemed forever to reach that 16th milestone; then 21, then 30 and OMG I was 40. Officially OLD. My eldest son is 35 and honestly and I can actually remember being 35 and yet here I am at 61 taking on the role of care-giver and life-manager for my mother. I raised 4 kids with an alcoholic husband, got through a miserable divorce, survived the deaths of my father and sister, but I never felt like a grown-up until now. It’s a little scary.

In conversations with my peers I discovered we are all going through this challenge together; what to do when your parents are not capable of living independently but don’t want to go to “one of those places”. I researched a lovely retirement community near us a few years ago and told my mother all about it. She was quiet, and refused to come visit us for almost a year, fearful we would surprise her by leaving her there and abandoning her. Of course this was never our intention; we thought that living in a high rise condo community with chef-prepared meals everyday, an on site beauty shop and library, shuttle service for shopping ~and even a town car chauffeur on duty daily~ would be lovely! I wanted to go live there myself! But she shut down any conversations about this idea and insisted she was fine in her big two story home – alone – and lonely.

In a tough conversation three years ago I explained to her that I had given up on trying to re-locate her nearer to us. Although we are only a three hour drive away, that is a long stretch in an emergency. She agreed “in principle” that living so far away wasn’t a good thing, but she just couldn’t bring herself to part with her home and all her things. I explained to her that I wanted to help move her closer but without some cooperation on her part it was just too hard. She promised to try and at least start sorting through her house and throwing things away in preparation for the “someday move that she didn’t want to make”. I asked her to begin with the magazines. There were 500 magazines from 25 years of saving neatly stacked in piles in her family room cabinet. The next time I visited I checked and the magazines were still there. We had a long way to go.

Last year as we grieved the loss of my sister, her perspective shifted. She was ready to be closer to us; her being alone was becoming more difficult and she realized I couldn’t hop into a car and drive long distance just to help her to a doctor’s appointment. Oh – and she was still driving. Last year when she turned 89 her Driver’s License needed renewal. “AHA” I thought – when we go to the Department of Public Safety office they will surely make her take a test or maybe do a refresher driving exam. And then she couldn’t live alone and she would have to move. Nope. She filled out the one page form and checked “no” to all the pertinent boxes – she had not had a stroke, or was disabled, or had a chronic illness that made her unable to perform driving tasks. When I saw the box “Are you Hearing impaired?” I jumped up and asked the clerk if being deaf in one ear was an issue. Her response “Can she hear a officer if he stopped her vehicle and spoke to her?” Mom answered “Oh yes last year when I forgot my new Vehicle registration sticker a nice officer pulled me over to tell me and I heard every word.” She paid her $7 and got a new photo taken and we were finished. I asked the clerk when this license would expire and she answered “When she is 96.” I asked if there would be any tests or refresher driving exams and she nodded, sadly, “no”. Fast forward to now and we have all agreed that it’s time to turn in the keys. Whew.

The choices had become more complicated since a few years back when I thought the condo life was the answer; she was no longer a candidate for an active retirement community and certainly not ready for an assisted living situation. She still enjoys puttering outside in her garden and managing her meals and laundry – so what was the solution? As I thought about it I reflected back to 1986 when my parents built their dream home and included a suite so my then-90 year old grandmother could permanently live with them. I guess the cycle has come full circle as my husband and I are now planning our dream house but with one significant addition – a small cottage on the property so that she may live near us and with us as she needs and I will be close to help out when that time comes. She’ll have a bright and shiny new place to live just steps away from us, and if she needs care, there is an extra bedroom.

And so the clean-out of her home began. I started with ( guess what) those magazines. Mom kept trying to save them back – I kept throwing them in sacks. We finally agreed if we took them to the Library they could be enjoyed by many people and we didn’t have to move them. Over the past months several more trips to her home for clean out sessions followed and before long the house was show-ready. It sold in 8 days after 4 different offers. The sale will be final in early May and the serious packing has begun. Mom told me recently that she really can’t believe she is going to be 90 soon. She still feels in her mind that she is younger; where have the decades gone? Perhaps it’s a myth that you are supposed to feel your “real” age. Whatever the case, I am embracing this challenge and look forward to having Mom closer. I know it will not always be easy but that’s okay. It will be a privilege to make her final years happy and safe. On those really hard days I will remember what my daughter said to me recently “Ya know Mom, when you are old we will be taking care of you”. So perhaps the bigger lesson here is that family is family, and sometimes that’s all that matters. I can do this. And after all, I AM a grown-up now.

Old Dog Lying In The Sun

The old dog barks backwards without getting up.
I can remember when he was a pup.

- Robert Frost

If you live in a multi-pet household, as I do, you will know the one I am talking about.  The dog that never caused anyone any trouble, never barked, never bit, never peed in the house, never strained at the leash or dragged you across the street on your elbows or knees, but also never caught your attention by his rare antics and sense of humor.  Or the cat that never came when you called, or greeted you at the door, or liked to be picked up, but who came into your bed at night while you slept and cuddled until morning before disappearing behind your laundry hamper long before dawn.  The silent ones of the household, the invisible ones, the ones sadly, that you paid the least attention to.  It is the fallacy of the multi-pet household—we like to believe we love them all equally, but we never do. Our time is limited, and sometimes the quiet ones are overlooked.

I run errands on Saturdays and sometimes Saturdays can be even more hectic than my weekdays.  There is the grocery shopping, the laundry, the dry cleaners—things to be dropped off, picked up, and in weekend warrior fashion, there is exercise that needs to be done. As I headed out to the hardware store this afternoon, I realized that two of my dogs—Magic, the largest and Yoda, the tiniest had not been outside for a while.  It’s a beautiful day here in sunny Southern California, 70 degrees with no clouds in the sky and a light breeze.  When we stepped out the screen door, Yoda immediately ran to “do his business”, which besides the obvious includes chasing lizards, grabbing twigs, snatching low hanging rosebuds off the bushes and barking at the old horse, Dash, in the pasture.  As I walked towards the little dog, I realized Magic was nowhere in sight.  Turning around, I saw that he was lying peacefully on his side on the little hill that leads down from the house, basking quietly in the sunshine.

When did my oldest and largest deerhound get so old?  Magic, aka Champion Caerwicce’s This Rough Magic, was a magnificent animal in his prime. At thirty four inches at the shoulder, and 125 pounds of pure muscle, he fractured a metatarsal bone in his foot running through the pasture as a six month old and had it surgically pinned and repaired.  He quietly bore his six week confinement with nary a complaint, and when the cast came off, his toes were lax, his foot terribly deformed. Within weeks he was off and running again, and when we brought him out to show as an eighteen month old, not a single judge ever commented that his left front foot was flatter than his right, because he floated with the movement described in the Scottish Deerhound standard—“easy, active and true.”  Being a homebody, when he finished his championship easily we brought him home, where he has remained, happy, quiet, healthy, and no trouble at all.  Today, for the first time, I looked at him lying in the sun, on his side, his eyes clouded with cataracts, his once dark mane silver with age, and I saw a very old dog.

Treasure them all while you have them, the big ones, the little ones, the funny ones, the ones that do tricks and always make you laugh.  But also cherish the quiet ones, the shy ones, the ones that never grab your attention—because they too, age and will be gone and you, like me, will wonder why you did not appreciate that they, of all, loved you best.

All Creatures Great and Small

 

“He prayeth best who loveth best, all things great and small.

For the dear God who loveth us, He made and loveth all.”   Samuel Taylor Coleridge

 

A guest blog, tonight, from my friend Jackie Widen.

 

I find I really don’t like people who don’t love animals.  There, I said it.

 

I find it very odd and strange that the bonds we share with animals; whether they be furry or feathered, do not far out-weigh all the inconveniences (and yes, destruction) that our pets bring to our lives.

 

When I moved to Northern California in 2001 my fiancée was flabbergasted that I was spending $2,300 to ship my 12 year old mutt Lady, our 8 year old orange tabby cat Leo, and a calico-stray-who-adopted-us kitty we named Amigo until we found out that Amigo was really an Amiga, but Amigo still stuck.  The thrifty accountant such as he was proclaimed that we could have bought “all new” pets for that price.  I looked at him in amazement:  you have never truly loved a pet have you?  He admitted that despite owning many pets he had never loved one of them.  Well, I said, that is going to change.

 

The animals were picked up by a courier at my home in Houston in their brand new carriers, flown at night to San Francisco (this was summertime and it was deemed too hot to fly during the day) and then transported by a hired driver from the Cargo area at SFO to our home 60 miles North.  I admit, the last part involving a hired driver was a bit excessive – but for $100 it sounded cheap compared to the other costs of my move; and besides, the 4+ hour drive round trip to San Francisco was not appealing.

 

So the trio arrived safe and sound and settled in.  The dog and orange tabby immediately claimed the new couch.  Amigo claimed my soon-to-be husband.  He was a goner as soon as the routine was established every night when he arrived home from work.  Amigo would meet him in the kitchen, and lead him to his chair where he would sit down and she would curl up in his lap.  He was enchanted.  And he “thought” he didn’t like cats.  I explained that the only people who didn’t like cats were those who hadn’t fallen in love with one yet.

 

Once we had some dinner guests; the wife was preoccupied during the evening playing with our two kitties.  Oh I love cats, she declared.  Really? I said, do you have any?  Oh no, she said, I couldn’t own one.  Why not? I was puzzled.  Because, she explained, if I owned one and it died I would not be able to handle the grief, so I have never wanted to have one of my own.   That conversation has bothered me and comforted me over the years since because there were certain truths behind it – logical reasoning – but the variable in that conclusion is that the love you feel for that animal sustains you after they are gone.

 

These three pets eventually came to the end of their days.  To that Rainbow Bridge as some call it.   For Lady, she had a series of old age maladies — she was 17 - and she struggled to do ordinary things.   I felt hollow as I sat there in the vet’s office when they gave her that final “pink” shot.  But what a good life she’d had; what fun times we enjoyed and what milestones she marked while my 4 children grew up.  More hound than Lab which the Pound had described, she was nevertheless a part of our family until the end.

 

Amigo would love and love until the cancer she fought was just too much to bear.   My husband was the most torn apart by her decline as her need to curl up on his lap was more to keep warm as she had lost most of her weight fighting the disease and it must have felt nice to be snuggled every evening.  When I called him from the Vet to let him know the “pink” shot  had been our only alternative he wept on the phone.   As devastated as I felt there was a piece of joy within because he finally understood the bond of a beloved animal.

 

Leo had the best cat life, ever.  In 2008 he rode in our car back to Texas.   What an experience!  After living 8 years in Sonoma County, roaming in our vineyard and laying in the vines, he was back to where he started.  He did have a couple of good years.  But then he too reached the end of his rich life and became very sick.  I took him into our Vet who was a very nice young woman, fresh out of Vet School.  She babbled on and on about maybe doing exploratory ultra-sounds to examine the mass in his abdomen that had prompted his weight loss and lack of activity.  Maybe we could do this, or maybe we could have a consult with a Cancer specialist.  I looked at this woman with tears in my eyes and asked “This cat is 16 years old, he has cancer, and he is sick.  If this cat was your cat, what would YOU do?”  She paused and answered “I would put him down”.  I told her that honestly that is the answer most pet owners want to hear – the truth – because making that decision is so hard, and it would be nice to hear the Truth.  She agreed.

 

Later the next year when I brought in some foster kittens that we had found, I talked to her again.  She admitted that she remembered our conversation quite well and it helped her to counsel her pet-owners better.  False hope is useless – and expensive.

 

About a year after Leo passed away I was ready for a new animal.  It was time.  On a cold Sunday in December, my birthday actually, I dragged my husband to an Adoption Event.  I had decided I wanted a Lab.  What God picked for me, instead, was a black Belgian Shepherd who was christened Zoey.  She is the love of our lives.  It is a remarkable thing,  this loving animals.  The colors of life seem richer.

 

So for all of those folks who have avoided the expense, the inconvenience, the mess, the destruction, the fur on the baseboards and poop and puk on the carpets, for all of those awful things that come along with the joy of owning a beloved animal, I say too bad for you.  I’ll take the chaos anytime.  How lucky for us.