Her Name Was Dora - A Eulogy

Her name was Dora.

She first joined our household in October, 2004. The organization through which I'd adopted Grace just a few months before,  Because You Care had contacted me asking if I would be willing to foster a dog. She'd been found wandering the streets of Northern Millcreek Township and was only captured after she was too hungry to care. She was coaxed to come in with lunch meat.

She was so scared the volunteers called her Sissy.  When Sissy was brought to my home she was literally dragged in, wrestling and fighting the entire time. But she didn't bite or snap. She didn't want to hurt anyone, she just didn't want to be hurt herself.

I thought it was mean to call her Sissy, highlighting her fear so I renamed her. Initially I called her Cora, for courageous. But after a week I remembered I had a friend who had a daughter named Cora and I didn't think she'd appreciate me naming my dog the same so I tasked with changing her name once again. Because she'd already started to respond to "Cora" I looked for a name that sounded similar. Perhaps Nora? That didn't fit. Maybe Flora? Ick-NO. I tried Dora and she responded so the name stuck. People assume she was named for Dora the Explorer, but that wasn't the case.

Once in my house she backed away from Grace and me and barked. Eventually, when people came to visit she wouldn't run away, but stand behind me - possibly for protection...and bark. Finally, feeling a bit more comfortable in her surroundings she would stand in front of me - possibly to protect me(?)...and bark.

Dora barked at the mailman. She barked at the UPS driver. She barked at the neighbors when they sat on their porches. She barked at repairmen - at my home and the neighbors.  She barked at all the people who walked up and down my street, and I live on a street popular with walkers. When giving directions to my house I told people to not bother looking for the house number just listen for the house with the barking dogs. They always found the right house.

I have no idea of what she was trying to communicate. Sometimes to alert me. Sometimes because she was happy. But I think it was most often because she was afraid and anxious. I had her a few years before I could look in her eyes and see she trusted me. Years! I was only supposed to foster her, but I knew that in spite of her progress, relocating Dora would ruin her so I kept her. (Come to think of it, I don't think Because You Care ever charged me the adoption fee!)

Dora wasn't a particularly playful dog. She didn't chase a ball or catch a Frisbee. But she loved to run! Once I felt confident she wouldn't run away from me, I took her over to the GE softball fields and let her off leash.  She would run like a shot! Maybe she was part greyhound or maybe gazelle. She was beautiful to watch, the sun bouncing off her sleek black coat looked as if sparks were flying as she sped across the field. And she was happy! True joy shone from her face, her eyes, as she outran all the fear and that surrounded her.

Another activity she enjoyed was sliding down the slide at Napier Park. Many years ago, Olivia (Barbling #3) coaxed her up the slide steps and I stayed at the bottom to catch her. Dora loved it and kept running back to the steps to try it again.  Finally, on one trip down her claw got caught and she hurt her paw. She didn't enjoy the slide as much anymore, though every couple of years I could convince her to take a trip.

Finally, the years caught up to her, as they do all of us.  Her eyes clouded over, she slowed down quite a bit, and her anxiety was keeping her (and me) up many nights. At times her breathing was labored and I suspect she was concealing pain. I decided her time had come and the loving thing would be to put her down, so I made the vet appointment for Saturday, July 27.

On Friday night Dora, Lucy and I made a final walk to Dairy Queen, where they each got a Pet Cup - a cup of vanilla ice cream with a dog biscuit garnish. Normally, the three of us split a small cone, but the occasion warranted their own servings.

Saturday morning, before we left for the vet, Dora and I walked over to the softball fields, where I left her off leash. She didn't run, but she did walk at a faster clip than normal. We then stopped at Napier Park where she walked up to the slide and sniffed it, perhaps bringing back good memories. And then we left for the vet's. My friend, Brenda came with me so I didn't have to face this alone.

In just two days' time I already notice less dog hair around. And the house is quiet. Too quiet! Reflecting on our 15 years together I wondered if maybe I should have kept the name Cora.
Though she'd never conquered her fears Dora had lived a good life in spite of them. Isn't that the true meaning of courage?

Fifteen years and it only occurred to me today to look up the meaning of "Dora"! The name is from the Greek, meaning "gift". Dora is the diminutive of Theodora (or Dorothy) meaning "God's gift". In one of those spiritual ironies, "God's gift" came to live with me just a few months after I'd adopted "Sasha", who I had renamed "Grace". Grace and Dora were meant to be together. And they're together now, with the One who let me have them for a time.

Her name was most appropriately Dora.

$#IT Happens

Opinions differ in the religious realm on the use of expletives .  There's the famous commandment about not taking the LORD's name in vain; yet, technically unless one uses the word God or Jesus Christ in the phrase this commandment is not applicable.

There is the Bible verse about unwholesome words (Ephesians 4:29), which has also been translated and interpreted as foul language, corrupt speech, and abusive talk to name a few.  But foul is "in the ear of the beholder" and one person's swearing can be another person's normal manner of speech.

Me, I take the middle ground.  I was raised to not swear.  If I had, my dad would probably have cussed me out! The use of some crude language does not phase or offend me and I admit that certain words have passed my lips.  You see, there are times "Darn!" and "Son of a GUN!" do not adequately express my true feelings of the moment.

Last week, I was running with Lucy when calamity struck.  I've run hundreds of miles with my dogs and this was the first time anything like this happened.  About halfway through our two-mile run the "waste" bag exploded on me.  And it's (uh) contents were not in their usual (ahem) compact form (I'm trying to be genteel here, folks).  Needless to say, my immediate reaction was shock and surprise, with a bit of disgust thrown in for good measure.  But at a time when a certain expletive would have been very appropriate; undeniably a statement of fact I said "Oh shoot" instead.

Lucy and I immediately reversed course and headed home.  It was a beautiful Sunday afternoon and my neighbors were out in full force. Sun shining brightly, they all walked with heads held high, wide awake and aware, taking in their surroundings, especially the lady in the red t-shirt walking her dog.  I was hard to miss.  Dog leash in one hand, half full blue plastic bag in the other, strange brown splotches staining the front of my t-shirt as well as the cuffs of the sleeves. I was trying too hard to be unnoticed, walking surreptitiously, avoiding all eye contact. I walked bent over a bit, trying to cover the brown stains, but I couldn't bend over too much lest I spread the damage. Besides, I didn't want my face anywhere near my shirt.  It stunk!

As we walked towards people, I found myself again muttering "Oh, shoot".  Neighborhood dogs, attracted to my new scent approached me with glee and I thought "Oh, shoot!"  When I saw people I knew, I groaned this epithet, adding additional syllables "Oh, shoooooot".

Somehow we made it the mile home without me being overcome by fumes, embarrassment or a bout of retching. Once in the safety of the my house, I threw my clothes in to the washer and threw myself in to a hot shower.  Lucy and Dora were a bit disappointed, hoping they could roll around in my dirty laundry a bit.  After the decontamination process, I calmed myself by telling myself no one had gotten close enough to know what was on my shirt (except for maybe the neighborhood dogs) and filed the incident in the back of my brain.

But that is not the end of the story.  I think my guardian angel has a side job as the Patron Saint of Irony.

At work a few days later, we received shipment of a statue for the chapel (I work at a church-sponsored organization).  The order had been placed 8 weeks prior and was complicated.  The statue, a 4-foot tall wooden carving of the Risen Christ, was pricey and had been shipped all the way from Italy.

When the Receiving staff told me the order had come in I asked how it looked.  They said it was fine but one woman thought one arm looked odd.  My shoulders and my countenance sagged.  And there, in a church-run organization, in reference to a statue of the Savior of the universe what words do you think fell out of my mouth?  "Oh Sh*t!"

I give up trying to make sense of me.

A Eulogy for Grace

Found beaten and abandoned to the streets, she was taken in by Because You Care, a local pet rescue organization.  She was a Yellow Lab/Beagle mix – a “Leagle”, I like to say.  BYC named her Natasha and adopted her out to a local couple.  This couple renamed her Sasha and promptly dispatched her to their backyard, where the neighborhood kids threw stones at her.  In addition, she was only fed table scraps and cheap dollar store treats.  With poor nutrition, no exercise and limited human interaction (abusive, at that) her weight ballooned to 72 pounds on her short beagle legs and she withdrew in to herself.

BYC’s mission was to keep animals out of shelters and place them in loving homes.  In Natasha/Sasha’s case, the home had become no better than a poorly run shelter.  True to their mission, BYC removed Natasha/Sasha from this home and brought her back in to the program.  It was in their “Pet of the Week” newspaper ad that I first laid eyes on her.

Nine months before I’d had to have my dog, Coach put down and after a few months of grieving, I began the process of looking for another dog.  But not any dog, it had to be the “right” dog.   For a few months I’d scanned newspaper ads, gone to shelters a couple of times, followed up leads from friends but none of the dogs were “right”.   Taking in a pet is a lifetime commitment – lifetime of the pet, at least.  This decision needed serious consideration.  But when I saw Sasha’s picture I knew she was the one.

Her newspaper portrait was anything but a glamour shot.  It was obvious she was seriously overweight, sad and withdrawn.  In the ad they referred to her as “plump”, which struck a nerve with me.  Having been more than “plump” at one time, I thought it mean for this to be pointed out.  I felt a kinship with Sasha and called BYC to apply to adopt her.

The application required more than name, address and adoption fee.  I had to provide a veterinary reference, have a fenced in yard (which in my case they gave an exception) and sign an agreement that if I ever had to give her up, I would not put her in a shelter but give her back to BYC and provide financial support until she was adopted again.  Like I said – a serious commitment.

I did all this and we arranged for a meet and greet.  The woman from BYC (Joyce) said she’d bring her over and introduce us.  Since I worked close to Joyce’s home I volunteered to go over there to save her the trip.  Joyce cheerfully declined, saying it was no problem for her to come over. 

Joyce and Sasha came over one evening.  Sasha was so overweight that her belly almost touched the ground and she had a bit of trouble climbing the four steps in to my house.  I showed them around a bit, Sasha cowering behind Joyce.  Sometime during the tour, I realized Joyce was doing a home inspection and screening me; BYC takes their job seriously!  Eventually Joyce and I sat on the couch to discuss the adoption procedure.  Sasha tried to climb up on the couch behind Joyce.  She tried to stop her, explaining to me that they don’t encourage foster families to allow dogs on the furniture since it might be a problem with their final adoptive families.  I have no problem with animals on the furniture (in her abode in heaven, my mother is scowling at this) and since I planned on being the final adoptive home, I let her sit up there with us.  It was a bit of a struggle due to her weight, but she made herself comfortable.

The only potential issue I had with the adoption was no one knew if the dog was good with kids.  Normally, BYC screens this information or gathers it from foster families.  Since she’d just been brought back in to the program and given her experience with the neighborhood kids at her last home, no one really knew.  Because of regular Barbling visits, this was a deal breaker.  The Barblings were on vacation at the time so there was no way to find out.  Joyce and I agreed to have Sasha stay with me for a trial period and if after the Barblings returned from vacation we discovered issues, I could return her with no problem.

So Sasha had a sleepover at my house for a few days.  To increase the chances of success with kids, I headed on over to the Barblings’ home and took some of the girls’ dirty laundry from their bedrooms.  I left the laundry on my living room floor so the dog had many opportunities to sniff and get to know them.

She and I spent the next few days getting to know each other.  I fed her healthy food.  I took her for walks around the neighborhood – short walks, which wore her out.  She slept on the couch, she slept in the chair that eventually became her chair, she looked out the window that eventually became her window identified by the hundreds of snout prints on the glass.  She quickly settled in.

When the Barblings returned, everyone was introduced.  The dog shyfully sniffed everyone and tentatively accepted the hugs of three excited little girls.  We took a brief walk and the girls got her running, tongue lolling from her mouth, ears flapping, a look of pure joy in her eyes!  There was no doubt she was good with kids; she was good with everyone!

Now that she was a permanent fixture in my home, I wanted to change her name.  The name Sasha is a perfectly acceptable name, but it didn’t flow with my last name.   I mulled over a number of possibilities, but one time I looked in to her soulful eyes, dug past the fear and pain and saw…grace.  And so she was renamed and reborn – Grace.

To look at her, she was not the typical picture of grace.  She had the long Lab body on short Beagle legs.  Overweight, out of shape, shy and withdrawn, her grace was not readily apparent; covered in layers of fat and fright, her true character hidden.  She did not have the lithesome body of a dancer but the solid, wide-shoulder look of the working dog she was designed to be.  She lacked the agility and speed of a runner; she lumbered and plodded, but she plodded with enthusiasm!

From healthy food, regular exercise and overdoses of affection Grace quickly shed pounds and apprehension.  Her beautiful personality began to emerge.  So did a bit of willfulness, too I must say.  Considerate of her abusive past, I was gentle in my training of her, but Grace still needed to know the boundaries of our household; I still had to discipline her.  Any sharp word or scolding from me would send her slinking away in fear.  It broke my heart and I wondered if she could ever recover from her sad past.
 
Over the years, I would occasionally whisper her old names to see if she would react.  “Natasha”, I’d speak; “Sasha”, I’d quietly say.  Sometimes I’d get a bit of a response – a flick of the ears, a jerk of the head.   It might have been my imagination, but at times I thought the reaction was a fearful one.  About three years after her adoption I called out Natasha, Sasha again.  There was no reaction; her ugly past was forgotten.

 About two months after her arrival, I reprimanded her for something when she walked away to her crate.  She turned around, slumped down and started muttering under her doggie breath.  “She’s sassing me!” I thought.  I knew then that she’d shed her Natasha/Sasha self.  She was now truly Grace.

She was full of grace in her gentle and kind bearing, her quiet demeanor, the manner in which she approached new friends, two- and four-legged.  Those who experience grace understand joy better and joy Grace exhibited at the mere mention of the words walk, treat, biscuit, or ride.  At the jangle of her leash or the crunch of a lunchmeat bag she’d practically do backflips.  We made many walks up to the local Dairy Queen often times with a Barbling at the end of her leash.  She liked trips to the playground across the street and Barbling #3 even got her to go down the slide a number of times.  Grace enjoyed the simple things in her life, perhaps because she’d known depravation.

Because grace had been extended to her, Grace extended it others.  A number of other dogs (and a couple of cats) have stayed with us over the years.  Atticus, Daisy, Tin, Bella, Buddy, Phoebe – they were all welcomed in to our home. But in every interaction, Grace had to be top-dog.  Most of the time this was a given, but occasionally a skirmish broke out as her dominance was established and reestablished.  She was gracious, but not a doormat!

About four months after her arrival, I was contacted by BYC to foster another dog.  “Sissy” had been found wandering the streets and she was extremely frightened and skittish.  Joyce had to drag her in to my house.  Like Grace and the “plump” and “portly” comments, I thought it cruel to call this dog “Sissy”, highlighting her weakness and so I renamed her Dora.  We became a two-dog, three-bitch household.

From her behavior it was clear Dora was traumatized, but she slowly came to be a bit more trusting of humans.  I think this was because she saw the two-legged being treated the other four-legged being pretty well so she didn’t have to worry so much.  Though they never became playmates or best buddies, Grace and Dora had an understanding.  And as top-dog, Grace took her role seriously, on occasion facing down another dog who might try to go after Dora.  Other times, Grace would place herself between a stranger and Dora, offering a layer of protection.  And Grace bestowed the greatest of kindnesses to Dora by allowing her to sleep on our bed – albeit at the foot, saving the honored place at the pillow beside my head for her own.

After over nine years of faithful service and loyal friendship Grace left this world on Friday,      September 27.  Almost twelve, age and arthritis ravaged her body, but her graceful heart remained strong until the very end.

That last day, as we both lay on the floor of the vet’s office saying our goodbyes, I whispered “Natasha, Sasha” and she had a little twitch, as if she was spending some time reflecting of her life, a trip down memory lane.  I was doing the same, speaking to her about how much I loved her, how she’d been a good dog and done her job so very well.

Years ago I read the book “Heaven” by Randy Alcorn in which he biblically answers people’s questions about what heaven will be like.  When I first got the book, I saw that the format was each chapter answering a specific question.  I quickly looked up the question “Will animals, including pets, live again?”  Alcorn’s answer was that though there is no definitive biblical answer, some noted theologians allude to the fact they will be.  In fact, Alcorn quotes a poem by John Piper in which he refers to seeing his old dog, Blacky in heaven.  If one so noted as Piper believes his pet will be in heaven, then there’s a pretty good possibility of this being true.

My pets in heaven – Priscilla, Dusty, Lucy, Coach – this isn’t a deal breaker between God and me.  He gave me more than I ever deserved just with their presence on earth, let alone heaven.  I’m just so very thankful to have been blessed with the most amazing, Grace.

Forgiveness & Grace (the Dog)

In the past year, I've noticed my dog, Grace slowing down.  She's had trouble jumping up in to the car, had to consider whether a trip up or down the stairs was worth the effort, lagged behind on the occasional walk to the Dairy Queen.  She's 11-1/2 years old  so this is to be expected.  In the last two weeks though, I noticed a steep decline.  This came to a head on Thursday night when I arrived home late and found her panting heavily, and a panic-stricken look in her eyes.

I had no idea what was happening.  She'd been panting heavily all summer, but I thought it was related to the heat and humidity and though the weather was cooler, this panting episode was heavier than ever before.  I though maybe she was having lung or heart problems.  It was only after Googling "canine+heavy panting" that I discovered this was a symptom of pain.  It finally registered to me the look in her eyes was not panic but one of intense suffering. 

I researched how to treat her symptoms and realized I had none of the over-the-counter remedies available at home.  About 10:30 pm I made the decision to take her to the Emergency Vet office where they examined her and described all her joints - hips, knees ankles, neck - as "crunchy".  The very word makes me cringe.  The vet gave her an injection for her pain and some oral meds which helped slightly.  On Friday evening I followed up with our regular vet office, where they gave me additional meds which seem to alleviate her pain somewhat, but not nearly enough. 

As I reflect on the past 12 months I see so many signs I missed, where I could have had Grace treated earlier, possibly forestalling the "crunchy" joints and the pain that accompanies them.  At one time I had been giving her Glucosamine to keep her joints lubricated, but ran out and never got around to buying more.  When I was unemployed, regular vet visits fell victim to budget cuts.  When I was more gainfully employed, I just never made it a priority.  I used to walk my dogs often, which keeps their joints flexible; but when I got a job with a long commute I settled for just letting them run in my backyard.  Dog care took a backseat to "Barb-care".

Many of my reasons for putting off the dogs' care were legitimate, financial and time constraints being two of the biggest.  But, truth be told, in my own self-absorption I ignored the needs of both Grace and Dora and now they (Grace, primarily) are suffering because of it.

Sin is like that.  It causes us to see only our selves and our own needs, blinding us to the needs of others.  Much has been written about the story of the Good Samaritan. A priest and a Levite walk by, see the injured traveler and ignore him.  The Samaritan sees him and stops to take care of him.  But I wonder, how many walked by and never noticed the injured man.  How many were too busy thinking about their own troubles that they never saw the bleeding, beaten man on the side of the road? 

In Genesis, God gave man charge over the earth and all that was in it.  With this authority came responsibility to care for it.  In this most recent case with Grace, I flunked.

Lest you think I am beating myself up over this, I am not.  There is forgiveness for the repentant and I have apologized to Grace and to God.  Because of Jesus, God has forgiven me... and so has Grace.

Theologically speaking, it's said dogs do not have souls.  Only man was created in the image of God and only to man did God breathe in His breath of life.  But I have a theory on this.  Note:  my theory has no biblical basis.  In addition, in case you haven't noticed, I am totally biased in favor of dogs.

Knowing dogs the way I do, I think that after God created them, they followed Him everywhere.  Sure, they chased the squirrels and the occasional cat in Eden, but they ran back to their Creator,  happily napping at His feet as He sat on His throne. 

So, when God created Adam, the dogs were all there milling about.  As God formed Adam from the dust of the earth dogs were watching excitedly saying, "Wow, it smells like dirt!".  Being the curious and obtrusive beings they are and loving dirt as they do, they were right there surrounding Adam when God breathed His breath into Him.  I think they might have caught a bit of His draft, an overspray you might say; which is why like God, dogs are able to forgive so easily and so often.  Maybe that's why dogs find such joy sticking their heads out of car windows.  They're trying to re-experience that invigorating, life-giving breeze from so long ago!

Lesson learned, I will be paying more attention to Grace, administering her meds, trying to make her comfortable, alleviate her pain and prayerfully considering the next steps.  Deciding when my beloved dog has had enough is a great responsibility, one for which I seek His guidance.

I thank Him for giving me grace and for giving me Grace.

Intelligent Life in the Kennel

I awake at 2 am needing to go to the bathroom. The dogs are in a deep sleep around me, evidenced by their loud snoring. I gently extricate myself from the sheets, blankets and dogs, so as not to disturb them. I ease myself up from the mattress, letting sleeping dogs lie. Tiptoeing across the floor, I listen carefully verifying that they remain in their sweet canine slumber uninterrupted.  I continue about my business. I’m gone no more than two minutes, tops. When I return, the dogs, still snoring, have soundlessly moved in to MY recently vacated spot on the bed.

How do they do that?

Let Everything That Has Breath Praise the LORD

"Let everything that has breath praise the LORD!"

Ps 150:6

As I was reading this the other day, I thought about those things that have breath. My dogs, plants, even the creek across the street from my home. All have "breath". That is, they all have some sort of oxygen exchange. How do they praise the LORD?

They praise the LORD just by doing that for which they were created. When Grace and Dora bark at the mailman or nap on the couch, they are praising the LORD. When the trees bud, flower, drop their leaves and even when they lay dormant, they are praising the LORD. Four Mile Creek praises the LORD as it runs over the rocks and stones, traveling to Lake Erie.

None of these earn a salary. They don't review day planners trying to eke out every last productive moment in their schedule (although Dora might chew a day planner if the opportunity presents itself). Yet, on a regular basis, they accomplish just what is expected by God.

How many Franklin Planner owners can claim this?

Spring Has Sprung

The calendar may show it's still winter, but according to my dogs, spring has sprung. This is evident by the constant twitching of their noses, taking in all the new scents freed from their icebergs.

Grace & Dora's noses seem to be acting as light switches for their eyes, which brighten with every flutter of their nostrils. The lights are powered by the swishing of their tales, like the cranks on old automobiles.

Canine senses are much more finely tuned than mine, but watching their reactions gives me an appreciation and excitement for God's creation, though I cannot see, hear or smell what they do. Sharing our spiritual experiences- trials as well as triumphs-is like this. One may not understand what I'm feeling, but they can see that God is working and they can rejoice. Just as I rejoice walking with Grace & Dora as they sniff out our Father's world.

Freud Got Some Things Right

"Dogs love their friends and bite their enemies, quite unlike people, who are incapable of pure love and always have to mix love and hate in their object-relations."

Sigmund Freud

Haute Couture

"A mutt is couture - it's the only one like it in the world, made especially for you."

Isaac Mizrahi

All Dogs Go to Heaven

"Heaven goes by favor. If it went by merit, you would stay out and your dog would go in." - Mark Twain

Message from Dog

When Grace (the dog) first came to live with me, she was withdrawn. She'd been abused and abandoned and did not trust me. She hung back and didn't interact with me very much. It took a few weeks of reliable feedings, a lot of affection, and some discipline before her true (graceful) personality came out.

I remember the moment I knew she'd reached the turning point. She did something wrong and I gave her a stern "No". Instead of fearfully slinking away, she walked to her crate, plopped down with with a "Hrmph" and then started muttering under her breath. I'm not sure what she was saying, but I think it was some sort of canine complaining.

Dora was also abandoned and abused. When she was delivered to my home, she had to be carried in, fighting to get away the entire trip down the sidewalk and up the front steps. She definitely had trust issues. With plenty of patient love and regular feedings, she eventually didn't distrust me. I use those words deliberately, because she didn't' trust me, either.

Just from her expressions (yes, dogs have them) I knew she was a dog that longed for affection; she was the type of dog that would love to cuddle.

I'm not ashamed to admit my dogs sleep with me (I owe the Peoria Pair another 14 Things). Once Dora collected enough courage to climb in bed with Grace and I, she laid on top of the blankets; yet, I sensed she was a "burrower". I knew she'd love to climb under a load of blankets and nestle beside me, if she could get past her fear. I think the reason she didn't though was because she was afraid of being trapped.

It took a long time, but I knew she'd successfully navigated a crossroads when she started climbing under the blankets. She trusted me to protect for her in case the boogie man came after her some night.

I see parallels between the dogs' relationship with me and my relationship with God. Like Grace, when I'm disciplined I slink back in fear. Like Dora, I crave the affection and cuddling He offers, but I don't trust Him enough to believe He will protect me; I think I have to take care of myself.

I love Grace and Dora and because of this love - MY love for them - I've seen them grow; I've seen their true, sweet personalities emerge and had the gift of their affection returned. As I observe their growth, I believe there is hope for me, because God's love for me is much greater than the love I can ever have for my dogs. There will be a time when I will not slink back in fear when disciplined. I'll be able to go about my life without looking over my shoulder planning how to defend myself against some attack, because I know my (very strong) Father is watching over me. I'll be able to rest peacefully in His embrace.

Until that time, however, I have to be content with the true hope that I'm making progress, slow as it may be.

Am I Being Lazy or Practical?

Long story short - dogs were prescribed meds. One particular medication involves diluting a pill in a syringe filled with 10cc of water and then shooting the resulting white liquid into the dog(s)'s mouth. Neither of them likes it much and there has been a lot of white liquid spit out, drooled and dribbled on the floors.

This medication has to be dispensed 3 times per day x 7 days x 2 dogs. That's 42 doses. Twenty one times I have to wipe up the white residue from the floors.

I've taken to leaving the residue behind and plan on cleaning it up when the girls are finished with this course of medication Monday evening. Then I only have to clean it up once. It should be noted that this stuff cleans up easily with a wet rag and does not leave a stain.

So my question - am I being lazy or practical?

Plagarism

I did not take these pictures. The photographer was my friend Ellie. But because some of you do not subscribe to her blog I thought I'd share them with you here.

Mom & Dad, I Apologize

Today, I took Grace and Dora to PetSmart to buy Grace a new collar. I didn't realize that even PetSmart gets really busy during the holidays. And today, there was the added excitement of Christmas pictures with Santa!

Grace nudged a few boxes and bags of treats off the shelf and tried to walk off with one and Dora was chewing on the various chew toys hanging off the crowded racks. In addition, they were wrapping their leashes around my legs and sniffing everything with legs - four or two.

I impulsively decided to have their pictures taken with Santa. We tried a group picture but couldn't get both dogs to face the camera at once. Even magical "Elf-Dust" couldn't have helped, so went the individual route. Grace smiled nicely, but Dora was panic-stricken. TWICE she slipped her collar and tore through the crowded store, with her eyes on the automatic doors. Thankfully, quick-footed volunteers got to her before she was able to get outside.

This brings back memories of my own uncooperative behavior during shopping trips with my parents.

When the dogs and I got home, I promptly called my Dad to apologize. And I promised to send him pictures of the dogs.

Sibling Rivalry

Dogs show dominance in many ways. One such method is by urinating in the place another dog has gone. I guess this is a case of "she who pees last, pees loudest...".

Grace is definitely top dog in our household for many reasons, but this (literal) "P*ssing" contest has risen to a ridiculous level.

When I got home from work tonight, I let the dogs out in the yard, as usual. Grace chased Dora around the yard waiting for her to relieve herself so Grace could immediately relieve herself in the same spot. Poor Dora had not a moments peece.

I am Doubly Blessed

I found this old clipping while cleaning out my spare room.

The Measure of a Friend

Around March I attended a Pampered Chef party hosted by my friend Elizabeth. It seemed that after every item the demonstrator displayed, I would comment "I have that; but I never use it." This brought back memories of the very first Pampered Chef party I ever attended - about 15 years ago.

A co-worker invited me to attend the party with her. And after every demonstration of pie-related paraphernalia, Karen would say, "I have that." and "I bought that." etc, etc, etc. After about eight "I-have-that's", Karen turned to me and said "Of course I never bake pies."

A month after the party, Karen came in to work with a picture of a beautiful 2-crust apple pie that she had baked. She took a picture and had it developed (remember this was the pre-digital age) as proof to her friends that she had actually baked a pie (using all her pie utensils, of course).

Flash forward to March, 2007. At Elizabeth's Pampered Chef party, they demonstrated a utensil I did not have and had never seen before. It was a really cool adjustable measuring spoon. I had to have one and I figured Karen could use one as well, so I ordered two. When I received the order, I put Karen's spoon to the side, waiting for the chance to mail it to her at her Texas home. Before that could happen, though, Dora found it and chewed it to bits.

Because I really wanted Karen to have one, I reordered another. For various reasons, the order did not come in until last week. Elizabeth gave it to me at church on Sunday and I carried it in my purse until Thursday, when I realized it might get broken. So I put it on the dining room table with the intention of mailing it on Saturday. I even found a nice little box in which to mail it. However, when I came home from work last evening, I found spoon #2 in chewed up pieces on the living room floor.

I think I'm just going to send my own measuring spoon to Karen. I really think she'll like it and besides...I don't really use mine.

Any More Bright Ideas, Purina?

On a dog food web site (I think it was Purina) I saw an article about how to keep your dog(s) active during the winter. One game they suggested was tossing a snowball. The snowball falls apart or gets lost in the snow and keeps the dog interested and active.

After the foot of snow Erie received yesterday, today seemed like a good time to put this idea to the test. The first couple of tosses achieved the desired results...snowballs got lost, dogs inquisitively searched for them, etc. Then Dora actually caught one and it remained whole. She raced inside the house with her treasure and tried to bury it in the living room, at which point it fell apart all over the carpet.

I'd have taken pictures, but it melted too quickly.

One Good Thing, Two Days Early

After a busy nine hour day at work, I went grocery shopping. I needed a few things for myself and also one of the greatest necessities of my household, dog food. After navigating the crowded grocery store checkout lines, I entered my home, hands filled with grocery bags, and maneuvered around anxious dogs who smelled the lunch meat in the bags. After putting the lunch meat in the protective custody of the refrigerator, I opened the back door to let the dogs out in the yard. It was then I noticed I'd only counted two dogs walk past me and (for this week only) I have three. Atticus Otulakowski was missing.

At first, I thought he'd gotten to the yard unnoticed, but after a few brief yells "Aaatttiiicccuuusss" and some brief glances about the yard, I determined he was not there and went searching throughout the house. I remembered I'd been in the basement this morning and Atticus had followed me. I quickly ran to the basement door fearful he'd been shut in all day and possibly gotten himself in to some dangerous basement-type things. I flung open the door calling "Aaatttiiicccuuusss" but there was no dog to greet me.

I ran downstairs worried I might see his dead body, poisoned by some unknown cleaning agent. No Atticus.

I ran up the basement steps yelling "Aaatttiiicccuuusss" but there was no answer.

I ran up the steps to the second floor yelling "Aaatttiiicccuuusss", expecting to find him collapsed on my bedroom floor from heat exhaustion, when I heard my next door neighbor call in the front screen door, "Barb, are you missing a dog". There was Atticus, running towards Napier Park and Four Mile Creek. And I ran after him.

Thanks to WeatherChannel.com I can tell you that at 6:30 pm it was 91 degrees in Erie, PA with relative humidity at 52%. Therefore, it felt like it was 98 degrees (what a wonderful name for a deodorant). However, meteorologists fail to factor in to their calculations the effect of panty hose on the temperature. After today's experience ( I was still in my work clothes), I feel confident stockings add an additional 10 degrees to their formula.

As I hit that wall of heat, I was amazed at how quickly I'd gone from being fearful of finding his dying body to wanting to find his dying body and wring the last bits of smelly dog breath from him!

Two of my neighbors, whose individual ages are almost equal to the temperature in degrees (Fahrenheit, not Celsius) braved the Hades-like heat to help me find him. We all ran, then walked, the creeped up and down Napier Avenue (and parts of Iroquois Ave) calling "Aaatttiiicccuuusss". One gentleman even gave me a handful of canned dog food to try to attract the dog.

For forty five minutes I roamed Lawrence Park with a handful of mystery meat, my pores absorbing the odor. After awhile, my sweat started to smell like Alpo. At about the time I was ready to go back and get in my air conditioned car and search further, "Aaatttiiicccuuusss" came right up to me, exhausted, panting and slobbering (on me) heavily. I tried to feed him the Perspiration-Poached Alpo, but he spit it out on the street.

One Good Thing - Atticus goes home on Friday.

The Case of the Missing Biscuit - Epilogue

Since her bout with gastritis, Dora has taken to eating healthier foods - especially whole grains, such as Frosted Mini Wheats.