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2. WALKING WISDOM WITH YOU
One of the best parts of writing my latest book Walking Wisdom was reflecting on some
of my fondest memories with my dogs, my infant son, and my father. Early on, to trigger
some of my own recollections, I started seeking stories and anecdotes from people online.
Almost from the moment I tweeted the solicit, I was getting bombarded with responses. It
was fantastic and exciting. People had stories, both triumphant and tragic, and pictures,
goofy and cuddly that they wanted to share.
But there was a problem. I hadn’t quite thought through my plan. When people asked
where they could send their stories, pictures, poems, and press clippings (yes – there
seemed to be a lot of local news stories about heroic dogs!), I didn’t have an answer. I
had nowhere to direct them.
Soon schedules and due dates, re-drafts and pub plans totally consumed me and I lost
track of that idea to get your stories because I was trying to make sense of my own. That
is, until now. And this time, there’s an actual plan in place and a platform to welcome
you to.
When people ask me, I tell them that my book is about the beings most important in our
lives and the most precious, poignant, insightful, and irreverent lessons they teach us. I
hope you’ll read it, but more importantly I hope you’ll share some of your own stories
and insights, anecdotes and enlightenments so we all can learn from and laugh with one
another. That’s where real wisdom resides.
So, without further adieu…bring it on!
Gotham Chopra
3. A d y u so y t " li gWid m a d Y u b f lo n t eese s
d o r tr o Wa kn so n o " y o l wi g h s tp:
Se 1
tp .
U la y u so yt S r d
po d o r tr o ci b
Se 2
tp .
Se 3
tp .
A dy u d c me t otec l cin
d o r o u n t h ol t e o
Or.
.
.
E iy u so yt:
mal o r tr o
4. Duke of Windsor, The Worst Name For The
Greatest Dog
By: Kathleen Fitzgerald
Let the record show: This is not a photo of my childhood
dog, Duke of Windsor.
Duke refused to pose for photographs. He was too busy
sniffing his own butt and rummaging through suburban
trashcans for that ... but when we’d catch him, he always
gave this exact “terrified squirrel” look:
5. I think Jay Z said it best with, “I got 99 problems but a
bich(on) ain’t one.” Duke was a purebred bichon frise but
not the brightest bulb in the discount store lamp. In fact,
we’re pretty sure that he was part of an overbreeding ring
and mildly retarded as a result.
Luckily, the little guy’s abundance of cuteness
compensated for his idiocy. Every week, he managed to
dart past my Mom as she opened the front door and run
down the street. While “making a bolt for it” is a classic
dog move, my furry Steven Hawking sucked at it. Without
fail, Duke would get “lost” midway down our cul-de-sac
and start running in circles like the anti-Lassie.
I once joked that the guy was too dumb to hate anything
(the aroma of his own butt included), but as I grew and
watched him respond to family crises, I realized that Duke
was smart about the important things. When I fell seriously
ill during freshman year of high school, Duke sat with me
for months, delicately placing his snout where it hurt most
as if to say that everything would be okay. When my
younger brother started getting college acceptance letters
delivered, Duke skipped out to the mailbox with him and
sat patiently while Sean nervously read the verdicts. He
wagged his tail at stressful situations, licked away tears,
and never hurt anyone … something that the rest of us
couldn’t pretend to claim.
6. During my sophomore year of college, I flew to Rome
for a semester studying abroad. Stressed until the last
minute, I threw my overpacked suitcases into our hip 1992
Previa van (it was 2004) and worked through a mental
check list. As I looked back into the utility room to double
check that I’d grabbed everything, I saw Duke wagging his
tail goodbye.
Duke died from cancer less than three months later.
Looking back, it’s clear that Duke seemed sick even then;
but we never suspected anything since his tail wagging and
nuzzling kept pace. In the end, this was the greatest lesson
that I ever learned from our tiny, trash diving dog:
“People will forget what you said, people will forget
what you did, but people will never forget how you
made them feel.”
Duke made us feel something good every day.
7. The Syntax of Submission
www.disasteronheels.com
You should know that last week my parents finally got the
grandchild they've been waiting for. There's a
new cuddly object of affection in the house who is keeping
my parents up all night, and his name is Wilson.
Wilson is some kind of gourmet dog--a golden poo, or a
doodlecocker. I'm not sure exactly, but I do know
that my parents spent months on a waiting list to adopt this
miniature, hypoallergenic home-wrecker.
Last night my sister and I received the following email:
Dear Daughters,
I thought I should send along the proper vocabulary to use
with Wilson before your next visit. Consistency
is everything and perhaps if I had practiced that principle
that with you both things might have turned out
differently.
"Leave it"-- applies to untying shoelaces, pulling at the
rugs, taking things off tabletops, chewing shoes,
eating the newspaper, emptying the wastebaskets, etc. This
is to be said in a firm, no nonsense tone of
voice.
“ComeWilson” –this is used to get him out of the street, to
get him into the house, to distract him from
digging up the perennials, etc. Tone of voice is upbeat,
excited, as in it is an exciting thing for him to do
what you are asking. He gets a treat for this.
“Go Potty”— I know, he doesn’t actually sit on the toilet,
8. but this term if better than “do-business”, “go
pee”, “go poopy”, etc. The latter two require understanding
of the difference between pee and poop, and
frankly I don’t give a damn as long as it isn’t done in the
house. Tone of voice somewhat urgent here, like
you don’t have all day to wait. Gets a treat every time, even
when he fakes it.
“Sit" — an essential command to keep him from running
away when you try to grab him. Always gets a
treat for this.
“No bite”—applies to nearly everything that comes within
his range of sight right now, so master this
command before you set foot in the door. This includes
your hands, elbows, clothing, your bedding, all
furniture legs, rugs, and anything not tied down. Tone of
voice here is sharp, quick, authoritative.
I was also told that Wilson will be starting puppy
kindergarten next week. I can only assume this is
because my mother senses he's on the verge of mastering
all of her pedestrian commands, and that his
active brain is hungry for more. My hope is that puppy
kindergarten will teach him the fundamentals that
will give him the leg-up on an Ivy League canine
education, where he will crack under the pressure, lose
several years to pot, and eventually find himself and start a
volunteer program to service displaced
squirrels.
My mom also shared her plans to bring Wilson into Fetch
(one of three local pet stores, but the one with the
most caché) in the hopes that they will want to feature him
9. in some of their promotional materials. (We
once had a golden retriever who, on one serendipitous
morning run, was "scouted" by L.L. Bean
photographers in the midst of a photo shoot. Our pooch
made the catalog, catapulting its owners into a
glorious anonymous fame, now immortalized in the full-
page parka ad that hangs on our refrigerator.)
When I asked for a photo of this prodigy puppy with
striking good looks who is cunning enough to "fake
it" for treats, she sent me this:
I took one look at this doggy Baby Bjorn and I knew my
mother had completely lost her mind. I was
horrified until I realized that somehow, in his puppy-genius
way, Wilson has managed to hit "snooze" on
10. my mother's grandparental biological clock. To which I
reply in a calm, authoritative tone: "Sit,
Mother...Stay."
12. Stephens / “My Uncle Doesn’t Speak English” - 2
A few minutes later the kettle whistles. “Really, you don’t have to get up,” I tell him as I
head back into the kitchen. He pauses in a sitting position when he catches the word ‘stay,’ but I
didn’t say it with any conviction, so he gets up and follows me back into the kitchen. I warm the
cup with a splash of boiling water. He sniffs the corner next to the oven. I say, “Your supper dish
hasn’t been there in five years!” He looks up, wags his tail, giving the oven a good whack and
knocking off several potholders in the process, then sits down. He stares at me and yawns,
making a whiny sound. I pat his head as I reach for a tea bag. “I’ll turn it off in a minute.” He
hates it when the kettle whistles too long, but I like rapidly boiling water to hit the tea bag. I pour
the water and turn off the kettle. Satisfied, he reclines in front of the counter where I keep the
sugar bowl.
I fix a lovely cup of tea. “You know, Uncle Sherman? This coffee-centric society is really
missing the boat.” We walk side by side back into the office. This time, I sit down in the sunny
spot. “You go sit at the computer and finish debugging that code.” Sherman finds this very
funny. He wags and gives me a big wet slurp across the face (he’s got kind of a big tongue for a
German wirehaired pointer) and sits down so that his face is inches from mine.
So there we are. I’m sitting cross-legged. He’s sitting doggy style. He thumps his tail; I’m
pleased that the roof isn’t dislodged. He yawns with the whiny sound. He does this when he’s a
little frustrated. He gets up and walks back and forth. I have the only warm place. He walks over
to the little couch opposite the desk. He looks over his shoulder at me, then climbs up on the
couch. He knows that he’s not officially allowed on the couch unless he’s invited. He settles
down, but without a harumph. He peers at me expecting me to give the ‘off’ command. I don’t.
I’ve got the sunny spot, after all.
“Why don’t you speak English?” I ask him. He lifts his head, cocks it a bit to the side,
looking very serious. I nearly expect an answer. I get one: He puts his head back down and lets
out a ‘harumph,‘ stretching out a bit. I look around the room from Sherman’s point of view. The
ceiling fan is dusty – he doesn’t care. There’s dog hair accumulating in a little pile over on the
tile floor – he’s probably proud of that. On the couch, he rolls over on his back. He looks really
silly like that. Those long legs sticking straight up, his ears flopping behind him.
13. Stephens / “My Uncle Doesn’t Speak English” - 3
In a flash, he flips off the couch and runs to the glass door. He looks back at me and whines
in excitement. I don’t budge. He runs over to me and then back to the door. An obvious barking
opportunity has occurred. He sits next to the door, ears perked with a look of concern and then he
leans back his head and howls. A long, beautiful, deep-throated howl. This is what he does when
he hears a siren. I listen to my uncle sing and eventually I hear the siren, too.
I think I know why Uncle Sherman doesn’t speak English. If I could howl like that I
wouldn’t either. I wander around my world, a big bearded dog at my side, and realize that
knowing a language means I have to listen to people complain. I get bills in the mail that I can
read. The company I work for sends annoying memos and I have to respond. But most of the
great things in life don’t involve language, my daughter’s smile, a nice cup of tea, the thrill of a
siren in the distance, a chance to chase a squirrel, a nap in a sunny spot or a fine sick on an
autumn day.
If Uncle Sherman could speak English, he wouldn’t just yawn and make that whiny sound
when he’s frustrated. He wouldn’t just give a tail thump in response to, well, damn near
everything. If my Uncle could talk it would be an undogly burden. He’d have to pay attention
and offer something other than a big wet glorch across the face when I ask him tough questions
like “Why do you fart when I’m about to fall asleep?” or “Why do people blow each other up?”
I get up and go back to the computer. Uncle Sherman comes over and sits next to me. He
makes a little sound that means “Stop debugging software and rub my chest.” I ask him, “Do you
want to speak English?” He gives me a big wet glorch across the face.
14. THE TROUBLE WITH HARRY
BY LAURA NOVAK
Harry…
was a leg guy. That way he had of sinking into the down comforter on those foggy San Francisco nights
and burrowing deeply between my legs, searching for warmth on three sides. No matter which way I
turned, Harry was there, lying on top of me, beside me, possessing me. I sported a primo pair of gams in
those days and the fact that this roguish red head would attack my husband’s feet if he got between us
always gave me a perverse chuckle. Harry, the leg lover. That is the way I would like to remember him. If
it were only that simple.
15. Those were the waning days of the go-go 80’s in randy San Francisco. The earthquake brought my
apartment building in the Marina down around my head. Mark, my then fiancé, rescued me, moving
what little I could salvage into his bachelor bungalow above Ghirardelli Square.
It was all about love in those days; aerobics and dinner à deux after work, weekend hikes in Marin,
food shopping in North Beach. Like most young couples, our lives were charged with sex and second
run films, with nary a thought to a complicated future.
Fast forward twelve years when our six-year-old son, Max, poked me awake one morning before
dawn, unable to defeat jet lag from the previous night’s flight from Boston where we had been
visiting family. Groggily, Max crawled under a blanket in the TV room while I rummaged through a
box of videos in search of one to occupy him. I came upon an ancient relic marked “Mama, Harry
and Sally.” This was the family of cats we rescued after the earthquake. It was a curious choice for a
tape to watch now because Harry had shockingly deteriorated during our weeks back east. It would
take the veterinarian another day to make a house call and terminal diagnosis. I must have sensed
impending doom as I pulled the video from its sleeve.
“You look like a girl!” Max remarked as the video began. I leaned in closer, stunned at the sight of
myself: nubile and thin, manicured with tousled curls wearing Mark’s nightshirt. In breathy tones I
directed Mark to pan the room, zoom in on Harry Cat and his sister, Sally, pull back to show Mama
Kitty nursing them.
16. “Why is dad’s beard so dark?” Max asked, sitting upright as if to better understand this encoded
version of his parents.
How was I to explain to this child who had ransomed our hearts and enriched our souls that dad’s
beard was so dark because we had countless mornings to loll about and videotape three cats for 90
uninterrupted minutes. Because we didn’t yet know what it was to have an intensely sick child
undergo multiple surgeries, to not sleep for four consecutive years and feel our marriage worn to a
nub. Because back then, the world was our oyster, like the barbecued ones we’d slurp up in Tomales
Bay on weekends while playing footsie and drinking champagne.
“We were so young then,” was all I said, kissing the back of Max’s head.
Harry died peacefully three days later. Mark and I wrapped him in his favorite blanket and shared the
only quiet time with him we had known in years. Before the vet gave the final shot, we kissed our
first boy while he purred and we promised him a vast garden of lavender in Heaven. Harry’s heart
ceased beating beneath my hand, his fur inert for the first time since Max engulfed our lives.
For days thereafter, I would sit in the garden just before dinner, the time Harry would habitually slink
home from his daily bender, and I would provoke myself into inconsolable paroxysms of grief.
One night, while packing for a business trip, Mark said, “I think Harry’s death is calling up
something deeper for you. Maybe it represents the end of something else?” I knew he was right, yet
didn’t have the heart to remind Mark of the videotape, of just the two of us at the height of the rut,
idle and carefree, not yet contemplating a child and not fearing the death of a child.
17. Shopping holds no allure for me, but in the days following Harry’s death, I began searching
desperately for a garden talisman, a ceramic way to grasp and hold time. I packed Max in the car and
drove to every nursery imaginable. Over hills, through the tunnel, weaving through traffic, sniffling
and dabbing my eyes until Max finally stated: “This grief thing is driving me nuts.”
“Please, just help me find one nice thing for Harry?” I asked meekly, suspecting Mark was right, that
I was really in pursuit of innocence forever gone. At each stop we pondered rust silhouettes of kittens
prancing after butterflies and garish stone cats set in unattractive positions.
“There’s another great nursery down San Pablo,” I pitched to Max, promising a new Hardy Boy’s
book and his favorite taqueria if he’d just hang in there with me.
“What about this green gazing ball?” Max said at our final stop. “It’s the color of Harry’s eyes.”
I tentatively circled the reflective garden sphere. Whose hips were those anyway? I wondered, taken
aback at my spheroid image. The dancer’s legs Harry loved so innocently where disguised in wide-
legged Capri’s and my belly bulged no matter which way I turned. The truth was now evident
through a new lens and I could finally mourn the parts of ourselves we had sacrificed in order to keep
Max – and our marriage – alive. The miraculous journey we embarked upon from those love-swept
years had taken its toll. No regrets, just a poignancy I barely recognized.
We purchased a wind chime of Indian bells and turquoise beads, strung with a metallic cat holding a
fish and mouse and hung it by a bench in the front yard. We brought Mama and Sally out to the
18. garden and stood together as a family – worn, but intact - in Harry’s late afternoon sunshine. Max
sprinkled catnip underneath the chimes, while the pet sitter read an Indian prayer and lit sage leaves
to lift the words to Heaven. We then untied a cluster of three balloons – an orange tiger striped, a
yellow smile face and, my choice, a red heart – and kissed them. On the count of three, we let go.
The hot colors dotted the flawless, azure sky, floating toward infinity. As we turned to go inside, I
gazed upward a final time and noticed the heart lagged far behind, the last to disappear.
Laura Novak has worked every which way in the news business, from being awarded The David
Jayne Fellowship at ABC News London, to reporting for The New York Times from San Francisco. Her first
novel is set in Berkeley and she is at work on a mystery series. You can also find her on Twitter
@LaNovakAuthor.
(Harry & Sally Novak circa 1990)
Copyright: Laura A. Novak 2010
19.
A
Long
Walk
with
a
Short
Dog
Along
a
Lost
Coast
By
Whimsical
Doggo
There
is
a
place
on
the
northern
California
coastline
that
is
so
steep
and
so
unstable
and
so
rainy
that
no
one
has
ever
attempted
to
build
a
highway
there.
It
is
one
of
the
most
lightly
populated
parts
of
the
state
that
isn’t
desert
or
mountaintop.
Even
as
the
state’s
population
climbs
toward
the
forty
million
mark,
no
one
seriously
suggests
that
the
State
Department
of
Transportation
attempt
to
punch
a
road
through
the
area
-‐
the
cost
of
doing
so
would
be
prohibitive
and
few
people
would
live
there
even
if
they
had
vehicle
access
to
it.
The
beauty
of
this
situation
is
that,
as
is
often
the
case
with
hostile
environments,
it
has
become
a
protected
wilderness
area,
a
state
park.
As
such,
it
is
the
one
place
where
one
can
backpack
along
the
California
coastline
and
legally
camp
on
its
beaches.
And
dogs
are
allowed
there,
too.
I
broached
the
subject
of
the
“Lost
Coast,”
as
it
is
known
among
hikers,
to
my
little
rat
terrier
mix,
Higgons.
Would
he
be
interested
in
a
three-‐day
stroll
through
a
very
wild
20. and
crazy
place?
He
stared
back
at
me.
I
had
overlooked
the
fact
that
he
doesn’t
speak
English.
Never
has.
Higgons’
philosophy
in
life,
I
should
point
out,
coils
around
a
certain
bristly
assertiveness.
As
a
terrier,
he
plunges
through
life
with
the
understanding
that
he
doesn’t
need
to
establish
much
that
hasn’t
already
been
demonstrated
as
true
already.
He
also
holds
by
the
wisdom
that
he
doesn’t
have
to
complicate
life
by
contemplating
it
much.
Maybe
Aristotle
was
the
human
version
of
a
terrier,
since
it
was
Aristotle
from
whom
we
obtained
the
expression,
“It
is
what
it
is.”
Certainly
Higgons
lives
the
most
Aristotelian
of
existences.
If
he
did
speak
English,
he
might
have
said,
“I
dunno.”
The
decision
was
all
mine,
so
I
packed
dog
chow
along
with
the
usual
freeze-‐dried
human
chow,
and
pointed
the
car
toward
Shelter
Cove
and
the
south
end
of
the
Lost
Coast
walk.
I
had
decided
to
walk
from
south
to
north
so
as
to
keep
the
sun
out
of
my
eyes,
which
is
my
usual
habit
when
hiking
in
the
Northern
Hemisphere.
Most
hikers
walk
this
route
from
north
to
south
(as
to
why,
we
would
find
out
in
about
two
and
a
half
days),
so
we
met
southbound
hikers
frequently.
Many
of
them
had
dogs,
and
the
people
with
dogs
had:
put
improvised
or
21. specialized
booties
on
their
dog’s
paws,
bandaged
their
paws,
or
were
even
forced
to
carry
their
dogs.
I
was
warned
time
and
again
that
the
way
ahead
would
abrade
Higg’s
delicate
paws
well
before
we
reached
the
Mattole
River
twenty-‐four
miles
later.
“At
least
he’s
a
little
guy,”
one
fellow
wheezed
as
he
set
his
Labrador
retriever
down
for
a
moment
of
respite.
A
luxury
that
this
hike
had
afforded
both
of
us
was
that
there
was
no
need
for
a
leash.
Between
the
rowdy
Pacific
and
the
steep
cliffs,
keeping
track
of
Higgons
(and
Higgons
keeping
track
of
me)
was
literally
very
straightforward.
If
he
did
speak
English,
he
might
have
said,
“I
know
exactly
where
you
are.
Cool.”
An
extra
factor
of
difficulty
we
would
face
was
that
sometimes,
like
twice
a
day,
high
tides
would
inhibit
the
progress
of
all
travelers
who
weren’t
seabirds
or
fish,
so
we
had
to
carry
a
tide
table
in
addition
to
our
usual
gear.
Certainly,
our
perspectives
on
this
trip
would
diverge.
While
I
craved
the
long
views,
the
salt
air,
the
cacophonous
waves,
and
the
high
cliffs,
Higgons
sought
upright
objects
on
which
to
urinate.
We
had
different
priorities,
but
Higg’s
abiding
obsession
with
urinating
on
almost
anything
vertical
(which,
when
one
is
walking
along
a
steep
coastline,
is
a
lot),
was
perhaps
better
served.
22.
Asked
to
comment
on
this,
Higgons
might
have
said,
“Just
checking
my
pee-‐mail,
guys.”
Of
course,
we
both
understood
that
we
had
not
embarked
on
a
cakewalk.
Rocky
beaches,
sea
lions,
rogue
waves,
poison
oak,
bears,
and
raccoons
all
lurked
along
the
trail,
and
given
Higg’s
predilection
to
territoriality,
whether
he
owned
the
territory
or
not,
the
opportunities
for
harm
(to
us)
were
rife.
What
neither
of
us
had
factored
into
the
trip
planning
was
Higg’s
total
disregard
for
the
passage
of
time.
Again,
this
was
the
Aristotelian
in
him.
The
human
half
of
our
entourage
strode
forth,
tide
table
and
walking
stick
in
hand.
The
canine
half
of
our
party
lowered
his
sharp
little
nose
to
the
sand
and
began
inhaling.
I
wanted
to
camp
somewhere
north
of
Buck
Creek.
Higg’s
idea
of
an
ideal
campsite
was
wherever
he
was
right
now.
He
had
the
urgency
of
limpet.
If
he
deigned
to
discuss
this
with
me,
he
might
have
said,
“Hey,
check
this
out:
bear
shit!”
Combining
the
warnings
of
the
southbound
hikers
with
Higg’s
tendency
towards
inertia,
I
decided
that
I
needed
a
method
of
hastening
the
little
guy
over
grumpy
terrain
at
a
reasonable
pace.
Faced
with
our
first
field
of
tire-‐sized
boulders
at
the
north
end
of
Black
Sands
Beach,
we
took
a
23. break
(well,
I
took
a
break.
Higgons
kept
sniffing
the
ground).
Rummaging
in
my
pack
for
some
appropriate
technology,
I
discovered
a
spare
belt,
an
old
T-‐shirt,
and,
an
oddity
at
sea
level,
a
crampon
strap.
Ten
minutes
later,
Higgons
was
slung,
like
a
seventeen-‐
pound
baby,
across
my
narrow
writer’s
chest,
and
we
commenced
up
and
over
the
boulder
field.
I
had
stripped
away
some
of
his
dignity,
but
I
had
preserved
his
paws
and
we
were
making
better
headway
against
the
eventual
setting
of
the
sun.
Assessing
the
situation,
Higgons
might
have
said,
“Is
this
really
necessary?”
Using
this
new
arrangement
whenever
we
encountered
rough
ground,
sea
lions
colonies,
or
patches
of
poison
oak,
Higgons
and
I
reached
an
absolutely
stunning
campsite
-‐
quaint
waterfall
trickling
down
a
glistening
cliff
face,
dry
mound
of
flat
rock
above
the
tideline,
gorgeous
kelp
beds
just
offshore
-‐
by
four
in
the
afternoon.
I
laid
out
a
few
simple
items
(No
tent.
The
satellite
reports
were
for
zero
chance
of
rain
over
the
next
five
days),
fed
the
two
of
us,
wrote
in
the
journal
for
a
bit,
crawled
into
the
sleeping
bag,
attached
a
spool
of
clothesline
to
Higg’s
harness,
and
fell
asleep
at
10:58
PM.
At
11:13
PM,
I
awoke
to
the
treble
yell
of
Higg’s
battle
cry.
Coming
to
my
senses
groggily,
I
slapped
out
at
the
24. dwindling
coil
of
clothesline,
and
missed
the
last
yard
of
it
as
it
paid
out
behind
my
speeding
mongrel
shooting
into
the
darkness.
“Higg-‐ONS!”
I
yelled,
“Get
back
here!”
Strangely
enough,
he
trotted
right
back.
Docile.
Subdued.
Apologetic.
Redolent
of
skunk.
If
he
did
speak
English,
he
might
have
said,
“Perimeter
secured,
sir.
Cough-‐cough!”
Our
beautiful
campsite
came
with
a
contingent
of
roosting
cormorants
raining
fish
bones
down
on
us
from
the
bluff
just
behind
us.
Evidently
skunks
came
out
at
night
and
ate
the
cormorants’
piscine
leftovers.
Which
brings
us
to
the
availability
of
food
in
the
area,
which
is
to
say
that
there
is
a
lot
of
it.
Whether
it
drifts
in
from
the
ocean,
grows
on
the
rain-‐soaked
hills,
or
wanders
out
of
the
forest,
the
region
simply
drips
with
nutrition.
When
the
Sinkyone
people
were
the
climax
community
of
what
would
eventually
become
California,
the
Lost
Coast
was
the
most
populous
part
of
it.
And
now
the
Lost
Coast
is
arguably
the
least
populous.
Higg
and
I
blame
the
skunks.
Now
that
he
had
a
facefull
of
skunk
juice,
Higgons
sought
25. comfort,
preferably
in
my
sleeping
bag.
I
shivered
into
some
clothes,
started
some
water
heating
over
the
mini-‐
stove,
and
went
about
the
business
of
washing
skunk
propellant
out
of
a
dog’s
face
at
midnight.
I
found
myself
fantasizing
about
an
emergency
helicopter
drop
of
enzyme-‐based
skunk
odor
remover.
As
a
friend
of
mine
once
said,
“Skunk
incidents
are
always
inconvenient.
They
never
happen
in
the
early
afternoon.”
Higgons
might
have
said,
“That
squirrel
violated
the
Geneva
convention.
He
was
using
chemical
weapons.”
So
much
for
a
good
night’s
sleep.
Smelling
and
feeling
something
other
than
our
best,
Higgons
and
I
set
forth
on
Day
Two.
At
least
one
of
us
would
have
liked
to
have
slept
in,
but
for
once
smells
were
motivating
me
more
than
they
were
motivating
Higgons.
And
we
had
only
paced
off
the
first
eight
of
our
twenty-‐
four
miles
(Well,
I
paced
off
eight
miles.
I
think
Higgons
had
walked
no
more
than
three
and
three-‐quarters).
If
we
moved
steadily,
we
might
be
able
to
reach
Punta
Gorda,
some
ten
miles
north
of
us,
before
the
late
afternoon
tide
came
in
-‐
a
worthwhile
goal.
But
the
beautiful
surroundings
were
also
treacherous.
This
was
anything
but
a
placid
walk
along
a
sandy
beach.
Almost
nothing
was
smooth
or
easy.
Every
step
was
either
up
or
down,
and
a
good
many
of
them
were
also
lateral,
26. with
short
beaches
giving
way
to
long,
tall
talus
piles
that
stretched
down
into
lashing
surf
and
jagged
tide
pools.
I
now
proceeded
with
two
walking
sticks
in
my
hands,
one
a
driftwood
pole
and
one
an
old
fishing
rod
that
had
retired
from
its
day
job,
and
my
dog
was
dangling
from
my
pack
straps.
Higgons
would
have
liked
to
have
explored
everything,
but
we
only
had
enough
kibble
for
four
days,
and
I
needed
to
get
back
to
work
in
the
big
city.
A
lunch
stop
inspection
of
the
map
showed
that
we
had
only
progressed
as
far
as
a
place
called
Big
Flat,
sitting
at
the
foot
of
King
Peak,
whose
summit
is
less
than
a
mile
inland,
and,
at
4,088
feet
above
sea
level,
is
one
of
the
steepest
coastal
escarpments
in
the
world.
Higgons
wanted
to
urinate
on
the
very
top
of
King
Peak;
he
might
have
said,
“After
giant
redwood
trees,
King
Peak
is
the
Holy
Fire
Hydrant
of
pissing,”
but
I
had
more
pedestrian
aspirations.
I
loaded
him
back
into
his
T-‐shirt
howdah
and
clambered
up
the
next
pile
of
seaside
stones.
We
saved
King
Peak
for
some
other
time.
Punta
Gorda
awaited
us.
Swaying
in
his
sling,
Higgons
grunted
with
disapproval
from
time
to
time,
but
the
progress
we
made
over
ruddy
poison
oak
patches
and
then
through
a
surprisingly
deep
(considering
that
it
was
late
summer)
Randall
Creek,
made
his
disgruntlement
worth
it.
The
chilly
threat
of
water
dancing
just
beneath
his
seat
in
business
class
did
not
impress
Higgons
favorably.
27. He
might
have
said,
“Have
you
thought
about
simply
turning
about
and
walking
back
to
Shelter
Cove?”
We
were
theoretically
past
the
midpoint
of
the
Lost
Coast
Trail,
but
the
sun
had
run
out
of
patience
with
us,
as
had
the
moon,
which
began
to
tug
gently
on
the
eastern
edge
of
the
Pacific,
and
wet,
tired,
and
thirsty,
we
pushed
on
toward
an
area
known
as
Spanish
Ridge.
On
the
map,
the
beaches
north
of
Spanish
Ridge
were
labeled
“Trail
Impassable
During
High
Tide,”
and
it
was
my
desire,
if
not
Higg’s,
to
clear
the
“impassable”
beach
before
we
made
our
second
camp.
For
speed’s
sake,
I
relegated
Higgons
to
his
mobile
hammock.
Not
long
thereafter,
as
we
approached
Cooksie
Creek,
we
were
surprised
to
hear
a
woman’s
voice
call
out
“Awww...
How
cute!
Ooh,
do
I
smell
skunk?”
To
which
Higgons
might
have
replied,
“I’m
not
‘cute.’
I’m
‘dashing’.
And
you
needn’t
worry
about
any
skunks.
I
have
secured
the
perimeter.”
We
stopped,
briefly,
to
converse
with
a
young
couple
camped
on
a
rocky
overlook
next
to
the
creek.
They
were
walking
south,
and
had
elected
to
get
past
the
rising
tide
and
then
end
their
day
here.
“That
area
north
of
here
is
danged
windy,”
the
young
man
said,
“she’s
a
sandblaster.
If
you’re
walking
north,
you’re
28. guaranteed
to
get
it
in
the
face,
sorry
to
say.”
We
expressed
interest
in
getting
much
of
the
impassable
sandblaster
over
and
done
with
that
afternoon.
“Good
luck!”
they
both
said,
as
we
hurried
down
through
the
massive
boulders
towards
the
way
north.
And
Higgons
might
have
said,
“Luck
is
for
the
poorly
prepared.”
A
long,
flat
beach
greeted
us
as
we
dropped
down
from
the
rocks.
Higgons
struggled
to
be
let
down
onto
the
sand,
and
I
was
in
a
mood
to
let
him
do
so
-‐
lightening
my
load
by
one-‐third
had
a
definite
appeal.
And
perhaps
by
now
he
had
come
around
to
the
notion
that
making
tracks
toward
a
specific
destination
wasn’t
such
a
bad
idea.
Just
then,
a
set
of
waves
shot
up
the
beach,
which
was
rather
narrow,
and
slapped
at
the
base
of
the
cliff.
The
tide,
heretofore
not
a
factor
in
our
journey,
was
in.
Higgons
might
have
said,
“How
are
you
at
walking
on
water?
Surf,
no
less?”
Defeated,
we
retreated
back
up
into
the
boulders
astride
Cooksie
Creek
and
made
camp.
Wading
into
a
dangerous
tide
in
diminishing
light
didn’t
strike
either
of
us
as
prudent.
For
once,
we
were
unified
in
our
goal.
Punta
29. Gorda
would
have
to
wait.
I
found
myself
fantasizing
about
a
helicopter
delivery
of
a
chantrelle-‐and-‐Gruyere
pizza.
There
was
no
repeat
performance
by
either
Higgons
or
skunks
that
second
night,
and
both
of
us
slept
deeply.
We
could
also
agree
on
the
wisdom
of
rest.
When
we
woke
the
next
morning,
one
of
us
checked
the
tide
chart
(and
the
tide,
you
betcha’),
fixed
a
speedy
breakfast,
and
set
us
out
onto
what
we
now
thought
of
as
Impassable
Beach.
Almost
immediately,
despite
the
early
hour,
heavy
winds
came
at
us
from
the
north,
so
the
sun
stayed
out
of
my
eyes
but
the
wind,
and
its
accompanying
sand,
did
not.
Higgons
and
I
were
beginning
to
understand
why
the
bulk
of
the
Lost
Coast
hikers
had
walked
in
the
other
direction.
We
both
sighed,
Higgons
clambered
into
his
cotton
cockpit,
and
we
(or
rather
I)
leaned
into
the
wind.
What
if
the
treadmill
in
your
local
fitness
club
came
with
a
set
of
mechanical
demons
who
would
grab
at
your
ankles
as
you
tried
to
stride
off
into
your
cardio
workout?
And
what
if
that
treadmill
stretched
all
the
way
to
the
horizon?
Finally,
what
if
other,
nastier,
automated
demons
fired
a
leaf
blower
filled
with
sand
into
your
face?
Well,
probably
you
would
choose
to
be
a
scrawny
terrier
who
could
curl
up
in
a
shelter
raised
out
of
the
bulk
of
the
sandblasting.
At
least,
I
like
to
think
that
Higgons
30. appreciated
his
circumstances.
A
second
T-‐shirt
pulled
over
my
head
with
a
couple
of
eyeholes
torn
in
it
for
my
sunglasses
improved
the
situation,
but
did
not
obviate
the
fact
that
I
had
to
walk
through
all
this
stuff
for
no
short
while.
Glancing
at
my
watch
every
hour
or
so
would
reveal
that
actually
only
three
or
four
minutes
had
passed
-‐
this
was
the
absolute
corollary
to
the
axiom
“time
flies
when
you’re
having
fun.”
Higg
groaned
in
sympathy
and
burrowed
deeper
into
his
T-‐shirt
divan
chair.
If
he
wanted
to
say
something,
Higgons
might
have
said,
“Good
luck
with
the
wind
and
the
sand.”
Eventually,
a
tiny,
man-‐made
object
began
to
wink
at
us
in
the
distance.
It
looked
like
a
damaged
paper
cup
set
upside
down
on
the
beach,
but
was,
in
fact,
the
Punta
Gorda
(“Fat
Point,”
if
this
has
been
nagging
you)
lighthouse,
an
old
ruin,
but
now
a
useful
and
semi-‐
encouraging
landmark
along
the
Lost
Coast
Trail.
It
made
us
feel
just
a
little
less
“lost.”
But
it
stubbornly
refused
to
draw
any
nearer
to
us.
Somehow,
the
wind
that
was
pushing
us
to
the
south
was
also
simultaneously
moving
the
lighthouse
farther
north.
After
an
eternity
of
struggling
into
the
wind,
the
lighthouse
remained
the
size
of
a
paper
cup,
perhaps
now
it
was
one
of
those
paper
cups
that
your
dentist
offers
you
prior
to
spitting.
It
was
maddening,
unless
you
were
a
small
brown
dog
who
had
been
rocked
to
sleep
by
now.
31.
Hikers
deal
with
this
kind
of
challenge
by
hypnotizing
themselves,
in
a
way.
Lower
your
head,
set
a
rhythm,
don’t
stop
to
whine,
don’t
look
at
your
watch,
don’t
look
at
the
sun,
don’t
look
up
at
your
far
off
objective,
just
trudge.
And
eventually
you
almost
break
your
nose
on
the
side
of
an
abandoned
lighthouse.
Higgons
and
I
heaved
ourselves
inside
the
lighthouse
and
out
of
the
sandstorm.
I
set
him
down
to
sniff
around
and
leave
a
pee-‐mail
or
two,
we
drank
some
water,
ate
a
small
snack,
looked
at
each
other,
sighed,
and
returned
to
the
beefy
breeze
sweeping
down
the
coastline.
Higgons
might
have
said,
“Just
a
few
more
miles
of
this
crap.
We’ll
laugh
about
it
later.”
Soon,
however,
the
route
turned
more
toward
true
north,
and
the
wind,
if
not
abating,
at
least
had
the
courtesy
to
cease
pounding
directly
into
our
faces,
choosing
instead
to
shear
across
our
bodies
in
an
annoying
fashion.
I
set
Higgons
back
on
the
shingled
beach
and
we
continued
on
our
way.
More
southbound
hikers,
several
who
said
encouraging
things
about
how
close
we
were
to
the
northern
terminus
of
the
Lost
Coast
walk,
and,
of
greater
importance
to
us,
the
parking
lot
and
the
potential
for
a
ride
back
to
our
car
-‐
Higgons,
you
might
have
already
guessed,
is
a
most
beguiling
hitchhiker.
32. Up
over
more
solid
ground,
we
now
veered
away
from
the
ocean
and
toward
the
weirdly
appealing
glint
of
windshields
in
the
distance.
Onto
an
old
dirt
road,
across
a
small
footbridge,
then
we
ambled
into
the
parking
lot.
Higgons
graciously
accepted
a
bowl
of
water,
I
hooked
his
leash
onto
his
harness,
and
we
arranged
ourselves
at
the
exit
to
the
parking
lot
with
a
hand-‐lettered
cardboard
sign
that
read,
“Shelter
Cove.”
As
a
small
brown
dog
of
limited
imagination
and
limitless
character,
Higgons
constantly
puts
me
in
mind
of
the
old
Elwood
P.
Dowd
line
about,
“In
this
world,
you
must
be
oh
so
smart,
or
oh
so
pleasant.
Well,
for
years
I
was
smart.
I
recommend
pleasant.”
Higgons,
please
note,
is
unhesitatingly
pleasant.
If
he
did
speak
English,
Higgons
might
say,
“I
don’t
talk,
and
I’m
a
lot
happier
than
you
are.”
-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐
Whimsical
Doggo
lives
and
writes
in
various
places,
such
as
Wellington,
New
Zealand,
but
most
of
the
time
he
works
in
San
Francisco.
He
is
the
author
of
the
forthcoming
humor
memoir,
A
Yank
in
Godzone:
Special
Times
for
a
Newcomer
in
New
Zealand.
Higgons
sleeps
under
Whimsical’s
desk
to
this
day.
And
he
still
doesn’t
speak
English.
33. 7 Lessons My Grand-Dogger Taught Me
About Aging
Cheng 1 Creative Commons
34. 7 Lessons My Grand-Dogger Taught Me About Aging
Jed Diamond, Ph.D. has been a health-care professional for the last 45 years.
He is the author of 9 books, including Looking for Love in All the Wrong Places,
Male Menopause, The Irritable Male Syndrome, and Mr. Mean: Saving Your
Relationship from the Irritable Male Syndrome . He offers counseling to men,
women, and couples in his office in California or by phone with people throughout
the U.S. and around the world. To receive a Free E-book on Men’s Health and a
free subscription to Jed’s e-newsletter go to www.MenAlive.com. If you enjoy my
articles, please subscribe. I write to everyone who joins my Scribd team.
Raider was my Grand-dogger, which is an unusual and complicated
relationship, so let me explain. Shortly after my wife, Carlin, and I moved from
the “Big City” to the country, our god-daughter, Antonia bought the property next
to ours and built her own yurt. To keep her company she brought her dog
Raider. When she arrived, Raider was a playful pup. Over the years, she
matured into a playful and fun-loving adult, got old, and finally died at age 15.
Carlin and I enjoyed the wild animals that lived in and around our property—
deer, bobcats, bears, mountain lions, and a host of other characters. Unlike
most of our neighbors, we decided not to have dogs, which would scare away the
wild life. We put up with the bears knocking down our fences periodically to get
at our fruit trees and we enjoyed getting glimpses of the other animals.
However, we enjoyed “baby-sitting” for Raider when Antonia wanted to get
away for a few days and we became grandparents to this very special being.
She became our grand-dogger. Over the years I learned a lot from Raider.
Since she passed away last year, I’ve been thinking about her more often. Here
are some of the lessons she has taught me about aging.
1. Don’t worry. Everyone gets older.
I often find myself worrying about getting older. I notice new aches and pains
and watch my sex drive go up and down like a roller-coaster. Performance of all
kinds is more difficult and I worry about losing everything.
Raider, on the other hand, does not seem to worry about aging. She clearly
notices that she is getting on in years, but “hey,” she seems to say, “that’s just
life, nothing to worry about.”
35. 2. When you can, play like a youngster. When you can’t, relax in the sun.
I used to play all the time. I loved sports and got great pleasure out of a hot
and heavy game of basketball, football, or baseball. I can still play, but it makes
me mad that I can’t play like I used to play. I often feel slow, fat, and clumsy.
Raider spends a lot more time relaxing in the sun. I try to get her to walk and
chase balls like she used to do so often. But lately, she just wants to sleep a lot.
I must say, she looks very content and doesn’t seem to chastise herself for her
lack of “game.”
But, out of the blue, on some days she seems like a pup again. She bounds
around, races through the forest. I can’t keep up with her. Where does she get
that energy? Who knows? But when it’s there, it’s there. When its not, who
cares?
3. Kisses and touches are forever.
OK, I admit it, as I’ve gotten older, I seem to need to be touched and kissed
more often. Sometimes I feel like a little kid chasing my wife around, wagging my
tail, hoping for a pat on the head. She thinks I want sex (OK, I usually do), but
what I really want is to be touched, kissed, and appreciated. But, I feel a little
foolish. Should I really be this needy at age 66?
Raider has no such problem. She snuggles up for touches anytime,
anywhere. She kisses my hands and anything else she can wrap her tongue
around. She understands that we never outgrow the need to be touched and
kissed.
4. There’s no shame in asking for help.
As I’ve gotten older, there are things I can’t do by myself. I need help splitting
wood and hefting equipment into my car to get fixed in town. There are a
hundred things, big and small, that I could use help with. But I have trouble
asking. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve strained my back because I insisted
I could do it myself. “Hey, I’m not that old. I can do this. No sweat,” I would say
to myself, just before I scream obscenities when the pain grabs me.
Raider has no problem asking for help. When her hips were giving out and
she needed help getting into the car, she would look over her shoulder and give
me that look. “I could use a hand here. Could you give me a boost?” No shame
at all. Help is expected and appreciated.
36. 5. There’s no reason to get irritable, aging is a privilege.
As I’ve gotten older, I’ve gotten grumpier, more grouchy, and irritable. Little
and big things bother me more. There are days that it seems that everyone is
out to make my life more stressful. “Do you really have to get on my very last
nerve?” I fight aging and the infirmities it brings. I’ve even written a book called
The Irritable Male Syndrome.
Raider does not fight aging. I’ve never seen her get irritable (though I’m sure
she has her days). She lives every day, every minute, right here and right now.
“Hey, look, I’m alive. I have another day to see the sunshine.” She doesn’t
complain. She doesn’t bitch. She doesn’t moan (OK she does moan now and
again, but she’s either moaning out of pleasure or when something really hurts).
6. Whenever possible, go for a walk in nature with a friend.
I grew up in big cities. I was born in New York, raised in Los Angeles, and
spent most of my adult life in and around San Francisco. A walk in nature
usually meant a quick ten minute race through a park. When I was diagnosed
with a rare adrenal tumor (adrenal, adrenaline, slow down, I get it), we moved to
Willits, a small town in Northern California, and bought a house on 22 acres of
land.
For a city kid, everything about living in the country scared me. I worried
about bugs, bears, and birds (yes, really! I still had visions of Hitchcock’s birds
attacking me out of the blue).
Raider taught me the joys of walking in nature. She was never afraid and she
gave me the courage to get out see the world. The biologist, Paul Shepard, said
there is something unhealthy about being surrounded by things made by
humans. He said, it’s a kind of intra-species incest, and produces “genetic
goofies.”
When Raider and I take walks around here, 95% of everything we see, hear,
and touch; are nature made, not man made. Believe me, Raider will never
become a “genetic goofy” and every day she teaches me to be the kind of man
who is comfortable in nature.
7. In the beginning and in the end, it’s all about love.
In the hustle and bustle of life, it’s easy to forget about what is truly important.
I think a lot about earning enough money to pay the bills. I wonder about the
state of the world and whether global warming is going to melt all the icebergs,
change the climate, and make living on Earth more and more challenging for
everyone. I’m concerned about “peak everything,” as author Richard Heinberg
37. describes the peaking of fossil fuels, the loss of bio-diversity, and decreasing
water and food supplies.
I sense that Raider is also aware of the changes going on with the
environment, but she doesn’t worry about them. She is much more attuned to
nature than I will ever be and her ecological footprint is light and playful, even
though she’s got 4 compared to my 2.
She came into the world full of love, expressed it throughout her life, and kept
it flowing as she got older. Raider taught me that love is really all that lasts and it
will last forever. She was, is, and always will be my hero. I miss her a lot. I will
do my best to age as gracefully as she did and love right up to the end and as far
beyond as memories last.
38. Missing Morgan by Hyla Molander
With black Dumbo-sized ears and half his white whiskers missing, 12-week-old Morgan
looked more like a rat than a tuxedo kitten.
The animal shelter tech said, “They found him in a garbage can. Threw the poor kitty out
with the trash.” She squeezed the metal release latch, took a step back, and let me scoop him
out of his cage. The entirety of his lackluster fur fit into my right hand, but as he shimmied his
way around my neck, through my long, brown hair, I knew he was mine.
39. “I haven’t stopped thinking about him all day.” So what if a malnourished pet was the
last thing I needed as a 19-year-old Florida State University writing major? So what if I hadn’t
asked my two other roommates if I could adopt a cat?
I signed the paperwork, shoved his bag of medications in my red leather purse, and took
him home anyway.
Captain Morgan seemed a fitting name, given that three of my best friends and I had all
decided that each of our new cats should be called by the various booze labels we consumed,
though I never referred to him by anything other than “Morgan.”
He entertained us by wrapping his sharp teeth around pencils and delivering them into
available shoes across the living room. “Good fetching, buddy.” He rolled on his back—all fours
spread—to bask in tummy rubs. Morgan thought he was a dog. I’m sure of it. A dexterous
feline, he opened bedroom doors, kitchen drawers, and skillfully played soccer with the dried-
up feces he occasionally heisted from his litter box.
At night, after he licked his mostly black coat clean, he held my neck with his white-
footed paws and purred like a helicopter. We slept as lovers—without the perverse animal sex.
Morgan became my happiness gauge. When my first car—an Oldsmobile Calais—was
rear-ended into four other vehicles, chronic back pain introduced to me to depression, which
told me to keep the lights low and my head under the covers.
40. “You’re too loud, Morgan. I need to get some sleep.” I tossed him onto the floor, no
longer wanting him in my bed. Some people claimed he sounded exactly like he was meowing
“Hy-la,” but even that annoyed me. “Not now.”
But Morgan never held a grudge. No, he still sat alongside me as I tapped at the
keyboard, attempting to reconcile my relationship with my dad through short stories.
When medication and therapy finally lifted some of my physical and emotional pain,
Morgan happily took his place again next to me in bed. “Sorry, little man, let’s give you some
more love.”
***
Two years later, I started dating Erik, who immediately let Morgan kneed his claws
through his own black hair.
“Ooh, is he hurting you?”
Erik laughed. “It actually feels really good.”
My previous boyfriend had wanted nothing to do with Morgan, but Erik took to him
right away.
Soon Erik and I were officially engaged. We were also officially sick of living in Florida.
“You sure about this?” I asked Erik, as we packed our remaining clothes in massive UPS
boxes. We’d already sold our furniture, dishes, and Erik’s red Honda CRX.
“We’re together, so I’m sure.”
41. I’d never been with someone so sure of me. We were both 21, so we knew we could
easily turn back around if we didn’t like California.
My totaled Oldsmobile had been replaced by a silver, two-seater, RX7—which left us
little room for anything other than Morgan’s litter box and some toiletries. We didn’t have
much money, so expecting to pay extra for motels that allowed pets wasn’t an option.
After we checked in to our first forty-dollar, cockroach-infested motel, we snuck back to
the car for Morgan. “You have to stay quiet,” I whispered. Then, when we were certain no one
was watching us, Erik and I gently tucked him inside a king-sized, grey pillowcase.
Bent over the passenger seat, I peeked into the opening of the fabric. “You okay in
there?”
Morgan’s light green eyes glowed back at me. “Meow.” Like a newborn baby curled up
in his mommy’s sling, he submitted to the protection of the surrounding cotton. I smiled as Erik
sauntered towards our room, carrying a bag of dirty laundry over his shoulder.
The drive took five days—most of which Morgan quietly spent in my lap. But five days of
confinement can make anyone crazy, so I couldn’t blame Morgan for bolting away from the car
by the time we reached Texas. In a dark, sketchy parking lot, Erik and I squatted between beat-
up old trucks until I captured our AWOL kitty.
***
On Easter Sunday, 2003, Erik and I were seven months pregnant with our second
daughter. Between my children’s photography business, Erik’s management position at
42. Industrial Light and Magic, and taking care of 17-month-old Tatiana, we made jokes about our
chaotic bliss.
Even Morgan celebrated his California life by swatting the bubbles I blew for Tatiana in
the backyard.
“Cat. Bub-bu,” Tatiana squealed, as her blonde curls flew up and down.
But later that same day, there were no more squeals.
As many times as I’ve replayed the event in my mind, I don’t remember where Morgan
was when Erik slid down the kitchen counter and lay motionless on our white-tiled floor. Did he
witness the blood dripping down Erik’s mouth? Did he hear me scream “Pick up the damn
phone” when 911 put me on hold? Did he scurry off for help when he saw Tatiana, still in her
green high chair, watching her daddy’s cheeks turn blue?
Does he see me now? Does Erik see me?
One minute laughing; thirty-five minutes later, proclaimed dead.
Heart attack. At 29 years old.
43. When I gave birth to Keira, Morgan let her grasp his full-grown whiskers with her tiny,
flailing fingers, as he continued to do with Tatiana. They were his babies. He slept near them,
kept guard over them. Mostly I withdrew from Morgan while I submersed in Post Traumatic
Stress therapy, but he licked the salty water off of my eyelids any chance he could get.
Only six months after Erik’s death, as I struggled to adjust to my existence as a 30-year-
old widow with two babies, Morgan’s health deteriorated. He stopped twisting doorknobs. He
stopped pouncing on stray mice.
“Kidney failure. Weekly fluid injections,” the veterinarian said. “Best to put him to sleep.
It’s his time.”
But I hadn’t had enough time. I couldn’t do it. Instead, I wrapped him in my soft blue
sweater, kissed him on his forehead, and let my friend take him to receive that fatal injection.
I couldn’t hold Morgan—my beloved cat who had been with me through depression,
love, anger, death, and birth—because I never got the chance to hold my Erik as he took his last
breath.
Copyright 2010 Hyla Molander
44. About Hyla Molander
Widowed at 29, during her second pregnancy, Hyla Molander knew she had to make meaning
out of her tragedy. She now does this through speaking engagements, writing for blogs and magazines,
moderating a widowed forum on Facebook, and embracing each moment with her new husband and
four young children in the San Francisco Bay Area.
You can find Hyla’s writing in The Good Men Project Magazine, Writing Mamas, Life360, Scribd,
Marin Magazine, and her own popular Drop Dead Life blog.
Currently, she is working on her forthcoming memoir, Drop Dead Life: A Pregnant Widow’s
Heartfelt and Often Comic Journey through Death, Birth, and Rebirth.
www.hylamolander.com
45. I Didn’t Know But I Knew
by David Lee Nutter
Some people do not believe in what I call “woo-woo stuff.”
Neither did I until...
It was mid summer 1986. I was driving from southern
Michigan toward Detroit. Just cruising along in my car with
nothing specific on my mind. I didn’t even have the radio
turned on. Just the routine sounds of tires on asphalt and not
anything else that I can recall.
A strangeness began overcoming me in the form of what can
not be described as a form other than what it was becoming.
As I drove along, the form began to become a “presence.” A
“presence” that for a while had no explanation
until I realized it was my dog. I was near Detroit, MI and the
dog was at my home west of Denver, CO. The “presence”
grew stronger. Stronger to a point that I reached over toward
the passenger seat to pet it ... or to just touch it. Whether I
physically touched it I can not actually confirm. But I know it
was in the car with me. I can not deny that. As the
“presence” grew in my knowing it was definitely present I
began to cry. I am not a man that tends to cry easily.
Upon returning to where I was staying I called my wife. We
greeted each other and I asked, “Did you have a good day?”
She replied, “No, it has not been a good day.”
Rather than asking her what was the matter I responded,
“Pupup died, didn’t he?”
Silence on the phone ... then “How did you know?”
I answered, “I don’t know but I knew.”
I told her about my experience earlier in the car. I told her
the approximate time that it happened.
Her reply, “That was the very time she had taken the dog to
46. the vet and he was euthanized.”
Someone later commented to me that Pupup surely must
have missed me and loved me enough to make that journey
at that time to be with me.
47. Toppy at 2 months just after arriving at his new home.
Picking Parents
My name is Top although my humans sometimes call me Toppy which is
kind of a childish name for an Alpha male like me. I have three sisters and a
brother but have long since lost contact with them since we were all put up
for adoption at the tender age of two months.
Adoption was an ordeal since the five of us were taken to a Pet Smart store
in Gilroy, California where a variety of potential adoptive parents were
paraded before us. Each of the prospects hoping that one of us would decide
they would be ideal parents and somehow signal our interest and affection.
As the smartest and most attractive of the litter I pretty much had my choice
of the humans that came in to look at us. Several potential parents looked
quite nice but had small children. That would not have been an ideal
situation since I would have to compete for my parent’s affection. One of
those couples seemed particularly interested in me so I had to nip at their
48. little boy. One nip and the boy started crying which was all it took to
convince them that I was a bit too active for their taste.
Finally an older couple came in to look. I could see in their eyes that they
were affectionate and caring and would make ideal parents. Strangely the
woman immediately picked up one of my sisters and said to the man: “Oh
look how cute this one is. She’s just perfect.” Naturally my sister decided
this was a good family for her and began licking the woman’s face. As she
did this I had a sickening feeling that this was a lost cause, the family that I
had picked was instead going to take my sister home with them and I’d get
stuck with another family. How unfair since, as I said, I’m clearly the
smartest and most attractive.
Sensing that time was quickly running out I decided to make a move to try
and get attention and change the inevitable. I started whining and
whimpering as I gave the man the most pleading look imaginable. At first it
didn’t seem to work as the man was talking with the woman and seemed to
ignore me. Then when it was least expected fortune seemed to turn my way.
I clearly heard the man say to the woman, “Are you sure you want a
female?” My little heart beat faster when I heard these words since it seemed
that all was not lost.
Then I saw the woman nod her head and say, “Sure, why not?”
“Why not?” I thought, “Can’t you see that I’m by far the best choice?”
Despite my confidence in myself I was truly fearful that I was going to lose
this battle until I heard the man say, “Let’s ask and see which is easier to
train, males or females.”
The woman put my sister back in the crate next to me. Then I waited
anxiously as the man and woman walked over to the representative of the
Border Collie Rescue Team and engaged in a long conversation with her.
Finally, they returned to the crate and the man reached down and picked me
up in his hands and held his nose next to mine saying, “I like this cute little
guy.” I couldn’t control my tongue as it rapidly licked his face or my eyes as
the opened wide with joy.
Then he handed me to the woman and I squealed with joy and licked her
face profusely as I could sense her heart warming to the idea of sharing her
49. home with the cute little bundle of joy that was me. “Ok,” she said, “If this
is the one you want its ok with me.”
On the way home they kept talking about ‘their decision’ and how they had
picked me. Somehow it never occurred to them that I was the one who did
the picking and that they were my choice. Oh well, I suppose it’s best to let
them think they are the ones in charge.
50. Buddy Knows Best
In 2004 my sons were persistent in their
requests for a dog. My family was Blessed by
our dog Snuggles as I grew up and reminiscing
Inspired me to give finding a dog for my own
children consideration. I was feeling spread
thin so the thoughts of adding another family
member were generally fleeting. I asked Spirit
to guide me on the subject.
One day I kept feeling a strong urge to look at
the pet section of the newspaper. By the end
of the day, we had a Heavenly new family
member, a peekapoo named Buddy. A young
college student was forced to find Buddy a new
home because Buddy howled pitifully when left
in the apartment bathroom while his master
attended work and classes, disturbing the
peace.
Buddy fell into our family's routine with
remarkable ease. He learned very quickly and
was given free reign when we were home and
away. Buddy must have experienced the
transition as an upgrade as evidenced by the
absence of pitiful howling.
51. The more we grew to know our Beloved furry
friend, the more we noticed his ability to
communicate, even lessons of a Spiritual
nature...
Buddy has a small water bowl and a food dish
with two compartments. We would generally
keep a small amount of kibble in one
compartment of the food bowl and refresh his
water and food regularly. Once in a while we
would fail to notice that Buddy needed a refill
of food or water. Buddy soon learned to
scratch the empty food or water bowl to let us
know what he needed. Clever doggy!
Soon Buddy kicked it up a notch. I noticed
Buddy scratching the empty compartment of
his food bowl even when he had kibble and
water. Buddy did not want kibble or water. He
wanted treats. Buddy would look earnestly
where the treats are stored or towards scraps
still on the kitchen counter, then back at me
like “Hook me up Mom!”. Clever doggy!
More often than not, Buddy's efforts were
rewarded with a dog treat or a bit of table
scraps. The Spiritual lesson is this: Decide
what you want, ask for it and keep scratching
away at it. We have to decide what we want
52. and take action towards manifesting it to
increasingly expand Heaven in our lives. Buddy
is a genius! : )
53. Everybody knows the famous story of a thirsty crow looking
for water in a desert but it happened again in modern times
when a thirsty crow looking for water, found very little amount
of water in a container so as per experience transferred to him
from family, he brought some stones covered with sand to drop
in the water and raise water level so he can drink the water but
unfortunately he died because dry stones sucked all the water
in container and water never came up to serve the crow!
Here are some lessons of self improvement derived from the story:
1. Never be a blind follower.
2. Solution may differ even though the problem is the same.
3. Be innovative and analytical even for a simple problem.
20-04-2010
Al-Ain
54. Sam
By
Shana Mahaffey
In 1990, a bull terrier mix with a pirate s patch over her right eye, and an
inky black wonder dog cape covering her white body, ran along a lonely road
outside San Luis Obispo, California. A passerby rescued the running dog and brought
her to the local animal shelter. And once there, she earned a reputation as an
unfriendly dog, intimidating all those who passed by her kennel. But not my friend
John who said, The first time I saw her, she stood straight and serious, her body
forming an H. Rather than fearing this somber dog, John brought her home to his
girlfriend Anne who lived in Santa Barbara, California. And so began a journey of
my cherished friend, Sam, the dog who taught me how to face and overcome my
greatest fear.
I first heard about Sam when Anne called me and said, I got a dog. Suffering
from a debilitating illness, Anne often had a tough time getting through the day. So
when she uttered the words, dog, my immediate
thought, which I kept to myself, was I hope this is one of
those old, mellow, sleep all day, cat-like dogs, because
Anne didn t have the energy for much more. Then I met
Sam, the canine version of Eliza Doolittle. She had the will
and the friendly, aim to please personality you only find
in dogs, but she definitely needed some work.
1
55. I ll admit my skepticism over the decision to keep a dog who barked too
much, chewed everything in sight, didn t listen, and needed hours of exercise to
wear her out. But my uncertainty reversed itself when I saw how quickly Anne s
love and attention, supplemented by the love and attention of her new, extended
family helped Sam transform her frenetic behavior into the intuitive, considerate,
and affectionate dog I knew for almost ten years.
Now don t get me wrong, Sam didn t
turn into the Zen master who spent her days in
meditation. The turbo dog with a singular
focus on tennis balls, birds, and whose favorite
destination was the beach remained. In fact,
Sam loved the beach so much it got to be that
nobody could say beach in her presence
without igniting a frenzied reaction of barking,
high jumping, tail chasing, scattering
everything and anyone in the near vicinity. To avoid this, the codeword for beach
became Sea. But Sam, figured that one out quickly, demonstrating her knowledge
by reenacting her Beach, did you say beach? performance.
No matter the route, Sam always knew the way to the ocean. And when the
footpath or car went in that direction, she d go crazy. Upon arrival, the entire beach
became her playground. She once chased a bird so far out to sea, a boat with an
outboard motor had to be dispatched to rescue her. Another time, on a mission to
catch a tennis ball, she knocked the wind out of me with a blindside as she shot
2
56. forward to snatch the flying ball in her jaws. But she was also the dog who ran like a
thief whenever her friends called out, Sammy! Who passed out slobbery kisses like
candy. Who welcomed you anytime, day or night, with a wagging tail and a friendly
bark. So, what are a fall and a little shortness of breath for a friend like that?
A couple of years after Sam moved in with Anne and became part of my life, I
moved to New York City. Even though we saw each
other far less frequently, Sam knew I was her friend,
the cat lady, who took her for runs, shared my muffin,
and who liked to be greeted the helicoptoring tail
accompanied by a gleeful bark. And many years later
when life found all three of us in the Bay Area, a
bridge separating me from Anne and Sam, our routine remained the same, just more
frequent.
Not long after Anne and Sam moved to the Bay Area, Sam s health took a
downward turn. When I saw her after a couple of weeks of battling her illness, I
noticed the toll of it had dimmed her black eye patch and wonder dog cape, but it
didn t diminish the twinkle in her eye or the mirth in her doggie smile. The
following week, after many tests, the vet was ready to present the results. Anne
scheduled the visit to the vet for early evening so Sam s posse could all attend. As
she lay on the cold metal table, Sam shifted her gaze back and forth between Anne
and the rest of us, wiggling her tail as if to say, Don t worry, it will all right.
A thick fear washed over the half dozen of us standing in the examining room
awaiting the prognosis. More people waited by the phone. When the vet entered, a
3
57. momentary flash of surprise cross his face as he squeezed into the room. All of
you? he asked. Many yes s and nodding heads answered in response.
Once he reached Sam, the vet turned to Anne. I don t remember his exact
words, but they were something along the lines of, It s not good . Sam has a large
tumor on her heart.
Some folks let out gasps. Those closest to Anne reached out to her as she
reached out to Sam. I remember squeezing my toes to save off the pain that
precedes tears. Someone, maybe Anne or another person who managed to find her
voice said, What can we do?
We can do nothing, said the vet. Or we can operate, but when we get in
there if the tumor is too large, we would let her go on the table.
So there we had it. Neither option offered any comfort.
A lot of talking ensued and the only decision we made was to go get Sam s
favorite meal hamburger and go back to Anne and Sam s home and cook it for
her. Even I, the staunch vegetarian, didn t object to this.
Later after the hamburger had been cooked and devoured, we all sat in a
circle in the living room while Sam flipped the switch on our collective mood, taking
us from dark to light by running to and fro, wagging her tail, and occasionally
barking. And after she finished with this, Sam started passing out kisses.
Now Sam loved to kiss her family and friends. And her kisses consisted of a
big slobbery tongue wash all over the face. Nobody could doubt my love for Sam, but
she d only gotten in a few kisses over the years of our friendship, when she caught
me unaware. I didn t go for the wet tongue on the face and she very well knew it.
4
58. That night Sam walked the circle, planting big wet kisses on each face. When
my turn came, she sat down in front of me and gave me the Sam stare the regal,
wise, you know you re going to let me so keep the protesting to a minimum look. She
clicked her tongue signaling she was ready. I demurred. She clicked again. I held her
gaze for a few seconds and noticed a change.
Oh, all right, I said. Then I leaned forward and she slathered my face, both
sides, temple to jaw line, crossing my nose in between. If I close my eyes and clear
my mind, I can still feel the velvety roughness of her tongue passing across my
cheeks. I wouldn t admit it at the time, and couldn t admit it for years later, but when
she stared at me, what passed between us was an understanding that this was my
last chance for a kiss from her.
After she d finished licking all the faces, Sam lay stretched on her side in the
middle of our circle, spent, her breathing fast and a bit labored. Before departing, I
remember gently placing my hand on her ribcage, hoping my touch would slow her
breathing, provide some comfort. I didn t have it in me to say goodbye.
Early the next morning, I got the call from Anne. She didn t need to say it, the
tears in her voice told me Sam had died. In between her tears, Anne managed to say,
She just got up, went outside and died.
In life, we all have the family we re born into and the family we choose. When
this family includes pets, its members are all the more fortunate, because animals
are sentient beings who s purpose is to enrich the lives of human beings and teach
us lessons if we re willing to learn them. Rescue animals in particular have a special
purpose because they hail from difficult beginnings. The lucky ones get to break out
5
59. and choose their path, their purpose, and the people they want to teach. It is safe to
say that Sam was one of the lucky ones, and even safer to say that we were the
luckier for knowing her.
Since childhood, I ve had what can only be described as an existential fear of
death. Sleep offered no respite, because I equated it with oblivion. I fought sleep like
I was fighting for my life every night leaving the light on so I d wake up, setting my
alarm for two hour intervals so I could confirm I was still alive and conscious.
Because of my own fears, I d always thought I understood what Sam was running
from all those years earlier when the passerby found her on that San Luis Obispo
road. After her last night, I realized that day Sam wasn t running from something,
she was running to someone in particular, and by extension, many someones. She
was running because she had a job to do, she had people to teach, people to heal.
In my case Sam did her job by showing me that death is nothing to fear. It
doesn t matter that you don t know what comes after, what matters is you face it on
your own terms. That you do not go quietly into that good night. You face your fate
with a bark and a wag. Focus on your friends and family the people you hold close.
Make sure your last words and/or gesture is the one you want to leave them with.
That it s unforgettable no matter how many years have passed.
Her last night, Sam didn t cower. She stood tall, this time instead of a straight
and serious H, she exuded a relaxed and playful demeanor. She fearlessly faced her
fate with a bark and a wag, focusing on her friends and family, making sure her last
gesture to each of us was lasting. Even though I am a cat person, there are a few
dogs that have a special place in my heart Sam definitely has the biggest room in
6
60. the doghouse. She may be gone, but she s certainly not forgotten by the many
people who knew and loved her.
I thought about Sam s last night for several days afterward, trying to find the
message she wanted to convey in her last kiss. Then finally, late one night as my
eyelids struggled to stay open while I read, I had a moment of clarity. I closed my
book and set it on the nightstand. Then I reached up and turned off the lamp. As I
shut my eyes for sleep, I whispered, Thank you, Sammy.
7
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