Buddy

Buddy the black lab.  My parent’s older of two black labs.  Mom named Buddy shortly after he came to live with us.  Why "Buddy" I asked?  "Because he's your father's new buddy."  And the name was set.  

One afternoon while I was reading, Buddy comes up to me and says, “My name is Roberto”. 

I said “Bobby for short?” He laughed. 

“No – just Roberto”.  He thought Bobby sounded too close to an English police person and he was more outlaw, than law enforcement.  I call him Roberto when it's just the two of us and this makes him immensely happy. 

Buddy came hardwired, as many rescues do, with a fear response.  He barks like mad at men.  He loves women, especially the quiet, gentle ones.  He loves the game of fetch but plays the variation called "keep away".  Darby plays the “I’ll chase it down but you fetch” variety.  I introduced Buddy to a new toy - the jolly ball.  The jolly ball is a hard plastic ball with five big cut out circles, with a smaller rubber ball inside.  The jolly ball is virtually indestructible and floats in the pool.  A dog carries the jolly ball around by placing his lower part of his mouth in the jolly ball hole and biting down.  It takes a little getting used to.  Zach loves to make Buddy laugh by placing the jolly ball on his nose, resembling a canine clown.  

In the past few weeks Buddy has embraced his inner puppy and adopted me as his favorite new pack mate.  He no longer stands behind Zach waiting for the morning loving.  He has brought me Zach’s stuffed animals and ropes to throw, as if to say “throw this for Zach and I’ll help him chase it”.  And twice now, while I’ve been quietly crying, worrying about the things I can’t control and can’t let go of, he has circled around me in my chair and placed his head in my lap.  Buddy, in a word, has become my buddy. 

Last night, he reminded me it was ok to look for the fun and joy in the small, every day moments and set the fear aside.  He grabbed a dirty dish towel from the laundry room, and resembling his ever present younger puppy brother, stuck his butt in the air and front paws on the floor and said, “Come on!”  And we played. 

Thanks Buddy. 

Waiting

Darby sits on the porch, waiting.   I often wonder, and at times I'm quite sure, she's waiting for Dinah to appear.  Dinah is nearby but won't be seen, having crossed the rainbow bridge last August. 

My Mama is not feeling her best so I am hanging out with her in this sticky, wet, tropical place of my youth.  I have lived longer in South Florida than any other place I've been.  

Washington is my new home but I haven't really been able to become good friends yet.  In Washington, we live in a rural community on the far Eastern side, almost in Idaho.  They don't say "y'all" in Washington, or Iowa, for that matter.  They don't understand grits or biscuits.  They are overflowing with beautiful mountains and evergreens.  I find my introverted self completely and utterly happy in this quiet part of the world where the speed limit of the main road through town is twenty-five and there is homemade maple-nut ice cream at the corner drug store.

  

My Mama's house, where I spend most of my time these days, has two black labs (Zach and Buddy), my Dad and a brother.  After a year of living this long distance life, traveling back to see my pack about once a month, and in the shadow of the pandemic, we are trying to find the newest normal.  I keep looking for the glass half full, writing down what I'm thankful for and moving forward.  Some days I don't believe what I write.  Some days, when Mom has has a bad day, I pretend all is well in the hopes that it will be. 

That is the latest from the Iowa Girls and Florida Dogs.  More on Zach, Buddy and my glorious, far away Darby in the next installments.

The Iowa Girls Move

These days my home of Iowa is covered in a relentless cold and snow. I long to feel the sun on my face without a snow shovel in my hand. We are moving in a couple of weeks from this place so close to heaven. This Iowa girl and her pack are moving to a place in the shadow of the Rocky Mountains - Washington.

In anticipation of the move, the rescue girls and I have been sorting out the debris of our life, letting go of the seldom used and miscellaneous memories while holding fast to others - a letter from my brother who I lost over thirty years ago; a stack of hankies from my Mom and letters from my Dad. It is such an emotional time - joy, excitement, adventure sprinkled with the loss. Our friends in Iowa are our family and have loved and accepted us as their own.

Dinah, the elder Golden Retriever in residence, and I are emotional creatures. We are both nesters by nature so we've had a couple of nights where we have lay awake wondering what tomorrow would bring, as if by our wonder and worry we could control it. Darby, her little girl and the resident two year old puppy, are all about embracing the adventure. The other resident two legged pack member is trying to keep all of us focused, day by day, at the task at hand. No small feat.

Yesterday Vegas walked up behind me in the kitchen. I heard the chime of her collar and her nails on the kitchen floor that were always uniquely Vegas. When I turned around, nothing was there. She comes when I need her, when I need to be reminded that I'm not alone and that everything will be okay.

This pack started its life in Iowa. We were rescued by dogs and by each other. It's a grand adventure and blessed life with this pack.

Begin Again

Tonight I revisit this post from three years ago. I stood witness to a terrible loss today and watched a heart break wide open. This is for that young woman who one day will find her strength again - who may be lost tonight. This is for anyone who sits in the dark and needs to know that there is a light.
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I'm really not sure where this blog is going other than I have lost my way.

Vegas and I moved to this beautiful prairie land called Iowa. We came to start over. To begin again. Because in a life well lived, sometimes we all need a do over. And this was mine.

So we piled in my station wagon of sorts and drove here. We would give it a year. We just had to make it a year. The thing you have to understand is that we knew no one and nothing about this place. It was just Vegas and me trying to sort out the pieces of our life that were still standing; the pieces that were broken and the pieces that need to be buried, like a favorite bone.

And we did it. We found our way. We made beautiful friends, both people and dogs. We learned we love snow but not ice. We learned that having family in Florida to visit is good. We learned that it's fun to sugar up the kids and then send them back to their parents. We learned that new traditions can be as precious as the old ones. We learned that even if we can't chase the squirrels anymore, it's still nice to lay on the grass and watch them.

All I've lost, all I've lived and all I've loved in the last decade has been with Vegas.

I think that's what profound grief is. Losing one's way. I also know that there's only one way back, and that's to acknowledge the darkness and walk through.

Vegas is with me. Every day. I see her at my feet.

We begin again, one day at time...

Ghosts of Christmas Past

I have my grandmother's briefcase where she kept her stationary and correspondence. It sits under my desk at home. It smells of old leather and paper - like an old library book.

Nini was my grandmother. She lived in Florida near us and was never caught without lipstick or little gold clip-on earrings. On the weekends I would get to spend with her, we would have roast beef for dinner followed by a Pepperidge Farm's Coconut Cake. On Sunday morning after church, she would take me with her to pass out the flowers that had sat on the church altar to the church members in hospitals. She made me feel special and important.

I have these two little girls in my life that belong to one of my best friends. They really aren't so little anymore. They are smart, funny girls that are strong and wise beyond their years. They paid me a visit today and my heart grew three times it's size - just like the Grinch.

Tonight I went to look out at the backyard. It is nighttime and I snapped on the light, half expecting to see Vegas. I do see her sometimes. Running the trail with me or laying on the couch, with her head elegantly tossed on the sofa arm. I see her clear as day and I know it's ok. Like Nini, she comes to check in and remind me that all is well.

For the women in my life, past and present, thank you.

It is well, it is well, with my soul.

Worth

Vegas and I have the knowledge that we are loved. This is a blessing - not everyone has this (dogs or people). Isn't that sad? My childhood in the flat land of Indiana and then the hot flat land of Florida was wonderful. Poached eggs on toast cut into nine little squares (Mom); watching football games after mowing the lawn (to this day cut grass reminds me of watching football with my Dad); playing swim tag in the pool (brothers) - I knew I was loved.

That being said, I have a fundamental core belief that there is something basically wrong with me. I think with age it's gotten better. In my youth it was paralyzing. I was very friendly to everyone (read Golden Retriever) but terrified that if anyone really knew my weirdness they would run the other direction. I'm pretty sure I'm not the only one in the world that feels this way. So I kept/keep most of my perceived weirdness in.

Except for the dogs. The dogs get to experience 100% of my weirdness (As does the other human in my life which I completely don't understand but am endlessly grateful for). And they like it. They love when I lay in the dirt and mud so I can get a picture of them with a tennis ball under the hostas. They love that I think the dog park is a good idea even when it's forty degrees and the wind is blowing. Vegas especially loves that I will sneak her in the pool when the rest of the pack is out on a walk and then we act like, "Who went swimming? What are you talking about?"

I think the thing people struggle with, that our smarter four legged dogs don't, is that we often think that what makes us different, makes us bad, or less than. It doesn't. It's what makes us sparkle and shine.

Vegas, the Golden Retriever, has never worried that there is something wrong with her. She runs up to every stranger like THEY are their long, lost human. Vegas singularly can bring a house to it's knees by her insistent barking when there is a swimming pool taunting her. Vegas has a swagger in her walk; big, big kisses and paws the size of lion's feet. She is in a word, glorious - in all her one of kind way.

Molly, Sadie and Vegas have all loved me and taught me that who I am is enough. Even on the days when I don't feel it.

I love the rescue dogs.

Snow Birds

Boundless joy. Smiling dog. This moves me back to a place closer to center. Vegas and I are currently visiting a place called Florida. We've come to reside at my parent's house. We are, in a word, snow birds.

We both take a slight offense at the description. My objection, albeit somewhat groundless at this point, is that I come from this tropical paradise. Vegas' objection has more to do with the fact that she is a bird dog. Her instinct is to point, chase and retrieve birds - not be one. Vegas has done this bird dog activity once in her life. She is much more adept at flushing tennis balls from under the couch. But I digress.

On a warm spring day several years ago, our sweet, yellow lab Molly and the not so bright but incredibly good looking Vegas were lounging in the back yard. They were very happy as the birds chirped over their head signaling the end of winter. The yard was muddy and dirty and a sheer dog delight. Vegas was cruising the bushes for lost tennis balls -tennis balls that had been hidden under snow all winter. She stumbled upon a nest of birds. She alerted Molly - "Bark!" - come see what I found. Molly was the real bird dog. The birds take flight. Molly catches a bird, in flight, jumping in the air. Vegas catches one as well. Not quite in flight - one still sitting in the nest.

I know this story well because I witnessed it. I was sitting on the back steps watching the magic unfold. Vegas had what is known in the dog world as a soft mouth. Vegas brought her discovery over to me, in tact and unharmed. I opened my hands flat and she set the bird in my hands and we watched it fly away. Molly's bird had a different ending. Molly has passed over the rainbow bridge and I'm sure dog and bird have cleared up any misunderstanding.

Vegas and I are missing our small, old, drafty Iowa house. We miss the sharp, cold air on the dog walks; the snow covered yard. We miss our two legged and four legged friends and family, frozen in their homes. They assure us that we are in a much better place.

As long as Vegas and my favorite two legged human are with me, I know I'm home. And I am loved.

The adventure continues...

Small Stitches

Our Golden Retriever, Vegas, recently had surgery to remove some small bumps on her back. We were most thankful that they were in a place she couldn't reach so the cone of shame was not required for her recovery. Her stitches were pink. Had she been able to see them, I'm quite sure she would have approved. Our greatest challenge during her recovery was preventing her from throwing herself on her back (where the stitches were) and squirming with delight. "Do you see that big pile of leaves?!? Let's roll in them!!" or "Do you see that pile of dirt?!? Let's roll in it!!" We would run over to where she threw herself down and stand in such a way she could only express her joy on her side. She was dismayed, to say the least.

Vegas suffers from crippling arthritis in her back and legs. She has a brain tumor with a Parkinson like tremor that is noticeable when she is tired. Her new name should probably be "Lucky". She can't walk up stairs anymore and we strap her into a sassy little harness to get her up to our second floor. She should be indignant but she wags her tail and seems perfectly happy for us to assist her in the climb.

I can't remember the last time I expressed delight when being helped. Most often I feel that I have failed in some way when I can't accomplish a task on my own. Work is crazy busy and the stress of a project which spins out of control makes my chest hurt. At no time did I contemplate throwing myself down in sheer delight in a pile of leaves.

But maybe I should. Maybe that's what Vegas is saying to me. What she is always saying to me. Stop. Kick the leaves (that the human types just raked) and smile at the absolute beauty of it all. Smile at the craziness. Ignore the stuff we can't control. Smile at the helping hand someone gives you.

It's all good. And if it's not, know that there's a rescue dog out there that loves you just the way you are.

Good-Bye Lake

On my run on Monday, a bald eagle soared over my head. The cottonwood trees sent their green leaves spiraling down in a cool, fall wind. Summer is winding down and we are packing up our small trailer and headed from the Pacific Northwest to the magical place known as Iowa.

I love the way spring fills the air with sweet, wet, smells; the way summer warms my bones. I love the stillness that winter brings. But I think my favorite season is Fall - the smell of the burning wood, the crackle sound leaves on the ground make - the amazing colors. I remember when my Mom and Dad would take us to the apple orchards in Michigan and we would pick apples and get apple cider. Every time I drink cider, I think of my folks.

Vegas is winding down as well. She is in the Autumn of her life. There is a lake in front of our small cabin here and she swims. There is a winding path and she walks. There is food and she begs. She is, after all, a Golden Retriever.

Tonight as our family walked out to the lake and gazed up at the amazingly bright stars, Vegas threw herself down on the ground and began to squirm with delight as if to say, "Thank You Lake! This was an AWESOME summer!!"

She warms my soul. I am so grateful for the Old, Gold Dog.

Black Dog and White Birds

In our Iowa household we survived the most brutal winter in our recent history by leaving. We went south to the beaches of my youth - Fort Lauderdale. This was such a blessing with our two senior dogs, Vegas (the original rescue dog) and Black Dog, our second Iowa rescue. The weather in Florida was warm and sunny. My parent's home, where we stayed, had no stairs. The dogs loved it.

I am a runner of sorts - a back of the pack sort. If you want inspiration, walk back there during a long race. It's nothing short of amazing. I run to work through the noise in my head, to find happy, to figure it all out. When I am on a beach or on a trail through the farm land, the chaos begins to make sense, at least for a few short hours. And it rarely makes sense unless I'm out for a least an hour.

While in Florida I enjoyed long, slow dog walks with our senior girls. Often there were two dogs but most often it was just Black Dog and me. She loved these walks and it was her greatest joy to chase the white Ibis birds that like to flock in the front yards and eat whatever bugs they find. She would bark and chase and pull me along like a cartoon character at the end of the leash, virtually horizontal, so strong was her desire to chase.

We would return from our dog walks and she would inform the other four retrievers in the house she has protected us from imminent danger from the evil Ibis and to stand down. All was well.

Except it wasn't. Black Dog was counting her days down, which we knew, because of a large inoperable liver tumor. She gave us three months while we got ready to say goodbye.

Black Dog let me know it was time when we went on our last walk together. She walked down the street and there was her arch nemesis, a flock of Ibis. And Black Dog walked amongst them, smiling at them, smiling at me, raising her face to the sun. I knew in that moment, she was ready.

When we left Iowa, it was shortly before Christmas, so the tree and trimmings stayed up for the two months we were gone. Today I am boxing up the ornaments and decorations. Most people have suggested that if the tree is up past St. Patrick's day it might as well stay up until next Christmas.

I can't do that. I have to have faith that in a few months when we start the season of hope, giving and love, that I will find Christmas again. I have to believe that the joy that fills our heart will find it's way back. Black Dog let me know at least once a day that it was all going to be ok. She would gently lay her head on my thigh while I worked at the computer and look up with those big brown eyes.

Thank you Black Dog. I will run until I find Christmas again. I will keep writing because you would want me to.

And I will chase the Ibis.

All is well.

Being Different

Sometimes life gets too busy. You are swinging from chandeliers trying to get the project live. You run from work to soccer practice and life is spinning just so fast. Your puppy is a little dog. Your rescue dog is a grand old dame.

Writing for me has always been important. It centers me in a way almost nothing else does. I try to capture the moment, the feeling with words.

Today was a school day for the dogs. Pause here and roll your eyes upward - I know I do. They go to a doggie day care twice a week and play and sleep and make puppy friends. For months our shy Black Dog, Sadie, would do nothing more than sit by the human types at the school, unwilling and uncertain on how to play with any dog. One day, a friendly Dalmatian, Ivy, decided that Sadie would be her best friend. Ivy would lay on her back by Sadie and paw at her until Sadie finally relented. Ivy broke through. Ivy knew that under the shy, scared shell, was a Black Dog waiting to do a crazy girl dance.

I am so grateful for that spotted dog. How many of us have walked away from someone because they were different?

Vegas lays at my feet, her soft gold fur curling around her feet and neck. Sadie has already padded up to bed.

Our story is just beginning. The Rescue Dogs and me.