Summer Vacation

Two rare events are about happen. One: We are taking a vacation. Two: We are taking a vacation without the dogs. For the most part, we enjoy traveling with the dogs. Like most parents, it's all fun and games for the first five minutes.

Vegas as I've mentioned is the most mellow of car riders. She lies quietly on whatever soft bed we've created, sleeps the day away and asks for nothing. Do not drive over any of the rumble strips though because as far as we can tell, to her it's a quick onset of thunder and she will attempt to take over the driving responsibility (while I'm still driving).

Molly on the other hand is the classic definition of a dog or child with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder or OCD. "Are we there yet?" she asks, one paw on the front console, the other on Vegas' head. "Down Molly" is the response said gently, but firmly.

Five minutes later she asks, "Are we there yet?" this time with two paws on the console in the front and her back feet on Vegas' face. Vegas doesn't move but looks up at me imploringly, "Can't you do something?". "Down Molly" said firmly, with love. Molly retreats.

Five minutes later. Molly. Two feet in front, one in my coffee, one on the console. "Molly!" said not so much with love, but with exasperation. I ask the driver, "Can I drive now?". The driver responds gently but firmly, "No thank you." Molly's waltz between the back seat and the front seat goes on for the next twelve hours. She is happy, not under any duress and clearly excited about the impending adventure. I was like this at the beginning of the day.

The second day is somewhat better because she is exhausted and her trips to the front seat are broken into fifteen minute segments. Whoever is driving is content to continue driving so as not to deal with OCD dog. The passenger is using language that would make a sailor blush. Vegas remains calm throughout.

This coming week, I will know that the girls are having a weeks worth of slumber parties with their favorite dog sitter. They know that Emily is one of the pack and she loves them which makes us love Emily.

I will miss the puppy kisses, gentle head nod Molly gives, the welcome home dance. But it will be here when I get back and having something so grand to look forward to, like summer vacation, makes me smile.

Special Shout Out to Gary who Vegas & Molly met tonight at the Park. Look forward to some long walks in the future!

A Love Letter from London

Few know how the love story of Vegas and I started. I had made contact with the people who had an older dog who needed a home. Vegas was a show dog that didn't show well and her value and worth were in question to the people who owned her. That's another story for another day. My heart said yes but head was pulling me back (not standard behavior for me). I was visiting my Aunt and Uncle at the time and when Uncle Roger dropped me off at the airport, as he walked away he yelled back at me, "GO GET VEGAS!". And the rest is history.

Uncle Roger & Aunt Dania belong to Polar, Sam (dogs)and Patrick (cat). The animals wrote today (from London with a funny accent) to Vegas & Molly. It's too beautiful not to share:

Long, long ago, God created humans. Soon thereafter an incident occurred in the Garden of Eden involving snakes and apples or some such things, and God then needed a new plan. Thus, He created Heaven and Hell. He knew that humans, having been made so smart, would soon kill each other until none were left. God then sent the message that good people would go to Heaven and bad people would go to Hell. This, He believed, would cause humans to behave as He wanted them to behave because the choice between eternal reward and eternal punishment is, well, no choice at all.

As it turned out, most humans--most, but not all--got the message. Problem was, when the Hour of Judgment arrived, all humans claimed that they were worthy of Heaven. At first, it was possible for the angels to listen to all the pleas, arguments, and explanations of humans seeking admission to Heaven, each claiming to be repentant and each professing to have done the best they could. Eventually, however, the sheer number of humans to be judged exceeded the capacity of all the angels in Heaven.

So God came up with another good idea. (He is full of good ideas). He decided that people would be judged by the animals they knew during their time on Earth. It was a brilliant idea, really. The animals knew the true soul of the humans they lived with or they encountered, and the animals could not be influenced by humans’ use of words to rationalize, self-promote, and distort past events. It soon became obvious that animals were the perfect judges of humans.

And so it is in Heaven today.

A Simple Kiss

Vegas, in most true Golden Retriever fashion, has always been a great kisser. If you put your face down in front of hers, a most joyous expression of her love is sure to come your way. I assumed that all dogs gave kisses. I was wrong.

When Molly first came to us, I got down on my knees, closed my eyes in anticipation of the kisses and nothing. I got nothing. I thought, “Well she’s just warming up to us – give her time, give her time.”

She slowly learned to trust us, learned the comfort of a king size bed, learned the joy of a long walk and two square meals a day. I would bend down, ruffle the soft yellow ears and ask for a kiss. She would smile, tongue hanging out, wag her tail – but no kissing. Molly was learning the art of the tease.

I kept at it. Molly witnessed the face washing moments Vegas would give us and she learned that we were pleased. In the end, I think, Vegas taught her about the dog kiss. I remember the first Molly kiss, very delicate, very shy but it was a kiss. I gave her so much praise I thought she would split her skin. I repeated the word and she repeated the kiss. Good Girl!!

Molly is still working on the timing. Sometimes you can glance at her and she is licking the air, blowing kisses to no one in particular.

A simple kiss, a gentle touch, is all it takes some days to let you know you are loved.

A Room of One's Own

I've mentioned before that I have a 1926 cottage in a small Iowa town.  The town is big by Iowa standards but small compared to Fort Lauderdale - my home town.  We are in the process of selling this charming old house.  It has character and a name - Bessie.  I have never sold a home before but apparently there are rules.  The first rule is to make it appear that you don't live there and stage it to look like a magazine, preferably not Popular Mechanics.  The second rule is to keep it looking like this indefinitely.  If you are a neat person this is easy.  I'm a Golden Retriever and this is not easy.  I generally drop things whenever something shiny crosses my path.  When we "decluttered" and "staged" the house, I lost was my desk which was in the middle of the dining room (in addition to the dining room table and chairs).  It took one full week for me to declutter, purge and get it in boxes which were gently moved to a storage unit. 

Virginia Woolf wrote an essay I remember in bits called "A Room of One's Own".  This past weekend we went out to the storage unit and reclaimed the desk.  I have found a room and it is the basement.  The walls are painted white and I have a window, albeit a small one up near the ceiling.  I can see the bottom of the shrubs in the front yard.  It is cool and the drone of the air conditioner is similar to ambient noise.  The basement  is mostly bare except for the washer and dryer and now my writing desk.

The dogs love the new room.  They have not spent much time down here except for tornado warnings. Vegas is lying on a favorite moving blanket with her head on the cool cement floor.  The yellow velcro girl has padded up to bed already. 

Vegas and I will begin the journey up the stairs.  I am in that space where you know you need to go to bed but you don't want to waste time sleeping. I have a new journal and a space to call my own. The possibilities are endless...

Forgiveness

It’s a quick note about scared puppies. A scared seventy pound dog crawling in your arms while you sleep is just about the best wake-up alarm you can have. Now if the wake up is coming much earlier than you would like, that is unfortunate. A scared seventy pound dog is a puppy regardless of its chronological age. Last night my Golden Retriever bundle of joy body slammed me to let me know of a passing thunder storm. “Thanks Vegas” I murmured groggily.

“Hold me!!!” Vegas responded. I rub her ears and she calms down. I start to fall asleep. She sits on my chest so I can’t.

“HOLD ME” Vegas repeats. I am awake. I am listening intently for the thunder. I don’t hear it. I rub her ears some more. She is calmer. She settles down beside me, curled up under my left arm. She believes herself to be the size of a poodle. Five minutes pass. No thunder. I close my eyes.

Thunder.

Vegas stands up completely and places her two front paws on either shoulder, staring down in my face. “WHAT DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND ABOUT “HOLD ME?!?”” I sit up completely, look her in the eye and tell her it’s almost over. She walks over to the side of the bed, jumps off, lands in her dog bed and hides her head under the night stand. The message is clear – I have failed her completely.

One of my most favorite dog qualities: No matter how completely you may have failed them in any given moment, you will always be forgiven. By morning, Vegas was circling the bed handing out kisses to any face drooped over the side. All I had to do was show up.

I love this dog.

School Days

The girls were very excited. It's a school day after all. Molly jumps in the back of the Orange Toaster and sits staring out the window. Vegas is lifted in to the front seat. She circles and plops down, front paws and head hanging off the seat on my coffee cup. We begin the journey to school. Molly briefly steps on Vegas' head to check out the temperature in the front. She finds it acceptable and slips back to her throne in the back. Vegas is not phased.


We arrive at the school aka doggie day care. We sit in the car waiting for the appropriate time to make a break for the front door. Molly, being a rescue, does not like strange dogs and other than Vegas and her Florida cousins, they are all strange. She has come a long way in the four years she has lived with us but in the back of my mind I wonder, how will she react? She has a fierce bark and there is a moment where you are sure she has morphed into Cujo. You turn to look at the fierce dog she's got her ears back and smiling at you, "What?"

We make our dash for the door without any dog drama. We enter the building and then we stand staged in front of the next set of doors. The three of us stand staring at the door waiting for it to open. It's like being in an elevator. The two of them are wagging their tails, knowing that there is all kinds of fun and dogs waiting just beyond the door. The door opens and I hand over the leashes and they are gone with a "Talk to the Paw" attitude - not even a backward glance. This was not always the case. Molly was almost expelled from school. She would jump the walls.. She would try to boss the other dogs around. If she had been expelled I'm not sure how I would have felt about having this sort of social mark on her record. Would the other dogs have looked at her with a superior attitude or worse, pity? I am proud to say she is thriving and has learned how to play well with others. I believe Vegas pulled her aside and indicated that the best life choice for her was to be a good dog.

When I go pick them up tonight they will have hanging tongues, dog smiles and wet kisses for me. This will be one of the soft, sweet moments that melt my heart.

Bone Tired

Almost six weeks ago I decided to rise early and start working out again. Since that time, by Thursday I am bone tired. My afternoon's are supplemented with copious amounts of caffeine. I am not so tired Friday because the WEEKEND IS ALMOST HERE!! This weekend there is a farmer's market downtown and antiquing to be done. As I think about the prospect of playing, I can feel my tail start to wag and ears perk up.


On the two days that the girls go to school (also known as Doggie Day Care or the Spa), they play and romp and enjoy all measures of frivolity with the other puppies. They come home from school and initially you assume they've received amphetamines. They grab their toys and bolt out in the back yard, jumping on each other, the hostas, the tennis balls, reeking havoc.


Then it is dinner. Molly always acts surprised that we are feeding her. She stares at us smiling, following us around the kitchen as the various vitamins and supplements are carefully added to the dish. When she is sure that the dish is for her, she runs to her bowl and literally bounces up and down, closely resembling the plastic horse of my childhood that attached to a metal frame with springs. After every meal, she comes up to the person that fed her, touches her cold black nose to your hand, looks up in your face and wags her tail. "Thank you!" she says. This small gesture never goes unnoticed. Mere moments after the whirr of the dinner activity on these school days, Vegas and Molly crash.


I climb into clean sheets, a soft feather pillow as the wooden twinkling starts covered in silver sparkles hang in front of the window. Good-bye tired.

Toast Please

I have to say it really is the most simple things that bring the greatest joy like watching the sun set on Sanibel Island. Smell can drive such a strong memory. I had a peanut butter and raspberry jam sandwich for lunch and it took me back. I think I remember at one point boycotting pb&j's and insisting on bologna when I was little. What was I thinking?!? I keep a box of crayons at work just so I can take a whiff.


The toast smell is a favorite of mine and the dogs. Vegas and Molly are dignified beggars but certain foods make them rabid beggars and toast is one of them. It's my Dad's fault. When the two Iowa Retrievers cohabitate with the three Florida Retrievers, and it's breakfast time, it's TOOAST time. Dad makes one slice for himself and one whole slice for each of the dogs. Dad and I butter the toast for each dog. This part, is important. If you've watched Paula Deen or Ina Garten cook, butter is important. The dogs then sit patiently waiting, creating small pools of drool, until Dad finishes breakfast. At the end of the meal, they all eat toast. So in Iowa now when the toaster comes out of the cupboard and the toast smell begins to permeate the house, Vegas and Molly are front and center.

A peanut butter and raspberry jam sandwich; a brand new box of crayons; toast with butter, orange peels, real gardenias - it's all good.

Talking Dogs

What a wonderful weekend - full of visiting family and old friends in a far away, exotic place called Indiana. I never tire of driving through the Midwest - the farms, the fields, the cows and horses; New red barns, ghostly old brown ones - all staring at me as I drive by. I hadn't been back in the summer for a while and I was relieved that it was for the most part unchanged. I love that we still did the same old things like the cookout, croquet, running, holding the baby, fireworks and just hanging out. I love that these traditions and people are here and I do not take them for granted.


Upon my return, Vegas and Molly greeted me with typical retriever joy. Vegas talks. I sit down on the floor and get eye level with her. She takes her big, lion shaped paws and places them on my shoulders and then places her head on mine and tries to tuck me under her chin. Then, "Wooooo wooooo woooo wooooo" she squeaks. Vegas will not relent until she is done saying her peace. I lie there patiently, "wooooo woooooing" back to her. And then she's up and off, smiling back, knowing that she has spoken in my language and I've heard her completely. I may not have understood, but I listened.

May we all find the friend that speaks our language and listens with their heart.

May my baby brother have the best, birthday ever!

In the Face of a Dog

Scott said if he died he would come back as a dog in our family because the dogs were always treated so well. I’ve thought long and hard about this, looking for him in all of our dogs since he died on July 9, 1987.


The dogs names passing through the Wiegley doors since that time: Brewster, Bucky, Genny, Molly I, Sharkey, Tyler, Bear I, Bear II, Sam, Becky, Vegas and Molly II. Smart, driven, wild, loyal, caring, loving, expensive, fun, fun, fun. Living for the moment, ready to steal the ham, clean the dishes, hold your hand, run after the tennis ball, swim, have a party.

Well there you go – he’s been here all along. Scott is in every dog that walks through the door.

Thank you God for Scott. Thank you for the dogs who remind us, as did Scott, that life is meant for fun. I miss him so much.

The Squirmy Worm

I hate doing what has to be done. Washing the windows, rotating the tires, taking down the Christmas tree before Memorial Day – these are things that we, as responsible adults, are expected to do. But what about the Golden Retriever? What do they consider the drudgery of every day life?


Simple: They don’t.

There is simply nothing that occurs to them that they consider drudgery because everything is a party. Case in point: the bath. I am sure Vegas could define this activity in her bottom five least favorite activities. She stands there stoically, enduring the water down, soaping, rinsing. At time of release from the torture chamber (bathroom) she begins the dance. Zig zag down the family room floor, rubbing her face on the carpet. Zig zag back, rubbing her soggy red nose on the couch. Double spin (degree of difficulty here is high), grabbing the tail, appear to swoon, and land on her back for the ultimate expression of joy – all four paws in the air, back on the ground, squirming. If she was standing on two legs while she was doing this she would look like John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. This dance has a name in our house – the Squirmy Worm.

She takes the lemon and makes lemonade. She takes the bath and makes the dance.

The next time you have to rotate your tires try this: Dance in the lounge area while you wait for your car to be delivered. Imitate John Travolta. You may get some strange looks but you will laugh at yourself and the memory of yourself looking really silly. Let me know what happens.

Falling in the Hole

The truth is one of my biggest challenges in life is falling in the hole. The hole is just deep enough to cover my smile and heavy enough to prevent me from lifting out of it. Even Vegas has her hole, triggered by the thunderstorm. We all feel this way from time to time. Sadness sits on our shoulders weighing us down. We are sure we will get stuck in the hole for a day, a week, a month and the worst lie we tell ourselves is that no one else feels this way. No one else suffers from self doubt, no one else struggles with weight issues, life issues, romance issues, job issues, health issues. We cannot find a solution for the problem at hand and the sadness settles in like an all day rain.


I pretend that when I am sad, no one can tell. I pretend that it is my own little secret and the interior monologue of self loathing goes unheard by all. But I have come to realize that this is not the case. All who love me know when I’m in the hole. In part, being in a hole is in stark contrast to my Golden Retriever personality. I have learned that the fastest way out is to acknowledge it and take care of me with the most basic things: a bath, a nap, a good book, and a walk with the dogs.

The moment I focus on the dogs, I am reminded that life is full of joy in the very smallest moments. The jingle of leash brings a dance of delight. “A Walk!?! Seriously?!? That’s the best news EVER!!!”  The threat of throwing the squeaky tennis ball sends Vegas flying in anticipation.

What is most true: Squirrels and tennis balls and the dogs that chase them are the miracles of life.

Sunshine and Laughter

This Iowa day was full of sunshine and delight.  This is a phenomena that does not go unappreciated by a girl raised in Florida who now understands cold weather in a whole new light.  They actually have negative temperatures around these parts which is just wrong.  Seriously, negative numbers are not real, are they?  I was an English major so it's a detail that is not important. 

Today I swam laps at lunch again and rejoiced in the fact that I was outside, covered in sun. I swim hard to get in as many laps as possible in the short time I have to swim. The novelty may wear off but for now it is like going to camp for 30 minutes in the middle of the day.

Tonight when I go home, I will pull the Orange Toaster (an orange Honda Element that was aptly named for its shape) in the driveway. It is an old long driveway attached to an old house. As I pull in the driveway I will beep the horn to let everyone know I'm home. The dogs come up to the window in the family room and stand wagging their tails, staring out the window. I dawdle in the car (because I am a Golden Retriever) collecting the debris of the day or hanging up the phone, and Vegas barks impatiently. I slowly open the house door and it's the great homecoming. Miss Molly dances (all four legs again going in seperate directions) and smiles, panting in delight. She circles me like a flag pole daring me to walk a straight line. Vegas brings me a treat - a stuffed cow, a tennis ball or some other great reward for returning to the pack. She barks, she smiles and urges me to go in the back yard for a romp.

All I will do is come home. It will be a holiday, a celebration. I will be a hero.  Oh how I love long summer days...