No Skunks Tonight...

There were no skunks tonight. I haven’t seen the little bugger since he ambled over and crawled under the backside of my house. We simply can’t be careless with his typical ambivalence about hibernating. The traumatic bath, the stinky wet towels, and days of lingering foul stench are worth the extra vigilance.

So, I load up with layers…winter coat, hood up, and warm gloves to go scout for the skunk. Flashlight in hand, I first check for Rocky, my so-named flying squirrel that will some nights peer down at me from tree branches above. We barely know each other, yet he seems to trust that I might soon fill his feeder with a few night snack seeds. The beam then slowly searches corners of the yard for a white stripe and waddling steps. 

The coast is clear and the door opens. Young Ginger greets her freedom with back hair rising and bounding leaps. Next, the sheriff…Rusty…trots down three steps to resume my surveillance of all that might be. He struts, he pees, he struts. He pees again. For no apparent reason, he offers up a few authoritative barks. Ginger turns in alarm and runs to join him in his efforts to assure our safety. I have no idea what he’s barking at. Neither does she. It doesn’t matter to her. It’s all good and exciting. And it doesn’t matter to me either. I realize that it has been months since he’s been himself enough to bark at…nothing. Oh, he knows. What matters to me is that he cares. 

Mornings are easier now. After a “shot of hot”…coffee that was dripping as I still slept…the layers are worn and the door slowly opens. We must first warn the squirrels of our interruption to their frantic bird seed feast. As the plump, gray winter squirrels scurry up their trees, we hear a few chickadees announce their arrival. These brave little birds trust that I won’t hurt them, that Rusty merely wants to watch them, and that Ginger is off shaking a small limb. They follow a routine in sync with ours. They are happy. The squirrels are watching.

Coffee sustains me. I’ve often joked that I am but a quivering mass of flesh without coffee. And cream is on my short list of “I’ll die sooner before I give it up” pleasures. But this essential part of my morning rituals is so much better with just a piece of a cinnamon bun, chocolate croissant, or Frosty’s glazed twist. My dogs understand that they must wait for breakfast. Coffee, baked goodies, internet sports stories, and a thawing of body and brain come first. Their wait proves well worth it. Kibble, soft food, maybe sweet potato, and sometimes scrambled egg is their reward. Rusty dives in. Ginger plays our game of “sit…wait…take it” following direct eye contact. Upon her rescue and adoption, she was slow with eye contact. Much better now.

That space between our morning and evening regimens is also much the same each day. Whether at my office or at home, they sleep much of the time. Rusty will seek my attention, moaning, showing me where he wants to be scratched or rubbed. I’ll say, “that’s all for now”…and he resumes sleeping. Ginger just does as he does unless music is playing. It is then that she almost involuntarily warbles and howls. Cute. Annoying. Both. Eric Clapton? Keb Mo? Automatic. Recently she’s taken to James Taylor. 

While people will ask when I am going to retire, I am in no hurry. I realize that, four days of the week, I have five very meaningful conversations with five different people…or couples. My style is very different than many other therapists. I share my own stories as they might apply, literally or metaphorically. My writing has been shaped from their stories and life lessons as learned from hardship and recovery. A new client recently told me that his medical doctor recommended me as “one of the best.” This makes me proud. This is all I can really hope for.

Otherwise, I have small talk with a few nice dog friends, banter with the (very) occasional friendly person at Hannaford’s grocery store, or share that dance of language only understood by my dogs and me. This is not to diminish this dance. I used to say that my dear Nora had the vocabulary of a five year-old human child. This comes from repetition of the dance and a true concern for what each of us had to say.

I have long believed that music has been the fabric of my life. There is good food and wine, of course. And my dogs…my children…are family as much as fabric. What is true is that we have layers of fabric of different colors and patterns. Diplomas and achievements are only baubles and glitter atop those layers. History is, well…history. Love and attachments might only insulate us from the elements as much as seasonal fashions. The future, as dim as it might seem right now, is uncertain and only worthy of wishes and fantasies. 

Christmas? An ugly ornate sweater…playful, fanciful, and briefly worn. It is Jesus and a time to treasure the values and lessons we were taught by him and raised to hold to our individual and collective blossoms. The world seems to be forgetting these values and lessons in favor of a diluted politically correct wasteland. Those of us around long enough to remember will not forget them, yet sometimes hang our heads in sadness for an increasingly shallow alternative.

In the meantime, it’s every cup of coffee, every croissant, every bark and howl, every intimate conversation, every touch and glance, every raking of dead leaves and, yes, shoveling of heavy snow, every melody and lyric that matter. As time flies and memories fade, this is what we have. Right now. No…wait. Right NOW.

A Plea for Wisdom...

Everyone knows I have a thing for chimps, elephants, and really all animals. I support the ASPCA, Toys for Tots, Habitat for Humanity, and other charitable organizations. I am a 40 year vegetarian, a Christian, a psychologist, and I love my dogs. I have a few beliefs that might be considered conservative, but mostly I lean liberal. I have long supported our troops but often criticized the military, war, and the VA. I have visited most of the United States major cities and gorgeous landscape.

It could be easy to pick and choose political candidates based on my values and experiences. Geez…we even have a psychologist running for the U.S. congress but I wouldn’t vote for him if he were running for the sewer department. I am leaning towards female candidates these days yet we have a female in the senate who has betrayed our state and this country far too many times.

With this country so polarized, so angry, so blinded by lies and corruption, there might be a tendency to pick an independent, someone not tied to a party or radically different policies. The green party, the tea party, etc. etc. 

But, folks…we are a critical turning point in our history. This might be the most profoundly important election since Lincoln was re-elected in 1864. We are being held hostage by a corrupt president and his corrupt republican congress. Racism encouraged, children separated from parents, immigrants treated as criminals simply because they are not lily white. The climate is endangered to the benefit of corporate advantage and wealthy contributors. The president buddies up with dictators, hoping to be one while they simply laugh at and use him.

This is not the time to vote for some independent candidate who has no chance of winning…simply to feel good about yourselves. No chance of winning or passing legislation on some pie-in-the-sky promise. We cannot waste votes for the Save the Fruit Fly party, the Free College for All party, or I Love Avocados party.

We must vote for the Democrats. Period. If we do not take control of the Senate AND the House, we possibly headed for the end of democracy as we have known it. Short of an aneurism or heart attack brought on by too many cheeseburgers, this tyrant could be around another 6 years…that is if he and his amoral congress don’t eliminate the term limits. 

We must vote Democratic. Period. If we can somehow turn this country around and restore reason, compassion, and safety, maybe then you can save the fruit fly. For now…

We must vote Democratic. Everyone…everyone with a brain, a heart, and a soul.

God Bless Turtle Island, Land That I Love

Let me just start by putting this out there. I do not currently love my country…that is, if “my country” is what remains of the “United States of America”. Were it not for my reliance upon Medicare and, soon, Social Security “benefits” (my money, not theirs), I might very well be heading to Nova Scotia or looking for a cabana on the Baja peninsula. I cannot place a flag outside my house or salute it, sing the national anthem, or blindly accept a government that doesn’t represent me. If I were a pro football player, I would do much worse than kneel. Yes, I am both angry and sad. 

This position, these feelings, were not always true. I had that flag outside my house and left it out there 24 hours a day…believing that the men and women who were far away and at war, walked in harm’s way as I slept. The stories of my military clients only deepened my respect for them and their responsibilities in protecting me and all that is mine. My disowning of blind commitments to this government and its supporters does not suggest I have abandoned these sentiments. 

Even as a child, I would have been called a hawk (an “eyas”?) and, as an anti-war, hippy young adult, I would argue against war but not against our warriors. My beliefs eventually matured to understand that there is a need for military might in this world but continuing to hope and vote for peace. 

Upon further maturation, I now know that wars are political, financial, and manipulative. There is no other explanation for lives and dollars lost by our presence in the middle east…where factions have been at war for centuries. These wars are about oil, more money for the military-industrial conspiracy, and political gain. 

Yet, for most of my life, I have had leaders who, despite my disagreements with their values, I could begrudgingly either support or tolerate. We were most recently blessed by eight years of leadership by a marvelous, classy, and dignified man and his family. There was the illusion that this country had finally turned a corner…turned corners…African-American, funny, sincere, diplomatic, and respected around the world. He represented me as well as millions of citizens who had never truly been represented.

But now…

In the white house, literally blocks from my childhood home, lives a corrupt, sociopathic, dangerous tyrant. He seeks closeness with other tyrants. He envies them. He wants their power and he wants their respect. Undoubtedly, they view him as the fool that he is as they gain an influence that threatens us all. His is married to a morally corrupt trophy wife who likely views him with disgust but stays for her own position and power. His children too are corrupt…or dense…or invisible based on their usefulness to their tyrant sperm-donor. When any of them open their mouths, lies spill out like urine in a Russian hotel suite. 

He does not represent me and never will. He needs to go and I pray for his departure by whatever means it takes.

Worse…

The only way he can get away with lies, his corruption, his immoral decisions and movement towards a dictatorship is to have his Nazi party in power. His Nazi party is so afraid that they might lose votes from his ignorant, racist deplorables that they…do…nothing. Isolated from the world and alienation from allies? Fine. Placating a powerful, hostile enemy to gain their assistance in destroying our elections? Fine. Using his power for financial gain? Fine. 

My former party (I have none now), the democrats, passively complain from their self-righteous, politically correct perch. They could…they COULD…maintain an obstructionist, 24/7 cruisade to challenge, to undermine the Nazi party and a continual barrage of fascist exectutive orders. Going on Rachel Maddow to tell us how awful the pumpkin is won’t do it. Our country and our lives are at stake and whiny complaints just won’t do it.

Worse worse…

Nearly 50% of “Americans” support this sewage. Fifty percent! They are either ignorant, just plain stupid, or counting corporate profits. They are immoral. They are racist. They might have a few worthwhile points of view, but have no clue that fascism is not the right way to be heard. They are, truly, deplorable.

So long as the orange dictator and his Nazi party pursue racial cleansing, they will conveniently not believe overwhelming evidence of corruption and loss of respect from the rest of the world. They will drive around in their rusted pickup trucks filled with hamburger wrappers and cigarette butts and gun ra cks and believe they somehow win. They are the true cancer in this country.

And now…

We all know (well, some racist deplorables choose to believe it to be a myth) that the German Nazi party rounded up Jews, separated parents from children, and killed them. They were making Germany great again I guess. Normal, formally moral German citizens were somehow persuaded that this was okay. 

And today, along our border with Mexico, adults…many of whom are simply seeking refuge from terrible conditions in their own countries, are being labeled “criminals”. With this justification, their children are being taken from them and farmed into plantations. Oh…they’re offered clean clothes and toys. How compassionate! We’re supposed to believe that this will soften the trauma they have to endure. We’re told it’s the democrats’ fault. The deplorables believe this. The Nazi members of congress say it is wrong…and do nothing. Maine senator two-faced Collins, fresh with a new hairdo, finds it unacceptable…and then accepts it. 

This God awful creature, this pile of human waste, stop at nothing in an attempt to blackmail the Nazis and democrats to give him his goddam, useless wall just to keep a promise to his deplorable, racist followers. This act, this inexcusable abuse of power to terrify and psychologically damage innocent children goes beyond explanation...other than it is carried out by a sociopath.

And the world watches...

When the world sees this country withdraw from a global effort to save the environment, befriend tyrants, promote white supremacy, tax the poor and reward the wealthy, allow corruption in the white house, tolerate mass killings, they blame this country…the United States. They will see the precious flag as, not a symbol of liberty and democracy, but as a menace and a joke. What they won’t know is that I am not that country. I am not those values. I am just one of millions who are victims of a fascist regime.

Before this land was invaded by Spaniards, British, Vikings…whoever, there was no “America”. No, that was just a name based on one of the European conquering heroes. Before the genocide, before “civilization” was forced upon native peoples, there was no “America.” Of course, many were not aware of the expanse, the borders, the oceans. But, prior to the invasion, many tribes of indigenous people called this land “Turtle Island.” The history is very interesting and worth a read.

There was no United States. No Canada. No Mexico. There were only the vast plains of wildlife and grasses and rivers. There were majestic mountains and valleys. There were long stretches of beautiful coastline. Some tribes fought each other, but many traded and lived in peace. They worked hard, valued their young, and lived by treasured and protected values. They were Cherokee, Chinook, and Blackfoot. And they live in a land, as seen my many, known as Turtle Island.

This is the closest I can come to disowning a nation while still residing in the land I love. This was the continent of people who worked hard, valued their young, and lived and protected respectable values. I don’t love the United States of America anymore. I love Turtle Island. 

Clutter and Doom

As yet another constipated, anal-retentive spring inches it’s way towards opening skies and fertile ground, life waits in anticipation of it’s reluctant arrival. Visions of burning thermal underwear in effigy come and go as temperatures dip below freezing each night. To sleep, perchance to dream… hopes of a second visitation from dear Nora but, instead…more dreams of puzzles with no answers. Ah, but Hamlet was speaking of death…or Maine winters…I’m not sure. I don’t yearn for death unless I can be assured of a glorious reunion with my dogs…a few friends…and fewer family members. No, I yearn for spring and a good ol’ movement…ahem…of all the clutter and doom…that fills my house, my life, and this country.

I was speaking with someone about our fondness for antique malls and flea markets. I love walking around Buckdancer’s Choice, a musical instrument store in Portland. It is a virtual wonderland of gorgeous new and vintage guitars to pick up, hold, smell, strum. Other dreamers roam throughout doing the same…it’s like a brother/sisterhood of sorts. The casual shopper sees mere instruments while we see…smell…strum character, untold stories, unique personalities in rosewood and ebony. 

But this friend and I agreed to an odd and somewhat startling emerging thought. That is, we are no longer at ages of acquisition. We are nearing the age of elimination. I feel stuck someplace in between. I want that vintage dobro or that fine imported classical guitar, while also wondering who will end up with my treasured instruments when I’m no longer here to hold…smell…strum them. Of course this involves far more than guitars. This involves things…photos…even memories. At least there is hope that I can once again share these memories with those with whom they were created…if our rather negligent God decides to let us co-habitate in the same heavenly villa. 

Meanwhile, all the clutter waits. I’ve never been one to procrastinate but I do tend to overthink my solutions…if there is, in fact, a difference. Relocation plans have begun to take shape from just a huge glob of ideas to something resembling a Blue Ridge mountain with a side of Maine fried scallops. There are new piles! Goodwill here, animal shelter there, dump stuff way over there. The thinning of winter clothes is about to begin and I have way too many coffee mugs.

But as the laxative of spring’s potential nears, I understand that everything will still be darkened by the pall of stench and smoke that hangs over this country. The daily gut punch of network news…to mix metaphors…tends to make hopes and plans pointless. This so-called president is at the center of the stench and smoke…corrupt, ignorant, dishonest, amoral, and dangerous. And yet, I don’t think this bloated nightmare of a human is the source of doom and gloom. No, it is the equally corrupt politicians who look the other way. It is the basket of deplorables, made up of the greedy, blind and stupid, who cheer him. It is a cancer that can only be healed by extensive surgery and removal of an endless number of festering tumors.

I remember the feeling…early sixties. I think it was on Saturday at noon that they rehearsed an air raid siren in case of nuclear attack. I was silently terrified. Then there was the Cuban missile crisis when war was almost certain and the ridiculous promise of “duck and cover” was exposed as a lie. My family discussed fleeing to Canada, still ignorant to the fact that nuclear fallout would follow us. Well, JFK stood his ground and the rest is history. But the cold war continued as did the reality that we were all at the mercy of the power hungry players involved.

Today…I find that everything is colored by the same cloud of pessimism and helplessness. Oh, life does go on. I guess you could call me a hopeful realist. If the dishes are dirty, I clean them. I don’t mind. A clear sink is just one more way to wake to a relaxing morning of coffee, box scores, and an open mind to possibilities. Dogs gotta poop. My clients need me and I need an income. The Red Sox are flawed but winning. Like I said, life goes on.

I believe in Rachel Maddow, the New York Times, and the Washington Post. I read my sports on the Boston Globe website, but they must be owned by the NRA or some trump co-conspirator because they absolutely bury the political corruption that poisons this country. The extent of this corruption is so vast, so deep, so tolerated by the nazi (R) party and the dumbocrats that there seems to be little hope it will end. There might as well be a siren every Saturday at noon to warn us. 

Meanwhile the clutter awaits my attention. So much stuff, so little time. No, not time…but motivation. The big purge is one step towards the next phase of my life. Will there be a next phase? Can’t God get up from his sofa and send a few dozen bolts of lightening towards large white buildings in Washington? Everyone knows. Some don’t care despite their Christian beliefs being pillaged on a daily basis. Others don’t care because their bank accounts are growing. Many care but simply don’t have the power or money to sway the greedy, stupid minority. 

My American flag that once hung outside in respect for our service men and women when our naval air station was open…and after 9/11 when we were clearly under attack from foreign influence…is now inside. I will be giving it away soon. I have seen much of this country and I love it’s beauty, diversity, small towns, great food, original humble values. But I no longer love this country. To say I did would just be more, pointless political correctness. 

If I am to address this clutter, I will do so with my own, selfish purposes. My dogs and I need to be warm in the winter. We need to be near my roots. I will plan my life with no intention of achieving any greater good. I am in a profession where I can make a difference…one person at a time. That will have to suffice. I will hate…from the bottom of my heart and soul…the corrupt, entitled, lying humanoids who run this country…and it won’t matter. My clutter matters…and that will just have to be enough.

One Year

It was late on a Tuesday evening last January. Earlier that day, blood tests had revealed low blood counts. This suggested she was bleeding again. I had scheduled a transfusion in Portland for that next day. But she was weak. All the fancy, even forbidden foods that had tempted her in recent days were of no interest to her. She sat at my feet where as she had so often. I sat on my sofa, watching her try to sleep and then rise to look up at me. I knew. I knew the transfusion wouldn’t help. I knew she was failing. I felt helpless and frightened. I knew this was a cruel, winter night and that, outside, it was sleeting and slippery. Just wait for the morning. Although I knew what this meant, I’d wait until morning. 

Twelve years and twenty one days. From the first time I saw her, quarantined in a small crate at the humane society, I loved her immediately. They said this little thing from Arkansas had kennel cough and couldn’t be with the raucous, silly puppies playing together nearby. She had runny eyes and bubbles on her nose. She wore a black and orange sweater to keep her warm and her ears drooped sadly. I took her from her small crate and held her tiny body. And she was mine. I had just stopped by the shelter to drop off a few supplies and yet I knew she was mine. 

I carried her inside my winter coat that cold December. Her first Christmas. Her first toys. But something was wrong. Her front leg was bowed. She fell down whenever she’d try to run. She coughed and her nose was running. She was weak. A spinal tap and numerous other tests were all negative…except for distemper. The prognosis was poor and euthanasia was advised. 

Nope. 

When she tried to sleep, she cried. When she cried, I cried. I thought she might be in pain. Maybe it was the prednisone and antibiotics, to fight the ravaging effects of distemper. I had found and reached out to the man who adopted her sister and and learned that he had decided to put the Nora's poor sick sister to rest. Finally, her tremor became visible. I realized that she was not in pain but the constant movement in her shoulder, although not visible at first, wouldn’t let her sleep. Thanks to valerian root drops, a natural sedative, she finally slept. But the tremor lasted…five years…her shoulder and leg jerking, day and night. Her body bobbing when she sat. 

I would play tug of war with her to strengthen her neck, shoulders, and legs. I asked her to walk and run after toys. And she did. Nora always did what I wanted. Her legs grew. Her ears, folded over during teething, finally sprung up to huge, beautiful, brown and black ears. 

One other possible result of distemper was Nora's dreaming. She would full out run...bark...and kick. Her head would fly up and then she would run again. On my bed, she would kick me...with force. I miss that kick. She had nightmares too. She would cry or whine and, when I would wake her, her ears would go back as she looked around, hoping it was just a bad dream.

Nora grew and became a force to behold. Although her distemper-softened teeth never hurst a living soul, puppies and full grown dogs at the Bowdoin College athletic fields both feared and revered her. We once encountered three dogs walking towards us on the trail. All three rolled over on their sides as she approached. She would sniff them and move on, but they would bounce up and celebrate wildly that she had spared them or simply because they were privileged to be visited. This was the Nora at the dog park. Teaching puppies, playing with friends, chasing a ball (don’t go near Nora’s ball), and owning the field. When I would first introduce her to a new acquaintance, some would say, “So THIS is Nora!” Her reputation preceded her.

At home, Nora was pure sweetness. Only those who knew her at home and over time grew to understand and appreciate her softness and loving ways. Many larger dogs entered her life…Dan, my ridgeback…Dozer, the imposing Amstaff…Zeke, her shepherd mix friend…Maxie, my adopted lab mix…and finally Rusty, her beloved brother Rusty…and she was both fearless, tough, and adoring to them all. They all knew that they belonged to her. I belonged to her.

At my office, beginning the day after leaving the shelter, she was the Office Manager. She happily greeted my clients at the door and would then find her blanket on the sofa and sleep while we worked. When someone would bring a baby or toddler, she would lie on her side next to them, ears back, gently pawing at them. When someone would cry, she would go to them. She was a natural therapy dog.

Dog people…not dog owners but dog people…know how many small, wonderful routines and games…nicknames, songs, facial expressions and unexpected little events happen that only our dogs and we know and remember. Whenever I would pull into the driveway, Nora would bark. Once. Only once. When we arrived home from her dental surgery in Bridgeton, half crazy and still drugged from her anesthesia, she gave me that one bark as we pulled in. “There’s my girl!” I said.

She had several barks. There was the excited bark at someone at the door or a dog on the street as we drove by. There was her “lecture bark”…after being away for any length of time, I would arrive home first to quiet commotion followed by her sitting and sternly barking AT me…ears forward, serious expression. And there was my favorite…her “bow wo wo” head back bark.

Nora loved new toys. She loved wrapped packages for birthdays and Christmas. We would walk down pet store aisles as the checked out all the furry, squeaky toys hanging. My deal with her was that, if she pulled the same one from the display twice, I would buy it for her. Sure, I would buy one for Rusty as well, but he paid little attention. He knew that ALL toys were Nora’s toys…at least at first.    

Of course, I could go on and on. Twelve years is comprised of so many days and nights, holidays, road trips, playing, walking trails and beaches. Private moments. 

Those dog people understand. This is not losing a possession, a pet even. This is losing a loved one....a child. I have loved all my dogs equally which is more than anything, anyone in my life. But for some reason, Nora and I had something special. I’ve often thought that, being so small and sick, carrying her with me everywhere as a baby, she imprinted on me. Perhaps she was my boy Shamus, who died way too soon and around the same time Nora was born, returning to take care of me and sooth my grief. She was always concerned with where I was, what I was doing, when I would return. She never slept in the car. She waited and watched. And I was always aware of where Nora was.

And she's gone. One year tonight. That night one year ago...she was lying still at my feet. Suddenly, her head flew up and dropped to the floor. There were other details too personal to describe here and I know she'd rather I didn't. But I knew she was gone. As I went to her, Rusty left to another room. I closed her eyes. I smelled her. Brownies...or cookies. Her head always smelled like brownies or cookies.

I called the emergency hospital in Portland and prepared to take her down. I wanted to remember the cookies, not how I knew she would be if I waited too long. I covered her with one of her blankets and lay her in the back of my Forester. Rusty rode in the front passenger seat...her seat and rarely his. A slow drive, I played "My Baby's Gone" on a cd. Several times. Turning at the light to the hospital entrance, my stomach in knots, driving as slow as I could.

The young techs brought out a gurney for her and we took her in. There was no one else there at 2:30 a.m.. They both saw her, gave an "awww"...and a "poor baby." They gave me a few minutes alone with her and I talked to her. I kissed her. I smelled those cookies. I felt her soft big ears and her beautiful bushy, curled tail. I kissed her incision. And, as I had told her every night for years, "I will love you forever and ever and ever." We left. Rusty next to me. And, at home, just empty. Totally empty. My hero Rusty, with tail between his legs, next to me.

My Surfer Girl…Noreena…Eleanora…No-No…Sweetheart…Baby Girl…Peewee...Bay-Bay…Darlin'...Sunshine…my Nora…