Taking My Place in the Mother Line

      Yesterday was Easter. Not a holiday that I really do much with anymore, but the memory pot gets a stir.
      My maternal grandmother and whoever else attended dinner would spend the afternoon looking at photos in her albums. While the menfolk dozed, we'd sit around the freshly cleared table and listen. Not just to stories of long departed relatives, but the tales of pets.
      This kitty had wandered into Grandma's back yard and decided to stay. My mother in her two-inch heels had marched into a muddy field to rescue Brownie, a small mixed breed who'd been left tied to a rocking chair during a severe thunderstorm. Rag Mop hung out with Grandpa so much that her ex-owners decided to give her to him when they moved. On goes the list.
     My niece has a poodle from a shelter.
     We have Oakley. Do you see a pattern here?

Clawing My Way Back Onto the Wagon

   Today's bucket of cold water over the head come courtesy of several family members. We have two elders looking at moves to assisted care facilities, and one in our generation fighting off a massive infection. They're going to try taking him off the ventilator this afternoon. This group includes two diabetics and one who has lost a lot of muscle tone since she refuses to exercise. That's all she needs to do. No chronic issues, no problems, just a refusal to get out of her bed. She's paid a price for it with several infections and complications.
    I can relate. Some experience oneness with the Divine. I experience too much oneness with the sofa. With Oakley, however, stillness is not an option. We walked really well this morning. I made two additional small changes, one a big bowl of oatmeal with berries and yogurt for breakfast, and being mindful of my water intake.
     Last summer's descent into the shadowed valley of grief after Orion's crossing took a toll on me. Comfort eating, paralysis from grief, stiffness from having slept on the floor or sofa with him the last weeks, all took their toll and pasted back 40 of the 60 pounds I'd lost some seven years ago.
     So we begin again. I do a lot better on low glycemic plans than on low cal/low fat plans, so I'm looking at those websites.
      This time, it might be easier. I've relinquished the illusions that for once in my life, I'd be the Hot Chick. I don't need to be that any more. I know that I have a lot more to give the world. And I know that I have to stick around to do it.

Can't You Just Say "Oil" and Let Us Get Back to "DWTS" Already?

    Tonight, President Obama will address the nation on the role in Libya. The reason given so far: that Qadaffi, Gadafi, however you spell his name is attacking citizens who protest his regime.
     Uh-huh. So where are the planes for Darfur and other countries where human rights are vague abstractions? Why aren't we sanctioning China?
     It comes down to oil, Gentle Readers. Libya has oil. Most countries in Africa don't.
     Now, may we please get back to watching Kirstie and Maks?

Meltdown Week

    March 13-20, 2011....meltdowns on so many levels in so many ways.
    Oakley's been keeping me busy. Part of it: on top of Brittany and Great Pyr, he has some Lab in there for spits and giggles. That sweet little armload of fur and kisses turned into an adolescent the last couple of weeks and began growing, now almost out of Orion's old crate. Finally, with the help of a homeopathic remedy for ADHD (note: this is what worked for me--please consult your vet or trainer) and advice from an experienced Lab owner, he was able to get himself refocused and limit himself to normal pubescent pooch mischief, not juvenile delinquent antics. He's been leaning against me quietly, and listening better, and not mistaking us for chew toys so much.  It's been a tough road for him--taken from his biological mother too early prevented him from learning social skills, including mouthing inhibition. We're making progress.
     We have another military involvement in the guise of human rights going on. Libya has oil. We're supporting, allegedly, the civilians who want Gadaffi out. Uh-huh. Right.
    We have the fallout in Japan. The power plant damage in the earthquake came scary close to blowing up this week. For now, disaster has been averted. The fallout in human terms barely began to come into focus. There's a danger zone of some 20 miles around the plant. Food and fuel are in scarce supply. The people bear their burdens with grace and dignity while honoring the common good. In a couple of countries I could name, that level of damage would have triggered looting and riots.  
   It's mid-Sunday afternoon on the first day of spring under a full moon for the records. Hopefully, the residue of this last week of winter gets washed away by the bright light of this new season.

Oakley: The Adventure Begins

    "My mama always said, 'Life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you're going to get.'" Unless you've been hiding under a rock for the last 20 years, you've heard that oft-quoted line from "Forrest Gump."
     It's not too different when you adopt a shelter dog. The director of the shelter where Oakley came from originally thought that he was a beagle mix, then their vet noticed the long legs, adding in the Brittany. All I knew was that he curled up on my lap and fell asleep on the way home.
    Then there were some other characteristics that didn't add up on the Britt or Beagle side of the ledger. For starters, the double dewclaws on the back paws fell into neither breed descriptions. Then there was the ridiculously long tail with the little crook at the end. And then there was the black nose, and the black-rimmed eyes, and the bark. Think of the shock value of Gary Coleman opening his mouth and James Earl Jones' voice coming out.
     Answers came at last week's pre-neuter once over. The vet looked at the tail, and the dew claws, and said, "Great Pyrenees have those."
     No, no Beagle. Great Pyrenees. Calm, independent, relatively quiet, big-assed dogs. As in some males go up to 160 pounds.
     "He could go up to, oh 70 pounds," the vet guessed. A bit more than the 35-40 pound range I'd guessed at originally.
     Only time will tell. Oakley is six months old, and some feel that he may be at half his adult size.
I knew less than spit about Brittanys when Orion adopted us. I hopped on line and read everything I could about Great Pyrs. Another French breed originating in the border regions with Spain, bred to guard livestock and property. Pretty healthy. Run on the aloof side, generally, with strangers, but loving to their humans. And calm.
    I don't know how this is all going to shake out, but I'll bet the results, like the box of chocolate, will be sweet.
    
    

Collecting My Thoughts

    Monday. Breathe. Breathe.
    We find a bit of breathing room from the upheaval of the last few weeks. Tunisia fell into its new groove; Egypt kicked Mubarek out. How bad does it have to be that people would prefer to have the Army in charge than a president? The wave continues, not pretty, but tsunamis never are. It's washing over other too-long oppressed nations in the region, and there's no telling where it will stop.
    It's even reached into Wisconsin. The standoff between the state service provider's union and the Tea Party governor continues. The unions will not be broken. Compromise is one thing; union busting quite another. Let's not do that, please.
   Closer to home, our own upheaval ensued. Oakley, a charming adolescent Brittany Beagle blend, joined us on February 12. He's a work in progress, but very worth it, as is change as a whole.

Things That Don't Happen Here

   Just when I thought it couldn't happen, it did.
   My sister left a tension edged voice mail. "Call me back when you get a chance. Something happened at Northern Michigan today that I think you need to know about."
   A little cold thread crept through my heart. No. Not in Marquette. Not at my campus, all green and tranquil and edged by Lake Superior. My knees went weak. Tried to screen out images of peace torn by a spray of bullets.
     I called.
    Well, the thing that I had feared the most, that NMU would be added to the list of shootings with  Virginia Tech and Northern Illinois University, hadn't come to fruition.  An early morning web surfer has stumbled across a threat to take out the NMU president and more students than at Virginia Tech. He alerted the Marquette Police Department. The threat was credible enough to start the ball of canceling classes and locking down campus as well as the hospital and public schools.
     A blessed, blessed false alarm. Routines returned to their usual rhythms by late afternoon, and classes were back on today.
     I spent a lot of yesterday bouncing between Upper Peninsula news sites and Facebook. I was able to get back in touch via the latter with a friend from undergrad, a gift in the grey hands of the whole deal.
     While no words can shape the profound gratitude in my heart, I'm finding myself struggling with a sense of violation as one might feel after one's house gets broken into. The home of my last shards of innocence has been violated. I don't know what the new normal will be. But it will never be quite the same again.