Travelog & Dog Blog

Panic to Peace

This week has been one in which the international news has taken center stage with episodes of symbolic importance: the royal wedding of William and Kate and the killing of Osama bin Laden. In my household we experienced an episode of much more significance to us. This is the first time I've described it because I can't talk about it.  I can talk about the healing but it is too difficult to talk about the details of what happened in incident.

I ran over my dog Figaro. With my car. 

As I drive down the street to my house every night after work, I hit the garage door opener so the door is opening as I turn into the driveway. At least one of our two Bichons usually hears it and comes through the doggy door into the garage to meet me. Wednesday was no different except it was the 2d time I had to pull into the garage in 1/2 hour.  When I'd gotten home the 1st time, John, who'd gone to the grocery store earlier, had forgotten something so I had to turn around and go back out, much to my irritation.  My petty irritation: the first mistake. As I was coming home the second time the garage door was open and I was pulling in too fast (I'm sure due to my self-righteous irritation): my second mistake.  I didn't see either dog come out of the doggy door into the garage.

When I heard screaming (yes, I found out that dogs can scream), I put on the brakes, jumped out and ran around the back of the car to see what was wrong. Phoenix came out to see what the commotion was all about, so I knew it was Figaro who was (still) screaming. When I didn't see him running away from the car, I was horrified to realize that he was probably still underneath it. Now I started with the ohmygods.  ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod. Without going completely around the back of the car to the other side to see where he was (big mistake), I jumped back in the car and for a split second wondered if I should pull forward or back up to get off him.  ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod.  I pulled forward. Another mistake: I ran over him further.  Sickeningly, I could see the front corner on the passenger side of the car lift and drop down (I swear I saw it in slow motion).   ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod.  I leaped from the car to find Figaro making his way across the side yard dragging his usually curled tail behind him, looking back over his shoulder at me.  ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod. I started to go back to the car to turn it off, then changed my mind and ran back to the yard and couldn't see Fig anymore.  ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod.  So I went to the car and get my phone and came back to find him. I found him further away in the woods standing there looking at me.  I couldn't figure out how to use my iPhone to call the vet.  I kept looking at it and pushing buttons... ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod... ("no, that's Facebook, ...no that's mail...wait... OK here's the phone...where are the numbers...who am I calling....)  ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod...I finally figured out how to use  it again. Our vet was still in his office at 5:50 pm and his receptionist said if I came right away I could go there instead of Animal Urgent Care.

Now the hard part: how do I get him to the car? do I pick him up? Afraid of hurting him more,  I ran back to the house  and got a leash, came back to Figaro standing in the woods and put his leash on him...he actually walked to the car with only a slight limp. When we got to the car, I opened the passenger door and he stood there while I removed his leash and put my hands around his rib cage, lifted him onto the floor of the front seat and waited 'til I got in the driver's side. He stayed on the floor of the car while I drove the 7 minutes to the vet's. (One great thing about living in Wheeling is that it takes less than 15 minutes to drive anywhere in town.)

I am sure with all this running back around and back and forth, I must have looked like one of those ducks in a shooting gallery.

As I was driving I stopped with the ohmygods and graduated to praying "Please God, help Figaro be okay. Please help him be okay. Please please please help him be okay." I reminded myself of the Cowardly Lion in the Wizard of Oz when he kept wringing his hands with his eyes closed repeating "I do believe in ghosts, I do believe in ghosts, I do I do I do believe in ghosts.

When I got to the vet's, Fig let me lift him out of the car and he walked into the building. When we got there, he wouldn't let the vet touch him, which I thought was kind of funny because it was okay that I did, but not the vet, who he normally likes. And he wouldn't go into the room the vet wanted him to go into, he careened off to the side into a different room and slunk into a corner.  So our wonderful understanding vet followed him in there and examined him on the floor in the corner.  He seemed to be able to tell within mere moments that Figaro was going to be ok, but that he was suffering from "road rash" on his belly. I left him there overnight for sedation, pain mangement, hydrotherapy and antibiotics.

I kept praying. I immediately got on Facebook and within minutes had many other friends praying.  The next day, Figaro came home. He's sore. He's uncomfortable. His tail is still dragging and his ears are kind of droopy. But it is a miracle that he doesn't have a broken bone in his body and no internal damage.  Truly a miracle. 

 

Last Sunday at church our pastor preached about The Transfiguration of Jesus (Luke 9:28-36). He said God's gift of this experience to Jesus, Peter, John, and James was that they'd have something, some hope, to hold onto when they walked through the depths of what they were going to experience in the future. That's what this miracle is for me, along with Creation (some call it Nature) and the time God spoke to me (yes, He did and I'll be happy to tell you about it if you ask). These three experiences are what I think of whenever I doubt God's existence ("I do believe; help me overcome my unbelief." Mark 9:24)

My prayers have been answered. Again. Thank you, God.

 

More Routines Than Jackie Gleason

    Phoenix's latest: now when I put his food in his bowl he stands there and looks at me, cocking his  fuzzy white head, peering at me through the too-long hair around his eyes.  As if we have something to talk about here.  Like he's just waiting for the magic words, which I don't happen to know.  Does he think after all these years that he needs permission to proceed?  What does he think  has changed since yesterday and the other 6,299 meals I've given him?  What is he waiting for?   I will never figure this dog out.  But that doesn't stop me from trying.  I am nothing if not analytical.

    His bowl is about 18 inches from Figaro's but there has never been a problem between the two of them eating so closely together, you know, with territoriality, so I don't know what this new business of not eating is all about.  As usual, I succumb to the old "What's wrong? What can I do?" solution.  When he's pulled this before, and he has, believe me, I would  coax him on with an encouraging tone, sometimes hand-feeding him a few kibbles, sometimes placing a few kibbles on the floor.  When this has happened, it has always been at suppertime, never in the morning.  I figure maybe he's just not quite as humgry at suppertime.  So if my other tricks haven't gotten him to eat, I'll put his bowl on the counter for a couple of hours, and  when I offer it to him later he eats without hesitation.

    But three days ago, he didn't want to eat his breakfast.  Now that was unusual.  And he didn't respond to my usual coaxing.  So instead of indulging him any longer with my immediate presense, I gave up and brought the bowl with me to the kitchen table, put it on the floor beside my chair, and sat down to eat my own breakfast.  I only did this so Figaro wouldn't attempt to eat Phoenix's food, not because I thought it would solve anything.  But, lo and behold, the next thing I see, Phoenix is right there beside me chowing down.

    So for the last few meals, that has become our latest routine.  Not that it's all bad, I have to admit. Take last night: I got home from work and didn't even take off my coat because we intended to leave right away to go out to dinner.  I was going to fly in, grab John, and fly back out without catching a breath after a long day at the office.  When I got home, John said he'd fed the dogs but that Phoenix had not eaten much.  That was  an understatment.  I looked down and found Phoenix's bowl completely full.  Thinking " We don't have time for these games," I sighed, picked up the bowl, brought it over to the kitchen table, placed it on the floor and sat down, coat and all, to wait.  Phoenix eventually sidled over, sniffed around a bit, and finally began to eat.  He's a very slow eater for a dog.  While Figaro inhales his food in his imitation of  a vacuum cleaner, Phoenix is just plain slow, don't know why, perhaps the effects of aging.  As a result I had to sit at the table for several minutes while he nibbled his kibbles, one by every single one.  So John sat down at the table with me and we chatted while we waited.  It was nice.  We wouldn't have taken that nice little breather together if not for Phoenix's latest routine.   Another lesson learned from my dog.

    In any case, it seems as if I have to stay one step ahead of Phoenix when it comes to his mealtime routine.  I don't know what I'll do when this particular trick stops working.  Maybe I'll try saying "Grace."

 
  

So Much for My Perceptiveness...

    You've heard the expression "Pride goeth before a fall?"  Well, it's not just an expression; I happen to know first hand that it's true.  Being too prideful for my own good, I get my share of comeuppance.

    One thing I'm prideful about is my perceptiveness.  I pride myself on being perceptive about people as well as my dogs. 

    My people-perceptiveness is based on another expression, "Know thyself."  What I know about myself (which is a lot, and not always pretty), I apply to other people and my insights are often correct.  It comes in handy in my people-oriented business of divorce law.

    My perceptiveness about my dogs comes from my attention to detail and order (also handy in divorce law).  I have an excellent sense of hearing and an annoyingly sensitive nose (something I don't always appreciate with certain clients).  I am very good at spatial comparisons and I easily perceive patterns, symmetry, and asymmetry.  All of this leads me to notice when something is off kilter.  I notice when one of my dogs is acting even slightly different than normal and I've saved their lives on occasion by being attentive to those almost imperceptible variations in their behavior. 

    However, as with all prideful people, I'm not as smart (perceptive) as I like to think I am.  Hense, my intimate familiarity with pride going before a fall.  And if I forget that, my dogs are here to remind me.

    Take what happened last night, for example.  After John and I watched an hour of national news on the TV in our little den, we followed up with a movie while Phoenix slept on the couch.

 
I kept inviting Figaro to come up on my lap, but he wouldn't.  He would just stand there, looking at us.  Sometimes he seemed to want to jump up on the couch, but for some reason he wouldn't do that either.  So I would pick him up and put him on the couch, only to have him jump back down and resume standing there, looking at us.  This went on for hours.

 
     Because of an injury Figaro had sustained several years ago, I thought he might be in pain.  He had blown out the anterior cruciate ligament of his left knee, leaving his leg hanging and useless. He had a lovely thousand dollar surgery which fixed him right back up, but the vet attached the ligament slightly shorter than normal because he said it would likely stretch with use.  Since then, Figaro's back left leg has turned ever-so-slightly outward, the ligament never having stretched like the vet thought it would.  Therefore, once in a while, Figaro limps.  But Figaro loves to run and jump and chase and stand on his back legs, so most of the time he appears none the worse for wear.

    Recently, though, Figaro has been doing this thing that makes me think his leg is bothering him.  He'll stand there while all of us are sitting around relaxing.  Just stand there.  And look at us.  And he'll pace in and out of the room.  And he'll want to go outside every few minutes and come back in a very few minutes later.  All of which adds up to him not lying down for hours.  That is what he was doing last night.

    At one point, Figaro walked out into the hall, scratched the wall and stood staring at it.  John and I, in turn, scratched our heads, wondering what the heck?

    I was sure he must be in pain, because one symptom of a dog in pain is not lying down.  I told him, tomorrow we're going to take you to the vet and see what's the matter with you.

    I even brought a dog bed into the den so Fig could walk into that and lie down if he felt like it, but it sat unused all evening long.

    I gave him a Rimadyl for the assumed pain.  But two hours later he was still standing, looking at us.

    Toward the end of the evening, not having been off his feet for 3 hours, Figaro stood in front of the desk in the den and scratched it and whined a little, staring at it.  On a hunch, I got up , looked under the desk and pulled out his filthy tennis ball and gave it to him.

 
     Well, you'd think I was the stupidist mother in the world by his reaction. Apparently he'd been waiting for it all evening long.  He grabbed it, ran away with it, and then brought it back to me.

 
I threw it, and he chased it and started acting all happy and silly, as if he didn't have a care in the world.  Go figure.  From forlorn to free in a flash. 

 
     After that he didn't have any trouble lying down.

 
  
     So much for my pride in my perceptiveness.

 

The Weekend Getaway: Cincinnati & the Netherland Plaza

    Cincinnati may not be the most glamorous destination for a New Year's Eve celebration, but that is where John and I chose to celebrate it this year.  The reason for our choice was fairly innocuous: that's where John lived for 4 years back in mid-60's when he went to law school at night and worked for Proctor & Gamble during the day.  I'd never been there, never really wanted to go there, and, even though it is just over in our neighboring state, had successfully avoided it for the length of our marriage.  It's not that I had anything against the city, I just knew nothing about it so thought it uninteresting.  This year I was looking for some place to spend the long New Year's weekend which would be half a day's drive or less and decided to give Cincinnati a try.  I found out it had two historic hotels (The Cincinnatian and the Netherland Plaza), chose the latter for its view of the Ohio River and its proximity to the Fountain Square celebration I'd read about, and we were set.  I was not disappointed.

    There ended up being 3 things about Cincinnati that I really enjoyed: The Netherland Plaza,  the family-friendly outdoor New Year's Eve party on Fountain Square, and the National Underground Railroad Freedom Center.  Oh, and I liked Skyline Chili, too.

 

The Cincinnati skyline for which the famous chili is named is not too shabby, either:

 
   The Netherland Plaza is my kind of hotel: elegant but not snooty, big, old and renovated with the picky traveler in mind, and, best of all, Art Deco architecture. 

     
    Art Deco is defined as  "A style of decorative art developed originally [in Paris] in the 1920's with a revival in the 1960's, marked chiefly by geometric motifs, curvilinear forms, sharply defined outlines, often bold colors, and the use of synthetic materials, such as plastics." (Dictionary.com)   Art Deco moved away from the soft pastels and organic forms of Art Nouveau and embraced influences from many different styles and movements of the early 20th century, including Neoclassical, Constructivism, Cubism, Modernism, and Futurism. (Wikipedia)

    I never knew the definition of Art Deco, I just knew I liked it. And The Netherland Plaza, which opened in 1931, is a fine example of it. The Art Deco style is not carried into the 561 renovated rooms themselves. It stops at the plaque on the door to your room. 

  
But it is everywhere else in the hotel, even dressing up the interior walls of the elevators.

 
 
If you're observant, you'll see Art Deco in the tiniest details throughout the hotel, such as the radiator grates on the walls...

 

...and the silverware in the dining room...

     
...in the doorway to an office...

 
 
...the carpet in the halls...

  
...the lobby outside the dining room...

 
 ...the dining rooms themselves...

 
 
 ...and the spectacular cocktail lounge, with its lighted glass & metal-work above the bar:

From the halls and stairway of the mezzanine overlooking the dining room and lounge ...

 
...to the back stairwells...

 
 
...and the side entrance to the hotel, Art Deco is king.

     

The hotel and the adjoining Carew Tower, both on the National Register, capitalized on Art Deco for its exterior design as well.  For an Art Deco lover, it is glorious.

      The hotel is only a block from Fountain Square, shown in the foreground of the photo above, where for the winter season they install a huge ice rink on one side for skating at only $2.50 a head. They even rent skates for $2.50 as well.  In the middle of the square is the Tyler Davidson Fountain, dedicated in 1871, for which Fountain Square is named:

 

    We stolled (or rolled, in John's case, as he was on his electric scooter, Old Blue) over to the square about 9:30 on New Year's Eve, which, thankfully, was a balmy night in the 50's, and sat on the broad shallow steps of the fountain and watched the skaters and the ever-growing crowd while we waited for midnight. There was a big TV screen on which we could watch activities being broadcast from around the city while we waited. At the midnight hour, the City treated us to a fireworks display that was set off from the roof of a low building between two taller buildings across the street from the square. It was a little disconcerting to have fireworks set off so close to the crowd, but it was thrilling.  And extremely loud.

 
     We've experienced outdoor New Year's Eve parties in the past: the Duval Crawl on Duval Street in Key West, the City Market Celebration in Savannah, and First Night in Pittsburgh (still my favorite). We find that an outdoor New Year's Eve celebration is a whole lot more interesting than a big loud party in a hotel or bar.  And Cincinnati's Fountain Square party proved satisfactory.  It was great for people-watching from the steps of the fountain.  Those same people that we were watching were helpful to John as he maneuvered Old Blue out of the square along with thousands of others trying to leave all at the same time. It is truly amazing how fast a crowd at an outdoor venue can evacuate in an orderly and peaceful fashion.

    On New Year's Eve Day itself, after eating at Skyline Chili (my first experience...had it "Three-Way," over spaghetti, with beans, topped with shredded cheddar, and savored the touch of cinnamon they add to the recipe), we spent several hours at the National Underground Railroad Freedom Center.  What a spectactular museum. It's huge and spacious, appearing to be housed in 2 or 3 purpose-built interconnected buildings. I don't think I've ever been to a museum that employed such a variety of methods for presenting its theme. There were original films and videos playing  in several small theatres, a live one-man monologue performed in costume and character presented continuously by alternating actors, paintings, photographs, tapestries and wallhangings, life-size and miniature dioramas, recordings, documents, archeological finds, and, the piece de resistance, the Slave Pen, recovered from a Kentucky farm only 60 miles from the museum. One of the permanent installations, entitled "Invisible: Slavery Today," is not only colorfully artistic, but eye-opening and disturbing. There was so much to absorb that I could not do it in the 4 hours we spent there.  My feet finally gave out and we had to make our way back to the hotel,  4 long uphill blocks away.  In my preoccupation with the exhibits, I didn't take any photos of the museum, but its website has some excellent ones to peruse. www.freedomcenter.org/

    I would go back to Cincinnati and would probably even stay at the Netherland Plaza again. The room we had was one of the most spacious rooms we've ever had...it looked like when they renovated  it they took a wall out between two smaller rooms. It was perfect for us since we travel with a bunch of health care equipment for John. And it was surprisingly inexpensive. I mean, its prices don't compare to the Motel 6 (remember, you get what you pay for), but it was much less expensive than the last two hotels I wrote about, The Bedford Springs and the Summit Inn. Of course, when you add State, County, and City taxes, $21/night for valet parking, and all those tips  for the hotel and parking staff,  it starts to add up, but still, it was a whole lot less expensive in more elegant digs than the four-day trip to London we took with my folks back in 1998. And since we'll never be able to travel by air again, given the state of John's health, I thought it was a pretty darned good deal.  (Does she protest too much? Maybe, but I enjoy at least one good rationalization a day.)

    Also, the cupcake store in the hotel was closed for the holiday.  I really wanted to try one of those. Another reason to go back.

 

 
 

What Dogs Don't Think About

Do dogs think?  I think they must.  The other day, Figaro was scratching to get outside not long after I had let him in.  So, as usual, being at his beck and call, I let him out, yet again.  But when I watched him through the window, he didn't go out to water the bushes again.  He didn't sprint out to see "What's that noise?"  He didn't even put nose to ground to explore the scents.  He just ambled down the front walk.   It was really kind of interesting, because he seemed to be taking a stroll. When we humans take walks, we think about things.  So I wondered what Figaro was thinking about as he wandered down the walk.

Well, I don't know what Figaro thinks about when he takes a stroll.  But I know what he DOESN'T think about.

1)  He doesn't think about how two of his close friends had an affair with each other when married to others.

2)  He doesn't think about friends getting together without inviting him, and then making a point of telling him.

3)  He doesn't think about his mate stepping out on him.

4)  He doesn't think about his boss firing him just before the holidays.

5)  He doesn't think about friends avoiding him when he's going through a bad time.

6)  He doesn't think about his best friend forgetting his birthday.

7)  He doesn't think about his spouse ignoring their anniversary.

8)  He doesn't think about his employee stealing from him.

9)  He doesn't think about his business partner not pulling his weight.

10)  He doesn't think about his children forcing him into a nursing home.

11)  He doesn't think about his doctor missing the diagnosis.

12)  He doesn't think about his lawyer taking his money and not working for it.

13)  He doesn't think about going to school and not being taught anything.

14)  He doesn't think about his client not paying for the services he gave him.

In other words, he doesn't think about broken promises and betrayal.  He doesn't have to, because he doesn't experience it.

As I watched Figaro meandering down the walk the other day, it looked kind of sad, a forlorn little figure, out there all by himself.   Obviously I was personifying.  He has a good life, full of love and warm attention, and blessedly lacking in betrayal.  As faithful as I am to not betraying him and his needs, I wish I could be as good with people. 

It's easy to give Figaro the good life.  With dogs, their needs and boundaries are so obvious and remain constant.  They never ask for more than they need.  It's harder to give in human relationships. With humans, their "needs" and boundaries are ever-shifting.  They continually seek more than they need.  And that tends to be at the expense of other humans.  Think about it.  We  buy Christmas presents for our family and friends (to help them in their quest to acquire things beyond their basic needs), and the money could have gone to the Soup Kitchen.  Or to that woeful figure who stands on the side of the road near Perkins peddling the daily newspaper.  So the Christmas presents were purchased at the expense of the poor.

Betrayal.  We do it everyday.  Our society encourages it and we succumb.   I wish I were different.  More like my dog, who needs only food, shelter, warmth, and love, and who gives what he can, his companionship and, more important, his loyalty.  And sometimes kisses.

 

  ( God, please help me be more like my dog.)     Merry Christmas. 

In Defense of the Indoor Dog

Because most of my posts on the Travelog & Dog Blog are about how my indoor dogs drive me crazy, most of the comments my cousin Paul posts on my Blog are about the advantages of outdoor dogs.  That has lead me to realize that if a non-dog person who didn't know me happened across such posts as "The Contest," "Whirling Dirvish," "Words of Wisdom by Yogi Berra," "The Chicken, The Cow and The Donuts,"  "A Dog's Work is Never Done," or even "The Day My Dog Wore Underpants," the reader might think, like Paul, "Jeesh! If you've gotta have a dog, get one you can keep outdoors."  But for those of us who don't keep dogs for hunting or guarding, them words is fightin' words!

I started to wonder why, though.  If not for hunting or protection, why have a dog at all?  I've touched on reasons in some of my posts, "Grace," for example, but have never addressed the question head on. 

Owning dogs is kind of like having children who never grow up and are always dependent on you.  When they finally start to act more like adults than rambuncious 6-year-old children, you're stuck dealing with their aging issues, like expensive medical treatment and medications, or bad breath and teeth cleening.  Dog ownership always involve things that make a non-dog person shake his head and wonder, "What's the point?"

So, to the point.

Why?

Hmmmmmm.... where to start.  Well, for one thing, I love it when I come home to their joy upon seeing me.  Okay, maybe it is only that they want food and they see me as the source of that food, but I have to smile when they streak to the car as I drive up.  As I open my car door, they crowd around to greet me after a long hard day at the office, and the issues of the day begin to fall away.  It is true that an outdoor dog would probably do the same, but I wouldn't want their muddy paws all over me as I exit my vehicle.

 

 

 

 

Here's another thing.  After I've fed the dogs, whether it be in the morning or evening, if I sit down and put my feet up as I am wont to do, they want nothing more than to be next to me.  I love that. One of my favorite parts of the day, in addition to spooning with my husband as we fall asleep, is my early morning reading time when the dogs snooze snuggled up against me.  We can sit that way for hours.

One might argue that, like their after-work greeting, this is selfish behavior on their part, because they just want warmth.  I don't think so.  I mean, that might be partly true.  But I believe that they want to be as close to me as they can because they like being around me.  You see, as I sit at the computer, Figaro has found a new place to rest, on the floor right beside my chair.  Since he cannot be on me, he chooses to be near me.

 
 
Let's see, what else? ... Okay.  I am a morning person, John is not.  John is also a napper, while I cannot for the life of me take a nap even when I want to.  So John is often asleep when I'm up and about.  With my indoor dogs, I always have someone around to  listen when I feel like talking.  I can say whatever I want, whenever  I want to, and they don't talk back, or argue, or correct me, or yawn in disinterest, or change the subject, or interrupt, or shift their eyes back to the television, or...well, you get the idea.  In fact, they exhibit a keen interest in all my jabbering.

 And then there's this:  Although I write about their rambunctiousness, oftentimes we simply experience quiet companionship.  I sometimes try to imagine what life would be like without them, and I realize it is their companionship that is the number one reason I have indoor dogs. 

I think that truly brings me to the point.  (Bear with me on this.)  I don't listen to the radio much, but I was listening to K-LOVE the other day as I was driving and a young man said, "Reading the Bible is not about finishing it.  It's about a having a relationship with Jesus.  And if you want to have a relationship, you do what you do in a relationship."  He didn't expound, and maybe that wasn't the most artful way of expressing it, but it made sense to me.  I thought about what you do in a relationship: you spend time together, you laugh at each other's jokes, you show off for one another, you do things together, you play together, you have meals together, you talk, you take walks together, you go places together, you seek each other out when you've been apart for awhile, you sit in each other's presence, you enjoy companionable silence.  That's what you do with your spouse, your boyfriend or girlfriend, your same-gender friends.  That's what you do with Jesus, in case you didn't know.  And that is what you do with dogs, if you choose to have one.  This is especially true with indoor dogs, because of their more constant proximity to you.

A non-dog person might argue, "You can have all that with people. Why bother with all the trouble and expense of dog ownership?"  My response: the more diverse your relationships are, the fuller, richer and more satisfying your life is.  Of course, if you don't have a dog (or Jesus, I might add) in your life, you aren't aware of what you're missing.  You go on forever without experiencing the joy that relationship would bring and you feel, rightfully so, that life is pretty darned good, but, regrettably, you'll never know that it could be even better.  And who wouldn't want life to be even better?

 

(Our niece, Kayli, Feb. 2004, experiencing the joys of our indoor dogs, Maddie, Phoenix and Figaro)

A Dog's Work Is Never Done

6:25 a.m.  (yawn...)  Time to get up.

   

Big day ahead. 

6:30 a.m.  She's not moving.  I better wake her up.  (scratch.  scratch. scratch.) 
hmmm, nothing.

Okay, time to bring out the big guns.

BARK! BARK! !BARK!!!

6:31 a.m.  Oh, good. ...

 

...movement.

6:32 a.m.  hmmm, the door is still closed.  Okay, here it goes again.

BARK! BARK! !BARK!!!

6:33 a.m.  Door's opening. ...ahhhhhhhhhhh...... relief......

 

6:34 a.m.  Huh?  What's that?  A new smell?  I...can't...quite...identify...it.  I wonder if it's that weird looking grayish thing with the pointed snout, black eyes, and long naked tail that waddled through here the other night.  She wouldn't let me go out after it.

6:34 - 6:40 a.m. sniff...sniff...sniff...ahhhh....sniff...sniff...sniff...ahhhh....sniff...sniff...sniff...whaaa? Oh, great, it's those huge four-legged brown creatures that I can't seem to keep out of my territory...(Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! barkbarkbarkbarkbarkbark Bark!)  Finally... all gone. Now what was I doing?  Oh, yeah.   sniff...sniff...sniff...ahhhh...shiff...sniff...shiff...ahhhh...

6:40 a.m.  Door's still closed. (scratch.  scratch.) 

 

I think I hear someone in there.  (scratch.)  Oh, good, door's opening.

6:41 a.m.   I'm starved.  Aw, c'mon, this again?  Oh, well, better than nothing.  Better act really hungry or she'll put me back on that diet.

 

6:41:30 a.m.  All gone. (burp)

 

6:41:30 a.m.  Anymore where that came from?

6:42 a.m.  Door's opening.  Freedom!  Wait.  Wasn't I just out here?  (scratch.  scratch.) 

 

Why can't I reach that door knob?  (scratch.  scratch.)  Thanks.

6:43 a.m.  Time to push the pillows off the couch.  (squirm, squirm, squirm, squirm, squirm, squirm squirmsquirm)  Last one.  (squirm, squirm squirmsquirm)  There.  (pant pant pant)

6:46 a.m.  Ah, her lap.  (turn... turn... turn)  One good turn deserves another.  (turn)  (plop) (snuggle, snuggle)

 
 
 6:47 a.m.  (snore)

6:57 a.m.  (snore)

7:07 a.m.  Time to move up to the back of the chair.

 
7:17 a.m.  (snore)

7:27 a.m.  (whimper...whimper....whimper...)  (feet tremble)  (woof...)  (feet tremble)  (woof...)

7:37 a.m.  (snore)

7:47 a.m.  hmmmmmmm.....?  I have to get up?  (groan) 

 
7:50 a.m.  (lap, lap, lap, lap) mmmmm, love the water that leaks out of the shower...

 

so much better than the water she puts in my bowl....(lap lap lap lap lap)

8:00 a.m.  (scratch)  I really need to get out of here...I can't do it in here where she can see me.  I hate it when she yells.  (scratch)

 

8:01 a.m.  Door's opening. Freedom!  ahhhhhhhhhhh...... relief......   (scratch.  scratch.) 

 

Why can't I reach that door knob?  (scratch.  scratch.)  Thanks.

8:02 a.m.  (Owooooooo.....)  I hate the noise of that contraption.  And I hate even more what it does to her hair.  It makes her look kind of like that weird looking grayish thing with the pointed snout, black eyes, and long naked tail that waddled past the other night.

8:10 a.m.  (lick, lick, lick...) Wonder why she doesn't like it when I stand here and lick my brother's face and neck and ears over and over again. (lick, lick, lick...)

 
You would think she would appreciate that it keeps me from doing all those other things that seem to annoy her.

8:15 a.m.  It sure gets boring when she sits in front of that mirror. 

 

 (scratch.  scratch)  (whine) (scratch. scratch.)

8:16 a.m.   Door's opening.  Freedom!  Wait.  Wasn't I just out here?  (scratch.  scratch.) 

 

Why can't I reach that door knob?  (scratch.  scratch.)  Thanks.

8: 18 a.m.  Here's my ball.  Can you throw it?  (whimper)

 
 8:19 a.m.  Here's my ball.  Can you throw it again?  (whimper)

 
 
8:20 a.m.  Here's my ball.  Can you throw it again?  (whimper)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

8:21 a.m.   What's wrong?  Why won't you throw it again?  Jeesh.  Bo-ring.

 

8:22 a.m.  Hmmmmmm....maybe this'll get her attention....oops!  Sure did.  Wonder why she's always mopping the floor.  Looks perfectly good that way to me.  In fact, I prefer it.

8:27 a.m.  Well,  I guess it's about that time again.  (scratch.  scratch.)

 

8:30 a.m.  Door's opening.  Freedom!  ahhhhhhhhhhh......

 

relief......   (scratch.  scratch.) 

 

Why can't I reach that door knob?  (scratch.  scratch.)  Thanks.

8:32 a.m.  Wait.  Wait.  Where are you going?

 
I thought today was "Take your dog to work day."   Isn't that what you said earlier?   You even posted it on Facebook.  What?  What do you mean you were just kidding?   Some joke. 

 

I got all ready to go.

 

 

Are you SURE I can't go?

 
 

 

rats.

 

Weekend Getaway: The Summit Inn

Ever heard of the "grand porch hotels" in the United States?  Me neither.  Until John and I hit the Summit Inn last weekend.  It was in the Inn's brochure where I came across that term,  describing  itself  as "one of the last remaining grand porch hotels of the United States."  I googled the term "grand porch hotel" and, amazingly, got no results.  So that just goes to show you, the internet doesn't give you access to EVERYthing.  Of course, you may respond, "That only proves that there is no such thing as a 'grand porch hotel.' "  I am happy to report that you would be incorrect about that, you old cynic, you.  However, I grant you that there may be only one other historic grand porch hotel in all of America, that being the Grand Hotel on Mackinac Island, Michigan, boasting the longest front porch in the world, 660 feet.

John and I had driven past the Summit Inn, just east of Uniontown, PA, on the historic National Road, U.S. Route 40, at least 15 years ago.  I thought it was stunning.

 
In fact, I was so intrigued by my first view of the Inn that I begged John to turn around and go back  to see if we could have lunch there.  Even though it was a cold, foggy day, we had lunch in a huge white dining room with white linens brilliantly lit by daylight filtering through the long wall of hundreds of windowpanes.

 
My recollection is that we were the only people in the dining room, except perhaps for one other couple, which explains why the waitress last weekend told me they haven't served lunch in that dining room for 15 years.  But it was the memory of that dining room that drew me back.

When I mentioned to a friend that we were going to try to get reservations for a night at the Summit, she told me that it might not be open, because it closes during the winter.  So I called and found out that they were going to be open that weekend. But I was lucky I wanted to do stay there that particular weekend and not later on, because they were closing for the season after that.  And although we'd be able to have breakfast at the Inn on Sunday morning, no other meals were being served, since they were closing, not to reopen until mid-April.  That was no problem for us since they assured us that there were plenty of decent restaurants nearby.  And so we were on our way.

Our home in Wheeling, WV, is only about 75 miles from the Summit, but because we were driving the convertible and wanted to avoid the interstate, we took National Road all the way over.  It took almost 2 hours.  We drove through Uniontown and began the ascent up what used to be known as Mt. Summit, according to one of my friends who remembers vacationing there as a child.  
On the way up that long stretch of Rt. 40 which snakes up the mountain, we stopped at a roadside overlook.

Although we couldn't see The Summit Inn ahead of us, we could see Uniontown in the valley behind us.   And we were surrounded by the magnificant Laural Highlands. 
A short distance away, we came upon our destination.  I had forgotten how closely the Summit Inn sits next to the roadside.  We practically stumbled into the front door as we crested the mountain and rounded the bend in our vehicle.

 
But it was still impressive, that grand old lady situated on the hill beside National Road, like a beacon for weary travelers. It deserves its place on the National Registry of Historic Places.

After the Hotel opened in 1907, it became a destination for the rich and famous, like Henry Ford and Harvey Firestone and Thomas Edison.  But within a few decades it was outshone in elegance by other fancier resorts and hotels and began welcoming the middle class and its families.  The Summit itself has been owned by the same family since 1963, and as such has maintained a laid-back comfort, not the spit and shine sparkle and polish of the nearby Omni Bedford Springs or Nemacolin Woods.  And the prices reflect that.  For the cost of one night at either of those other two resorts, you could spend 2 or 3 nights at the Summit.  While once in awhile I like that posh pampering of self one can experience at an Omni, I prefer the heavy dark wood and fieldstone decor and friendly staff and clientele of the Summit.  (I'll never forget the sidelong look of distaste a skinny chic 20-something tossed at my husband as she passed him in the lobby of the Omni Bedford, where he was sitting in a wheelchair, breathing from his oxygen tank, bundled up in his puffy down jacket, because he is usually freezing, wearing his faded-to-pink OSU cap, waiting for me.  I couldn't help myself: I enthusiastically spoke louder than I needed to as I sauntered past her, "Hey, honey! I'm back! What shall we do now?" and kissed him on the cheek.  I just wanted her to know that he wasn't a homeless man in the wrong place.)   

It was funny being at the Summit on the last day of their season.  The outdoor pool, which looked inviting, seemed to be open, and the indoor pool and excercise room were closed.  By the way, Olympic gold medalist Johnny Weissmuller used to perform at the Olympic-sized outdoor pool.  Yes, I do mean Tarzan.

 
 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

But the grand front porch was open for business.  

  
 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Even though he's usually searching out heat, John couldn't help but accept the invitation of the grand front porch to pull up a rocker, take a load off and set a spell.

 
But after awhile, John sought out the warmth of the roaring fire in the huge stone fireplace in the lodge-like grand lobby of the Summit Inn.

After he got warmed up, we had a drink in the jewel of a bar snuggled between the lobby and the ...well, another big room with easy chairs and lots of windows. The bar is called the Wunder Bar Lounge.  I loved it because it was so small that there was only room for 5 stools at the bar, and 4 little high top tables with a total of 10 stools around them.  Being a family resort, the Wunder Bar was not designed as a place to hangout for long, but its coziness was inviting.

We ended up at the Uniontown Mall for dinner.  Now, think what you like, that is not a negative. There were plenty of nice places to choose from on a list at the Hotel, but we pulled our usual and waited too late to make a reservation on a Saturday night.  So we went to this little Italian place in the Mall called The Grotto.  It had a dark cozy atmosphere, good food, good wine, and not terrible prices.  So we were happy with it and would go again, I think.

Our room at the Inn was spacious, sparcely furnished but with good quality furniture. The bed with its memory foam mattress topper and feather pillows was very comfortable.  Not much more to say about it, except that I am totally spoiled by hi-def TV, which the Summit does not have.

At dawn on Sunday morning I explored the grounds.  I found a path beside the pool that went up behind the Hotel to a little picnic area with an outdoor stone fireplace and a charcoal grill.  I followed the path until it diverged in the wood and I took the one more travelled, up to the Summit Golf Course, a 9-hole, par 35, whatever that means. True, I'm not a golfer, but I loved the scenery up there.

  
 
  
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was quite a steep trek to get there.  I don't think golfers walk to it.  I think they have those great little carts that keep them from getting any exercise from the waist down, because I saw some paved paths up there.  Anyway, once I made it up to the golf course and caught my breath, I was treated to a sunrise which became more and more glorious over the 20 minutes or so I spent up there.

 
 
  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I came back down the path toward the outdoor pool at the Inn and saw, in the magnificant bank of windows between the indoor pool and the outdoor pool, the reflection of the pink morning sky over Uniontown in the valley below.  And the front porch over the carport was beautiful in the morning sunlight.

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We had a satisfying breakfast in the cozy dining room called Mae's, which had a fire going in the fireplace. Then we loaded the car and pulled out through the carport and headed home.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was a brief stay, but one that intrigued us enough to plan a return visit to experience the little resort in the summertime.  There are several nearby attractions, such as Fallingwater, the Laurel Caverns, Ohiopyle, Fort Necessity, and the Clay Winery.  But I do need to remember some things for our next stay.  The Inn does not provide some of the amenitieswhich we have come to expect as standard in hotels: elevators, hairdryers in the rooms, a warm bathroom (to be sure, each room had its own very nice tiled bathroom but it was not warm by any stretch of the imagination), and, most difficult for us to do without, a bellhop or at least a luggage trolley, a front entrance without steps, and automatic front doors.  In other words, for the disabled, the Summit Inn is not conveniently accessible.  On the other hand, one of the things I liked best about the Inn is that for a $20 fee, it is pet friendly and I got to meet Tootsie (see below).

 

Whirling Dervish

Whirling Dervish (wurl-ing dur-vish) 

n. 1. A mystical dancer who stands between the material and cosmic worlds. His dance is part of a sacred ceremony in which the dervish rotates in a precise rhythm. He represents the earth revolving on its axis while orbiting the sun. The purpose of the ritual whirling is for the dervish to empty himself of all distracting thoughts, placing him in trance; released from his body he conquers dizziness.

 
I've decided my dogs are whirling dervishes. I cannot tell you how many times they have gone into what we call their "blitz," which fits the description in the definition above. Every so often (too often, in my opinion), one of our two boy Bichons will begin running around in a circle.  Not a small circle, as if he were chasing his tail.  No, nothing as mundane as that.  They take up a whole room with their "dance."  Out of the blue, one begins to run a wide circle around the room, weaving around certain pieces of furniture.  Then the other joins in.  They don't change their route; they run a path in the carpet as they chase each other madly.  Then one starts barking, which incites the other to bark, louder.  They change directions.  They change directions back.  The dervish dance becomes so frenzied that they cannot hear me when I step into their path and shout, "STOP!!"  They ignore me and avoid my hands as I reach for one to try to stop they crazed ceremony.  Neither one will slow down enough so that I can grab him and interrupt the rhythmic ritual.  I feel like their sun as they orbit me, faster and louder all the time.  Suddenly, empty of energy to endure the ecstacy one moment longer, they stop for breath and stand still, panting, tongues lolling and dripping, sides heaving, eyes wild.  The trance is finally broken.  I pick up one dervish and cradle him in my arms, to ensure that it's over.  That doesn't guarantee that the other dervish won't get his second wind and think to begin whirling again, but when I carry the one in my arms away, out of sight, the idea loses its charm.  Whew.  Until the next time.

 

Dog Bests Cat by 990 Lives

    I'm not happy when a doctor is wrong.  Except for these days when I am pleased to announce that my dog's vet might very well be wrong.  A couple months ago he informed me that Phoenix would probably not last the year and to feed him whatever I could get him to eat (except candy and gum, of course).  I was so sad, partly because I love my sweet little shadow and I'm not ready for his demise, and partly because we'd recently lost two other pets within less than a year. In April we literally lost Maddie (and then found her little body drowned in a creek), and last November we had to put Sasha the 17-year-old cat to sleep.  So I wasn't ready for another death in our family.  I mentioned the vet's prognosis  and his suspicion that it was hemangio sarcoma on my FaceBook page and true to form some of my friends prayed for us.  The prayers have had an effect. Phoenix has bounced back, yet again.  He's like the proverbial cat with 9 lives.

    Let me take you back 5 years.  In 2005, Phoenix began to look a bit thick.  He started to act like it, too.  I mean he was kind of slow, as if he didn't have much energy or maybe he didn't feel well.  Our vet took a chest Xray and discovered that Phoenix had a pericardial effusion:  the sac surrounding his heart was filled with fluid.  The vet performed a thorocentesis and over a couple days removed 1500 cc's of fluid.  Because I'm a wine lover, I liken that to 2 wine bottles. Can you imagine lugging around 2 bottles of wine in your body that you hadn't drunk? I guess you'd look a bit thick, too.  Maybe act like it as well.

 
    But I digress.  Our vet couldn't determine the cause of the effusion and he referred us to a board certified veterinary cardiologist up near Pittsburgh.  It's amazing that even in dog medicine they have specialists. But just like in people medicine, they are not infallible: the specialists had no answers and sent us home to suffer in silence our lack of information and our much thinner wallet.

    On the other hand, Phoenix was no longer suffering.  The pericardial effusion never happened again.  Until this summer, that is.  In June, 2010, Phoenix began to lose his appetite. He wasn't losing weight (in fact, I thought he felt awfully heavy), but he was lethargic.   When I took him to the vet, neither of us recalled the episode in 2005, so initially the vet didn't find anything. He figured Phoenix was just "off his feed," that euphemism for "I don't know what's wrong with your dog."  He gave Phoenix an injection to stimulate his appetite, gave me some canned dogfood to attract him to eat again, and sent us on our way. Well, Phoenix was having none of that.  He simply would not eat.  So I took him back to the vet.  The vet said, "Good news: his weight is up. He's gained a pound and a half."  I frowned and said, "That is anything but good news, because he hasn't eaten a thing since I had him here 4 days ago."  That stopped the vet in his tracks.  He flipped through Phoenix's chart and found the notes on the 2005 episode.  So on a hunch, the vet took a chest Xray and discovered the pericardial effusion was back.  No wonder Phoenix felt heavy.  And looked thick.

 
With that discovery, the vet performed a thorocentisis and removed 700 cc's of fluid from around Phoenix's heart over two days. That's almost a whole bottle of wine.

    The vet also found that, because of these effusions, and perhaps age, and whatever else he's got going on in there, Phoenix's heart has become quite enlarged. For you non-medical types, his heart is a muscle and it was being exercised more than normal trying to pump against all that extra fluid surrounding it, so it has gotten real big and strong.  Think of Arnold Schwartzenager's bicep.  Ugh.  The problem with that is that the bigger the muscle has gotten, the less room in his heart's chambers to receive the blood it's supposed to pump around the body.  As a result, the blood backs up and he ends up getting thick, as I put it, or in heart failure, as the vet put it. 

    After the vet removed the 700 cc's of fluid from around Phoenix's heart, I just assumed things would be like 5 years ago and we could forget about it.  I'm such an optimist. It's one of my charms.  But the removal of the fluid left Phoenix very skinny and boney. He looked anything but charming.  I couldn't believe how different he looked.  The vet wanted Phoenix to gain a pound or two. That was when he told us to do whatever we could get him to eat.  I wondered if that included feeding him at the table.

 
     We started hoarding all our leftovers at home and from restaurants and concocting meals for Phoenix.  He loved it and ate very well all summer.  He seemed back to his old self, except for his skinniness, which I have decided is mostly due to his old age.  After all, he's anywhere from 10 to 13 years old, which, as we all know, is 70 to 91 years old in dog years.  And think about it: how many fat 70- to 91-year-olds do you know?  The elderly naturally lose weight.   (See, girls? There's still hope.)  So I thought, "Great, we've licked the problem again."

    Not so.  In September, Phoenix suddenly lost his appetite again.  But when the vet shot another chest film, there was no fluid to be seen.  That took us aback.   So the vet put him on 2 medications for heart failure.  Even after that, Phoenix didn't perk up.  Usually, when he's feeling good, he's follows us everywhere. But he wouldn't even raise his head when we left the room.  Two weeks later the vet took another chest Xray.  This time the vet removed 200 cc's of pericardial fluid, but there was a change in the appearance of the fluid: now it was brownish colored.  Not good.  The vet said, "I don't know how many more times Phoenix can take it. There will be scar tissue building up from all these thorocenteses. But I'm up for draining the fluid for as long as Phoenix is up for it." 

    Well, it's been a month since that somber declaration and Phoenix is back to normal again.  Still skinny, but he's the energetic shadow he always was. He doesn't even need people food to coax him to eat now.  One night a couple weeks ago we couldn't find any leftovers and didn't have time to cook up anything, so we served him the same dry kibbles we used to.  He dove right into them and licked the bowl clean.  He wouldn't let Figaro nose his way into his bowl, no matter how persistant Fig was. 

 
He's even back to his endearing routine of rooting around in his basket of toys and bringing me one of his two or three favorites to throw for him.

 
Then he runs to fetch it. And I do mean run.  

 And when he brings it to me,he won't let go until I wrestle it from him.

 
He'll do this over and over again until he gets tuckered out.  So it appears that we're out of the woods again.

    I said Phoenix has nine lives. His first four were saved early on. 1) In 2000, he was a lost dog, wandering around on his own for God knows how long, sad and lonely, filthy, skinny, hungry, and covered with burrs. Someone found him and took him to the animal shelter.  2) The animal shelter turned out to be a kill shelter.  He was saved from that by a lady who rescues dogs from kill shelters and takes them to her own home in the country where she kennels and cares for them until she can find homes for them.  3) A dog the lady was kenneling was found to have parvo, a highly contagious and potentially deadly virus attacking the lining of the digestive tract.  All the dogs she had rescued were quarantined for two weeks to see if any of them were infected.  Phoenix was not.  4) We found him on the internet and drove all the way across the State of Ohio to bring him home with us.

    Maybe you're a little obsessive-compulsive, a little legalistic, and you're saying, "Well, all those episodes don't add up to 9 lives. " May I remind you of all the times I wanted to strangle him for peeing in the house.  That would add up to 999 lives.  So it is a miracle Phoenix is still alive. And we hope he stays that way for a good long time.