tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19077185658460745372024-03-06T00:01:38.221-08:00Stories Past & FutureI have no children to pass on my stories of growing up, so I wanted to put them down before I “lost” them. Growing up between military bases and the countryside was quite an experience for my brothers and I. I’m trying to be as truthful as possible, with little to no embellishment. Sometimes life can be weirder and funnier than fiction… Enjoy!sgsidekickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17649169267084831571noreply@blogger.comBlogger15125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1907718565846074537.post-22387122807690209252011-12-13T10:01:00.000-08:002011-12-13T11:30:34.674-08:00The Flow of TimeTime passes so strangely. I can't believe it's been almost an entire year since I last blogged! Wow! Yet time has moved a bit strangely for me. Fast one moment, slower than molasses the next. I blogged a lot last year about Elvis and his journey with cancer. Yet this year I never said one word about my husband's beloved cat, Bugsy, and her passing. Nor of our Border Collie, Cocoa, and her unexpected bout with bladder cancer. So I'm here to rectify the situation.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTJ3ynoTW9uONIIwE8SffyJJl27moXiZCNhk4_n12eTZXp1QttVRvZE1j9NaSy77XdMrJYTHYge1-H0td6BxzT2G2vnbaWlGFb5lM0SA_tQOVs8HBFtJ8_4Sh8gONYJ2wrgN8FhazP2g/s1600/100_0080.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTJ3ynoTW9uONIIwE8SffyJJl27moXiZCNhk4_n12eTZXp1QttVRvZE1j9NaSy77XdMrJYTHYge1-H0td6BxzT2G2vnbaWlGFb5lM0SA_tQOVs8HBFtJ8_4Sh8gONYJ2wrgN8FhazP2g/s320/100_0080.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5685691287066090546" border="0" /></a><br />Bugsy was a Mackeral Tabby we got when we were still in the apartment. I felt our cat at the time, a Japanese Bobtail named Alley, was lonely, so I hied myself down to the complex manager's office and asked her if I'd have to pay more on the pet deposit if I got another cat. She told me to wait a moment, then left the office. When she came back, she had Bugsy in her hands, and held her out to me.<br /><br />"This cat has been bugging all of us over here each night, begging for handouts. She's yours." Yah!!! No extra money involved! Score! But there was a down side. She insisted on using the doorjambs to sharpen her claws! No amount of yelling, squirting, coins in a soda can or slingshot rubber bands could dissuade her from this little action. No amount of scratching trees or other man made inventions for cat claws would work for her, so I ended up having her declawed. My husband had to replace a couple of pieces of the doorjambs, so he was happy with this, but it took Bugsy a little while to forgive us.<br /><br />We soon noticed Bugsy getting a bit...well...bovine in shape. So off we went to see if she was pregnant. The vet said it felt like it, and with careful thought, we decided it would be better for all of us to just have her spayed. I just didn't have the time to deal with kittens on top of my job at the time. Surgery was scheduled the next day. But the next day the vet called me at work with good news and bad news. Good: she WASN'T pregnant, but constipated. Bad: She'd already had the surgery!! Sigh.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfJKSk4zKaUGXBa553_dNnpjm4BBNMcvwqTZdZ8-UOkFEzL8-GUlhzkUfAue-bwSA7AAtadQ5Vs8CT0ASjXRw7Ptd_6A36J8ECZHIUiqr6BGgQ-dc-clwAtJgKSwhdLtciwJ7U4qsaOQ/s1600/102_3850.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfJKSk4zKaUGXBa553_dNnpjm4BBNMcvwqTZdZ8-UOkFEzL8-GUlhzkUfAue-bwSA7AAtadQ5Vs8CT0ASjXRw7Ptd_6A36J8ECZHIUiqr6BGgQ-dc-clwAtJgKSwhdLtciwJ7U4qsaOQ/s320/102_3850.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5685691932687621042" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Bugsy in one of her favorite sleeping positions.</span><br /></div><br />Years passed, we bought our own home and moved in, more years passed. Then one day Bugsy came staggering down the hall like she'd been in a liquor cabinet! Her eyes were crossed, her head bobbed, and she couldn't walk straight and could barely even stand! Off we ran to the emergency vet! Nystagmus was the diagnosis, also called Lizard Disease for cats in the South and Florida who get this, mistakenly thought caused by eating the little lizards. Nothing we could really do for her. Sigh. A month or so later, she got it AGAIN!!! The vet had never seen a cat get it twice! Evidently Murphy's Law not only lived in me, but my animals as well! Poor Bugsy got over both bouts of Nystagmus, but the second one left her with very slightly crossed eyes for the rest of her life.<br /><br />Over the years, Bugsy developed diabetes, where I got a crash course in giving injections and pilling. The vets and techs at the feline clinic just adored her, as she was the perfect patient. I'd come in with Bugsy wrapped like a kitty burrito in her blanket, and they'd all just love all over her. Bugsy had to have pills, then shots, at specific times of the day, and she quickly learned to remind us if we were late! The time changes twice a year were hell on all of us!!<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlxLIkbIOREWkw-RSHNpLkPZ5Td1OaAA0EgEp19WCJDHeGdQnA68EMxcmRdD_mGYllmNKLnUpW3ETeAseHFqAsGK-cfA8Qpg8obWoKpzejNj-aVRWG9DGaCxlNuCUOx3_3OkEdC_mU-g/s1600/102_3883.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlxLIkbIOREWkw-RSHNpLkPZ5Td1OaAA0EgEp19WCJDHeGdQnA68EMxcmRdD_mGYllmNKLnUpW3ETeAseHFqAsGK-cfA8Qpg8obWoKpzejNj-aVRWG9DGaCxlNuCUOx3_3OkEdC_mU-g/s320/102_3883.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5685692294007011154" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Another favorite position</span><br /></div><br />Then she developed high blood pressure. I thought, Puh-LEEZE! Hasn't this poor cat been thru enough??? Yet she continued like everything were normal. Through all the dosage changes and adjustments, she was normal. The vet loved to see her as she was never phased by anything. Well, she was bothered by ONE thing...<br /><br />We rescued a parakeet from someone who thought it a terrific idea to clean the birdcage with a vacuum cleaner! The bird quickly fell in love with Bugsy, going to her every time we let him out of the cage. He would have loved nothing better than to hang out with Bugsy. But since the other cat thought he was on the menu, we had to put him away each time for his protection. The bird worried Bugsy: she'd never had what looked like lunch stalk her before! It was too funny to see a cat run from a little bird!<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJbgquf_0LKSqdRG3K6US0maBOMwfbnd2MH4INXP6DIoZyNyG_-2xw0LrNX7yn3Y_XuKzQdPm3oC-8IBG2AovHTdNz83iW0mr1WSUS0xw4EYHEOApOWpJx06Nq158wi51QzPBBMNOuXQ/s1600/102_4054.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJbgquf_0LKSqdRG3K6US0maBOMwfbnd2MH4INXP6DIoZyNyG_-2xw0LrNX7yn3Y_XuKzQdPm3oC-8IBG2AovHTdNz83iW0mr1WSUS0xw4EYHEOApOWpJx06Nq158wi51QzPBBMNOuXQ/s320/102_4054.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5685692823255422754" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Yet another favorite position!</span><br /></div><br />Bugsy loved to sleep on her back. In fact, she is the cat in the photo at the top of my blog. But as she got older, and gaunter, she had to change and even lose some positions. Yet she was like a Timex: she just kept ticking. She accepted that she needed shots, she accepted that she needed pills, she accepted the trips to the doctor. It was the rhythm of her life.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQbUgMxM4bOyJObS_zmcCh6JDw7TNM5vAZCmOgiVqqN0JJ9rjg2j8mWMtK349DTUNP4ckDm8imu4yN5Puoam1NLIh289gE-NHWC75tiZLrB_PQbvlgi8xhkOKZmTmh7njaACaOT7yS3Q/s1600/102_3847.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQbUgMxM4bOyJObS_zmcCh6JDw7TNM5vAZCmOgiVqqN0JJ9rjg2j8mWMtK349DTUNP4ckDm8imu4yN5Puoam1NLIh289gE-NHWC75tiZLrB_PQbvlgi8xhkOKZmTmh7njaACaOT7yS3Q/s320/102_3847.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5685694352768137810" border="0" /></a><br /><br />She accepted Cocoa when we acquired her as a rescue. Cocoa took to sleeping in the hall outside our bedroom at night, trying to keep the cats out of the room. Bugsy would just walk right past her, while the other cat was cowed.<br /><br />Oh, yeah. One other thing did annoy her. She could no longer clean herself, so she was given dry baths, and towelette baths, and foam baths, and the occasional bath in the kitchen sink. She hated baths! But she just became an oily mess if I left her alone. I'll probably be like her when I get old. I like bathing myself, dang it!<br /><br />Towards the end, she started urinating in inappropriate places. And the other two cats started picking on her, sensing the end was near. She was kept prisoner on the couch, so I had to learn how to clean up urine from the cushions. Nature's Miracle, and rubbing alcohol. This is straight from the vet. NM handles one of the two fatty enzymes in cat urine, and rubbing alcohol handles the other fatty enzyme. That gets the smell out. It really works, thank goodness!!! So thanks, Bugsy, for helping me learn how to clean up cat urine!<br /><br />Bugsy handled the end of her life the same way. Because of her diseases, her body was failing her. We figured she was approximately 16 years old, which was awesome, per the vet, with her having both diabetes and high blood pressure! But body parts were failing, and we were now keeping her alive instead of keeping her healthy. She was now in pain. I called my good friend and neighbor to come, and husband drove as quickly as he could from work. Bugsy was surrounded by family when she took her final breath.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe6fjSnbwztsxqCxLXK6DZk6BfW6GU1dfPUDqJiDJwfwb9CxJXbNATSbGQ8mtFRo5Pvu_YhoT0ld9gJMyAPSt5JiBJ6SLS8aQVPxh40Eyf3SpXtAVioeTNHmr6QxzdyVZ9doNVaJkdxw/s1600/102_5562.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe6fjSnbwztsxqCxLXK6DZk6BfW6GU1dfPUDqJiDJwfwb9CxJXbNATSbGQ8mtFRo5Pvu_YhoT0ld9gJMyAPSt5JiBJ6SLS8aQVPxh40Eyf3SpXtAVioeTNHmr6QxzdyVZ9doNVaJkdxw/s320/102_5562.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5685694637202306354" border="0" /></a><br />Bugsy was given a firy sendoff, just like Elvis. Family around the firepit, alcohol in hand, toasting that which was Da Bugs! Much tears from all, and stories of her escapades over the years. She was even a calendar kitty for the clinic, and on hubby's birth month! They couldn't have done it any better!<br /><br />My pets are teaching me many things now. Life goes on no matter what. Just because you're sick doesn't mean life just stops. You can still live, even if you're dying. And they love me, no matter what. I love them, too.sgsidekickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17649169267084831571noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1907718565846074537.post-37199978146607979392010-12-20T11:27:00.000-08:002010-12-20T11:45:59.279-08:00Door of Frustration opens Door of OpportunityThank goodness Thanksgiving is over! Yes, we had family over for dinner, yes we had a good time visiting with folks we hadn't seen in quite a while, and yes, nothing was perfect about the day, but we still had fun. So what happened to require the first sentence?<br /><br />It all started when my stepson said he and his wife were coming up for T-day, and as a surprise they were bringing a turkey fryer to do the turkey and free up the oven. Cool! We (hubby and I) have never had a fried turkey, and were looking forward to it. So, with the number of people attending in mind, I purchased a 20lb turkey and 3 gallons of peanut oil. Then I got to wondering...how big a turkey does the fryer accommodate?<br /><br />After playing phone tag with SS, we finally got the answer I was dreading; my turkey was too big! So off I went to get a smaller turkey. I didn't really care, since my oven was free to do other dishes for dinner. WOOHOO!<br /><br />Well, in trying to chisel into stone just who was bringing what dish for the big day, it was decided that the kids were NOT bringing the fryer due to space issues in the car they were driving up in. Well, crap. Now what? I was extremely reluctant to give my oven back to a turkey! I fumed and fussed, muttered and cussed, until I finally went out and got a roaster oven.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXYfF2hMwD1doMB4ONwk1xji6wKm7OJ2fIcdCyIuRJTryLr1-hssh1F6d-MO8-kGforgAyK2go7n9EMTXqHvHtkp59nV3lZIjW3X7YvrpCYom-B7zOSofqqJjINHBPIGrH_yl1ZuvIXQ/s1600/102_5513.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXYfF2hMwD1doMB4ONwk1xji6wKm7OJ2fIcdCyIuRJTryLr1-hssh1F6d-MO8-kGforgAyK2go7n9EMTXqHvHtkp59nV3lZIjW3X7YvrpCYom-B7zOSofqqJjINHBPIGrH_yl1ZuvIXQ/s320/102_5513.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5552852565258849570" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">My Thanksgiving Day table has never looked so good!<br /></span></div><br /><br />What made me think to do that? My backyard neighbors had us over for veggie lasagna last month, and it was cooked in a roaster oven. After talking with our hosts and discovering you can use this thing to cook darned near EVERYTHING, including a turkey, my mind went off the deep end. My checkbook followed. Once I verified the news that we were, indeed, cooking the turkey, off I went to the store to drag one home. I am now the proud owner of a Proctor & Silex Roaster Oven.<br /><br />Hubby was not impressed, nor amused. I think he may actually have been a little p.o.'d. But once he discovered it could cook a 20lb turkey in 2 hours, he was certainly much more joyful! And when I discovered I could roast TWO chickens at a time in it, and everything is much more juicy than in the regular oven...well, I did a little dance around my kitchen. Hubby danced because it meant twice the amount of chicken salad, which he <span style="font-style: italic;">loooooooves</span>.<br /><br />So I was blessed doubly for Thanksgiving. Had a wonderful dinner with family, and got a roaster oven out of it as well. Who could complain about that?sgsidekickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17649169267084831571noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1907718565846074537.post-88335375606757869082010-12-15T18:31:00.000-08:002010-12-17T10:02:53.113-08:00New Family MemberAs you know from previous posts, Elvis finally succumbed to his cancer. After a month I was finally able to talk my husband into checking out a German Shepherd pup. He's always wanted a GSD, but different things popped up. Like Elvis. But this was his chance. He was grieving as badly as I over our loss, but in an effort to save his sanity from my nagging, he gave in. We took Cocoa with us, just to make sure they got along okay.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNEPdW6MP2W1yDJ4gtV2yxR6YC83yrDCn8-A8o4GU8lYDD0X_17PwRM37TvZg0FwNQLrtcQlZ4F8XAb_4mPQgKJYZc556YbWxVAxFabXqtIDQF_JepAcm33CVEcPN6UGCLgQnAyOX9ZA/s1600/102_5304.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNEPdW6MP2W1yDJ4gtV2yxR6YC83yrDCn8-A8o4GU8lYDD0X_17PwRM37TvZg0FwNQLrtcQlZ4F8XAb_4mPQgKJYZc556YbWxVAxFabXqtIDQF_JepAcm33CVEcPN6UGCLgQnAyOX9ZA/s320/102_5304.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5551110142511584226" border="0" /></a><br />The breeder was wonderful! She introduced us to a calm, well adjusted pup who was not too terribly excited about anything. While outside, he loved to eat the goat droppings (ick!). He wandered around, checked us out, then followed us all into the house to view a video of his dam and sire working. We got to see his dam in person, who was NOT too happy to see strangers with her pup! Oh my! Jethro is gonna be a big puppy!!!<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXoo_8MXN1pIfEoD4to4QbcfFqOwC2fLvY9ITm88eHh0lVdvxVEmV5yUTvFmvT2cK1-q8Sw6HiZqUqQsBm5rV2wzPhoqedXB5eeKr-ZdB1PmPD07N7OUEnH1NeI_U71gkG2DJsz5mmyA/s1600/102_5315.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXoo_8MXN1pIfEoD4to4QbcfFqOwC2fLvY9ITm88eHh0lVdvxVEmV5yUTvFmvT2cK1-q8Sw6HiZqUqQsBm5rV2wzPhoqedXB5eeKr-ZdB1PmPD07N7OUEnH1NeI_U71gkG2DJsz5mmyA/s320/102_5315.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5551110437675033714" border="0" /></a><br />Cocoa wasn't interested in the pup, and he wasn't too interested in her, either. And when we decided to take him home, Cocoa REALLY wasn't happy! We coaxed Jethro into the car, and the poor baby road the entire way from the breeder's house to ours (3 hours) on the floorboards!<br /><br />Jethro is now 6 months old, almost 7, and smarter than both of the humans in the house! Where Elvis didn't mind the 3' dividing fence down the middle of the yard, Jethro hates it, mostly when it keeps him from me. Did I mention he's a mama's boy? Oh yes! At first, he climbed over the fence, and dropped down the other side. He injured his shoulder doing that! And scraped up his back leg. He could easily break a leg doing this! So I decided we needed to work on this immediately.<br /><br />We worked for an hour in drizzle, me trying to leave thru the back gate, Jethro jumping the fence, me leading him back. At first I would say "No! Bad dog!". After a while I stopped talking, just gave him the cold shoulder as I led him back to his side of the fence. Did this work? Nope.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIf2hbcFLL0CLYmDXLZ_SIUaPK-Ugz61FyL4rd1LOhBYViLkEtC7ELmnBMStjb_9ZhgJ6aRdG5XlffA6mUb3TYJ5axCVQOxgDo8XXsfFWnKThuN2WZGsmi2YvjsBZL4ezg1QAQNTYp7w/s1600/102_5427.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIf2hbcFLL0CLYmDXLZ_SIUaPK-Ugz61FyL4rd1LOhBYViLkEtC7ELmnBMStjb_9ZhgJ6aRdG5XlffA6mUb3TYJ5axCVQOxgDo8XXsfFWnKThuN2WZGsmi2YvjsBZL4ezg1QAQNTYp7w/s320/102_5427.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5551111169565935442" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">It only took Jethro 2 minutes to figure this out after watching me </span> <span style="font-style: italic;">demonstrate. Did I mention he was a smart pup??</span><br /></div><br />Next up: remote controlled shock collar. After getting "bit" by the collar a couple of times for jumping the fence, he would still go over. But it lead to another problem: every time he saw the collar (you NEVER leave it on your pet all the time!), he started shutting down, crawling in under the piano, or behind the couch. After only a couple of days, once he saw the collar, you couldn't do anything else with him. So it was returned to the store.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhebDUk7lHhxPYUVFNSaX5MDRo7O6jPcMvEEBne6Vq9883XJMQNMXjNA1_3pF8nKBsHDQzU7-45B-y20Lzz6hdgYq8UKoFMiEMb8Cv8NSfN7NYWMWFrJJRkg5yrsFE_rjRq79e_Nnl3cA/s1600/102_5393.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhebDUk7lHhxPYUVFNSaX5MDRo7O6jPcMvEEBne6Vq9883XJMQNMXjNA1_3pF8nKBsHDQzU7-45B-y20Lzz6hdgYq8UKoFMiEMb8Cv8NSfN7NYWMWFrJJRkg5yrsFE_rjRq79e_Nnl3cA/s320/102_5393.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5551111856715187730" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">So you think you can outthink me? Bwahahahahaha!</span> </div><br />Third idea: electric fence. I got a low power electric fence box, some stab-in-the-ground fence posts, wire, a rebar, and some plastic holders, and hubby and I set up the circuit about a foot out from the regular fence. We know it worked, because Jethro touched it. Twice. Once down by his regular jumping spot, and once up on the deck. What happened? He sat down, looked at the wire for a few seconds. Then he walked out to the middle of his yard and took a running start at the fence, clearing it and the wire by more than a foot. It was beautiful at the same time as it was disappointing. Sigh. Back to the store to return most of the stuff.<br /><br />So now we are resigned to the fact that we will NOT be having a picket fence separating the dog yard from the garden/people yard like we had wanted. If we had listened to all the research we did on GSDs, we would have known from the beginning that the 6' fence was the only way to go. But we just didn't want to put in a 6' fence! Well, what we want, and what we NEED are three different things. Until we have that fence, if I want to visit my neighbors behind us, I have to put Jethro in the house. Maybe when he gets older he'll be better about it, but then....I've always heard once a mamma's boy, always a mamma's boy.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC5IBHnHdGkBPxARfr-ep9LE5g4YTXegbkqnzeuha7nkbkmEABSSV4tfhbJZAuIVShjgBXgK-FOgvjsktTMQ28IBRAXM5fC3FyyeGGlSmYfungWg-GUMKadt5ha3w5HL24ZX_-K57RMg/s1600/102_5569.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC5IBHnHdGkBPxARfr-ep9LE5g4YTXegbkqnzeuha7nkbkmEABSSV4tfhbJZAuIVShjgBXgK-FOgvjsktTMQ28IBRAXM5fC3FyyeGGlSmYfungWg-GUMKadt5ha3w5HL24ZX_-K57RMg/s320/102_5569.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5551113749602493986" border="0" /></a>sgsidekickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17649169267084831571noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1907718565846074537.post-15650433542783678032010-09-01T18:51:00.000-07:002010-09-01T21:53:50.099-07:00An Appointment KeptElvis has finally left the building. Such a stubborn dog to demand 4 more months of life instead of accepting the 2-3 weeks the vet had given him. I can appreciate his stubbornness; appreciate his unwillingness to leave, as i was just as unwilling for him to leave. But the fight was lost on Aug 23, just 2 days before his 9th birthday.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN5mZ0R_DOJvTsYK8tV5kL7QjX4n8kB_g61Zv-ASaO_N_voBRONEaVxoOsPjh72GtbKMujpFT_aTth4PQT9FFN9wlkJs-orxxqPuUeAkyr9Is38m0WxeyCEuOL3An2mHuDsZQjWyyBLw/s1600/100_0186+Elvis+Tribute.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 262px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN5mZ0R_DOJvTsYK8tV5kL7QjX4n8kB_g61Zv-ASaO_N_voBRONEaVxoOsPjh72GtbKMujpFT_aTth4PQT9FFN9wlkJs-orxxqPuUeAkyr9Is38m0WxeyCEuOL3An2mHuDsZQjWyyBLw/s320/100_0186+Elvis+Tribute.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512146815077127874" border="0" /></a><br />The vet had advised me to keep a happy face, as attitude was everything. I didn't want to depress Elvis and impede his...well, not progress, but maybe affect <span style="font-style: italic;">his </span>attitude in a negative way? Dogs live in the moment, and if I were depressed or upset, he'd feel it. He had already proved that point on those first few nights when I went to bed crying, and he came up for me to love on until I fell asleep. Once I stopped crying and upsetting him, he stopped coming up to comfort me.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaDAU-7iKl6VC-QCtAfctn7jba7T42uzc3cc7dKD2ZlwhEs3Bl3X7D9yRmzvHxJNxNbRhvEz03S6StBpY56d0f0RMucfwu5dY9eS51eAmtOe2nzf3-qKCuNcj-3TxQKf1QdxLLKKgvoQ/s1600/100_2252.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaDAU-7iKl6VC-QCtAfctn7jba7T42uzc3cc7dKD2ZlwhEs3Bl3X7D9yRmzvHxJNxNbRhvEz03S6StBpY56d0f0RMucfwu5dY9eS51eAmtOe2nzf3-qKCuNcj-3TxQKf1QdxLLKKgvoQ/s320/100_2252.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512147160840234994" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Elvis on his bed at the foot of ours.<br /><br /></span></div>I remember that when Elvis was a pup he was constantly carsick. Thank goodness he finally outgrew it, because he was always eager to go for car rides with us. He wasn't one to hang his head out the window, though. He just enjoyed hanging with his humans.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKtzIce6z5qhsjnoDVwk2RxEPfPiMnu9k0Vrv8e7KI3S1fiwSXxwv4GN8vbXAIkbw_AeF-yK80W7XeApd4CvBm9GUMdEPIZPOed-XtDo-APHaoqfsd8zRoaOE4S8wdtj6kM91mpRYzSw/s1600/102_4576.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKtzIce6z5qhsjnoDVwk2RxEPfPiMnu9k0Vrv8e7KI3S1fiwSXxwv4GN8vbXAIkbw_AeF-yK80W7XeApd4CvBm9GUMdEPIZPOed-XtDo-APHaoqfsd8zRoaOE4S8wdtj6kM91mpRYzSw/s320/102_4576.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512149494198675986" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Elvis just chilling in the living room<br /><br /></span></div>He hadn't lost much weight towards the end, but he lost most of his body mass. The only thing thriving was the damned cancer. The tumors were growing in leaps and bounds, his gut and abdomen expanding even as his ribs started poking out and his spine rose sharply from his once broad back. His hipbones stood out like knife blades, and we had to stop patting his butt for fear of hurting him. Yet he still liked the spot about his nub rubbed.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTWqmcZFj_r7LXIYnhVyDaNaewAh2u8PjD78eMxPElzVs_KYNcE3oxIrU7riw4Q0dSOTWMJ1Qb3gYZK8trXnMLKj_R-d8kLK4qdhnqUnE9AKzf0_OhMs4WgGzFBE8gs2QY6EcdhW3wpg/s1600/102_3973.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTWqmcZFj_r7LXIYnhVyDaNaewAh2u8PjD78eMxPElzVs_KYNcE3oxIrU7riw4Q0dSOTWMJ1Qb3gYZK8trXnMLKj_R-d8kLK4qdhnqUnE9AKzf0_OhMs4WgGzFBE8gs2QY6EcdhW3wpg/s320/102_3973.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512147803969799970" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Elvis and his beloved ball. You can see how the<br />tumors have distended his abdomen.</span><br /><br /></div>We had delayed our anniversary trip because of Elvis, but it got to the point that we had to go or lose our deposit, so off we went, leaving Elvis and the other fur kids in the capable hands of my neighbor. She made a deal with Elvis: he didn't die on her watch, and he got rotisserie chicken! For the three days we were gone, things rolled along smoothly back home, with everyone in great shape when we got back home.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh370uNS_HNFPtyUvKGMytZ9BmXfro722o686Cnu_DYZl-IJCV8hgmgQZpr-ZE8H0fxVHXoLm-jHoaZm5HF8BX-NhRWhJcaeTUOBCpl5IE8dYfDC2Q1dGFvVDX5RMKR1QyUAbYlDHy1_A/s1600/102_4061.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh370uNS_HNFPtyUvKGMytZ9BmXfro722o686Cnu_DYZl-IJCV8hgmgQZpr-ZE8H0fxVHXoLm-jHoaZm5HF8BX-NhRWhJcaeTUOBCpl5IE8dYfDC2Q1dGFvVDX5RMKR1QyUAbYlDHy1_A/s320/102_4061.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512147813029084082" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">For some reason Elvis had taken to howling when the phone<br />rang in the last 2 years. Here he is answering a call. Cocoa<br />(in the background) can't be bothered to answer the phone.<br /></span></div><br />Then my husband planned an overnight trip to celebrate my momentous birthday milestone: I was turning a half a century old, so it called for a special trip. Once again my neighbor came to our aid, and she informed Elvis the same deal stood: no dying on her watch, and he got all he could eat chicken. But this time the ending was different. When we got home the next day, it was as if you could see Elvis relax. My neighbor said he gave a small sigh as we walked in the door, like "finally!". That was the night he refused to take his medication.<br /><br />Maybe you have heard of <a href="http://thepioneerwoman.com/">The Pioneer Woman</a>. The blog rocks! Terrific recipes, wonderful stories about living on a working ranch. Gorgeous photos. One of the recipes is for mashed potatoes...with cream cheese...mmmmmmm. My wonderful neighbor discovered that Elvis luuuuuved those special mashed potatoes, so whenever she made some, she made sure Elvis got his share. So when he refused his meds, we tried cheese, special dog pill pockets, cat pill pockets, and yes, The Pioneer Woman Mashed Potatoes. Nothing worked. So we let him have his way.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi93apUEggVj0PBf5kTHuQve3sv8ATKDnWpujt5WUcvaB8kpTD4VsZBsPKTj-_xD0S10i3GlrG4LsdIqo1b4cCRMSDwXRFxep08rsdfq_Z37b5T0yCZwqtXRmIh8PrGqvPOtTcQV3-jDQ/s1600/102_4386.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi93apUEggVj0PBf5kTHuQve3sv8ATKDnWpujt5WUcvaB8kpTD4VsZBsPKTj-_xD0S10i3GlrG4LsdIqo1b4cCRMSDwXRFxep08rsdfq_Z37b5T0yCZwqtXRmIh8PrGqvPOtTcQV3-jDQ/s320/102_4386.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512149479945502434" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Elvis with his collection of balls.<br /><br /></span></div>I upset my husband as I tried to persuade Elvis to take his meds. They were only an anti-inflammatory and pain killers. Nothing that could cure him, only help him be comfortable until his time came. But cancer tends to eat pain pills for lunch. We had to increase the dosage, but we were losing the battle. I think Elvis knew this and decided enough was enough. When at first he refused his meds, I tried begging and coercing him. My husband thought I was trying to keep him alive, but I just wanted him to be painfree. I knew I couldn't keep him alive. It hurt my husband to see me expressing my pain in such a way. He's a fix-it type, and this was something he couldn't fix.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYf8RUvb751TonR2YTG28ZSn_ESGr-87bcrezTjWEUheYFoynKUOLT3nwDZRtWv-o81dtbjvqutySoL8mLCQP_ZhpYJYp5B4VR2AS36GKzxnPp5kB0VSFmP5JJttoEniEM8RzeQXmhgw/s1600/102_4573.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYf8RUvb751TonR2YTG28ZSn_ESGr-87bcrezTjWEUheYFoynKUOLT3nwDZRtWv-o81dtbjvqutySoL8mLCQP_ZhpYJYp5B4VR2AS36GKzxnPp5kB0VSFmP5JJttoEniEM8RzeQXmhgw/s320/102_4573.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512149535534145874" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Typical pose for Elvis; surveying all he protected from squirrels!</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrpQRf8ujiNG4UHofy2sY5Ri-KWEuLfUXgmkDqN7u1V6sDkrO6oADHJJCs5SoD2zUcfUqS9Nr5fpUued-fBlSvCGUSqLW8cmfBJ2IxXhzNRJT09VmejJqPiuYCKlmsZ2rvNqoHoXMw9Q/s1600/102_4572.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrpQRf8ujiNG4UHofy2sY5Ri-KWEuLfUXgmkDqN7u1V6sDkrO6oADHJJCs5SoD2zUcfUqS9Nr5fpUued-fBlSvCGUSqLW8cmfBJ2IxXhzNRJT09VmejJqPiuYCKlmsZ2rvNqoHoXMw9Q/s320/102_4572.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512149558028990402" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">While he was a smart dog, evidently he didn't<br />feel like coming in out of the rain.<br />I call this "The Missing Dog Deck Formation".<br /><br /></span></div>When he refused the pills the next morning as well, we knew he was telling us it was time. I took him in to the vet, who took one look and agreed with me. He gave Elvis a shot for pain, and we arranged to bring him back that afternoon after hubby got off work. My neighbor came along as well, for Elvis had come to mean nearly as much to her as he did to us. We were all three present when he came back to the little exam room after getting a sedative to relax him. He quickly went down on the blanket, his head lolling and a dopey grin on his face.<br /><br /><br />I won't go into the rest of what happened, but it really looked like he was gone before the vet could administer the last shot. The vet said that because of the speed that he went down, he had very little blood actually feeding his body. Most of it was tied up feeding the tumors. When he got the sedative, his entire body relaxed to the point that he could just let go of everything.<br /><br />We left his body to be cremated, and my husband decided we would eat Taco Bell in his honor. That last month we were giving him Crunchwrap Supremes to eat. The vet had said to give him ANYTHING he would eat, and while he liked Arby's, he simply adored Taco Bell. So we had his last meal for him, eating Taco Bell in his name.<br /><br />That Friday we had a bonfire, with the neighbor and her family invited. Her family just couldn't bring themselves to come over, as they were just as emotional as I, and I cry at the drop of a hat! So just my neighbor came over. We watched the fire and just sat and talked, sipping sodas while my hubby was drinking a little tequila. We talked about what a smart dog Elvis had been, learning how to operate the doggie gumball machine, and even teaching the cat how to operate it! Did I mention how smart he was??<br /><br />My husband proved he is as sentimental as I when he stood to announce a toast to Elvis. After we all toasted, he warned everyone to stand back, then tossed a glass of tequila on the fire. Where I can be one big, sniffling tear factory, husband isn't one to show a whole lot of emotion, but this night spoke volumes. He had been just as attached to the putz as I was!<br />So the saga of Elvis has come to an end. We are waiting for his ashes so we can finish his stone. We got his pawprints in a little cement block just a few weeks before he died. When we get his ashes, some of them will be mixed in cement for a larger stone, into which the pawprint stone will be set. Once cured, this stone will then be placed in our little zen garden, so he'll still be sitting with me when I'm outside on my glider bench. Sigh. I sure do miss him.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf7xCSEYOkjBB4neiAeJJ9lfwBvX3smkvKFeOhyphenhyphenBNc3qY-JdoG1PU6c8rdpxCfykk8PHw3XZayt2xfR1ZIP6d0fTbGLORc_KaSd8WWuTQUtxE0bBWDOu07VsMhDODOMzG0wbbm9eWF9w/s1600/102_4098.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf7xCSEYOkjBB4neiAeJJ9lfwBvX3smkvKFeOhyphenhyphenBNc3qY-JdoG1PU6c8rdpxCfykk8PHw3XZayt2xfR1ZIP6d0fTbGLORc_KaSd8WWuTQUtxE0bBWDOu07VsMhDODOMzG0wbbm9eWF9w/s320/102_4098.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512149507426967042" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Happy to the end.</span><br /></div><br /><br />As a post script to this journey, I've discovered there are many different internet sites that deal with grief over loss of a pet. Just a few years ago there really wasn't much out there, and now they abound. If you find yourself on the same journey that my family has completed, please do check them out, even if you don't think you need to.<br /><br /><a href="http://blog.beliefnet.com/beyondblue/2010/08/on-mourning-the-death-of-a-pet.html?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=feed&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+beyondblue1+%28Beliefnet%3A+Beyond+Blue%29&utm_content=My+Yahoo#ixzz0x0LH7mmN">On Mourning the Death of a Pet</a> is very good, with a personal story and excerpts from another site: <a href="http://www.pet-loss.net/">Pet Loss Support Page</a>. I found this to be a wonderful site, and highly recommend it! It has a particular chapter on <a href="http://www.pet-loss.net/preloss.shtml">Pre-Loss Bereavement</a>, which is what my family suffered. I hadn't known there was a name for this! It was almost mindblowing to discover I had actually followed each of these steps, and in order!<br /><br /><a href="http://rainbowsbridge.com/hello.htm">Rainbow's Bridge</a> is a beautiful site that has a forum where you can talk about your loss, find support, and even offer support for someone else. They talk about a candle service held every Monday night for our lost pets. They also have a chat section with caring people to talk to.<br /><br />There's a different <a href="http://www.petloss.com/">Pet Loss Support</a> site that has a lot of good links.<br /><a href="http://aplb.org/index.html">Association for Pet Loss and Bereavement</a><br /><a href="http://www.mypetloss.com/pet-loss-advice/">My Pet Loss</a><br /><a href="http://sandtracker.tripod.com/cat-tracks.html">Pet Loss Tracks In The Sand</a><br /><a href="http://www.avma.org/animal_health/brochures/pet_loss/pet_loss_brochure.asp">American Veterinary Medical Association</a><br /><a href="http://www.humanesociety.org/animals/resources/tips/coping_with_pet_death.html">Humane Society</a><br /><a href="http://vetmedicine.about.com/od/lossandgrief/Loss_and_Grief.htm">About dot com pet loss</a><br /><a href="http://vetmedicine.about.com/od/lossandgrief/a/PetLossResource.htm">About dot com Loss & Grief</a><br /><br />These are just some of the offerings out there for those of us who have suffered the loss of a pet. If you or someone you know has suffered such a loss, please check these sites out. Talk to someone. If ANYONE says "It was just a dog/cat/reptile/critter-of-your-choice", just give them a dirty look. I'd say smack them upside their pointy little head, but that could land you in jail. Dirty looks, however, are free. Your pet was NOT "just" an animal; they were your companion, buddy, confidante. Even family member. Don't be ashamed to grieve, cry, throw pillows. Write down how you feel; this blog has helped yours truly keep her sanity, trust me! AND tell the story of Elvis.sgsidekickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17649169267084831571noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1907718565846074537.post-257606484284910332010-08-05T10:08:00.000-07:002010-08-05T11:24:10.256-07:00DEATH? DEATH WHO?<span style="font-family:verdana;">Elvis is now on week 16 of his 2-3 week death sentence. The vet's office staff just shake their heads when I show up to refill his pain and anti-inflammatory meds now. I'm striving to give him quality of life, not just to prolong it. I know when Elvis is uncomfortable, but the good times are still outnumbering the bad. He is still on the lookout for squirrels, and still wants to chase balls, and still up for car rides. He is "tested" daily by my neighbor and myself when he is outside. We'll yell "Squirrel!" and off he goes! My neighbor and I will look at each other and agree that Elvis is not ready to go just yet.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Elvis and I were recently in the local Petco store. I was looking for Pill Pockets for his meds, as he tends to not want to eat the nasty-tasting pills. While we were there, a fellow shopper started admiring him, and asked if he were a rescue. As I explained the situation to her, she did something I've not seen anyone else do without instruction from me: she offered him her fist.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Let me explain. When you meet a strange dog, almost everyone wants to pet them. Not all dogs want to be touched by strangers, however. If you stick your hand out, fingers outstretched, the fingers might be mistaken for "snausages", and you run the risk of being bitten. If the dog tries to bite a fist, tho, there is little damage to the fist, and you can use the fist to shove further into the dog's mouth, forcing them to open wider, gag and let go.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">When this lady offered Elvis her fist, he barked, then slowly stretched out to sniff it. Then this lady did something ELSE that no one else has done without prompting from me: she started scratching his chin instead of going for the top of his head. Many, if not most, dogs are very uncomfortable with strangers going for their heads, and you run the risk of a nip if you try. But a chin scratch is much more acceptable.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">The gals at Petco love to see us when we stop by. They say it's wonderful to see Elvis doing so well despite his condition. He looks like he ate a xylophone with all his ribs sticking out, but he still goes on. My vet has said that people with cancer could learn from animals. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Recently a relative told me that I was being greedy keeping Elvis alive instead of putting him down when I told them about his breathing issues. That had me so incensed that I couldn't see straight!! When I got my emotions and fingers back under control, I sent them an email about him still chasing squirrels and playing ball. Then I let it drop. A week later we spent the day with them, and they got to see Elvis in person. THEN I was told I was right to do what I was doing. Now, they have dogs, and love their dogs, but they are just dogs. Just pets. Elvis has been the biggest pain ever to me!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">While still a young dog, Elvis managed to sneak into my fenced garden while I was laying down slug bait. I heard a noise and turned around to see him slurping up the poison as fast as I was laying it down. Sigh. A trip to the pet hospital was taken immediately. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Elvis also was real bad about being carsick. I tried all sorts of things on him; Rescue Remedy and other things. When I interviewed a pet psychic as research for one of my manuscripts, she told me that Elvis had something wrong with his ears, so of course I took him to the vet. The vet could find nothing wrong with him then, so nothing could be done to help him. Eventually that did get better, but it took a few years.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Then we rescued Cocoa. Cocoa is a 3-legged Border Collie whose owner had end-stage emphysema and couldn't keep her. At that time both dogs were 3 years old, and when we brought Cocoa into our house, she immediately went after Elvis. Bloody fights ensued. While Cocoa loves people and does nothing but try to please them, she wasn't as fond of her new canine family.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">At this time we had Elvis enrolled in a doggie day care two times a week. He was a digger, and the exercise, play and stimulation he got at the day care resulted in a lot less digging. When we got Cocoa, we just added her to the routine. After a few weeks we were asked to not bring Cocoa back. Seems she was "cutting" Elvis out of the dog packs, not letting him play with his canine buddies. Where Elvis was considered a social butterfly, Cocoa was the cutting horse.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Over the years Cocoa had settled down, but now that Elvis is so sick, Cocoa is back to her old tricks. If she feels Elvis is getting too much attention, she'll cut him out of whatever is going on and start a fight. So now I'm having to separate them, or take Elvis with me, which is not a hardship! </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Elvis is still hanging on, still lying on the back deck and surveying all he protects from squirrels, and getting as much love and doggie treats from everyone as he can get! Death? Death who?</span>sgsidekickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17649169267084831571noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1907718565846074537.post-38837392295473579202010-06-08T10:52:00.000-07:002010-06-08T16:45:49.046-07:00The Dog Who Refuses To Die, aka Death Had To Reschedule...That's what I have, folks. Elvis was diagnosed with Hemangiosarcoma and given 2-3 weeks to live back in April. The x-rays showed an enlarged liver, a HUGE spleen, and a tumor right under his tailbone. I brought him home, fed him whatever I could get him to eat, loved on him, and cried. But the crying upset Elvis. It worried him. I never really thought about dogs worrying about stuff other than who had their toy, or guarding their yard from marauding squirrels, but tears worried Elvis. He tried to comfort me, bless his heart.<br /><br />The second trip to the vet 2 weeks later had the vet telling me to keep doing whatever we were doing, because Elvis looked better than he did the first time! Cooking a combo plate of quinoa, split peas, rice and potatoes in chicken stock kept him eating, as well as natural, low-processed canned foods. That Natural Pet in the refrigerator section of the pet stores and bigger grocery stores is wonderful!<br /><br />The next visit had the vet concerned over his breathing. It was labored and sounded bad. X-rays showed the cancer had invaded his lungs so badly that you couldn't even see the heart! So the end was pretty much near. Again, I brought him home and just fed him what he would eat (he as a love for Orange Blossom muffins from Fred Meyers!), and loved on him. The vet suggested raw liver to get Elvis blood count up, but he refused raw. Loves it when I cook it, though. Silly dog!<br /><br />Today, 3 weeks later, Elvis is still hanging tough. he is much, much thinner, and a little weaker, but his spirit is still strong. He is STILL ready to chase squirrels, and actually chased one down to the end of the driveway just this morning! He is STILL ready to play ball with us, and to chew on his horseball. He is NOT ready to die just yet.<br /><br />I'm thinking that this year God, the universe, or whatever spirits you may believe in, is/are trying to teach us about time. And not to just lie back and give up when faced with adversity. Dogs take life one day at a time, each day as it comes. People should, too. Comfort the ones you can, and just be happy. Sounds like good advice.sgsidekickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17649169267084831571noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1907718565846074537.post-48280638409017575652010-04-20T19:41:00.000-07:002010-04-21T07:43:10.583-07:00Death Makes An Appointment<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAhihwg2u5JtCnGd7hJXOLhRMFiF4keYZo-g6n4OVFUqNsCZJk71AA0qz2G0RWio2b7WMGNkUqJ5AfylrgW0L2QZ5j2iiCyco2ZVhLQjeiM_OqVN0P5mM_j2YgUaJVOKO1QGcC3gqTCw/s1600/100_1559.jpg"><br /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiunkORsohHQlqnhJPKOZDVy1wnQb1AXs_XDAsgKjfy3bQZbbh6aUi8JKTZ1mDFCsWCHq9EtXSoYUFJdcQ7D5FqFNg0dJP_0N3CGFhTgRl4vCtx-ZFHb_LKNID4x7wdr8qK0DgOkfmAwg/s1600/100_0277.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiunkORsohHQlqnhJPKOZDVy1wnQb1AXs_XDAsgKjfy3bQZbbh6aUi8JKTZ1mDFCsWCHq9EtXSoYUFJdcQ7D5FqFNg0dJP_0N3CGFhTgRl4vCtx-ZFHb_LKNID4x7wdr8qK0DgOkfmAwg/s320/100_0277.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462589130535457986" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7Xx4dcwXXMph_UPIxg88OGTm-qaAd-dn9h1DVJR2e7I6Rz8Q1XnU4mF5c_UAEKqL9o6F5mYWAM160jIkq14rafDhI4LnCPoOxPdAxiB030Sn2D2VQFGTrq8lDprz2ZvwvR0nnA1QvVA/s1600/100_0277.jpg"><br /></a><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">When one owns pets, they know the pet has a much shorter lifespan than humans.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Some people only own one pet, and when it dies, they decide the pain just isn’t worth it.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">They feel they can’t go through it again, and eschew any other animals.<br /><br /></span><p style="font-family: verdana;"></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal" face="verdana">Then there are those of us who continue to get pets. Despite the pain and cost, the joy they bring is worth it. And with pets, there are choices to be made: what kind of pet, what kind of food, what kind of training.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe5roTGhhMPBO-DQR21VOYdQKisvQZkK0hysnw2wpxMhutKAxXmjHhsrO7u0oIJfDMpEI3DzXsUTyOPeAA7llmXRkctgEKOeWBY5rzqR2KWCDwjPoGI3DHNbiN6JsPt7eK_Ey682f5xA/s1600/100_0253.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe5roTGhhMPBO-DQR21VOYdQKisvQZkK0hysnw2wpxMhutKAxXmjHhsrO7u0oIJfDMpEI3DzXsUTyOPeAA7llmXRkctgEKOeWBY5rzqR2KWCDwjPoGI3DHNbiN6JsPt7eK_Ey682f5xA/s320/100_0253.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462417245912810338" border="0" /></a></p><p style="text-align: center;font-family:verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-style: italic;">Rub my belly? Elvis and his favorite rope toy.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;font-family:verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" face="verdana"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> I thought my dog, Elvis, had been gaining weight, so I changed his food. My last dog had died from cancer tumors throughout his body, so when we got Big E, I researched and read up on quality dog foods. I got the best we could afford. So I did a little more research and got him a different dry kibble. That's when he stopped eating. I thought he was just pouting, but when a couple of days turned into weeks, off to the vet we went.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" face="verdana"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" face="verdana"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0uVX0rQc0CqUYgDbhP3N5WCbHT3fdt42AubV5-Omm-tBJWFu7gpUIuYuHvPcHaigaqXuMGb2fGRpM_Mj5i8P4cDJmrVOQY-6XkGRM8HoJj1H8gmKutW0QbYihEMCRyzxYC87cyFXe9g/s1600/100_0186.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0uVX0rQc0CqUYgDbhP3N5WCbHT3fdt42AubV5-Omm-tBJWFu7gpUIuYuHvPcHaigaqXuMGb2fGRpM_Mj5i8P4cDJmrVOQY-6XkGRM8HoJj1H8gmKutW0QbYihEMCRyzxYC87cyFXe9g/s320/100_0186.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462417759652127218" border="0" /></a></p><p style="text-align: center;font-family:verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-style: italic;">Please note the bell on the door. We taught Elvis to ring it when he wanted out. He usually wanted out during our favorite tv shows. Who trained who?</span></p><p style="text-align: center;font-family:verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><br /><span style=""> </span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal" face="verdana">He wasn’t fat, he had a couple of masses inside him and his liver was enlarged. And the first real clue we really had was when he had stopped eating. It just happened to coincide with the change in his food, so I just wrote it up to being stubborn. The x-rays told the real story. With his symptoms, which also included anemia, panting a lot, and slowing down a lot, the vet gave me a tentative diagnosis of hemangio sarcoma, a type of blood cancer. It’s in the blood vessels, so in reality it is throughout Big E’s body.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal" face="verdana">We were also given a time frame. Two, three weeks, maybe. Costly exploratory surgery & biopsy was an option where the prognosis was not just grim but very grim, or even costlier regular surgery to remove the masses. But the second surgery could only give him at best another month or two of life, and there was the risk of having to put him to sleep with even the biopsy.</p><p class="MsoNormal" face="verdana"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: verdana;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBlAT742uzzGw7Uh1GvTnH9u9P_OGN-fBvOEr5VpI8bSk3KVKkNGJ3FQHm35IDt_IGLjSo6dqPRSnxyOgHOX0MgBCvAS0OMgBGmCJM1okG4cVDpByV_JRH-_SkmSbbeihSEuxwXa5vzA/s1600/100_1426.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBlAT742uzzGw7Uh1GvTnH9u9P_OGN-fBvOEr5VpI8bSk3KVKkNGJ3FQHm35IDt_IGLjSo6dqPRSnxyOgHOX0MgBCvAS0OMgBGmCJM1okG4cVDpByV_JRH-_SkmSbbeihSEuxwXa5vzA/s320/100_1426.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462418371668480914" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="text-align: center;font-family:verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-style: italic;">Elvis testing out the wicker couch I repaired and painted for my mother-in-law's Yorkies.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;font-family:verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: verdana;">So I brought him home.<span style=""> </span>He knows he is dying.<span style=""> You can see it in his eyes. He knows. </span>He has a different look on his face now.<span style=""> </span>When I get on the floor to play with him, he leans against me and licks my face, no longer wanting to roughhouse.<span style=""> </span>He wants to rest against me.<span style=""> </span>And at night when we go to bed, he leaves his dog bed at the foot of our own and comes up along my side of the bed, lying down so I can lie on my stomach and pet him until I fall asleep.<span style=""> </span>He’s never done that before, and now he’s doing it almost nightly, and of his own volition.</p><p face="verdana" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p face="verdana" class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikhiHud_nfFI6fo1G-f00Ybp9GHQfBI5UEdtnRcekWW9DVg5_AiIaq2tgafCFns-WlXXfyZMmPzIq6xlq0BBagSOyuF5Zf7G9KE1-uve5WubNPXHqPc0tKL_xdCXJPthksxYUDmUoMmw/s1600/100_2284.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikhiHud_nfFI6fo1G-f00Ybp9GHQfBI5UEdtnRcekWW9DVg5_AiIaq2tgafCFns-WlXXfyZMmPzIq6xlq0BBagSOyuF5Zf7G9KE1-uve5WubNPXHqPc0tKL_xdCXJPthksxYUDmUoMmw/s320/100_2284.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462419454132419906" border="0" /></a></p><p style="text-align: center;font-family:verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">CAT </span>bed? Are you sure, mom?</span></p><p style="text-align: center;font-family:verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal" face="verdana">It's hard to imagine this clown of a dog having to suffer this kind of fate. This is my bud, my companion. On July 4th, while the other dog is cowering under the bed, Big E is sitting or lying on the ground next to me as I shoot photos of the fireworks. The booming explosions don't seem to phase him one bit. In fact, he appears to enjoy the show, turning his head as each color blooms in the dark sky above him.</p><p face="verdana" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p face="verdana" class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCuSJ9GTPRlq93618TTGJ4qf1Y0pSWFVSpfD244fQa3BSA8Fp4d86zwQBVJi3eEdiEtpJ0njiBQH92quidzIFrVDwVSy5t5unIdYLrVupG_jhEm10H2xPTarfUDu7QQpny_zHiIvrcxw/s1600/004_4_00.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCuSJ9GTPRlq93618TTGJ4qf1Y0pSWFVSpfD244fQa3BSA8Fp4d86zwQBVJi3eEdiEtpJ0njiBQH92quidzIFrVDwVSy5t5unIdYLrVupG_jhEm10H2xPTarfUDu7QQpny_zHiIvrcxw/s320/004_4_00.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462421449505045378" border="0" /></a></p><p style="text-align: center;font-family:verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-style: italic;">Kiddie pool king!</span></p><p style="text-align: center;font-family:verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p style="font-family: verdana;" face="verdana" class="MsoNormal">He likes to goof around in a kiddie pool. We took him and Cocoa, the 3 legged Border Collie, to the river once. The 3 legged dog leaped right into the river, swimming pretty darn good with only one back leg! But Big E? With 4 intact limbs? Refused to go in any deeper than his chest after dunking his head when he stepped into the deep. But get him in the kiddie pool and he is in and out and in and out, splashing and throwing water everywhere with a goofy grin on his face. That dog is always smiling!</p><p face="verdana" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p face="verdana" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:verdana;">People have asked us what breed is Elvis. We know his mother was an Australian Shepherd, but the dad was never clear. Finally got a clue from one of the dog trainers. She feels dad was a Catahoula. If you look that breed up, there are so many photos that Elvis could have posed for! Many folks have said maybe cattle dog, but Elvis is too long in the body and legs for that. He has a little tail nub that tells his state of mind. It's really a little 2-3" flap that falls down over his back end. When he is happy, that nub is just a'jumpin'! Handy if you can't see the smile on his</span> <span style="font-family:verdana;">face.</span><br /></p><p face="verdana" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p face="verdana" class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi19tXWONxRpF3vO5H2tEoZH8s0Aa1YvdPibOYtTT_xYutCAO8pNxM7BXmnp82AkiF_Fy69jm8F08tueVPVcoVxVlgWzI9nPldWBeCdBnB7K4ubY3rLATiFvNZzwcLs3ZbLg-vblxBRfA/s1600/Flying+Frog+Dog%21.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi19tXWONxRpF3vO5H2tEoZH8s0Aa1YvdPibOYtTT_xYutCAO8pNxM7BXmnp82AkiF_Fy69jm8F08tueVPVcoVxVlgWzI9nPldWBeCdBnB7K4ubY3rLATiFvNZzwcLs3ZbLg-vblxBRfA/s320/Flying+Frog+Dog%21.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462422158942994530" border="0" /></a></p><p style="text-align: center;font-family:verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-style: italic;">Flying Frog Dog!</span></p><p style="text-align: center;font-family:verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: verdana;">Our backyard is now divided into two sections; the dog’s yard, and the people’s yard.<span style=""> We used to have a huge fir tree right behind the house, but had to have it removed last year when it started to damage the house. I hated to do that, for it was our natural air conditioner, but it finally had to go. With it gone, the back yard really opened up so we could finally have a section that was dog and dog-poop free. </span>I left the gate between them open the other day as I putzed around<span style=""> </span>the people’s side, weeding.<span style=""> </span>When I sat on the edge of the floating deck to take a break, Big E snuck through the gate and came to sit next to me, leaning against my legs and enjoying the sunlight and my hand gently stroking down his back.<span style=""> </span>It was a quiet moment of love shared between two living beings.</p><p class="MsoNormal" face="verdana"><br /></p><a style="font-family: verdana;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnpFLbsIShBkNF2dLHXyH3_QVZF6spskzigsrEdqfaEOETZWmyCreGOJlGxxetCPe1FWlJtotUJOq7CM_Ougj7mvaZ1fgmayQjJ3qiF76rn3UYi9XsX-kjGkusSdNsNssRIayEHb3Axg/s1600/100_2675.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnpFLbsIShBkNF2dLHXyH3_QVZF6spskzigsrEdqfaEOETZWmyCreGOJlGxxetCPe1FWlJtotUJOq7CM_Ougj7mvaZ1fgmayQjJ3qiF76rn3UYi9XsX-kjGkusSdNsNssRIayEHb3Axg/s320/100_2675.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462423337499389474" border="0" /></a><p style="text-align: center;font-family:verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >Before cutting down....</span><br /></p><p face="verdana" class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji2pasHXRR3xc2fXfIWB6grFR8KNIGSeeBcNGWENnIFI9bO_9lYSN51a38fIXR-qqdhyWCCWPhsPCC-9dkc7LjEz40v0MMvm6TyEoBw5q2pH3vnygfGMcOHSPwZwrSuLqlEThynEYqqg/s1600/DSC00324.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji2pasHXRR3xc2fXfIWB6grFR8KNIGSeeBcNGWENnIFI9bO_9lYSN51a38fIXR-qqdhyWCCWPhsPCC-9dkc7LjEz40v0MMvm6TyEoBw5q2pH3vnygfGMcOHSPwZwrSuLqlEThynEYqqg/s320/DSC00324.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462423447586905458" border="0" /></a></p><p style="text-align: center;font-family:verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-style: italic;">...AFTER cutting down. Note his favorite toy, a horseball. Best when half-eaten.</span></p><p style="text-align: center; font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" face="verdana" class="MsoNormal">Some days he doesn’t feel like eating, and that is worrisome to me. I mean, doesn’t food cure all? Depression, anxiety, etc. And chocolate is the ambrosia of curing food. Since it is poisonous to dogs, I eat his share. Yes, I know food doesn’t really cure cancer, but I want him comfortable, dang it. I’m pulling all the guns in my arsenal out on Big E. Rice cooked in chicken stock, canned food that actually looks yummy enough for ME to eat, liver cooked by my own two hands. Pedialyte in the drinking water. That one didn’t work so well, as evidently they can actually taste the flavorless stuff. Sigh.</p><p face="verdana" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><a style="font-family: verdana;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQMLESCzwlCH5nQl5GA3Gh_VyOsZRjaMOBFCEeKbCtMvVOKOcR1Qs3yA0m3mUDOQeBQFG2gqobGB3Q2j0Hr6VxfkNFh4Co7mZ4cGfEV4P3qjaRoTXn2tkMgu5vMynZ9tFXjmXBy9LC0g/s1600/100_2842.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQMLESCzwlCH5nQl5GA3Gh_VyOsZRjaMOBFCEeKbCtMvVOKOcR1Qs3yA0m3mUDOQeBQFG2gqobGB3Q2j0Hr6VxfkNFh4Co7mZ4cGfEV4P3qjaRoTXn2tkMgu5vMynZ9tFXjmXBy9LC0g/s320/100_2842.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462427395376447394" border="0" /></a><p style="text-align: center;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-style: italic;">Master of the "Pathetic Dog" look when wanting inside. Used with a 90% effective rate.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;font-family:verdana;" class="MsoNormal"></p><br /> <span style="font-family: verdana;">I took him by the groomer yesterday so she could say goodbye. She was wonderful with him, never afraid of his big growl and bark, knowing immediately a big chicken when she saw him. Yesterday she almost broke into tears. Almost. She paused, then told me she wasn’t going to cry until we left. Bless her. She also gave me a suggestion about getting Natural Balance food roll and feeding it to Big E. That really has done the trick with him! He ate a big 4” cut off the roll, and this morning ate regular canned stuff like he was starving. Can’t get him to eat the dry kibble, though at this point I don’t really care. I just want to spoil him rotten.</span><p face="verdana" class="MsoNormal"></p><p face="verdana" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><a style="font-family: verdana;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2uWOjPr8A8nWwJHl92CWR3bpRpGBlxre7VufcYDca6jaFADax0kfrp7DEBAVXMo6GX3jkGbczgOCnWF_Jj5z-Vk3fGJT52cR16w9hpZVk3hfWk5mVm4OXo6XRghc1pO1zM0xmekwfuw/s1600/100_1554.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2uWOjPr8A8nWwJHl92CWR3bpRpGBlxre7VufcYDca6jaFADax0kfrp7DEBAVXMo6GX3jkGbczgOCnWF_Jj5z-Vk3fGJT52cR16w9hpZVk3hfWk5mVm4OXo6XRghc1pO1zM0xmekwfuw/s320/100_1554.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462430393172659282" border="0" /></a><p style="text-align: center; font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-style: italic;">Doesn't he look like he knows a secret or two?</span></p><p style="text-align: center; font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" face="verdana" class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" face="verdana" class="MsoNormal">The newest cat in our family is a black female that I rescued last October, along with her 5 kittens. They stayed in my garage in a large dog run until the kittens were old enough to go to the Humane Society. I wanted to see if the mama was dog friendly, so I let Elvis into the garage and kept a VERY close eye on them in case mama was overly protective. What did she do? Walked right up to Elvis and head-butted him! Poor dog jumped like he'd felt a cattle prod!</p><p face="verdana" class="MsoNormal"></p><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">After the kittens were adopted, we decided to keep mama, and renamed her Sake, after the Japanese drink. She is in LUV with Elvis, and Elvis just isn't sure how to handle that! He's not used to a cat actually liking him, wanting to hang with him. Heck, she even sleeps next to him when she can!</span><p face="verdana" class="MsoNormal"></p><p face="verdana" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p face="verdana" class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiySEdRRey4rhSHXMnirkaW4TtolHBsowlCC8d9AXKvx9vYtLInjVresSvGBfKmgPZpogUg-0yZAifzjwIkZN6JbbQFuwSU4JkW21E7I1jUd7lKnGvh-6lX8cZmOM1Ahyphenhyphen-CU6q-jffLKQ/s1600/102_3690.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiySEdRRey4rhSHXMnirkaW4TtolHBsowlCC8d9AXKvx9vYtLInjVresSvGBfKmgPZpogUg-0yZAifzjwIkZN6JbbQFuwSU4JkW21E7I1jUd7lKnGvh-6lX8cZmOM1Ahyphenhyphen-CU6q-jffLKQ/s320/102_3690.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462426161341190722" border="0" /></a></p><p style="text-align: center;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-style: italic;">Elvis and Sake.</span></p><p style="text-align: center; font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"></p><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Last night, as I was sitting on the floor next to Elvis' bed and loving on him, Sake strolled up and lay down right up against his back. She just wants to be close to him. I don't know if she can sense what is happening with him, or if she really just wants to hang with him. I DO know it makes Big E just a tad nervous...</span><p face="verdana" class="MsoNormal"></p><p face="verdana" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" face="verdana" class="MsoNormal">He knows he is dying. Just look into his eyes and you can see it. He looks worried when he looks at me, like he’s not sure he should be leaving me. I have my husband, and three cats, and Cocoa, but he knows I don’t like her much. We rescued her, and she repaid us by fighting with Big E every chance she could; big, nasty, bloody fights. At one point they were both going to doggie day care. Elvis even got an award for being a "social butterfly" with his doggie pals. But the good folks at the day care asked us not to bring Cocoa back. Seems she kept cutting Elvis out of the dog packs, not allowing him to play with his canine friends. So she has never been my favorite fur baby. Big E always tries to get her to play with him, but she ignores him. He never stops trying, however. He is a poster dog for the saying: Hope springs eternal. I do play with her and treat her, but Big E is my favorite.</p><p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtt07TSCyJCfjlFU0Q5uykLeOwOKdvMshrO3GorJ8FsQrR7tNaOzG7Yv9QkXD0nsmefmNMUCJ346zGbkimeyGXbOzX7pSN9BC8WExG1XeVCX35iZpdiEKmzZS8IKxoJd2YLVeuV0rXLw/s1600/DSC00110.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtt07TSCyJCfjlFU0Q5uykLeOwOKdvMshrO3GorJ8FsQrR7tNaOzG7Yv9QkXD0nsmefmNMUCJ346zGbkimeyGXbOzX7pSN9BC8WExG1XeVCX35iZpdiEKmzZS8IKxoJd2YLVeuV0rXLw/s320/DSC00110.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462427883511136850" border="0" /></a></p><p face="verdana" style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-style: italic;">Modeling the homemade pet car seat belt.</span></p><p face="verdana" style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:verdana;">Sometime last year Elvis started howling when the phone rings. At first it was puzzling, then irritating, and now just something he does. Friends and family understand to wait a few seconds for the howling to die down when they call. It's actually quite funny to see. It started suddenly and we have no idea why. We've had the phone for two years, so for it to suddenly hurt his ears is a puzzle.</span></p><p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMg_2RB238HeZlvHFdfOgNs3D7Aj8XoqoiMFhY6PrsDA8hZZGJVZHyHQbI_aTK3Qx1FSxnPTSOelKvWZ2uj4Qi3p0GD-vJddOYX2JZXwJwN14bzJ_LGKYvMHkUuyxPMoZyMZdaax1cMw/s1600/DSC00011.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMg_2RB238HeZlvHFdfOgNs3D7Aj8XoqoiMFhY6PrsDA8hZZGJVZHyHQbI_aTK3Qx1FSxnPTSOelKvWZ2uj4Qi3p0GD-vJddOYX2JZXwJwN14bzJ_LGKYvMHkUuyxPMoZyMZdaax1cMw/s320/DSC00011.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462431356984374354" border="0" /></a></p><p style="text-align: center; font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-style: italic;">A rare serious expression.</span></p><p style="text-align: center; font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal">I cry each night now.<span style=""> </span>I don’t know which is worse: having a pet die quickly, or knowing a longer time frame.<span style=""> </span>One minute I think that being given a time frame is horrible, having to watch him waste away, and the next minute I’m grateful for the chance to keep spoiling him.</p><p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><a style="font-family: verdana;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8UpOhVi5uSNdSQwziOzOn69BM7UTH7oEoOmDteZoq_IiRu6ZLgfni0YJmLLRES39h9JmfGVUFl5wTPrsbfT6N1zzenCcco9wfa4J6ibJnd16JbByQCH_Yd49Rzgiec-2dX4li0oPm_g/s1600/100_2125.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8UpOhVi5uSNdSQwziOzOn69BM7UTH7oEoOmDteZoq_IiRu6ZLgfni0YJmLLRES39h9JmfGVUFl5wTPrsbfT6N1zzenCcco9wfa4J6ibJnd16JbByQCH_Yd49Rzgiec-2dX4li0oPm_g/s320/100_2125.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462430936768822706" border="0" /></a><p face="verdana" style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-style: italic;">Look, Ma! It snowed!</span></p><p face="verdana" style="text-align: center; font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal">Today is the one week anniversary of when we learned of Big E’s death sentence.<span style=""> </span>Yet life goes on.<span style=""> </span>I’m making dinner for my hard working husband, taking care of the diabetic cat, playing with the other cats and dog.<span style=""> </span>I’ve done laundry, washed dishes, gossiped with my neighbor over the backyard fence.<span style=""> </span>Been online, played online games, sewed and crocheted.<span style=""> </span>And in between I sit on the floor with Big E’s head in my lap.</p><p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><a style="font-family: verdana;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM6uLf0xlcjbHcjI0HaFNj6Hd6c0RIfw4IkViGLdX4mBM_2DzLHWqtwwUNCSg_iX_OTmY5tB9Nq0e2wY9FhBylrc8oU_oVuY0E2js5BtJYEkQMhxWHhxF7hBBbILRS1SgNLYrMh_olMw/s1600/100_0360.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM6uLf0xlcjbHcjI0HaFNj6Hd6c0RIfw4IkViGLdX4mBM_2DzLHWqtwwUNCSg_iX_OTmY5tB9Nq0e2wY9FhBylrc8oU_oVuY0E2js5BtJYEkQMhxWHhxF7hBBbILRS1SgNLYrMh_olMw/s320/100_0360.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462437870471326482" border="0" /></a><p style="text-align: center; font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-style: italic;">On the old deck, happy-go-lucky.</span></p><p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal">My husband knows I’m a basket case when a loved one dies.<span style=""> Heck, I cry watching television shows! I'm just an emotional creature. </span>He knows how I was when my dad died, and while my dad and I weren’t close, it was still very hard on me.<span style=""> </span>My husband sees me now, and knows what I feel because he feels it, too.<span style=""> </span>He promised me that I would die before him, just so I wouldn’t have to go through it with him.<span style=""> </span>Think I’ll keep him.</p><p face="verdana" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal">He, too, loves Big E. But his grieving process is much different from mine. While I’m looking at puppies already, he’ll need time. When our first dog, Gizmo, passed, it took him six months before I could talk him into a pup. And that’s how I got Big E. I guess good things do come to those who wait. Whatever pup I get will not be a replacement for Big E. NOTHING can replace Big E. Just as Big E wasn’t a replacement for Gizmo. I just have the need for a dog. My world is complete, then.</p><p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAhihwg2u5JtCnGd7hJXOLhRMFiF4keYZo-g6n4OVFUqNsCZJk71AA0qz2G0RWio2b7WMGNkUqJ5AfylrgW0L2QZ5j2iiCyco2ZVhLQjeiM_OqVN0P5mM_j2YgUaJVOKO1QGcC3gqTCw/s1600/100_1559.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAhihwg2u5JtCnGd7hJXOLhRMFiF4keYZo-g6n4OVFUqNsCZJk71AA0qz2G0RWio2b7WMGNkUqJ5AfylrgW0L2QZ5j2iiCyco2ZVhLQjeiM_OqVN0P5mM_j2YgUaJVOKO1QGcC3gqTCw/s320/100_1559.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462589272482565682" border="0" /></a><p face="verdana" style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-style: italic;">Elvis says, "MY gardening glove!" I don't think we've yet found all the gloves he has stolen.</span><br /></p><p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><br /><span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">In a few weeks, or maybe just days, my little cosmo will come crashing down around me.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> Elvis will finally refuse to play ball. He will refuse any food, even my home cooking. Then we will make one last visit to the vet. </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">My husband will help pick me up and start the healing process.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">And when Big E crosses the Rainbow Bridge, Gizmo and my old cat, Alley, will be there to greet him.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">I hope they show him how to visit me.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">They stopped in, just once, after they had passed.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">I know it was them, as no other animals in my house had those exact colors!</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">So I know there is a Rainbow Bridge, and I’m certain there will be a crowd waiting for me when I get there!</span></p>sgsidekickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17649169267084831571noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1907718565846074537.post-73961035615832945262009-12-14T21:06:00.000-08:002009-12-29T07:14:17.920-08:00A Child's Christmas Memory<div align="left"><br /><br /><br />The season is upon us now, and I think back on Christmas through the years. The best ones had my grandparents included. Each year they put up the silver tinsel tree and plugged in the electric color wheel that slowly changed the tree from silver to red, green, blue and yellow. Most of the ornaments were blue, and it just looked cool!<br /><br /><br /></div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 207px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415328579207888674" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTOacvIPvZdaoQI8Qxts63zkopySMn18JK1TxoXPphvrPw7H6R83hmv5k-eMOtn6NrAilQLIPdCWF3h1Ogbk8gk6VxMd__DZv0AXlHNLJRsNjlXueGjd6-c2-71BBw9NOe5p7BKBq3IA/s320/7-4-2008_050.JPG" /><br /><div align="center">(Me and my favorite handwarmer at the Grandparents' farm.)</div><div align="center"></div><br /><br />There was a heavy card nativity set that I just loved to play with. Grandma would let me set it up if I were careful, and I tried very hard to find just the perfect position for each animal and angel. There was always an Elf on the Shelf as well. I never knew it was an old tradition until just this year. They appear to be in vogue again, and I'm seeing Elf On The Shelf in the major bookstores. I guess everything old IS new again!<br /><br /><span style="font-size:0;"></span><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 207px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415328868625595602" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3Sn11mG60wMcEUJ_cmcCwvrCctz4UHf15BKDUZ6s9WuNY9c8Qqjq6RRTZ2r4ZHs9ZpZbf5w_9HocHtklL5aPMr6BGzo-9kxC10RrsuG3Mory64IRGKJrEljoGf4iJYXgfEtgDpFBzhw/s320/POWERBALL+001.jpg" /> <p align="center">(Me in the hayfield. That's the old farmhouse in the back.)</p><p align="left"><br /><br /><p align="left">Grandpa indulged all three of us kids, yet never had to lay a hand on us to punish us if we erred. All he had to do was look disappointed and sigh. Maybe shake his head. We would immediatly feel so bad that if he had actually whipped us we would have felt better! Grandma, on the other hand, was the disiplinarian. She actually gave me a knife once, and told me to go cut the maple switch for her to use on my behind!! Needless to say, all of us kids, once we experienced these two actions, did our level best not to experience them again!<br /><br /><br />Grandma and Grandpa usually slept upstairs in the attic during our visits. They had seperate beds, and I think it was so we kids could rotate sleeping with them. But there was this one very special Christmas Eve.....<br /><br /><br /><em>As I was shaken awake by a gentle hand, my eyes opened to see my grandpa leaning over me, a quieting finger held to his lips. I crawled slowly at first from the warm bed, reluctant to leave the quilts behind. Then I remembered. It was Christmas Eve! We were going to sneak up on the barn animals and see if it were true that at midnight they bowed down to pay homage to the Christ child!<br /><br />My feet wanted to dance, but the warning look from my grandpa, accompanied by an understanding smile, kept all dancing inside my body. We crept down the stairs, carefully skipping the sixth step that would have creaked and given us away to my grandma and my two younger brothers.<br /><br />In the dark kitchen, grandpa helped tuck my pajama-clad legs into my boots, then zipped my coat against the cold Ohio winter night. He shrugged into his old barn jacket and smiled down at me as he slid my toboggan hat over my rumpled hair.<br /><br />We unlocked the back door, freezing as the loud snick of the bolt rang through the air like a gunshot. We stared at each other, but didn’t hear anyone coming to investigate. Grandpa opened the door slowly and we stepped out into the dark.<br /><br />A light snow was falling, the flakes drifting slowly past us, glittering in the soft illumination of the old security light in the corner of the farmyard. The snow crunched beneath our boots as we walked softly towards the barn, my small mittened hand clasping his work-roughened one.<br /><br />Despite the crunch of the snow underfoot, I thought we were as good as spies, or even Indians.<br /><br />When we got to the barn, grandpa slid a flashlight from his pocket to check his wristwatch before unhooking the barn door clasp. The hinges squeaked loudly in protest as he swung the door open, shining the light into each of the 3 stalls.<br /><br />Two cows and a pony stared calmly back at us, one cow chewing her cud. None of them were concerned in the least at our intrusion. To my great disappointment, all three animals were standing on their feet, not kneeling in the straw. I heaved a sigh in disappointment, feeling my grandpa’s hand come to rest comfortingly on my shoulder.<br /><br />We left the barn and headed back to the farmhouse, my disappointment making me drag my feet. The squeaking hinge had warned the barn animals we were there, and since they wouldn’t kneel if humans were present, or so the legend goes, they remained on their feet.<br /><br />Grandpa stopped suddenly and swung me up into his arms in a big hug, then whispered in my ear, “We’ll catch them next Christmas!”<br /><br />I hugged him back, suddenly happy. No one else would have gone with me at midnight to the barn! Not my dad, nor my mom. Not even grandma! I had the best grandpa in the whole wide world! </em><br /><br /><p></p><p align="left"></p><p align="left">Yes, this really did happen. I can still feel the disappointment, so keenly sharp, when we opened the barn door only to see all the animals standing. It would have been so normal to at least see a cow lying down as she chewed her cud, but no. They were all standing, which was unusual for that time of night. ButI was just a child, and it never crossed my mind at that time.</p><br /><p></p><p align="left">Grandpa was generous to a fault. If a neighbor needed help, Grandpa was there. If his grandbabies needed or wanted something, he did his best to fill the need, or take care of the want. So when I wanted to see the animals kneel to celebrate the birth of Baby Jesus, the Grandfather part overrode the farmer part. I was indulged, even though it meant getting up in the middle of the night and going out into the cold for something that was just a story.></p>sgsidekickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17649169267084831571noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1907718565846074537.post-28585043833583295472009-10-12T20:06:00.000-07:002009-10-12T20:23:13.902-07:00A Lesson Learned The Hard WayToday’s submission has no pictures because I. Screwed. Up.<br /><br />Here’s the backstory.<br /><br />Mom had mentioned years ago that she still had dad’s old slides in the basement. Boxes and boxes of slide carts and carousels and SLIDES. So I volunteered to go through them, organize them, and convert some of them. With her blessings, I had the slides shipped to my house, purchased a slide converter, and away I went.<br /><br />It was a slow and tedious process, and in all the sorting, which tied up the dining room table for MONTHS with various piles and stacks and such, I would find groups of slides that there really was no point in keeping. So then I’d call mom and ask what she wanted me to do with them.<br /><br />The slides of the Columbus City Zoo from 45 years ago really held no value to either one of us. Yes, I kept the shots that actually had family in them, but of the cages and habitats of the animals? Just taking up space. So I offered them to the zoo for their archives under mom and dad’s name. They jumped at the chance to get them, so I mailed them off. Never heard anything else from them.<br /><br />There were slides of numerous Labor Day parades in our little town. Dad sure did like the antique cars. And pretty girls. Again, I called mom. Unless there was someone in the photos that we knew, no point in keeping them, either. So this time quite a few slides hit the trashcan. I was careful to scrutinize each and every slide. In a few I found one brother with the band, and another in the cub scouts, so of course those were saved. And some from the early 60’s that had our parents and grandparents in them. Mom was pregnant in some of them. She sure was cute! And me sitting with grandpa on the hood of a car.<br /><br /><br />Then there were the shots of an old man on a stage. In checking the notation on the side of the slide cart, I was able to figure out that this was the famous Eddie Rickenbacker, at a military ceremony at (then) Lockbourne AFB, OH. Cool! I called mom, who again had no real use for the slides, and suggested possibly donating them to the Air Force History archives. Good idea. So after a few emails, off they went. This was a few years ago, mind you. Never heard from them, either.<br /><br />I recently returned home to visit family and friends, and just happened to mention to one of my brothers about the Rickenbacker slides, and what I’d done with them. He got a bit interested, and asked if I’d converted them and kept copies. When I said no, he said that was too bad. Our dad had worked on setting up the stage for that ceremony! It would have been nice to have kept the shots, just because dad had had a hand in history. Yeah, this is where I. Screwed. Up.<br /><br />What, exactly was the screw-up? In not checking with EVERYONE in the family. Maybe my other brother would have been interested as well. Or maybe both brothers would have liked copies of the zoo so they could track the changes made over the years. Who knows? Maybe mom or dad had talked to the boys and given them information or told them stories that I never knew (like Eddie Rickenbacker). But now it’s too late for the zoo and Eddie.<br /><br />I still have a few more slides to go through, but what took up boxes and boxes now reside in plastic slide-protector notebook sleeves in 2 big notebooks. In getting the slides shipped to me, getting the plastic protective sleeves, notebooks, slide viewers, slide converter, having prints made, and in making scrapbooks for both brothers and mom, I spent over $500 dollars. But the trip down memory lane? And some (possibly) very good blackmail shots? Totally, absolutely, priceless.sgsidekickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17649169267084831571noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1907718565846074537.post-37475187687361313432009-08-29T14:19:00.000-07:002009-08-31T18:15:51.079-07:00MemoriesI’m working on a labor of love at the moment. I’ve been doing it off and on for about five years now. I’ve been scanning every old family photo I can lay my hands on, and even had my dad’s slides – all 50 years worth! – shipped to me. I invested in a slide converter, and got to work sorting out the chaff from the wheat.<br /><br />My goal is to make a cd or 2 (or 3?) for each family member so they can have a history of the family in digital record. Maybe my niece might like to see the genes that are in her makeup: good country folk with determination and hard work in their blood. People who lived through good times and bad. People who lived, loved and laughed, no matter what. Or maybe for the rest of us to look back in fondness and love to the people who shaped us and guided us as we grew up.<br /><br />In my dad’s slides I found whole projector trays full of shots from Air Force base air shows and ceremonies. One particular set caught my attention: an old man receiving an award. Checking my dad’s notes, I discovered that this was the celebrated flying ace of WWI Eddie Rickenbacker! Now, after decades of languishing in my mom’s basement, he was finally seeing the light of day once more. I contacted the AF historian and asked if they were interested in receiving these slides. After assuring them that I really had no place for them, they agreed to take them, and seemed quite happy to have them. I received no other thank you, but I hope Eddie is not once more condemned to a dark box in some basement.<br /><br />There was also a BUNCH of shots taken at the Columbus Zoo over a 40 year period. Even after taking out any shots of family and relatives, I was left with quite a few shots of the zoo in general. I thought maybe the zoo historian would be interested in these shots, as they show how much the zoo has changed. Again, on initial contact they were very happy to hear from me and eager to receive the slides. Again, no other thanks, but I’m not so concerned as I am for Eddie.<br /><br />In the middle of converting the slides I thought family might be interested in, of which there are two 3” binders full of slide sheets that hold 20 slides each, my slide converter died. Thank goodness for Walgreens! The hard part is after they’ve been converted; I had to check each shot and see if I could rid them of the strange colors, tones, scratches and weird “artifacts” left behind after decades of storage in a basement. I developed “Mouser’s Wrist” and “Right-Click Thumb” after hours and hours and hours of performing cleanup on the digital shots. Some just weren’t salvageable, but I discovered that when they were changed to black & white, it was almost magical: you could see clearer detail. Like this shot of the back pasture. The main color is red, not black, yet converted to b&w, what a difference.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><p align="center"><br /><br /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 216px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375498827964137842" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOUz8asPPh8UtG3rYC_-naKv9Hp-Npx8dFSjvfrOHJasqQT6jN-5gGjL9a5MGiUcwegxiCaIQu6FC3KAhsehXLe97vvXigLOvgTINOLKVMoId0u2xBjHgsFlxRogC58H-2t4RDzbw79w/s320/R1-22.jpg" /></p><div align="center"><em>The "before" where only the cows should be red...<br /></em><br /></div><p align="center"></p><p align="left"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 216px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375498837298318818" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG3GOHdbGWABMb2YDbaNcnY6ToKeE1cCcEJ1tXD5SQ-4_HpmT7hKDjW0A3TW-oD0dyYKXe5jf76QJ1DEGgNx_PBQmeDFBSH5JX0UFBeYShSU2evN9UvhIRzKjWN-m91ppbxDu552yo4w/s320/R1-22b&w.jpg" /> <em></em></p><p align="center"><em>...and the "after". The spring is to the left, next to the tree in the back.</em></p><p align="left">Grandpa and I would sit in the back yard, right about where this shot was taken, and pick off groundhogs across the “crick” and up at the spring with his old rifle. Darned things had a passion for my sweet corn, and I didn’t want to share! I got real good at picking off groundhogs.<br /><br />In dredging up these slides, I’ve also dredged up memories that have long lain dormant. If not for these old shots, these memories might easily have gone to the grave with me. Like the shot of my grandpa sitting on the floor to accommodate my toddler height as I washed his face with a warm washcloth. He had so much patience with all three of his grandkids! I remember trying to be real careful and not rub too hard, or get soap in his eyes.<br /><br /></p><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 317px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375499718247159570" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7WuuDBqqF8QyMG2yOBziPBDj0jlb0BOINWtrzTZjIlS6t7DBYKYwFV9gw_oHzuE2SsOmTUAQbt7NTJzx-GmgiH1Gv8DH-XfQTWMfNF9M0SiBU5BOd0p940iAo_l3OCIVStL-A9xXiDg/s320/Cleaning+Grandpa%27s+face+2.jpg" /> <p align="center"><c><em>Me combing my grandpa's hair before washing his face.</em></p><p align="left"></c>I think all three of us kids grew up worshipping grandpa. If we got caught doing something wrong, he could lay the biggest guilt trip on us just by shaking his head and looking sad. That hurt us worse than if he’d picked up a paddle or belt and spanked us! Now, grandma? She’d make us go out and cut our own switch to be used in the punishment! So we learned darned quick not to misbehave at their farm.<br /><br />I’m also adding scans of old photos I found when last I visited my mom. She had had open-heart surgery and was home recuperating, so what better bedside activity (to keep her in bed!) than to dredge up her own memories of people and places for the unmarked photos she had in a big box under the bed. I could hear the smile and love in her voice as she regaled me with stories about her own beloved grandparents and other relatives. There are two photos in particular of my great-grandparents that really speak to me.<br /><br /><br /><br /></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpxG8dwTfQUgjoDq40cjW4omJ78VRMXQo1pTWh9r_rbA7a2-M8_ERPqvv__u0qrxs90fTUrpIzRQ_dsDF5sL0iz3hKLupWMAMiNph3-khoFWPgePjqG6rkoP3Zwe8R-JLbupaOcpPVlA/s1600-h/wps106.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 235px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375500359034021234" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpxG8dwTfQUgjoDq40cjW4omJ78VRMXQo1pTWh9r_rbA7a2-M8_ERPqvv__u0qrxs90fTUrpIzRQ_dsDF5sL0iz3hKLupWMAMiNph3-khoFWPgePjqG6rkoP3Zwe8R-JLbupaOcpPVlA/s320/wps106.jpg" /> <p align="center"></a></p><em>Great-grandma back at the WVA farm.<br /></em><br /><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQHDpuZPx9tnzytDg-1r3XwWEv7lfWNlCqcYTg5V9JqtL9r6HF9qJOnKYnEA3rFyAg0XXlOzFoUToEXs_lVZJmfjrbKNyrKMbU1peXXfHjffeGV-X0IWqGtMlWmbwKaT-tiIlExdpz9g/s1600-h/wps091.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 223px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375500350015220514" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQHDpuZPx9tnzytDg-1r3XwWEv7lfWNlCqcYTg5V9JqtL9r6HF9qJOnKYnEA3rFyAg0XXlOzFoUToEXs_lVZJmfjrbKNyrKMbU1peXXfHjffeGV-X0IWqGtMlWmbwKaT-tiIlExdpz9g/s320/wps091.jpg" /></a></p><p align="center"><em>Great-grandpa still in OH, and his bicycle.</em></p><p><br />On my own grandparents farm was a small house set apart from the farmhouse. It was only a two room house with a back porch that was constantly sagging, and an outbuilding and outhouse reached by a wooden walkway, and a dirt basement. Mom tells me this was built just so grandma’s parents could move in from their West Virginia farm in their old age. But. This only lasted for three months, as they weren’t used to electricity, running water in the kitchen, or the modern luxury of a telephone. They moved back to their WVA farm, much to my grandma’s chagrin.<br /><br /><br /></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHqs0Abw9UExdQmGrNPzuP_j0V27zJkbgEsg3ot6oj9M_h7QZNf_DYtEzlLnh1mxrSzPeBJVVLk7U5jLJhskNd45RREE2MNwDgQVWkUF1SiDzUGKqCc4D5AdvqOBHXTmM0ovWl9IsBPw/s1600-h/wps160.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 309px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375502824752366866" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHqs0Abw9UExdQmGrNPzuP_j0V27zJkbgEsg3ot6oj9M_h7QZNf_DYtEzlLnh1mxrSzPeBJVVLk7U5jLJhskNd45RREE2MNwDgQVWkUF1SiDzUGKqCc4D5AdvqOBHXTmM0ovWl9IsBPw/s320/wps160.jpg" /> <p align="center"></a></p><em>Great-grandma at the "new" stove. She never got used</em> <p align="center"><em>to running water in the kitchen.</em></p><em></em><div align="left"><br /><br />I have photographic proof that I actually met some of my great-grandparents, even if I have no memory of it. Unfortunately, I never met THIS g-grandma, my maternal grandmother's mother. She was the favorite of my mom's, and their memories will live on in passing down my Mom’s stories and memories. And in looking at these photos and slides, more stories come to light, more memories appear as if by magic from far corners of memory. There are all sorts of photos in that old box, and yet more in albums just recently discovered. Black and white shots, a few colored, shots of people we knew and people we have no clue about.<br /><br />I’ve discovered the old saying about the oldest child having the most pictures taken, while the youngest child will be lucky to find one of just himself, or even one period. As with all things, the first is a novelty, and it goes downhill from there. Luckily, my family was a camera-toting family, and ALL of us kids appear in many of the photos!<br /><br />As a kid I was usually annoyed, sometimes highly, with allthe picture taking by my mom and grandma. Constantly having to stop, pose and smile in the middle of an activity was rather irksome to a teen and pre-teen. Oh, and checking to make sure the sun was in your eyes to get the best shot. What fun. Yet now as I sort through and arrange all these paper-to-digital memories, I am happy. Memories captured by grandma’s old Brownie camera or the Polaroid, snapped by relatives both known and unknown and by virtual strangers bring back the feeling of carefree summers on the farm, visits to relatives in WVA.<br /><br />That’s the main purpose of this blog, actually. To tell others about our family, to let them know about a time and people long gone, just as we ourselves will be to later generations. </div>sgsidekickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17649169267084831571noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1907718565846074537.post-37200518271630178652009-08-15T16:29:00.000-07:002009-08-15T16:42:36.781-07:00Canning, Part II<div align="center"><br /></div><div align="left">I last wrote about canning Bread & Butter pickles, and it made me reminiscent of my childhood when my mom and grandmother canned tomatoes. I love homegrown, homemade canned tomatoes!! As I mentioned previously, as a teen I tended to find other things to do when it came to canning. Climbing trees, riding my pony, going down over the hill…anything to escape the steam bath that the kitchen became as canning commenced. And now I’m paying the price for skipping out.<br /><br />I gave in and took the tomato canning class anyway, and was disappointed to discover it was only a lecture. The speaker was fairly knowledgeable, but she’d only been canning for a couple of years, and sometimes I just wasn’t sure of her answers to the questions that were asked. What I WAS sure about was that if my grandma was canning today, the FDA would probably shut her down!<br /><br />The speaker did explain a few things that were brought to life by her sometimes sardonic tone and her examples of what to do and not do. This was much better than just reading it in the canning books. She was a smaller version of Alton Brown. At least I got my money’s worth for the class.<br /><br />But honestly. My grandma would have looked at her and shook her head over some of the techniques that are now being insisted on by the Co-op, or the University Extension, the FDA, whomever. Most of the procedures are fine in modern kitchens, with long counters and lots of space, but a small farmhouse kitchen? You had to make do with what you had! Counters weren’t always as generous as they are nowadays, for all the scratch cooking that was done back then.<br /><br />Jars and rings were washed by hand, then placed in large canners of boiling water to sterilize. Then they were placed in other canners of extremely hot but not boiling water, to wait their turn to be filled. The lids were place in hot water (not boiling, or it melted the sealing rings too much), ready to be placed on top of the newly filled jars. There was some sort of assembly line going with the two women in the kitchen, and us kids were sometimes drafted to carry finished jars out to the porch to put on a table set up there for the cool down. </div><div align="center"><br /></div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370337350234862002" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghow-IUZ6TeeCr-GL_bFKdSCBR2ReREh5vtVMtEPgUV-LZBJwcB4REahgjpLfxxf21WltYL2PRbzPAwtEzr_raFEJksiUoBZYyMWfl4FGXteGM8QvntaEpH0putpRnCMpzanTdSt1Vvg/s320/wps105.jpg" /> <p align="center"><em>(My grandparents, and the first motorized vehicle I learned to drive. Even driving the tractor, grandma was a lady!</em><em>) </em></p><p align="center"><em><br /> </p></em><div align="left">I can picture my grandma at the gas stove canning. She comes in clear as a bell, but I see her actions as if through a badly warped glass. She always wore a dress, with a full apron tied on. I think the only times I ever saw her in pants was during haying or the time she stood with my foundered pony in the cold creek water. Everything was done in a dress. Oh, and sensible, no nonsense shoes. By the end of the day her hair would be dripping, and you could probably squeeze a couple of cups of sweat from the dress and apron. But I’m willing to bet that you could never get sick from anything that was made in that kitchen. It was made with love and sweat, at temperatures more closely resembling the surface of the sun than mid-summer Ohio.<br /><br />So now with my faulty memory augmented by my Ball canning books, I may be able to actually put up a batch or two of my beloved tomatoes, no matter what the form. Juice, whole, diced, you just can’t go wrong with tomatoes. Unless you add celery … ICK!!</div>sgsidekickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17649169267084831571noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1907718565846074537.post-51812019897518206052009-07-31T14:04:00.000-07:002009-07-31T14:19:28.254-07:00Cukes and Tomatoes and Pickles, Oh My!<p class="MsoNoSpacing">Holy smokes!<span style=""> </span>Literally!!<span style=""> </span>Where I live it’s been over 100 degrees F for the past WEEK!<span style=""> </span>Of COURSE some of the cukes had to decide this was the perfect time to ripen.<span style=""> </span>Sigh.<span style=""> </span>So Monday, in 102-104* I was canning bread & butter pickles.<span style=""> </span>Only got 13 pints (did I mention it’s a small garden?), but that’s 13 more than I had before!<span style=""> </span>I did it in stages and early in the morning so I didn’t overtax the one and only window ac unit we have for the entire house.<span style=""> </span>Poor thing has been running pretty much nonstop.<span style=""> </span>I think last night was the first night in a while it was actually turned off.<span style=""> </span>Also the first night in 3 that we were able to sleep in our own bed instead of on an air mattress on the floor in the living room in front of ye olde ac unit.<span style=""> </span>But I digress.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing">This was my second time of canning pickles, and it turned out just as good as the first time a couple of years ago.<span style=""> </span>But since we were on our last jars, I had to plant more to can for the next year or so.<span style=""> </span>The cukes are ripening in intervals, thank goodness, because if I’d’ve had to can them all on Monday, I’d’ve died from heat exhaustion.<span style=""> </span>I think the ac unit would have as well.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeotgjBykGlNK_BymRXzzitK13uByQDH_m1san1Emib_ZbhC1qRv5o4VgmYSYPhwt0rL3phvOc0bCBazFExensOa2FPZgwXqKpyQ9FdJFP8_7SCj9UPpdzFp0HGkiK4VCk4HElnOfq8g/s1600-h/DSC00789.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeotgjBykGlNK_BymRXzzitK13uByQDH_m1san1Emib_ZbhC1qRv5o4VgmYSYPhwt0rL3phvOc0bCBazFExensOa2FPZgwXqKpyQ9FdJFP8_7SCj9UPpdzFp0HGkiK4VCk4HElnOfq8g/s320/DSC00789.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364734688970733858" border="0" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">From this....<br /><br /></div><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgslCUFVY3Eru3CdkBtvvQaJP5Dn3VGDBSQGavC4zi6BEAYfkDHVgSC8bhSwOOnW-F1LelOTdipoVSnz8x9lUEmgNHHNLv3R8y-j8VYhIDFiXeewLLYYXEB1B-PV6cFFUNe0D3JJPZQpA/s1600-h/DSC00792.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgslCUFVY3Eru3CdkBtvvQaJP5Dn3VGDBSQGavC4zi6BEAYfkDHVgSC8bhSwOOnW-F1LelOTdipoVSnz8x9lUEmgNHHNLv3R8y-j8VYhIDFiXeewLLYYXEB1B-PV6cFFUNe0D3JJPZQpA/s320/DSC00792.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364734903674011762" border="0" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">...and this...<br /><br /><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgSYvtCGZhfQINRfY4v-PE8SlyAfPHDWIPkOCqIAQVXmtkybWHaAaOK475tqkAmnoiOq7kuEW7K0oP7MQfQRPRcm4_XZtFnYAmjclpm8NAJg7lXk-ZqW6RrnCIqls4NJO4eSOfvZH1hg/s1600-h/DSC00788.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgSYvtCGZhfQINRfY4v-PE8SlyAfPHDWIPkOCqIAQVXmtkybWHaAaOK475tqkAmnoiOq7kuEW7K0oP7MQfQRPRcm4_XZtFnYAmjclpm8NAJg7lXk-ZqW6RrnCIqls4NJO4eSOfvZH1hg/s320/DSC00788.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364735198841041122" border="0" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">To this! Yummy!<br /><br /></div><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing">All this canning and the talk of canning takes me back a few years.<span style=""> </span>Wish it took my memory of canning back as well!<span style=""> </span>I’ve been wanting to can tomatoes, but I just cannot recall how to do it.<span style=""> </span>I remember Grandma put up the best tomato juice for years, until she started adding celery salt & seed to it.<span style=""> </span>Then she’d get mad when I refused to drink it.<span style=""> </span>“I don’t understand.<span style=""> </span>Tomato juice is your favorite!<span style=""> </span>You’ve always drank it.<span style=""> </span>Now drink it!”<span style=""> </span>But I’d complain that it tasted funny, and I didn’t like it.<span style=""> </span>To this day I hate celery salt, and I don’t care WHAT you use it in!<span style=""> </span>I can see no good reason for it to be used on food, or even for its very existence.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing">I remember going out to the tomato patch with Grandpa to check the ripeness.<span style=""> </span>When we made these little trips, Grandpa always had a salt shaker in his back pocket.<span style=""> </span>We’d walk through the patch, picking a tomato here and there and “testing the taste”.<span style=""> </span>I don’t know how there was ever enough tomatoes to can, whatwith all the testing trips we made!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing">Then came the picking.<span style=""> </span>Grandpa showed me how to start at the far end of the patch first to make fewer and shorter trips as the picking progressed.<span style=""> </span>We had bushel basket after bushel basket of tomatoes!<span style=""> </span>I was in heaven!<span style=""> </span>Then came the canning.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing">Right about here is where I, the perfect tomboy, usually found something ELSE to do besides work in an extremely hot kitchen in the middle of an Ohio summer!<span style=""> </span>I didn’t mind the work of picking the fruit; I carried a salt shaker in my OWN back pocket to enjoy the benefits.<span style=""> </span>But canning?<span style=""> </span>I couldn’t clear out of the farmhouse fast enough!<span style=""> </span>Mom and Grandma sweated (none of that “glowing” for working farmwives!) in the canning steambath for a couple of days until all the tomatoes were processed.<span style=""> </span>They made a game for us kids of listening for the top to pop and counting them to make sure all the jars had sealed.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing">Once popped and cooled, the jars were carried down to the dugout basement and set on deep shelves<span style=""> </span>carved into the cool darkness of the ground, where they could stay for years…or until we came to visit and I drank them!<span style=""> </span>Man!<span style=""> </span>There is absolutely nothing on this earth better than home canned tomato juice straight from the cool cellar!<span style=""> </span>And the canned tomatoes?<span style=""> </span>Spectacular to bite into and to use in stews and such!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing">But now that I’m an adult?<span style=""> </span>I wish I’d stayed in the kitchen.<span style=""> </span>I wish I’d learned these things.<span style=""> </span>But since I can’t go back, I must go forward.<span style=""> </span>I’ve read up on canning tomatoes.<span style=""> </span>I’ve even purchased the Ball Blue Book for home canning.<span style=""> </span>Clear photos and illustrations of such quality that even I should be able to do it.<span style=""> </span>Do I risk it, or plunk down $20 for a canning class with the college extension?<span style=""> </span> I’ve been unemployed since April of 2008, so I really have to watch my pennies.<span style=""> </span>Since I have this canning book, and I’ve been in on various stages of the canning (when I COULDN’T escape *lol*), I’m hoping some of the process has sunk in.<span style=""> </span>That, and the fact that I asked my neighbor to let me help when SHE does her tomato canning (she also uses celery salt *ick!*) this year, will be exactly what I need, and I can save my money for more important things….like jars!</p>sgsidekickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17649169267084831571noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1907718565846074537.post-48924463782693389082009-07-22T18:58:00.000-07:002009-07-22T21:08:17.466-07:00Peas in A PodHere it is, the middle of July, and I had just sat down at my deck table to shell peas. As I shelled, I’d pop the occasional pea into my mouth instead of the bowl. Memories of sitting with my grandmother in the front porch swing to shell peas came pouring back as I worked the pods. <br /><br />Sometimes I can see the sun setting as we shell, the sky in deep pinks and purples with a hint of orange. Other times the sun is still shining strong, yet the breeze through the porch keeps the flies and other pests away. As we shelled, we talked. About anything. Church, school, family, farm, whatever came to mind. Maybe I’d tell her how I’d seen old Maude, the pregnant Hereford, escape her paddock again by jumping the 5 foot tall fence. She had a habit of doing that for each and every one of her pregnancies.<br /><br />Or maybe we talked about the ponies. Grandpa had got me a Shetland pony who was all black except for a white spot on her forehead the size of a 50 cent piece. She was given the unimaginative name of Star. I’ll write about her later, never fear.<br /><br />Whatever we talked about, what we were really doing was bonding. I was always fascinated at how Grandma could shell the peas so fast with her injured right hand. For a short time she had worked at a plastics factory to get extra money, and in reaching into an oven to retrieve the just-baked brush, comb & mirror set, the oven door malfunctioned, closing on her wrist. It caused severe damage; her fingers would never straighten again, set permanently into a claw. <br /><br />But being a farm woman, she made do. What could not be cured must be endured, I’d say. Surgeries could not reverse the damage, and the metal contraption she got from the doctors for physical therapy more often than not was used to entertain us kids. What kid would not be entranced by something metal with leather thongs and rubber bands that fit over your hand like a gauntlet? We were warned about using it to actually punch each other. Grandma had a habit of handing a knife to us and having us cut our own instruments of punishment off a tree outside! We kids learned quickly!!<br /><br />Grandma wasn’t even slowed down by the accident. She continued to knit, garden, can, tend the animals, whatever it took to keep the farm going. So there we sat, my young legs trying to push the swing into a real SWING, and Grandma’s feet planted firmly on the floor, keeping it down to a slight, steady rocking. She’d snap the top off the pea pod, pop it open, and zip a thumb right through the pod, peas falling into the bowl in her lap. She laughed when I tried to imitate her and the peas went everywhere BUT in the bowl.<br /><br />I’m a little annoyed that she never clued me in on how good fresh raw peas tasted, but then, if I had known that back then, there would have been fewer peas in my bowl. I <span style="font-weight:bold;">LOVE </span>peas! Any way, shape or form. So I guess my Grandma knew what she was doing, as usual.<br /><br />My peas are done now, and it’s time to plant more if I want some for fall. It is probably too late, but I’ll have to try anyway. I promised my backyard neighbor that I’d plant them along the fence line this time, since she loves peas as much as I do! As long as she leaves the peas on <span style="font-style:italic;">MY </span>side to me, she can have whatever grows on <span style="font-style:italic;">HER </span>side.sgsidekickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17649169267084831571noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1907718565846074537.post-10277505194190147542009-07-22T15:41:00.001-07:002009-07-22T15:41:52.776-07:00The Fight Is On!When my brothers and I were kids, two of us had to wear glasses (we still do!) The youngest (Lee) was SUPPOSED to wear them for reading, but refused. So my other brother (Glenn) and I hated him. Nothing personal, you understand!<br /><br />The number one rule in our house at that time, besides not running in and out of the air conditioned living room (that meant letting the cold out of the room every time we went thru the curtain!), was this; if we got into a fight with each other, the glasses had to come off first! Period. End of sentence. Woe be to the one who forgot and risked or actually did get their glasses broken!<br /><br />Number two rule was to take it outside. That made a lot of sense, seeing how we were living in a tiny little house at the time on our grandparent’s farm. I can’t remember how many fights. or “tussles”, we had back then, but I do remember they fell off sharply when at one point grandpa came out with a folding chair and made a production of setting it up and sitting down to enjoy the free show. I’m sure we kids felt rather silly when he did that. I was rather embarrassed!<br /><br />You know, I’m constantly amazed at how well we turned out, and at the fact that we managed to survive childhood relatively unscathed.sgsidekickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17649169267084831571noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1907718565846074537.post-69158354081930050792009-07-19T22:23:00.001-07:002009-07-19T22:38:18.486-07:00Goodbye, Uncle Walt<div><font face="verdana">My grandparents had an old black and white Zenith back in the 60’s and 70’s. One of the first to have a remote control, which was top of the line back then. The remote, affectionately called “the clicker”, had 3 buttons; one for on and off, one for channel up, and the last for channel down. We got 3 stations on bad days, and 4 on good ones. They were ABC (channel 4), NBC (channel 6), and CBS (channel 10). Oh, and PBS, which was 32 or 34 if you had the UHF antenna pointed in the right direction and the sun was shining.<br /><br /> There were just a few rules that were sacrosanct when it came to the old black & white Zenith: Sunday morning before church we watched the televangelists, and if church got out early Sunday night we could catch most of Disney! Saturday evening was wrestling, and the weekday evening news was ALWAYS CBS with Walter Cronkite. No ifs-ands-or-buts about it. If our chores were done early we could watch Flippo, which was usually great. Or the Banana Splits. But the news was Walter Cronkite, as no one else would suffice.<br /><br />This carried over to my parents. I believe they tended to watch Walter as well. He made us feel … comfortable, I guess…when his face was on the screen, giving us the good as well as the bad. He didn’t use big words, or act like he had to talk down to the general public. He didn’t “purtify” or make flowery speech. He gave it to us straight, whether it was man landing on the moon, or the assassination of a president. He reacted to the news as well, showing us that he was human, a man of the people, so to say. <br /><br />I don’t think he ever made a misstep in his job or his life. He was the first reporter to be called an “anchor”, and in that he was aptly named. He anchored entire families to the television to hang on his every word. Nowadays entire families are split up: one is the in living room, actually watching the television, while another is in the bedroom getting their news online. Maybe a child is at the library, skimming over the MSN headlines, or in their own bedroom, watching their own television, away from the rest of the family…wherever they might be.<br /><br />He popped up once in a while after his retirement, and every time I heard his name or saw his picture, I’d flash back to those times spent on my grandparent’s farm. Grandpa worked for the Electric company for his full time job, then came home to his modest 15 acre farm and took care of a couple of cows, a pony or two, the chickens, and a few other odds and ends critters he had running around in the pasture. Maybe some weeding or tilling the vegetable patch. Then in to wash up and relax in the living room with Walter while the women (grandma and mom) got supper ready. Me being a tomboy, I usually found something better to do, or else I’d sneak into the living room with grandpa and we’d watch the news together.<br /><br />Walter was so a part of my childhood that it almost feels like I’ve lost a family member. Maybe a kindly uncle, or someone along that line. I, for one, will miss him. And that’s the way it was.</font></div>sgsidekickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17649169267084831571noreply@blogger.com2