Yesterday, Dan and I went to the Bide-a-Wee Animal Shelter in Wantagh for a volunteer's seminar. They need people to greet, walk, interact, and act as liaison between humans and dogs and cats. I was hoping to be able to bring the more docile of my dogs, Snapple, to visit the elderly or kids with disabilities, but the kindly lady expert said that, at 10, he was too old. I was disappointed; Snaps is such a people person, but he does tend to jump and bark when excited, and I didn't want him to give a heart attack to the old people or scare the kids.

Dan loves animals, too, but the presence of two shedding dogs (a greyhound rescue and a gorgeous golden who participates in a reading program) fired up his allergies, and he had to exit the proceedings halfway before they were over. I was especially fascinated by the programs that involves children who have difficulty reading; when they read aloud while stroking an avid-listening cat or dog, their reading abilities subtlely improve. But again, I'd have to use one of my own pets, and neither Bugsy nor Snaps was suitable. So, that leaves greeting interested adopters at the shelter (no hands-on with animals), which seems more appropriate for Dan, or dog-walking/ socializing. They start novices out with the easiest-to-walk dogs and work them up to the more difficult ones. You pledge two hours per week to volunteer, and I'm really looking forward to putting in my time. As I said in an earlier post, I prefer animals to people!

Today, Sunday, I took a four-hour nap. I simply couldn't stay awake. I wonder now if these lengthy weekend naps became necessary because of my anemia? I don't know. But since weekends are the only chance I get to enjoy myself, shop, and catch up on all the TV shows I've taped during the week, sleeping really bollixes up my time.

This morning, I started the day with nine pills! NINE! I used to laugh at my in-laws with their giant pill caddies, and now I have one of my own. What goes around DOES come around! Two for diabetes, one for pain, one for anemia, one for bones, two vitamins (multi and all B), an aspirin (81 mg.) and one for acid reflux. I take five more at dinnertime--two for diabetes, one for blood pressure, one for cholesterol, one for bones), then four at bedtime (two for depression and two for pain). Oh, and just to top it all off, a shot of insulin right before I hit the sheets. Yes, I've become my in-laws!



So I'm going to work with animals. I'm really looking forward to it. Dan predicts I'm going to fall in love with every dog I walk and want to adopt them. I know I won't be able to do that. At least my head will know. My heart might have an argument with my head. They can fight as hard as they want, because Bugsy would NEVER stand for another dog in this house!

Hope your weekend was a great one!

Love and kisses,
Robin

I'm anemic. Two words my doctor could have just told me over the phone, but I guess she either needed that 10 dollar co-pay or had to see my gorgeous face in person.

Actually, she wanted to touch base with me, ask about my periods, stuff like that. I have to return to taking iron pills for a while. She mentioned a terrible word to me--colonoscopy--a test I had four years ago and am shortly due for again. While the procedure itself isn't too bad, the prep--eating non-red foods and pretty much everything liquid, and drinking this horrible stuff that makes you shit out all your major organs--is, by far, one of the worst things I've ever had to do. They want you lying on the bathroom floor, moaning, until the only thing dribbling from your rectum is clear fluid. By that time, you feel as if your rectal tissues have been repeatedly rubbed with sandpaper of the finest grade, and ANYTHING touching you down there is sheer agony.

Colonoscopy? No, no, no. I'll just yank my colon from my butt, leave it for your perusal, then return later to have it replaced. THANK YOU!

I guess I'm heading into menopause. I haven't missed any periods, but they're becoming erratic. I used to get them every 25 days, faithfully, but now, I might get them every 35 days, then get another one in less than two weeks. My doctor says that's what's probably causing my anemia. I'm losing blood from somewhere, and that's the most obvious place.

So, I'm not dying, despite all my conjuring. Well, in truth, ALL of us are dying. Like my brother Steve likes to remind me, in THE WORLD ACCORDING TO GARP, we are all terminal.

And that's how I'm going to leave you on this gorgeous-looking Saturday. I have a tree guy coming this morning to give me an estimate on trimming back the jungle that my backyard has turned into. I fully expect to see Tarzan leaping from branch to branch, then landing on my roof. Hey, look at his loincloth, it's askew and I can see EVERYTHING! Nice package, Tarz!

(That's a dirty ol' lady conjure, folks.)

I'm sure anyone reading this realizes my reasons for writing it--the two latest news stories involving dogs and children. A little girl was mauled in a Bay Shore Petco store, requiring reattachment of her torn lip. That dog now awaits euthanasia while its owner awaits a lawsuit. A little girl was killed while playing tug 'o' war with her pooch--because the scarf they were tugging was wrapped around her throat and and the dog inadvertently choked her. That dog has been turned over to a shelter because the family can't bear to have the pet that accidentally killed their daughter around anymore. It's understandable, but so sad, so very depressing.

Even after eight training sessions, Bugsy, though less intent on biting my husband and son, is still blind, unpredictable and very wary of strangers. When children come bounding up to us and bend down to pet him, I always shout, "NO! You should never pet any strange dog without asking the owner if it's OK!" On one such occasion, while I was walking Snapple and Bugsy on their double leash, a little girl reached down to pet Bugsy. Realizing by his Elvishly-curled, snarling lip, he was just about to take a taste of her hand, I pulled him back. "Don't!" I cried. "He's blind and scared of people he doesn't know!" The little girl began to cry. Her angry mother darted out of her house and lit into me for scaring her daughter. I got right into her face and said, "Listen--I can already tell you're the kind of woman who would sue me if my dog bit your kid. I'm just trying to save both of us a lot of trouble. And your daughter HAS to realize that petting a strange dog without the owner's permission could be dangerous!" "You shouldn't be walking a DANGEROUS dog," sniffed the woman, and marched off, crying daughter in tow.

Bugsy is very protective, especially of me. My guess is that while he was being abused by men in his previous home or homes, he was also trying to prevent a woman in the same house from being abused, too. It's sad, and all I want is for Bugsy to feel safe and loved in our home. It's the least we can do for him.

Dogs and kids can be a volatile combination. Even the friendliest, sweetest dog can turn, depending on events. We already know the death of the girl via her golden retriever was an unfortunate accident. I feel for the parents, but I also feel for the dog, now sent away from the family he loved. He has no idea what he did wrong, why he was taken from his home, separated from his beloved family. As for the other incident, did the child at Petco do something the dog didn't like? Did she blow on his face, which some dogs despise? Did she accidentally hurt him somehow? If that dog is put to death, as planned, will he understand why?

I have a confession--I prefer animals to people, always have. For the most part, they are more loyal than humans, totally devoted and always appreciative of love and affection.

I just wish these terrible events hadn't happened, I really do. It sounds insane to say, but in my mind and heart, the dogs are victims here, too.

I own two dogs, both of whom I love like kids. Snapple (Snaps) is 10 years old, a gray schnoodle we purchased as a pup from Canine Corral, a pet store in Huntington Station. Bugsy, a blind lhasa apso, was rescued from a pound by Last Hope, an animal rescue group. I saw his photo in Newsday and immediately bonded with him. Dan and I met him at the Jericho Animal Hospital, fell totally in love with his gentle face and seemingly sweet disposition, and brought him home--to Snapple's dismay.

Bugsy, it turned out, was a biter. Apparently abused by men, he attacked all males, including family members, biting with enough force to draw blood. He especially went for the feet, calves and knees, probably because they were in easy reaching distance for the little guy. To think of anyone abusing this helpless little dog upset me to the point of fury, and although it got to the point that Dan demanded, "The dog goes or I do!" I could not return him to Last Hope in case he ended up being destroyed. Just the thought of it brought me to tears. Even Dan, Bugsy's most frequent target, preferred to find another way, if at all possible, when I reminded him that Bugsy might end up dead--through no fault of his own.

Last Hope agreed to pay for a trainer to come to our house and work with us and Bugsy. It took quite a while, but he began to get better, less aggressive.

(to be continued)

Pat, my Kentucky-born, funny, sweet, fiercely-loving, sister-in-law, whom my brother wisely married after meeting her on the internet, taught me a word—conjuring--that aptly describes what can happen to parents who go into overdrive worrying about their kids.

For example:

Your newly-mobile 17-year-old daughter, her brand-new license dripping wet ink, asks, “Can I borrow your car?” Reluctantly, you hand over the keys, praying that the inspector who passed this kid hadn’t slept through the test or passed her because she looked so cute in that short red skirt. “It’s eight o’clock and dark--be home by 10,” you admonish. You wish you could simply refuse, but how can you undermine your proud, smiling child? “Thank you!” she squeals, grabbing the keys from your nerveless fingers, and hugs you hard before disappearing. The car sputters reluctantly into life in the driveway and you bow your head, praying.

Mom and Dad worriedly assure each other that nothing bad can happen in two hours, even though you KNOW it took only a few minutes to conceive this grown-up child in the back seat of his car!

But teenage sex is the least of your concerns at this point, although such rutting almost seems preferable to letting a novice driver behind the wheel of a 2,500 pound killing machine.

Then it happens.

It’s 10 PM, and you don’t know where your child is. 10:05. 10:10. You watch TV, but, unable to concentrate, shut it off. You argue --should we call her cell? No, what if it distracts her and she gets into an accident?. . .accident. . .she’s lying in a mass of twisted metal and glass, bleeding, dying, and her last words, “Mommy, Daddy, I love you!” fade into the sound of ambulances arriving too late. 10:15, 10:20. She’s been accosted at the mall by that crazed carjacker, who shoves his fist into her mouth, destroying five thousand bucks in orthodontic work. Or he shoves her out of the car and she’s instantly struck by four other vehicles. Her dying words are, “Ugnnnnhghn!” 10:30, 10:50. She’s picked up a hitchhiker who strikes her over the head with his gun. She goes joy-riding with her friends, who inject her with some happy-drug and send her careening into a concrete divider. A cop stops her for speeding and forces her to strip at gunpoint just because he can.

I know it sounds facetious, but every scenario outlined above always ends in my over-active imagination with my kid lying in a morgue drawer. The handsome CSI guy pulls back a sheet. “That’s my daughter!” I wail. I fall, sobbing, into his strong arms for comfort.

This is conjuring—a distraught parent creates a horrific scene in her own addled brain that seems so real, it can reduce her to tears and bargains with God.

At 11 PM, daughter hurries in, all a-flutter, hands back your keys and says, "I'm so sorry I'm late--I stopped to help an injured puppy I saw by the side of the road. I took her to the vet. She needed a lot of work, but he says she's going to be OK. I saved her life! Oh, sorry about the blood on the back seat. And I used your credit card for the bill, I hope that's OK."

What can a parent say? This tender-hearted child has always loved animals. You hug her, grateful your conjuring was all bullshit.

Last night, my 22 year old son, Brad, still hadn’t come home by 8:30 PM. Given that his day begins early, I couldn’t fathom why he was so late. I called his cell phone, which immediately went to voicemail. I left a frantic message, “Where ARE you???” After two more calls and no son returning, I imagined his red Civic wrapped around a tree with him lying half-dead on the ground, moaning, “Mommy, Mommy!”

By the time he arrived home at 9 PM, I leaped from my chair and demanded, “Where WERE you? Why are you so late?” “Mom,” he said, shaking his head, “I told you—I started back to night classes. This one doesn’t get out until 8:30. Why do I bother to tell you anything?” The sad part is, he probably DID tell me his new school schedule, but there seems to be a Bermuda Triangle area in my brain where information goes to die and is forgotten. I’m growing older, and my memory is frighteningly unreliable sometimes.

Much of my conjuring is done while I’m power-walking during my 30 minute weekday lunch break. I pass through an ugly industrial area that morphs into pretty homes, farms and greenhouses. I listen to fast, bouncy tunes on my CD player and let my mind stray where it wants. Sometimes I conjure happy scenes in which I single-handedly thwart another plane takeover by Osama bin Laden and land the jet myself. Picturing myself as a heroine makes it easier to return to my repetitive job, where I’m only a heroine when I can fix the copy machine.

Since my doctor called yesterday and asked me to come see her tomorrow, my conjuring on today’s walk took a different turn. I’m in a hospital bed, very sick. My diagnosis: cancer. Given that nearly every single relative on Mom’s side suffered some form of that disease, I’ve believed it’s only a matter of time before it comes to lay claim to me, a determined pursuer who is only biding his time to attack So I’m dying of cancer. The chemo didn’t work, the experimental procedures failed, and I’m leaving this earth. I’m surrounded by Dan, my dear husband; Brad, my beloved son; Steve, my brother; Pat, his wife; cousins, friends—all come to say goodbye. The image was so strong and vivid, I really started crying.

I realize this stems from my fear and worry that I really am sick and my doctor is going to hand me terrible news tomorrow. Well, damn it, I’m not ready to go!

Why didn’t I conjure a happier scenario, you ask? I don’t know. As I said, I let my mind stray where it wants when I walk. Sometimes it wanders toward good conjuring, other times terrible scenes that leave me in tears.

I hope, when I leave my doctor’s office tomorrow, I’m laughing at my own silly conjuring, chiding myself for being so negative—and conjuring up scenes in which I evilly get back at her for scaring me.