What is it about writing? Why is there a need to write?  What then?

I think over and over about writing.  When I'm walking.  When I'm thinking.  All of those thoughts seem to want expanding, but this kind of thinking doesn't seem to warrant expansion.  It all goes to the wind.  It is unorganized, unedited, and perhaps unproductive.  Why is it I feel I need to write these things down, but don't follow through to do it?

Is it that these words will probably go unread?

Is it that I don't want to spend the time typing in our cluttered office?

Is it that a computer screen signals playing games, shopping and Face Book time, rather than text production?

Is it because it's hard to start?

Is it because it seems there is no easy end to it?

What do I think I need to write about? My dogs. People. Those I have lost.  Those still in my life. Covid times. Aging. Often aging. Spring. Ideas?  

Is it about producing SOMETHING in these times of seeming nothingness? 

Is about using some skills that I feel competent about?

My love is gone...

My love of 13 years has left me, or should I say I let her go?

It's unbearably painful. I've spent 10 years crying over others' pets that had passed, and now it's my turn. Writing about Caprice may take days, between the crying, but I will tell her story.

Right before I retired from teaching, I knew it would be a good time to get a puppy.  I had gone without for quite awhile, ever since I lost Persi to kidney failure I think. Knowing nothing about finding a good breeder, I looked for breeders on the Internet, those close enough for me to pick up a puppy.  Nothing in Albuquerque.  I didn't know much about finding a breeder  or the questions to ask.  All I thought I knew to ask about was sebaceous cysts.  I found Ash's Mystical Poodles in Las Vegas. This was a big breeder with lots of beautiful dogs on her page, and she had puppies and one for me!

The time to pick her up was right after I retired from teaching, May 2006.  

My niece Michelle took me to visit her the day before she would come home with me.  Caprice was the last of the pups to leave her mother, Monet, so there she was in the room with her mom.  I cried when I saw her; I was so glad to have a poodle girl again.

I don't remember much about the flight home, with my little treasure below my plane seat.  Her hard crate and goodies from the breeder, were checked in with luggage.  What I do remember is that Michael fell asleep before he was to pick us up, and I sat in an empty airport at midnight with this beautiful little girl and a huge crate beside me.

She came with an umbilical hernia, not unheard of, but not mentioned by the breeder, and, as I discovered in a few days, worms.  Both fixable, but questionable.

She was a love to watch. She chewed, she barked, she destroyed. I was in love!

She was an independent little cuss.  So independent and full of energy, that I decided to get her a brother three months later Rondo (who's his own story).

New and Not New

I last wrote over a year ago.  Part of my blogging is about not blogging.  

What's new since then?  A lot that's not new anymore, some even notable.  A 70th birthday.  A change in the world. 

What sticks in my mind? Caprice. I worked so hard to keep her alive.  But she had to leave on June 24, 2019. Her Addison's was under control, her digestive issues were under control. She received acupuncture and took Chinese herbs and pills for all sorts of things. I arranged all sorts of food on my Fiestaware to get her to eat and was able to maintain her weight.  Michael constructed a ramp so she could continue to sleep with us when her weak rear end kept her from jumping up on the bed.  I protected the growth on her foot from her licking by putting little pink and purple socks on the food. She had dental work, supported by a veterinary anaesthesiologist,  brought in from Phoenix.  I would have done anything for that girl, but there came a time when I best thing I could do for her was to let her go.

I came back from an agility trial and found she had a swollen eye.  A long trip to the Emergency room resulted in a possible diagnosis of something I can't even remember the name of.  Possible treatment- large doses of prednisone.  As I talked to my vet the next day (Canon was having dental work done), she told me Caprice probably couldn't tolerate the treatment, and so I made the very difficult decision to let her go.

I scrambled to find a vet who would come to my house to release her.  It all happened so quickly.  And so now I am sitting at my computer, nine months later, weeping for my 13+ year old girl, who left me. 

I cried when I first met Caprice, and I cry now.  

I Want to Write...

I want to write.  Almost every day I write a blog entry in my head. About my dogs.  About people.  About the news. About life.

But I don't sit down at my computer and write it. Time? The belief that it reads better in my head than in print? Reluctance to elaborate and make it a real entry?

Yesterday my sister told me that her husband of almost 45 years has told her he wants a divorce.  He blames her for not supporting him.  Why do these things have to be uttered with blame?  Why are people so cruel to each other? Why do we hold things in until they explode and can't be repaired?

I would never have expected this from my mild-mannered brother-in-law.  He is  was a kind person. How does this get lost?

I'm sad.  For my sister.  For my brother-in-law (just barely). For my nieces.  For me.  Not just because my family will be forever changed and trust has been broken.  Because happily ever after is gone.  Because people aren't kind to one another.  Because this isn't a kind world.  Because...

Long May it Wave

This posting is unusual for me in several ways.  One, of course, in that I haven't posted for a long time.  Two, because it's vaguely patriotic, and I don't consider myself patriotic. Three, because I'm

making an admission...

Yesterday at the obedience trial, they opened with the Star Spangled Banner, as they always do.  I sometimes am walking Canon or away from the ring, but I was there today.  I didn't put my hand over my heart (as usual), but stood in respect (as usual).

What was unusual is that my eyes filled with tears (a couple). It seems like this is a different country than the one I grew up in. The President is not presidential.  The office doesn't have respect like it used to.  I admit, I am one who has lost respect.  We are not welcoming "the huddled masses yearning to breathe free. Race is still an issue.  Crime looms over many of us.  The environment is changing.  So many people have lost homes to fire and water.  Animals are tortured.

Is it that I now view the world with older eyes, more awareness of the news, more compassion, less innocence, or has the world changed?

I think it has.  I have changed as well.  I still don't call myself patriotic, but I feel for my country (and the world) when that flag waves.

A Snatch of Thoughts (or Memories of Thoughts)

Always that idea of writing is in the back of my head.  So many of my thoughts, I feel, would be good pieces to write about, and now they are gone.  I have the need to write, but not the determination, the ability to put TV and games and who knows what aside, and walk into the office and write.

Age is often on my mind.  Why it takes me so long to do things.  Why I think I look like I did years ago, even while looking in the mirror (obviously, not closely).  People my age and younger have died, and I wonder how many years I will have.  Will there be more dogs in my life?  Will I do or experience something remarkable?

I am reading and listening to books, and they, too, put many questions in my mind.  Recently I read Sarah Bird's Above the East China Sea and I am just finishing listening to The Yakota Officers Club.  I vaguely remember Sarah as a classmate at Highland High School, and I think we shared an English or literature class. I know that Sarah was an army brat and spent some time in Japan.  Those are reflected in her writing, and make me wonder how much of her writing is autobiographical.  Did she have a sister she didn't get along with?  Knowing a little background info about the author is a dangerous thing.  It makes me read too much into the story.  In this case, I so want to go to Sarah's Facebook page and ask her all my questions, but I know these questions are naïve, to expect so much of the story to be from real life.  This is probably because of my own lack of imagination for creating stories.

My reading makes me think of my reading choices.  I tend to pick books by the same author, books with the same characters in the cozy mysteries I enjoy.  This probably began with Nancy Drew, the comfort of spending time with old friends. Thinking I know the author from what she had written.

My dogs. I am so full of love and concern for them.  Even this sentence makes me smile...

Babies.  Wendy's foster baby, Precious.  I love seeing her change and grow, even though it means there are not as many smiles for me now.  I fell in love with another of Wendy's fosters, Michaela, a three-month-old infant, who was only with her a week, until she was turned over to another foster family who could deal better with the surgery the child needed.  I had never held and fed a baby before for any amount of time, and I have missed her.

Politics, of course.  I try to distance myself from the Republican/Democrat fight, and the disdain for our new President.  Am I an intellectual snob because Trump isn't smart enough for me, or should POTUS be above the populace, better in every way?

Does a summary of my thoughts provide the same catharsis and writing them down as they come up?  I don't know.  I do know that memories of thoughts lack detail and clarity.  I think I'm more eloquent when ideas are in my head.  Maybe....

Another Trip Back in Time

I don't know what sent me in this direction, but I googled my childhood pediatrician, Dr. Eleanor Adler today. I found an interview with her that was done as part of an oral history of the early Albuquerque medical community at http://hscdm.unm.edu/hslic/oralhist/PDF/AdlerEOH.pdf .  Dr. Adler has always stayed in my memory, so reading this interview was a delight for me, especially reading about how Dr. Adler got started in the 1930's, coming to Albuquerque in 1947.

I remember liking to go to the doctor.  The first office I remember was on, I believe north Central, right before downtown, and not far from Presbyterian hospital, in a house-like building which we accessed by steps up the sloping front, landscaped on both sides with large rocks on the slopes.  Her second office was in the newly built Encino Medical plaza.

I know I had my tonsils removed in her office, and in the interview she talks about how her brother did the tonsillectomies, which is a surgery done in the hospital today.

Dr.  Adler made house calls.  A famous one, my mother used to tell the story of, was how when my parents were out of town and my grandparents were staying with us, I got "sick." When Dr. Adler arrived, I was suddenly better, glad to see this familiar face.

I was crushed when after my college physical, Dr. Adler told us it was time for me to leave her.  She was an influence on me, and perhaps stimulated my initial desire to be a doctor.  Perhaps I feel this fondness, because her name brings me directly back to childhood.  I do know I have always admired this kind, direct woman, and I was thrilled to read about her today.

Bed Bark-a-Thon

This is what evenings often entail when we watch TV from bed.

https://www.facebook.com/video.php?v=10203052486216174&l=9006804682342391298

Found: A Memory

In an uncharacteristic act of house cleaning, I was cleaning shelves in my closet today. I found some odd earrings and a special memory. This is a music box my father bought for me before I started fifth grade. That makes the music box over 55 years old!

I had broken my ankle by catching a toe in the loop rug in my bedroom and falling.  (The room was carpeted soon after that.) I'm not sure how this fits together, but I remember being in Zale's Jewelry downtown with my parents and seeing the music box.  If my memory is correct, my father brought it home as a gift for me one day. 

It plays "Dark Eyes." In my family, the Russian (or Yiddish? I'm not sure) sounded like O chi  chordnia, o chi chordnia... My grandfather sometimes sang it while I "danced."

A few lovely memories- childhood, my parents, my grandfather.  Even the broken ankle makes me smile now.