Memorial Day

Memorial Day is a day to remember our fallen heroes, who died defending our freedom. While their deaths are termed the "ultimate sacrifice" (and they were), we must also remember the countless veterans who came home again despite horrible injuries, who lived lives of quiet dignity in spite of terrible pain and disfigurement. Some had scars we cannot see, both mental and physical. My father was one such man who suffered all his life with the pain and disability of his wounds. Yes, he came home again where countless others did not, but when he finally succumbed to death many years later, it was with a kind of grateful acceptance. It gives me comfort to know he is with his brothers in war again, those who he watched fall and missed all his life. Let us remember all of our veterans, those sleeping in foreign soil as well as those who came home again, both dead and alive. Without them we would not have the lives we enjoy today.

MISS SNARK RETIRES

Miss Snark, the font of all snarkly wit and wisdom, is retiring. Here's to you, Miss Snark: you've educated us all. Much love to Grandmother Snark and Killer Yapp. (At least this will leave you more time for those romantic sails around the Cote d'Azur with Mr. Clooney.)

Pursuit of Happiness

I just finished watching the movie "Pursuit of Happyness" and am stunned at what a powerful movie it is, and how empowering it could potentially be. I'm one of the lucky ones; I do not work, and yet I am assured that every first of the month, I will have a paycheck deposited in my account, no matter what, short of nuclear armageddon. It isn't a lot, but it's sufficient for my needs, which are few (food, a heated, lit roof over my head, and books). I have enough for some luxuries, like caffeine and artisan bread once in a while, but it's not enough to ever really consider going anywhere on vacation or anything. Every attempt to save money always ends in failure, because there's always another bill around the corner. It amazes me at how much more expensive it is to live in one part of the country as compared to another. In Michigan our gas, electric, phone, television bills, etc., were positively meager compared to down here in southern Wisconsin. Everything costs more down here - a LOT more.

Wait, wait.... I'm not complaining. (Sure sounded like it though, didn't it?) Someday I would like to be able to take a trip to the West Coast to see my son, or to the East Coast to see my other son, and it's just not going to happen unless I get off my duff and do something. There was a line in the movie tonight that really resonated with me: Chris Gardner said that when he was in school and got a really good grade on a test, it made him feel good, made him feel powerful... made him feel that he had the potential to do anything he set out to do. I've felt like that in my life, many times, but in all the answers to THE question I've had in my life (what do you want to BE when you grow up?) the most consistent answer has been: I want to be a writer. Yet every time I sit down to write, I stutter along for a while, but I eventually abandon every plotline I come up with as too formulaic or too generic or too derivative of everything else out there. My friend Pat (I would like to call her my friend) has written a novel so powerful, so life-changing for her, that Putnam has put this novel's title on the cover of their spring catalog as an example of the finest they have to offer for this season. That is awe-inspiring; that is the example that I'd like to follow. Yet not everyone can be the Great American Novelist. I don't want to win a Pulitzer; I'd just like to be able to write a book good enough to get published. My problem is, I'm a perfectionist AND a procrastinator, which is a combination guaranteed to ensure I'll probably never finish a book, much less sell one.

And yet... and yet... watching this movie tonight made me want to keep trying. Chris Gardner eventually sold his share of his brokerage firm as part of a multi-million-dollar deal, and yet at the time he was pursuing his internship at Dean Witter (his uncompensated internship) he was so poverty-stricken he was sleeping in homeless shelters with his son every night. His life is like a graph charting the course to success. It CAN be done.

And so here I am, in front of the computer, facing Microsoft's Helpful Assistant Paperclip blinking at me.... trying again.

Writer's Block

How many of you out there run Microsoft Word? I know most editors require your work in that format for submission. I was sitting before my silent computer this morning, staring at my current WIP. In the corner of my vision I could see the little paperclip guy with the big eyes (an MS Word 'assistant' you can use for help) standing there on his little yellow pad, waiting for me to give him instruction. I ignored him, like I usually do. Then after a while, when I hadn't typed anything or even moved the mouse, the little paperclip guy flopped down like my dog Buddha does when he's bored, and stared first at me, then over to the words on the page, then back to me.

Now, writer's block is bad enough... but I'm damned if I'm going to tolerate a smartass little cartoon paperclip guy rolling his eyes at me because I'm not typing fast enough!! Sheesh.

It's a good thing I can right-click on the little smart aleck and vaporize his little paperclip butt!!!

Whew! I feel a lot better now, so I'm off to stare at my WIP again. :)

From Winter to Summer

When we moved two years ago from the Upper Peninsula of Michigan to southern Wisconsin, we expected it to be a little warmer, but we're still astonished at how much difference there is. It was HOT today - almost 80 degrees. In the U.P. of Michigan, temperatures hit 80 on maybe one or two days in late July or August. Average summer temperatures there are low 70s. Heck, up there, they probably still have snow. I became so accustomed to the climate there that it wasn't unusual for my husband and I to wear shorts anytime the mercury climbed much past 45 degrees. As a consequence, now we're suffering. (My husband still says he's going to plant a palm tree one of these days.) I find myself longing for a nice 35-degree night so we can sleep without the air conditioner on.

Yes, before I started going through menopause I complained of being cold all the time, but that's beside the point.

In this fuzzy, not-very-good picture, our new puppy Buddha is sitting on Jerry's lap - or, more correctly, his chest. Jerry's got a bit of a belly, and both the dog and the cat seem to regard it as a kind of shelf for lounging on. The cat stays there for hours; Buddha doesn't last very long, before his puppy curiosity gets the better of him, and he's off adventuring again.

Despite our despair over losing our two much-loved dogs within three months of each other, watching Buddha grow and learn is a joy. He's very smart, and very opinionated about it, too. He will never be the kind of dog that obeys blindly and without question - he has to mull every command over in his head for a split second, while regarding you with that calm, inquisitive gaze. I often get the feeling that he knows a lot more about the nature of the world than I do. There's something in his eyes that reminds me of the way my mother looked at me when I had to confront a problem: a kind of amused patience after I rejected her opinion, while all the while she knew I'd come around to her way of thinking after all.

My new little dog has world-weary eyes for such a young soul, which is one reason why I named him Buddha. (Also, because "Confucius" was too long.)

The Black Hole

Wow - time flies when you're so wrapped up in other things, you barely remember to pay the bills.

As you can see by my profile photo, I managed to talk my husband into letting me get another dog. We were interested in adopting the dog pictured on the previous post, but by the time we got to the Humane Society, that particular dog had already had numerous applications submitted for her. We were getting ready to leave when a little black head popped up over the gate separating the entrance area from the main body of the shelter. The folks at the shelter had discovered a litter of five puppies on the side of the road, and after rescuing them and having them seen by a vet, were offering them for adoption. The little head belonged to the only male of a litter of what they claimed were lab mix puppies, and they'd named him Rusty. (Odd, because he's not rusty anywhere.) The little black head belonged to an odd-looking body - he had a white patch on his chest and belly, one entire leg that was blue merle, and each remaining paw was gray; he also had a kind of gray "goatee". He had one ear that stuck straight up, and the other tilted forward. He had a quizzical, sober, and inquiring expression, and no puppy playfulness at all. He was very somber for a three-month-old puppy. After asking about him, we learned that he was running loose in the shelter that morning because he was scheduled to be neutered, and had just had his first bath in preparation, and they wanted to keep him inside so he wouldn't get cold. We fell in love at first sight.

All's well that ended well, and we brought him home. I had him housetrained in a remarkable three days, and that, combined with his serious demeanor, intelligent gaze, and tendency to think everything over very carefully before acting on anything, led me to name him Buddha. He's very "zen", for a puppy.

(We think he's more Border Collie than Labrador Retriever - I've since found out that there are short-coated Border Collies, and that they can be just about any combination of colors.)

I fell down the puppy hole and have just started peeping about again, looking at the world to see what's happened in my absence.

After Buddha had been with us for about six weeks, our elderly Miniature Schnauzer, Muffie, began having a series of small strokes. The vet said that given her extreme age (20 years old) about all we could do was give her aspirin to thin her blood. This did a remarkably good job, but only for about a week. After that, she went progressively downhill. Finally, we submitted to the inevitable and had her euthanized; we were tired of watching her suffer.

It really sucks to have two companions who had been with you for years die within three months of each other. (Oh, and one more thing - our vet now thinks our beloved Polly's kidney failure was caused by what we now know was tainted canned dog food.)

About two weeks after that, we adopted another puppy from a different shelter to serve as a companion for our little guy. We chose a puppy that we were told was a cross between a Boxer and a Mastiff. (She looked like a pit bull to me, but the folks at the shelter said they knew about this stuff, and they could tell she was a Boxer/Mastiff.) She was a remarkably homely girl of a dark brown brindle color; we named her Sadie (my husband picked the name this time.) The two puppies spent all their time playing and generally having a marvelous time, but problems cropped up from the very first day. The first time I tried to feed them both at the same time (each had a separate bowl) Sadie would rush Buddha and snarl and snap at him until he moved away. If he then tried to go to her bowl (which was only logical - I didn't call him Buddha for nothing!) she'd rush back and snap at him there, too. She ended up guarding both bowls and wouldn't let him eat. She bullied him unmercifully. He doesn't have a mean bone in his little body, so he just let her do it. (The only time he ever growled at her was if she came to me for a pat - he didn't like me petting anyone but him.) She soon translated this behavior into their toys, bones, even the two beds they slept in. She was so dominant-aggressive I was afraid to leave them alone together. One morning when I had to go to the doctor, my husband went to the bathroom briefly. While in there, he heard the sound of dogs fighting. When he went back out into the living room, he found Buddha on the floor, and Sadie was pinning him down by the throat. Sadly, we ended up taking Sadie back to the shelter. We found out later that she wasn't a Boxer/Mastiff mix at all - she was a pit bull.

She could be a pain in the butt, but boy! Was she a little lover when she wanted to be! I miss her.

An Odyssey of Adoption

RANT ALERT!!!
About ten days ago I spotted this picture on a local Humane Society's website. Her name is Brandi, and she's a Boxer mix (I think Boxer/Labrador, from the look of her.) The blurb said that she came from a family with two young children who was moving out-of-state and couldn't take her with them. She's housebroken, well behaved, and is about 1 1/2 years old.

Now, since my Polly died in December, I've been haunting different Society's websites looking for another dog to adopt (despite my husband persistently saying "no" every time I broached the subject to him). He took a long look at this picture before he said "no" this time. I let the matter rest - being a pest hasn't gotten me anywhere so far.

The next morning he picked up the picture again and said, "She looks confused. She's looking for her people, and she doesn't know where she is or what she's doing there. She looks sad and lonely."

I said something about not understanding how someone could do that (although I do, actually - that doesn't mean I have to like it) and my husband said, "Well, we moved out-of-state and brought both our dogs with us!"

I let him stew some more, and within another two hours he had tracked me down to my office and said, "Let's go get her."

He called the Humane Society the next morning, and spoke to a very nice lady who shall go unnamed here, who said that although it was their policy not to do same-day adoptions, if we came early the next day when they opened, brought the appropriate documentation (proof that we own our home) it might be possible to do everything the same day. Their website says to bring our other animals with us so they can meet the prospective addition to the family, but my husband explained to the very nice lady that our Muffy is 20 years old, is blind, deaf, and incontinent, and no longer gets around too well (unless treats are involved, in which case she still hops around like a little filly.) He explained that Muff spends all her time either 1. sleeping, 2. going piddle, 3. eating treats with her four teeth, or 4. sleeping. The very nice lady said we didn't have to bring her (which is great, because actual outdoor temperature was below zero at that time.)

The next morning my husband and I were getting ready to head out on the 3-hour trek north, when who should call but the very-nice-lady, who said Brandi had an infection and wouldn't be available for adoption, or even for viewing, until the full course of antibiotics was over. She said she wanted to catch us before we left (which we both thought was very thoughtful) and that she'd call us when we could come and see her.

Which brings us to the present. I called earlier this week to see how she's doing, and the lady that answered the phone acted like a medieval dragon guarding the castle keep. Me: "My name is so-and-so, I spoke with the very-nice-unnamed-lady last week about Brandi, and am calling to see how she's doing." She: "Have you filled out an application?"
The conversation went downhill from there. Every time I asked how she was, I got "we don't do same-day adoptions, you know" or "other people are interested in her too" (which, according to the un-named lady, is a bold-faced lie) or "you have to bring all of your pets with you for the interview."

I understand there are people out there who go and get dogs from the shelter on the spur-of-the-moment, and after a few days of messes on the floor and the chewing of priceless objects, return the offending creature from whence it came, but I'm not one of them. I'm not going to take a dog home and decide three days later I don't want it after all. Dogs aren't ill-fitting shirts in an ugly shade of puce that I'm going to return to Wal-Mart to get my money back.

I don't mind meeting their conditions for adoption. They're reasonable. What I do object to is being told one thing one day, and still another thing another day. I object because the first person told us they bend the rules all the time, for the right people, and the second one never did get around to my original reason for the call, which was to see how Brandi's doing. She acted like it was a state secret and the price for revealing said secret was her head or something.

Has anyone else out there ever noticed that there are some lower-level or mid-level managers that treat their fiefdoms like a chastity belt guarding a lady's honor? I have LOTS of experience with this type of person, having spent 18 years in the military.

When I was working as the supervisor for what was called the "I.D. lab", there were written instructions in place for how to issue someone a military I.D. that were never to be waived, for any reason. I never waived the written instructions. However, the powers-that-be at that particular command insisted that all military members bringing in their dependents for I.D. cards had to be dressed in uniform, or we weren't allowed to serve them. I realize that not all the folks that read this are formerly military, so I'll set this up for you.

Say you're a soldier or sailor that dresses up in a starched, spit-shined uniform every day of the week including Sundays, and you're given a half-day off by your kindly supervisor to go home, retrieve your wife and children, and take them back to the base to get I.D. cards for them. How many of you would take off the stiff, uncomfortable uniform and put some baggy shorts and flip-flops on (this was in a tropical climate)? ALL of you would? So would I. Yet every time I bent this inflexible rule, I got yelled at for it. BUT.... (you knew this was coming, didn't you?) if I refused service to an out-of-uniform client and he or she went screaming to my supervisor, guess what happened? You're right - they told me to take care of the customer. I always ended up looking like the bad guy for enforcing a rule that I thought was bullshit to begin with.

I only worked there for about six months before they rotated me, which is the way the military does things - it makes you more well-rounded in your job. The guy that took over after me had a different management style that I did - he was militant (pun intended) about enforcing the uniform rule, and even went so far as to chew people out for not being "proud" of their uniform and their service, thereby embarrassing them horribly in front of their wives and children.

After all is said and done, I'm not hopeful that we're going to be able to adopt this lonely-looking girl after all. I'm going to call again tomorrow, and this time I'm just going to ask to speak to very-nice-lady, instead of braving the wrath of the dragon again. Wish me luck. :)

Did You Know.....

I learned an interesting factoid today: cheetahs are the only species of wild cat whose claws don't retract. It allows them to make sudden turns and maintain traction when they're chasing down prey at 60 miles an hour.

Other than that, today's been pretty much a vacuum. :)

Maybe Someday I'll Learn (to Keep My Mouth Shut)

Sorry about yesterday's post. I wasn't feeling very well and I guess it sure showed in the post, didn't it?

After reading over all the material the website provides to aid in course completion, I'm feeling more optimistic about this course I'm enrolled in. There's a wealth of knowledge there, and it's a lot more than just a "creative writing 101"-type course. I've never been in a critique group before, and I think that's what I'm most looking forward to; I've read from published authors that many of them credit the leap from amateur to professional (from "writer" to "author") to writer's conferences or critique groups. I can't afford a writer's conference and doubt if I ever will, so a critique group is more up my alley.

To what do you attribute your success?

And I'm Supposed to Learn.... What?

I'm beginning the first session of an online Creative Writing Course that goes over the basics of setting, narrative, character building, etc. I've really been looking forward to this class; I need to get the creative juices flowing and stimulate my inner "muse". I just logged on for the first session, and the instructor left a note on the discussion board, welcoming us all and reiterating briefly the objectives of the class. After her welcome, several participants had posted introductions of themselves. After the first group had posted, the instructor had posted a response that included, "I'm soooo looking forward to your assignments. ....".

Now, I realize that this particular form of speech is popular recently, but that doesn't mean I have to like it. What, exactly, am I supposed to learn from this person? In her introduction, she states her children are grown, so she's a mature woman, presumably with writing credentials since she's teaching this class. Am I learning the definition of "sooooo" and when best to use it here?

I also recently purchased a book that deals with bringing characters "to life". The THIRD SENTENCE states: "After pouring through the recently published books in each subject, ..."

I know I'm a grammar snob (my husband reminds me all the time when I correct him for saying, "we shoulda went there") but really. What exactly am I learning here?

Stages of Grief

They say there are five stages of grief - denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. It's been three weeks but I think I'm still stuck in the first stage, because I keep looking around for my hound-dog girl. I've had dogs before - four others, besides Polly - but I don't think I ever had a bond with an animal (or a human being, except for my mother) like the one Polly and I shared. Sometimes she seemed to read my mind.I've met other people who were totally devastated by the loss of a pet (my sister was one) and, I'm ashamed to say I've been inclined to think, "Get over it already - it was just a dog!" Now I'm on the inside looking out.

I can't really compare her death to anyone but my mom's, because no one has ever accepted me totally and unconditionally as she did. The two animals we still have - the 20-year-old dog and year-old cat - adore my husband and only want me around when the food and water bowls are empty. Polly was a daddy's girl too, but she divided her time between us equally. In the mornings, she was my husband's girl - at night, she was my buddy. She'd lay at my feet when I was on the computer and by my side at bedtime. I'm the one that walked her and played with her, and near the end, when she was suffering, I'd massage her all over to try to take some of the pain away. The day she didn't want my touch anymore, I knew it was time to let her go.

Who am I kidding? I still can't let her go.

I know no other dog can replace her - she was one-of-a-kind - but I feel that getting a new puppy might distract me a little. All dogs have different characteristics and different personality traits, and getting to know a new dog would be good for me, I think. My husband won't hear of it. He just says, "I don't want another dog." He won't even discuss it. I've been surfing Petfinder.com and there are hundreds of shelter puppies out there who are going to end up being euthanized because no one wants them.

What really irritates me is that I'm the one who would pay all the fees and vet's bills, and I'm the one who would care for it. We live entirely on my income, but his foot is firmly down and he won't stand for it.

He loved Polly too, and he's 14 years older than I am, so he's decided that's it for him, no more pets, ever.... so now I'm in despair of ever feeling better.

If anyone reads this, you have my permission to disregard this post. I'm usually a cheerful person and can snap out of a depression pretty quickly, so I know it will come eventually. I just needed to rant.

Thanks for listening!

New Moon

It's bitterly cold here in southern Wisconsin - only 2 degrees. We had to bring our soda in from the enclosed front porch last night to prevent it from freezing. When I went to bed, very late, the mercury had fallen below zero for the first time this year.

This morning the clouds have departed after gracing us with 8 inches of snow yesterday and the sun is shining, causing the ice crystals to dance in the sunlight like little winter fairies. A crust has formed on top of the snow, so my yard looks like a glittering carpet of Swarovski crystals, casting their prisms everywhere.

When we lived up in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan I was always cold in the winter and never wanted to go outside if I could help it. (Up there everyone has a fireplace, so that's where I'd be.) Where we live now is only 5 hours south but it may as well be a continent away because it's so much warmer here. We joked about planting palm trees in the yard. I read somewhere yesterday that the cherry trees in Washington, D.C. are blooming because we've had such warm weather. I'm sure it's terrible to disrupt the rhythms of nature, but how can an early spring be anything but wonderful?

It didn't last long though. It doesn't matter to me. Last fall I was really ready for winter for the first time in years.

I wrote the foregoing at 8 a.m. It's now 8 p.m. and I'm a-singin' a different tune! We went out for dinner in 6 degree weather. Just getting in the cold car twice was all it took - we've been home over a hour now and I can't warm up.

Variety is the spice of life, right? It was a "curry" morning....

The Golden Globes

I wonder how Lauren Weisberger feels tonight.

This evening Meryl Streep won the Golden Globe for Best Actress in a Musical or Comedy for her portrayal of the evil Miranda Priestly in "The Devil Wears Prada." I'm not denying Meryl's brilliant performance; she was wonderful in it.

I'm wondering why, after Miss Streep thanked everyone in Hollywood, she apparently forgot to thank the lady that wrote the thing to begin with.

"The Devil Wears Prada" would never have gotten off the ground if it hadn't sprung from the experiences and imagination of Lauren Weisberger and her ironic, witty "voice".

A few writers were lauded this evening, but I made a particular point of listening to the acceptance speeches to see just often the writers really were thanked.

Not very often. The Brits were all very good at bestowing credit where credit was due, but most Americans thanked the director or producer, their fellow actors or the moneymen behind the scenes. A few thanked the screenwriter, but not many.

I don't have many readers, and I'm very sure neither Lauren Weisberger or Meryl Streep read my blog, but I'd like the record to reflect that I'm officially thanking Miss Weisberger for sharing her experiences in the fashion industry with us. I enjoyed the ride.

Parallels

Just now, as I was cleaning up the kitchen in preparation for going to bed, I remembered something that happened on the way to the doctor the other day. Since I'm a veteran, I have to go to the nearest Veterans Administration hospital for my appointments, which is about 40 miles away. The most direct route is through a nature preserve, and the road is very straight and level.

About midway through the preserve, I spotted a silhouette a long way off. It was very early in the morning - just approaching dawn - and I could tell the silhouette wasn't a car because there were no headlights. As I neared the figure, I realized it was a deer. The doe was standing on the verge of the left lane and was facing in that direction. Her head was down; she was feeding. She raised her head when she sensed the vibration of my car, and looked at me. I braked, slowing down until she made up her mind which way she was going to go. When I was about 25 feet away, she turned entirely around and crossed both lanes of traffic, headed off to the right side of the road.

Taking the path of least resistance - in other words, the road better traveled - is the easy way out. There's less friction, less uncertainty, less strife in taking the normal path, making the expected choices.

I realized as I was doing the dishes that this is what I have done my entire life: I've taken the road others have expected of me. Somehow, if I've lived up to other's expectations, I've felt that I've done the right thing, that I've maintained the status quo. I've been living my life to please others, not myself.

Maintaining the status quo has gotten me where I am now. When the Navy ruled to give me a medical disability retirement, I didn't dispute it. I've always regretted that. I had only two years to go to retirement with full pay, which was the goal I'd set for myself. Fighting the Navy would have meant hiring a lawyer, going to Washington before a review board - bucking the system, and I was too tired and defeated to even consider it. I wish I had, because I've been treading water ever since.

There's been a lot of water under the bridge since then (gee, I'm good at the naval metaphors, aren't I?) but every time a divergent path has opened up, I've always taken the expected route. I've been thinking about taking a part-time job recently, to supplement my disability income. My disability pay is more than enough to cover our few bills, but not enough to travel with, which is what I had hoped to do when I retired. I could only work part-time (I'm not even sure I can do that much) since I can't stand for long periods and am limited as to how far I can walk, but I thought I could take a job as a cashier at the local grocery store. It would only be minimum wage, but it would be a little extra, anyway.

I realized it tonight - that's the expected path. That's the path my mother and father would have recommended, if they were here. That's the path they recommended way back when I was poised to go to college, when they talked me out of an English major/journalism minor and I ended up going to nursing school instead.

I've been second-guessing myself for so long now, I instinctively choose the better-traveled path, unlike the intrepid deer, who took the more challenging and dangerous path.

I loved my mother and father and always try to honor their memory, but maybe that's what I have to do, to be the writer I've always dreamed of being - emulate the deer.

Hopes for the New Year

I went to the doctor the day before yesterday and saw both the optometrist and my regular doctor. The optometrist said I need a new prescription (which I already knew) and my regular doctor noted that I'd lost five pounds over the holidays, which I didn't know. I had a good idea, given that I lost my appetite almost entirely during December, for reasons noted in previous posts. She congratulated me because apparently the average American GAINS seven pounds over the holidays.

I came home feeling smug.

It didn't last long, though, because the depression keeps creeping in, just when I think I'm making inroads. I've been trying to keep my New Year's resolution to lose weight and write, every day, even if it's only a little bit. I'm doing okay with the diet, but I keep second-guessing myself on the writing part.

I've been visiting some writer's blogs and websites a lot lately, and the talent in some of these folks is transcendent. My writing is positively pedestrian in comparison. I read recently on another blog that most editors, publishers and serious writers view blogs as nothing more than Internet diaries. When I do sit down and write, after I review what I've written I inevitably either think it's pompous or it sounds more like technical writing than anything. I don't have the graceful, elegant prose that some writers I can name (who, by the way, DO blog.) (Here's to you, Orion!)

I have a few strategies for focusing on my goals and ignoring second-guessing myself. This morning I wrote down what my immediate goals for today were, and how I was going to focus on those goals and avoid listening to the doubts that always plague me. I've written a couple of things today (one was an article for the local paper, and the other a half chapter of the novel I've got going) and when I got bogged down in critiquing myself, my husband and I went out to dinner. Doing dinner silenced the negative thoughts for a while and allowed me to come home and begin again with a fresh outlook.

So, let's review:

Diet: about 1100 calories. Exercise: practically none. Writing: about 500 words.

See? I DID accomplish something today! (Now I'm going to reward myself by finishing the new novel by Dana Stabenow.)

Apathetic No Longer

I've been taking some time off to recover from the death of my beloved dog Polly. Since she was always with me, while I did anything from sitting at the computer, to doing dishes, to going grocery shopping, her loss has left a big hole. She vegetated in front of the TV with me and slept with me at night. (This photo is of her at bedtime, taken about 10 days before she died; she always took the lion's share of the bed.) She began getting ill at the end of November; the vet said that he felt she had a tumor somewhere and that he couldn't really do anything without expensively prohibitive tests. We authorized a few tests to rule other things out, but the only thing he found was elevated calcium in her blood, so I blithely took her home thinking he couldn't possibly be right. Three weeks later she was visibly failing; it came to a head in the wee hours of Christmas Eve, after she had been vomiting and shivering in pain all day. An emergency vet told us she was riddled with cancer and suffering considerably, so we had her euthanized. As I cradled her in my arms, they gave her the injection to send her to sleep. She didn't struggle, just let out a huge sigh, and then her body went limp. I continued to hold her after they gave her the second injection to stop her heroic heart, and didn't let go until the vet signaled her heart had stopped.

I still haven't let go. I don't know if I can. My heart is still in that room, even though her ashes already adorn our mantel, in an undistinguished black box.

It's been difficult trying to find my way again. My husband still has the cat, who adores him and has gladly taken what used to be Polly's place, in his lap in the mornings (she was a 70-pound boxer-basset hound mix but she always managed to fit) so I really don't think he's feeling her loss as keenly as I do. The cat is only interested in me when her food bowl is empty, whereas Polly was always leaning against me or lying at (or more properly, ON) my feet. She used to come up to me when I was sitting in a chair and press her head between my legs until I opened them, then put her head down and press into the bottom of the chair; this was my cue to lean over her from above, put my forehead on her back and wrap my arms around her belly, then give it a rub. I called this a "hug", and it didn't take long for her to learn the word. It became a daily occurence; she initiated it as often as I did. When guests came over and I asked Polly for a hug, they were inevitably charmed by her gesture, as I was. This was just one of the many unique habits she had. She was 70 pounds of love and loyalty, and my life feels empty without her.

I am, however, beginning to take an interest in things again. I've been following closely a few writer's blogs I found and am learning quite a bit about agents and publishing. It's been whetting my appetite for writing again, so I've enrolled in an online creating writing course, mostly to refresh my memory, because college-level Creative Writing was close to 30 years ago now for me, and I've forgotten more than I've ever learned. I have two different mystery novels started on my hard drive, but am thinking about going in an entirely different direction.

Now that I'm back, I have to get with some of my blogging friends and learn more about how to personalize my blog. I don't know any html or how to link other sites, or even to post pictures yet, but I'm willing to learn. If any of you have any hints, feel free to let me know! I've found that learning new things keeps life moving forward, however unwillingly it may carry me along at times.

Catching Up

I've given the lie to the title of my blog - I've been wallowing in apathy for six weeks now.

At the end of November my beloved dog Polly started having some problems. She suddenly began drinking around 2 cups of water every half hour, and urinating in the house, which she had never done before. (My husband got angry, but I told him if he was drinking 2 gallons of water a day he'd pee in the house too). We took her to the vet on December 1st. He couldn't find anything overtly wrong with her except for an elevated calcium reading in her blood chemistry. He told us that, in his experience, elevated calcium in the blood in larger-breed dogs is evidence of some type of cancer.

Of course, I didn't want to hear that.

What followed was a frantic, heartbreaking struggle to prove him wrong.

We took her home, but had to bring her back two days later because she stopped eating. They kept her on an I.V. for a week, and she finally started feeling better, so we brought her home again.

Everything seemed fine, except she slept more, and she started having difficulty getting up on my bed at bedtime, for the first time in her life. I still refused to see what was right in front of me.

I'm sorry, I thought I was ready to write about this, to get it out, but I'm not. I can't. I won't.