When I Get Very Old


When I get very old, if I’m lucky enough to reach that milestone, I will give up my struggles to be perfect. I will eat brownies for breakfast and have ice cream for dinner, if that’s what I really want.

I’ll stop trying to be thinner or stronger or smarter or more accomplished.

When I get very old, I’ll lounge around all day in my pajamas and read trashy novels while eating a bag of chips.

You might wonder what has inspired me to accept the blessings of very old age.

Well, it was the Wolf King that did it.

I’ll let him explain in his own words.

IMG_20170810_103058

Only a week ago, I still needed my leash.

As soon as I woke up today, I knew that something unusual was going on. Man Who Walks Me was climbing up and down the stairs, bringing chairs and tables out into the yard. Woman Who Feeds Me was rushing around, cleaning the kitchen.

Puppy Lennie was barking and squeaking and being a general pain in the rear, as usual, even when I woofed at him to cut it out. By mid-morning, I had a headache.

I also had an idea.

I have seen this kind of rushing about many times in my long years. It always means that a lot of humans will be at our house, talking loudly and eating for hours. It always means dropped cheese and other delicious delicacies.

I was excited. At my age I show my enthusiasm by plodding around the living room and slowly laying myself in whatever spot is most likely to be in the way of the bustling humans.

I am the Wolf King. I will not be overlooked.

Today the bustling and preparing went on for quite a while, and slowly more humans arrived. I knew most of the early visitors. There was the Young Woman Who Used To Hold Me, and her newest tiny poopy human. There was the Young Man Who Used To Chase Me and his friends who always call me “Good Boy.”

I greeted them with some royal woofing, then flopped in front of their feet.

After some time, all of the humans went outside of the house and onto the lawn. Puppy Lennie still shrieked in his ear-spitting way, but he had been banished into the back fence.  I remained alone inside.

I woofed once. Softly.

I whined, a little bit louder.

Why wasn’t I outside, where the cheese would be? I wanted to be with my humans, who regularly drop food, and whom I love. But I would not beg.

Settling my chin on my royal paws, I commenced moaning pitifully with each breath.

Finally, Woman Who Feeds Me came into the house. She called my name, and I raised my wise old head to see what was up.

“Come!” I heard her say cheerily. “Come outside!”

I carefully pushed myself up on my elbows, raising my shoulders and finally balancing on my front paws. I was breathing a little fast, but it might have been the thought of cheese that had my heart rate up.

Slowly, carefully, I managed to get my back end off the floor, and I tottered toward my mistress. She called me to the front door, so I hobbled down the stairs. I prepared to have my leash clipped on, and lifted my head with regal dignity.

Nothing.

No clip, no leash.

Just Woman Who Walks Me, telling me to “Come outside.”

I looked at her in surprise. What was she asking me to do?

She stood there, right in front of me, and it was as if every dream of the past 12 1/2 years had suddenly come true.

She was holding the front door wide open.

Cautiously, I stepped toward the door. Act cool, I told myself. Pretend nothing strange is going on.

I took one step over the threshold, trying to look completely calm. Nothing to see here, folks, just the Wolf King, stepping out the front door with NO LEASH.

If I could have whistled, I would have.

As I got out onto the porch, and looked at the crowd of humans with food in their hands, I picked up a little speed.

“So long, suckers!”

I meant to run. In the old days, if I managed to get my nose out the door without a leash, I took off like a hound out of hell. I’d hit the woods, race around the house, bark at every human who dared to approach.

Man. Those were the days. Chasing squirrels, howling at the moon, rolling in dead stuff. And only coming home when I was good and ready.

I remember those days. My goal was always to go a little farther, stay out a little longer, bark a little louder.

So I tried to take off as I passed Woman Who Feeds Me. I shuffled with as much speed as I could muster, but my back end just wouldn’t keeping up.

I made my way across the grass, then chose the perfect spot to rest my royal self on the grass. I picked a spot as close to the cheese and pepperoni eaters as I could. I lowered my butt and carefully let my front end follow it down.

I allowed the peasants to approach, and to pat me as often as they liked. Many of them dropped cheese.

It was a peaceful day. My favorite small human came to bring me popcorn and crackers and to pat my royal head. Man Who Walks Me gave me extra love. Also cheese.

I am very old. I am ready to give up my quest to be the Royal Runaway, to travel farther and stay out longer. I am ready to go outside without a leash and stay in one place. I will let myself sleep in the sun while the human drop bits of tasty food all around me.

I am still the Wolf King.

 

Taming The Devil Dog


We find ourselves in a difficult place these days, in terms of our doggie parenting. Our old Tucker, the Wolf King, is winding down in his last days. He slowly wanders into the edge of the woods when we take him for his very short walks. He stands in the ferns, looking out into the places where he used to run. He breathes deeply, lifting his old white nose toward the sky.  He closes his eyes, sighs, then turns to look back at us.

“Remember?”  His brown eyes shine for a moment with the memory of freedom and youth. He sighs again, and turns slowly back toward the house.

We go inside. He lies down. We pat his head, and sit beside him.

But at the very same time, we are faced with the youthful exuberance of our puppy, Lennie the Devil Dog.

Lennie is joy in the form of a mutt. He wakes up every morning with the overwhelming desire to lick our faces free of every sleepy molecule. His next best wish is to have his back scratched and his ears rubbed, hopefully at the same time.

He wiggles hi entire body, from his nose to his tail, waiting for one of us to stand up. He is overjoyed when we do.

He runs. He jumps. He tries to lick our chins. He whines. He dances. He begs to go out. He begs to chase the birds.

He bites the leash, digs in the yard, whirls in circles, pounces on his doggie pals.

Lennie is….

Youth.

He is energy overpowering self-control. Excitement over contentment. He is competitive wrestling instead of walking in the woods.

So how do we tame him? How do we make some peace between our wild child and our brave old man?

One of our strategies is to take him with us on trips.

So today Lennie the Devil Dog came with me on a two hour trip to Western Massachusetts, to the gritty working class town of North Adams. I handed him off to my son and his lady, and went to get some work done.

When I came back two hours later, Lennie had been to the dog park. He had walked around the city. He had met new people and new dogs, and had sniffed his way from one side of town to the other.

He was hot. He was tired. He was thirsty.

Lennie had spent some quality time with other young souls, and he had found his place. Lennie was supremely and gloriously happy.

Tonight I am sitting in my living room. Old Man Tucker is resting on the deck, his noble gray nose on his paws.

Lennie the Devil dog is passed out on the rug beside me, his twitching paws and muffled yips a testament to the excitement of the day.

Ah, youth.

There’s nothing like it.

And it’s exhausting.

IMG_20170801_161212

Nonni, the Wolf King, and Matching Ouchies


Oh, boy.

The poor old Wolf King is really getting creaky in his old age.

And poor old Nonni is getting pretty creaky herself.

Usually we’re able to cope with our stiffness, our sore knees, our achy backs. He takes regular anti-inflammatories. I take wine in the hot tub. We both use ice and heat. And we try our best to more or less take it easy.

Today was the third rainy, misty, cool day in a row, and the morning was pretty sleepy for me, the Wolf King and even for Puppy Lennie (aka: ‘The Devildog”). There was some reading and writing (Nonni), some repetitive chewing on a plastic bone (Devildog) and some sleeping with chin on paws (The Wolf King.)

But after lunch, I started to feel guilty about not accomplishing anything today. This is a common Nonni theme, and its actually a good trait. It has prevented me from becoming a complete blob of useless goo with roots from my butt into my couch cushions.

So the guilt struck, and I got up. I put Devildog on his leash and we took our usual walk around the block, which took about 20 minutes. Then we wandered about in the back woods for a bit, until my arm started to throb from all the pulling on the “no pull” leash.

I put Devildog back inside the fenced yard, and decided to do some gardening. I forgot that the gate that leads from our deck into the fenced backyard was open. I heard Devildog barking, calling to me, but I ignored him as I pruned and dug up some overgrown perennials.

Then his voice changed, and I heard the unmistakable woof-woofing of the old Wolf King.

Crap!

This meant that the old guy had made his way slowly down the deck steps and was attempting to drop his royal doody in the backyard. He was annoyed, to say the least, by the Devildog who was dancing around him and trying to nip his butt and his ears.

I dropped my garden tools and opened the gate into the fence area. After I fought off the ecstatic jumps and yips of the deliriously happy Devildog, I grabbed the Wolf King by the collar.

Shit. No leash.

I didn’t want to leave the two of them fighting and jumping while I took the time to walk all the way around the yard and into the front door to take down his leash and bring it all the way back.

“Well,” I thought. “He’s too old and achy to run away like he used to. I’ll just let him out the gate and into the open front yard.”

So I did. I called him. I held the gate open.

The Wolf King looked at me, and tilted his old head. I could read his thoughts as clearly as if he’d spoken.

“Are you KIDDING ME? You are opening the gate to freedom, and letting the mighty Wolf King into the wild world?” He shook his head and shoulders, I swear, like a fighter getting ready to take on his next bout.

He shuffled toward me, stopped at the open gate, and shot me a “so long, sucker!” grin. And out the gate he went.

I’m sure he thought he was running. His front legs were moving forward with some regularity, but those weak back legs sort of stumbled along as if the connection from his spine to his hips was no longer secure.

Even so, he looked like a dog determined to escape and live on the run.

He made it about 30 feet from me. He got as far as my rock garden, where he turned to look at me again.

“Isn’t this ridiculous?” was the thought I read in his cloudy eyes. He gently laid himself down on the grass and waited for me to come get him.

I took hold of his collar, more for old times sake than out of necessity, and we walked slowly toward the front door.

“You got away, you sneaky hound, you,” I said to him. “You sure outsmarted me.” He knew I was making it up, but he was smiling as we reached the front door.

The Wolf King made it up the two front steps, and into the hall. Then he took a big breath, and looked up at the six steps that would take him onto the main floor of our split level house.

I did what I’ve been doing for the past few months. I took hold of his collar, and put one hand on his backside. “One, two, three,” I said, “Up we go.”

Alas. I had forgotten that the Devildog was back inside. As the Wolf King was taking his shaky, achy steps up, the little guy was wiggling with joy that we had come home. Lennie jumped down two steps, where he met the old man on the way up.

And the Wolf King slipped.

His back end simply let go, and he fell back one step. I caught him, but he is a BIG boy, and my back gave a shriek as his full 95 pounds landed on my midsection.

Before I knew it, I had lost my footing, too. I was able to stop myself from falling, but I did a completely ungraceful slow motion descent onto my big old Nonni butt, right in the front hall.

I hit the floor, but managed to hold onto the fluffy haunches of my beloved Wolf King, who found himself in the ignominious position of sitting on his mistress. We both made some “holy crap” sounds, and we both stayed perfectly still for a minute.

While Devildog ran up and down the stairs next to us, barking something that sounded mysteriously like “This is so much FUN!! Whatarewedoing??? I love it!!!”

At last, slowly, I was able to lower the back end of the Wolf King to the floor and to ease his big front end off of the stairs and onto the floor beside him. He rested his head on my chest for a second, and we both caught our breath.

Then I stood up, achy and creaky myself, and put the Devildog outside for a minute. I slowly went back down to Tucker, kissed his puppy-soft head, and asked him, “Do you want to try again?”

Brave soul that he is, he stood up, his back legs splayed and shaking. I put a hand on his collar and a hand on his backside.

“One, two, three,” I said through tears. And up we went. Slowly and carefully.

We made it.

And now we sit, recovering. The Devildog is back to his bone. The Wolf King has some ice on his hips, and has had his painkiller.

Nonni has some ice on her back, and is sipping her own pain killer.

Getting old sucks.

IMG_20170706_120255

Devildog truly loves The Wolf King

You Know You’re Getting Old When…


IMG_0431

When you go to a funeral and take notes, that’s a sign that you’re on the downhill slope. Open casket? Um,no. Big gathering with food and songs? Yes, please!

When you look at your puppy and wonder if you’ll have time for another one. That’s a sign, too.

If you turn on a major news channel and the financial expert looks like he’s in fifth grade, you’re old.

You can also tell that you’re getting on in years when you wake up with sore legs and aching butt muscles because last night you danced to (count ’em) two songs at your brother’s birthday party.

When you realize that it’s worth the wait for an entire year just to get to the two weeks of lilac blossoms, you’ve gained the wisdom of age.

And if you plant a baby spruce tree, just a tiny sprout, and hope that someday someone will call it “majestic”, you know that you’re getting older.

When you suddenly move your tongue around to the place where they pulled out your bottom molar years ago, and you instantly understand the meaning of the idiom “long in the tooth,” that means you’re getting on.

And finally, if you look at the newspaper and the arts pages are filled with kids whose names you don’t recognize, you’re officially old.

Come to think of it, if you look at an actual newspaper, the kind that gets dropped on your doorstep, the kind that you fold and read with your morning coffee…well. If you do that, read a newspaper made of actual paper?

You guessed it, you’re old.

What did I leave out?

First World Problems


24815936363_77ea987b63_z

I am such a first world, spoiled, entitled old lady.

Truly.

I should just shut up. I should accept the fact that I am truly privileged. Honestly, I have a great life! My complaints are pointless, self-serving, and unworthy of a progressive, open minded woman like me.

But, jeez.

I mean, like, come on.

See, my husband and I saved up for years to buy a hot tub. The first time we had put away enough money, our furnace keeled over and died. There went the money.

So we saved again, slowly, month by month. Our backs hurt, our shoulders were getting achy, our necks were stiff. We really, really wanted a hot tub…..

At last! We had saved enough! Woohooooo!

Then we realized we needed a new roof.

Sigh. No nice steamy soaks before bed for us.

We saved again.

And then it happened. Do you hear angels singing?  Well, I sure as hell did.

We got our hot tub. It was glorious. It was rejuvenating, hypnotizing, enthralling. It was every multisyllabic word I can find.

I love my hot tub with a devotion that I have previously  shown only to my husband and kids. And on an icy night when I’ve been shoveling, I’m pretty sure I’d pick the hot tub over any of them.

Don’t judge.

I work hard every day. I garden, I shop, I cook, I lift a toddler.  I deserve my nightly soak. Right?

I have had my starlit late night soakie pretty much every single night for seven years. Ahhhhhhhhhh.

Then. It happened.

Two weeks ago, we sprung a leak. Oh, the horror!!! We called Hottub Man, and shut off the power.

And we waited. And waited. You see, spring is pool season, and the hot tub/pool company is very, very busy. We called. No call back. We waited. We consoled ourselves with hot showers, but it wasn’t the same.

Let me take a little side trip here, and tell you that poor old Nonni has been pruning bushes and trees, burning brush, dividing perennials, tilling, composting, raking, planting. Which means that Nonni’s back hurts. Her knees hurt. Her big old backside hurts. And her right arm is like one big, giant toothache that will not go away.

This is where my first world, entitled self bursts out and smacks me right in the kisser.

I’ve been good for the past two long, painful, sad, hottubless weeks. I haven’t complained. That much. I have had boo-boos and ouchies, but I haven’t had a tantrum.  Not a real, kicking and screaming tantrum.

I have been a brave, brave Nonni. Dealing silently with my pain. Oh, poor me…

Today, at last, Hottub Man came. I groveled a bit, and he fixed the leak. Angels sang, yet again!  Hot Tub! Oh, glorious, pain relieving hot tub! How I love thee!

But the power has been off for two weeks. So Hottub Man turned it on again, took my check and said bye-bye.

And I have spent the last four hours doing this.

Lift the cover and peek into the hot tub. 68 degrees. Sigh.  Wait.

Peek. 70 degrees.

Wait. Drink wine. Wait. Peek. 76 degrees.

Walk around. Grumble. Eat olives and cheese. Drink more wine. Peek. 80 degrees.

It’s almost 7 pm. At this rate, achy old Nonni will have to stay up until midnight just to soak herself in that glorious water.

Now don’t you feel sorry for me?  I mean, yes. This is most definitely a first world problem. But I have OUCHIES and BOO-BOOS!! And I want my hot tub!!!!

Excuse me. I need to peek.

Shit. 73 degrees.

I’ll be up all night if anyone needs me.

Homesteader Nonni


IMG_20170507_190003

You know, I really believe in eating local foods.

I do!

So when I found myself in my local grocery store, looking at $3.99 a pound dandelion greens, I was kind of amazed.

Amazed, as in, “What the hell is wrong with you people?”

Now, I grew up in a first generation Italian American family. We ate greens. Lots of greens. Including dandelion greens.

At no time in my life, ever, did anyone pay four bucks for a bunch of weeds.

So I went home from the store. I put away my “not a weed” foods and I had a quiet night.

The next day, though, I was out in my yard. My big, wild, just-one-step-shy-of-a-forest yard. What grass there is was populated by many, MANY dandelions. With big green leaves.

Suddenly, my inner homesteader emerged. My inner old Italian Nonni came out. I grabbed my weeding tool and I pulled up a HUGE bunch of weeds.

Weeds that are no doubt healthy, high in vitamin C and iron, and probably…maybe…delicious.

I was SO proud of my old Nonni self.

“Nonni,” I said to me, “If the grid goes down because of a storm, or a hack by the North Koreans or the Russians or the angry men in Anonymous, I’ll be ready!”

Sure. So, yeah. Not totally ready, but still. Wouldn’t it be so cool if Nonni could feed the family by cooking lawn weeds!

So I brought my big pile of dandelion greens into the kitchen. I was feeling pretty cool as I put them into a colander and started to wash them.  I’m pretty sure I was humming an Italian love song, like “O, Mio Babbino Caro“.

I rinsed the big pile of greens.

Then I saw that there was….ewww….a lot of dirt, clinging to the roots that I pulled out.

OK, no problem, Homesteader Nonni. You just put the whole pile into a pot of cold water, and you pull out each bunch and cut off the roots.

Then I noticed….uuuuuuh……what is that? A pine needle? A giant pile of pine needles?

Do not panic. A pioneer woman like me can pull out the pine needles. One at a time. Even when there are more than 10,000 pine needles.

So two hours after I started to clean my dandelion greens (Local! Organic! Sustainable! Available even in a Zombie apocalypse!), I found myself faced with a big colander filled with mostly dandelion greens.

I kept picking through them.

“CRAP!!!!! Is that a spider????!!!????”

Screeech! Panic! Run!

Come back slowly…peek at the blob with the legs….

Oh, haha!!!

It’s a dandelion bud. With little green spikes around its dandelion head. Cool!

I kept cleaning. I pulled out each skinny, wet, limp leaf. I washed off the dirt. And the pine needles.

Every nice clean piece went into a bowl. All was well….Until.

HOLY SHIT!!!!

THAT’S A SLUG!!!! UGH! EWWWWWWWW!

I dropped the leaf, jumped back 12 feet, turned in a circle, made a series of old Nonni gagging noises…..

A SLUG!

What if I ATE it? What if I cooked it? And didn’t know it and I ate it and it went into my stomach and I got super sick and nobody could figure out what was wrong and I got sicker and sicker and I ended up on “Mystery Diagnosis”and they never did figure it out and I died of eating a SLUG and my family never knew what killed me and I’d never get to see my grandson or watch my sons get married…..

After about 15 minutes and a quick glass of wine, I slowly approached the counter and the weeds delicious dandelion greens. I used a very long chopstick to poke the slug…..

Oh, haha! Look at that! It’s actually just a tiny curled up flower bud!  Silly me…..

Eventually, after several panic attacks and a lot of screeches, I had a clean bowl of dandelion greens.

I had saved myself 4 whole dollars as I single handedly managed a pile of weeds. I put them in a bowl, poured on some olive oil and salt, then I microwaved the bowl.

I sat down to eat my dinner of roasted chicken and fresh dandelion greens.

Gulp.

Sip the wine. Taste the chicken. Take a tiny bite of greens…..

Whoah!

Delicious. Fresh, bitter and sweet, salty, delicious.

And free.

So. If the Zombie apocalypse hits us during the growing season, come on by. I’ll make a wonderful, healthy, slug free dish of dandelion greens.

Just do NOT ask me to deal with fiddlehead ferns.

Ewwwwwww!

 

 

My name is…


I’ve been thinking about names lately. My daughter and her husband are going to have their second child soon. We know that it will be a little boy, and they have settled on a name for him.

He will be named for a well loved Great Grampa who died a few months ago. It’s perfect, right?

But I’ve been thinking about how names sound, and the impression that they give. I’ve been thinking about names that sound like a person you’d trust. And names that make you shake your head and wonder if those parents hated that kid.

As a confirmed lefty, I’ve been doing my part to support the Our Revolution movement. That’s the next step in the Bernie Sanders movement, if you don’t know. Very vibrant, very interesting group, and I’m happy to help! So I’ve been doing some data entry for them.

Which means that I have been seeing some amazing names.

I won’t use any real ones here, of course, but to young parents everywhere, let me just say that before you slap a monicker on that adorable little bundle, THINK about how that name will read in 30 years when some old lady is putting it into a data base.

Some names inspire trust. I would want my doctor to be named “Michael Hampshire.” Solid, not too flashy, unpretentious. “Jennifer Worth.”  Yup. She can do my cardiac surgery, for sure.

Other names make me want to write a short story that involves a diner, a lonely waitress and a quietly insane fry-cook. “Sarah Bluette” and “Jace Pratchett” fit right in there, don’t you think?

Then there are the names that you know Mom and Dad chose because they were so adorable and original! They did not picture the kids in sixth grade making fun of little “Sharley McRoggle” or “Kerreigh Koyne.”

And some names make me just feel humble. The names that ring of truth and strength. Names that are unapologetically ethnic or racially proud. Names that mean, “I am not going to melt into the pot, no sir. I intend to be the spice in your potato soup.” Names that are spelled originally or names that hark back to older generations. “Karim” is a personal favorite of mine. “Sasha” or “LiYu” or “Epiphania” or “Dougal” or “Shaquan.”

My mom’s name is Vincenza, but she is known as Zena. That’s very cool.

Our names are, in some odd ways, our destiny.

I was aware of this when I was at the Woman’s March in DC not long ago. I was with my High School friend, Karen. As we moved through the surging crowds to get onto the Metro, we heard a voice calling, “Karen! Over here!” We both turned, of course, and we saw a woman our age, waving to her friend.

All the Karens in the US, it seems, were born between 1952 and 1958. You’re not going to find a Karen in kindergarten, although you might very well find a “Helen,” an “Alice” or an “Ed.”

When I was naming my own kids, I was careful. Paul and I thought about how the names sounded. We like the ‘th’ sound, it turns out. We have Katharine, Matthew and Timothy in our family. But we were also thinking of nicknames.

Being named Paul and Karen meant that we didn’t have a lot of nicknames. There’s not much you can do with the labels we got at birth.

We wanted our kids to have some flexibility. If they became businesspeople or lawyers or politicians, those full names would work. If they became teachers, or coaches or athletes, they’d have cool nicknames. Katie, Matty, Timmy.

Naturally, all three of them now go by Kate, Matt and Tim.

Still. A lot of thought went into those names. A lot.

Yours truly,

“Boots” aka “Karen” aka Kira aka Karima and now known as Nonni.

9a150b743027258627c044efd5296340

 

Panic in puppyland


It’s so damn hard to be a good doggie Momma.

I’m very good with human children. I can usually tell when one is sick, or hurt, or coming down with a cold. A few times in my classroom teaching days, I was able to tell that a kid had a fever before the kid even complained.

But dogs are different. They don’t cry when they hurt and they don’t say, “Nonni, up!” when they are needy. You just have to try to figure it out, right?

Sometimes you can guess what’s going on, something not so much.

Take this morning, for example.

We were in our living room, bright and early, talking about the foot of heavy wet snow we’ll be getting today. We were making sure we are prepared in case the power goes out.

I was feeling anxious. I despise the cold, the snow, the sleet….especially when they come in the spring. I was also anxious about my daughter driving to work in the bad weather, six months pregnant and getting over bronchitis. I was worried about my granddaughter Ellie, who has had a cough all week.

And our old dog, Tucker the Wolf King, has been struggling with his back and spine and hips. He’s been in pain.

At least puppy Lennie seemed fine, and full of his usual energy.

But then Kate and Ellie arrived, and Lennie went into fits of excitement. He started his usual jumping up on Kate routine, running in circles, wagging his tail furiously. Everyone was talking at once, “Lennie, down!” “Ellie, let’s take your hat off.” “Can you leave early today?” The Wolf King was barking and Lennie was squealing.

It was your basic morning bedlam.

Suddenly, I looked over at the pup, and saw that he was having some kind of terrible back spasm. We had seen this happen to him a couple of times in the past, but it was never this severe. His back end was hunched and sort of curled forward, and his whole back end was sort of pumping forward and back, really fast.

He looked very uncomfortable.

Now, let me digress for a minute. Tucker, with his arthritic spine, sometimes makes the almost same motion, but with less vigor. His vet told us that it happens to Tuck when his back muscles go into a spasm. I massage his spine and his spasm goes away.

So, I grabbed little pumping Lennie and tried to massage along his spine. It didn’t help a bit. When I let go of his collar, the little guy started frantically licking at his private parts, or what’s left of them. He was neutered before we got him, we were told.

He kept on sort of nipping at himself and turning in circles and that back end just kept on pumping.

“Oh, no!” I said it out loud. “He’s in real pain! Oh, poor baby!”

Paul joined in and so did Kate. We all thought Lennie was suffering from some terrible crazy muscle spasm or seizure or something. We were so worried!

We all looked at him and his pumping backside.  He started to bite the tip of his tail and run in circles.

I grabbed him as he raced past me, and decided I should check his undercarriage.

Holy hard as a rock, Batman, the little guy’s niblets were like steel.

This is the part where I have to confess to complete idiocy, but at least my husband and daughter are as dumb as I am.

At the base of his fully erect little doggy rocket, there was a huge, hard, round mass, about the size of a golf ball.

Did I mention that he’s been “fixed”? You know, altered. Neutered. Deballified. There should not be a big, hard, round mass where his testicles used to be, I thought.

“He has a tumor!!!!” Was my first comment. Or maybe my second, after I quickly pulled my hand away from his altogethers.

We called the vet. Paul got dressed in a hurry to take him in. I cuddled the poor little boy, feeling overwhelmed with worry. As I stroked his neck, I noticed that he seemed to be slowly relaxing and feeling just fine.

The little rocket went back into its socket, and the golf ball disappeared.

Huh.

So. Paul took the pup to the vet, who examined him thoroughly and calmly announced that what we has witnessed was a “natural hormonal response to excitement.”

The little guy got kind of worked up from all the joy of greeting Kate and Ellie.

The vet suggested that we find a way to get him some doggy playdates so he’ll learn how to control himself a little.

Ewwww.

IMG_20170207_125934

He looks pretty relaxed in this shot…

Conquering the Wolf King


The Wolf King is aloof. He is regal. He needs no man.

Oh, OK. He needs man, or woman, to get the kibble out and to gently mix in the carefully cooked chicken livers. Sure. And, yeah, fine, he needs man, or woman, to let him out in the morning so he can do his royal doody.

Still.

The Wolf King is the ruler of his domain. He does not rely on any human for emotional support.

And yet.

Today the little one in our house was sick. She had a bad cough, a stuffy nose, a little bit of a fever. She was OK for most of the morning, but by lunchtime, she was really droopy.

WomanWhoFeedsMe put away the toys and handed Little Girl her favorite stuffed Floppy Puppy. They went down the long, dark hall into the nap room. The Wolf King watched them go.

He stayed in the living room. That hall is really long. And dark. He laid his royal nose on his powerful paws. He started to doze.

And then he heard it.

Little Girl was crying. The Wolf King lifted his head.

She was making that choky sobbing noise that he hated so much. There were words in her choking cry. He tilted his head to the right, and then to the left. What was she saying?

“Huck” she coughed. “Hucky..” she choked. He heard the sound of WomanWhoFeedsMe, gently cooing, trying to calm the little girl.

The Wolf King rose slowly to his feet. His back hurt. His back legs were shaky and his spine was making creaky noises.

He took one step toward the long, scary hall.

“Tuck…Tucky….hhum!”

He heard it. He heard the sound of Little Girl, calling his name. She was telling him to “come.”

The Wolf King gave one soft whine. Really?, he was asking. You really want me to walk all the way down that hall?

“Tucky…hum!”

He gave a sigh. He shook himself, from head to tail. He walked down the hall, really slowly. Past the dark, scary doorways, over the creepy scary reflections of light. He moved forward.

He would not be afraid.

Little Girl needed him. She WANTED him. He would not fail in his duty.

The Wolf King made his way to the nap room. He walked to the bed and rested his chin on the mattress.

“Tucky!!!” Little Girl cried, coughed and reached out one small hand to touch his warm head. “Tucky.”

“mmmmm,” the Wolf King answered as he lowered himself slowly to the floor beside her bed.

“Tucky…” she murmured as she curled into the arms of WomanWhoFeedsMe. She fell asleep.

So did he.

IMG_20170317_161928

Mutual admiration…

Off The Main Page


In my effort to reinvent myself after my mommy years disappeared, I started this blog.

In my effort to keep improving myself after my teaching years were taken away from me, I started to write for some online sites. I’m trying to get to the point where I can call myself a professional writer. A freelancer. A place where I can sit at a bar in the Caribbean and casually say, “Oh, me? I’m a writer” as I sip my rum drink.

Well. I might not make that last part, but I really am doing my best to make a small living by writing.

With that in mind, small blog following, I have a favor to ask. Can you check out these two sties, and see what you think? If you like them, hoorah! If not, thanks for looking.

The first is LiberalAmerica. Obviously, we have a decidedly leftish approach to the day’s news. If you want to hear from like minded writers, and want a site that aggregates big news stories and included lots of links to more news, please come and check us out. We are absolutely 100% REAL news; we make nothing up, ever. We double and triple check our sources and we always link back to the sites where we get our information.

The second site is a place to read funny, silly, heartwarming, interesting and for the most part not very political news. Its called Off The Main Page. I’ve written about goat yoga, local restaurants, dead cats, a camel camera and a giant space ravioli. Just to name a few.

Come by and check us out. Share if you like what you read!

A nonni’s gotta make a living, right? Even if she’s not at a bar in the Caribbean.

 

2930323028_5b090daf0b_z

What can I say? A woman can dream.