S. Kay Murphy's Blog, page 11

Checking out

Fair warning: This post includes a frank discussion of suicide.

If you're the type of person who believes suicide is a failure or weakness of some sort, or that it's "a long-term solution to a short-term problem," move on, tend to your own business. Nothing to see here. 

If you've clicked on this link because that dark cloud is threatening, let me go no further before I share this information:

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-8255

Or you can visit the website at suicidepreventionlifeline.org.

Or you can click here to chat online instead of on the phone.

Or if you prefer to text, text HOME to 741741.

If you are deaf or hearing impaired, this is the TTY number: 1-800-799-4889.

The veterans' crisis line is 1-800-273-8255.

If you feel awkward or uncomfortable about calling because you're not sure what to say or how it works, click here for a brief summary of exactly what happens when you call. (Thank you, BuzzFeed News. I love y'all for that.)

While you're summoning the courage to do that, go to Netflix and watch the entire first season of After Life with Ricky Gervais. The episodes are only 30 minutes, and there are only six, so you can binge watch it if you like. Trust me on this one.

And one more note before I go any further with my own stuff: I just want to state quite honestly that I am fine today. I know that over the next couple of days, some certain friends who know me well and love me anyway will call or text to check in and see how I'm doing. Because they'll be concerned. For those folks: I'm good right now. I promise. I love you, too.

So....
A doctor killed herself last week. Lorna Breen was a forty-nine-year-old emergency room physician who worked in New York City. She contracted COVID-19. Her body recovered but tragically, her psyche did not.

I haven't stopped thinking about her or feeling heartbroken for her family.

Edwin Schneidman, author of The Suicidal Mind, coined the term "psychache" to describe the psychological torment a suicidal person endures when he or she experiences an unresolved sadness or yearning for so long, suicide seems the only escape from the unbearable psychological pain. This pain, by the way, worsens with stress.

You see the problem here.

I have no doubt there are far more people than we realize hovering on the brink right now, ruminating on what a relief it would be to simply check out.

Because life has some really shitty aspects right now. What are we supposed to be doing at this point in the pandemic? Should we keep isolating? Break out? Wear a mask everywhere? Or give up because others aren't? Will we be able to meet our basic needs for food, etc, ongoing? Will we lose everything in our retirement accounts because the stock market keeps fluctuating? If we get sick, will we recover?  Or languish alone in a hospital room until we die? When will we ever get to see our friends and family members again?

We're all trying to sort our way through, and every day is frustrating and exasperating and don't even get me started on how really, really, lonely this isolation can be for some folks. Even those of us who are profound introverts enjoy the company of a few close friends. I haven't seen my friends or my kids or my grandkids in months. Yes, we talk on the phone. Sort of. Is texting the same as talking?

Loneliness eats away at potential suicides. And I'll tell you a secret about us: We don't tell people when we're lonely. In fact, we tend to withdraw even more. Because when we get lonely, we assume it's because others have stopped calling because they've stopped caring. I know, I know, it's not true, but the fact is, self-loathing and depression are bosom buddies.

Most people struggling with clinical depression have learned through conditioned response to stop mentioning it. Because mentioning it often brings on platitudes that, at the very least, don't help ("You just need to get out more, have some fun once in a while"), and at worst, might push us a bit closer to the edge ("You wouldn't feel this way if you weren't so self-absorbed all the time").

So we back away quietly (so you won't notice we're missing), wrap ourselves in a mantel of sad thoughts, and go sit somewhere (on a couch, in a bed) so we can listen to sad music or watch sad or dark TV or movies or videos.

This is what I imagine happened with Dr. Lorna Breen. She went from working 18-hour days with colleagues she loved and patients who needed her to being quarantined alone with a disease, day after lonely day. The feeling is that the world, that life, goes on without you, and you aren't needed anyway... so why linger?

I'll tell you--from experience--why you should linger: Because it gets better. No, really, it does. Life is just shitty at times. There is definitely a yin and yang to it, though, a balance of pain and pleasure, sadness and elation. Yes, there are moments of intense despair. But there are dogs. And sunsets. And sunrises. And incredible constellations stretched across the night sky. (Go on, pry yourself out, have a look.) There's ice cream and lasagna. And there are books. Thousands and thousands of books that will transport you so far into your imagination you will forget (if just for a time) how shitty life feels right now.

And there are definitely people who care. I met one of my most beloved friends in an online chat room for clinically depressed people. We have been friends for 20 years now, and I treasure that friendship because he gets it. He'll always be there for me, and I for him. (And just as a side note, if you're thinking an online chat room for really depressed people might be a bad idea, it's the polar opposite of what you would imagine--lots of highly intelligent, very caring, very funny people riffing on the absurdity and/or shittiness of life can be profoundly entertaining. Trust me.)

If you're feeling that dark shadow closing in, please, please reach out. Call someone who is non-judgmental and supportive. Or call the lifeline number above. Sometimes talking to a stranger is much easier than opening up to someone you know. And yes, I realize how very hard it is to take that first step. Just know that there is someone here who knows how hard it is... and how much better you'll feel after you've taken it.

The Thing With Feathers

Hope is the thing with feathers -That perches in the soulAnd sings the tune without the words -And never stops - at all.... Emily Dickinson 
 Yesterday, Thomas and I went out to walk here:



But as I pulled up to the trailhead, I could see other cars parked there, so I turned around and drove to another spot. Again, I saw cars. I get it; people are doing what I'm doing, walking off into the hills to exercise instead of walking around town on the sidewalk where others might be walking (because our sidewalks simply aren't wide enough to stay six feet--or even half that--apart).

So I turned around again and drove to this spot:



Heavy, dark, early morning clouds were looming, but we had plenty of space here and no one else on the trail. Well, almost no one else. About a quarter mile in, we happened upon this pretty girl:



You might have to peer closely to see her, but she's a lovely, light-colored tarantula, probably a "desert blonde tarantula." (I'm assuming female, as they live much longer than the males, but I could be wrong.) Generally, they hunt at night and remain burrowed during the day, so I'm not sure what was going on with this gal (or fellow). We sometimes see them when they migrate in August. I've never seen one in early spring before, so this was quite surprising.

We also saw some lupine that had already jumped out of the ground to celebrate all the rain we had in March:



Forgive the poor photo; it's challenging to juggle my phone while holding Thom's leash and making sure that when I go down on one knee to take a picture, I'm not crushing anyone or anyone's habitat.

What surprised and delighted me even more than the wildflowers or the tarantula, though, was this:



Behold the rolling waves of grass! From a distance, that oak looks just fine. But a close up view (which I took but discarded as it made me sad) reveals that the tree is actually completely charred.

This is where the wildfire burned in October. These hills were burned to ashes last autumn. Now they are covered in beautiful, lush, green grass. Some of the old oaks burned, but some survived, and clearly our little arachnid did as well, as did the seed pods for the lupine and other flowers that grow here in the spring.

Nature is absolutely amazing, isn't it?

As Thomas and I turned and walked back toward the truck, the gray clouds of early morning began to brighten into fluffy white cumulus, and I thought about the ability of so many living things to survive the most catastrophic events and still emerge with such beauty and resiliency.

And that gave me hope.

We will survive. We will endure. We will emerge with renewed joy to celebrate all that remains.

Memento Mori

"Let us prepare our minds as if we'd come to the very end of life. Let us postpone nothing. Let us balance life's books each day.... The one who puts the finishing touches on their life each day is never short of time." --Seneca 

Caveat: This post involves a discussion of death. If you are sensitive about this topic, or you feel it is “too morbid” (as Mom used to say)—then all the more reason for you to read on.
Spoiler alert: We’re all going to die. I mean, seriously, folks; no one gets out alive.
Well, Boomers, it’s been a good run. We had the Beatles (or, if you prefer, the Stones), the sexual revolution, the signing of the Civil Rights Act, and we watched a man walk on the moon. We witnessed the end of apartheid in South Africa. We learned how to use computers so we could forward funny emails and see photos of our grandkids on Facebook. We were dragged into using smart phones—but now we never put them down so we can post even more pictures of our grandkids—and our pets, who are now our “babies”—on Facebook (and, if we’re still learning, on Twitter and Instagram). We can now embrace our gay and transgender friends in public, and we can happily introduce them as “married” or whatever. We elected a President of African descent.
On the flip side (for those of you unfamiliar with the term, it has to do with turning over a vinyl record), we participated in global warming. We struggled through the Vietnam War era, whether we agreed or disagreed with that military action. We saw heroes like Martin Luther King, Jr. (and many, many others) shot down (or lynched or beaten) for their stand against injustice. We witnessed the horror of September 11, 2001. (Just writing that sentence brought tears to my eyes.)
And now this. Medical authorities are still gathering data and creating statistical models, but at this point it looks like, if you’re my age, 1 in 10 of you will die if you are infected with COVID-19. Your risk is higher than the general population if you have “underlying respiratory issues.”
And, Boomers, who doesn’t? We’ve got asthma, COPD, emphysema, and, in my case, bronchiectasis from all those cigarettes we smoked and joints we passed around. (Well, not in my case; I’m a non-smoker who, to this date, has still never taken a toke from a doobie, but I do have congenital bronchiectasis.)
So, my question is, what are you doing while you’re waiting to die? Just sitting there? Wringing your hands and worrying that you’re next in line for the Grim Reaper’s knock at the door?
Stop. Stop it right now. Okay, go wash your hands thoroughly then come back.
Feel better? Good. Now make a plan.
Is your will up to date? If not, get ‘er done today.
Have you written out plans for your demise? (Do Not Resuscitate! Play James Taylor songs at my memorial service. Spread my ashes in Missouri. Whatever you do, don’t take Thomas off of Science Diet dog food!)
Speaking of pets: I’ve written out instructions as to how to feed my crew. My son (bless him!) has promised to come from Ohio and stay in my house and care for “my fur babies” should I need to be hospitalized.
Which reminds me: I need to leave instructions on how to pay the rent.
And, hey kids! All my log-in passwords are in the…. Oh wait. I’d better tell them that privately.
With all of those instructions laid out, what is left for you to ‘balance life’s books’? Where do you need to add the “finishing touches”? We are all going to transition eventually. Let’s don’t leave a tangled mess for our kids to sort through.
That was a lesson I learned from my mom. In the months before her death—even though she wasn’t sick—she took me and my brother aside to explain her finances, her life insurance policies, and the pre-paid plans for her cremation and memorial services. What a relief and a blessing it was that, in our grief, few decisions had to be made.
I’m kicking myself now for not pre-paying my cremation. Sorry, kids. Take it out of my bank account.
Last week, our biggest problem was finding toilet paper. This week, our biggest problem has been finding food. Next week, our greatest sorrow will be when our friends or family members become ill or pass away, and we cannot be with them to comfort them or say good-bye. (Which is another point taken; start saying your I love yous to everyone now.)
Grief will shut us down quick, make no mistake about that.
In the meantime, keep moving forward. Here, I’ll leave you with a quote from another one of our heroes, Sylvester Stallone:
“You, me, or nobody is gonna hit as hard as life. But it ain’t about how hard you hit. It’s about how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward….”
PS: I love you.

Devotional

Brothers and Sisters and Non-binary friends, our devotional reading this morning is from the book of Dune, by Frank Herbert:
"I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past, I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone, there will be nothing. Only I remain."
Take one long breath, my friends, and try to experience the absence of fear. As Mama used to say, "This too, shall pass."
Remember: We fear what we do not know. We cannot see the future right now, so we fear what it might bring.
But we do have this moment in the present to shrug off the fear--even if just for a few brief moments of peace.
We can consciously choose to stop focusing on What if... What if... What if... and celebrate What is.
In this moment, all my children, and all my grandchildren, are well and healthy. I am grateful.
In this moment, I have food for the day and for tomorrow and for the week ahead, and I am grateful.
I even have a couple more rolls of toilet paper. Gratitude!!
I will endeavor today to focus away from what "might be bad" in the coming days, and turn my focus in another direction, perhaps toward one person I can help or reach out to with love.
We could all use a bit more love, a bit more kindness, a bit more comfort. And if that means giving a roll of toilet paper to an elderly neighbor because he or she or they are frightened to go out, I hope I'm willing to make that sacrifice. I hope we all are. I think we will be.
In these times, I always see the best of us.

Nomenclature

Last month at my book club meeting, we discussed the sweeping historical novel, Moloka'i, which chronicles the treatment of Hansen's disease victims in Hawaii across the Twentieth Century. At one point our moderator asked, "Who were your favorite characters in the novel?" and the gentleman sitting next to me replied, "I really liked Liliana, the hermaphrodite."

For a quick second, I wondered whether we'd read the same novel. There is no character named Liliana in Moloka'i, and there is no hermaphrodite. Then it dawned on me which character he was referring to.

I turned to him quietly and said, "I think you mean Leilani--"

"Oh, right, Leilani," he corrected himself

"--and she's transgender," I told him.

"Oh, well, whatever, I can't keep up with all the current names for things."

There quickly ensued a lively conversation among the group members about hermaphrodites, why Leilani was one (because she was born a man but prayed for breasts and finally got them as a result of her disease), and what modern-day parents do when faced with the birth of a child who is a hermaphrodite.

While all of this transpired, I simply sat in stunned silence.

Sometimes I assume that the fundamental knowledge I have about the world around me is the same fundamental knowledge shared by everyone in my age group. On more than one occasion, it has been pointed out to me that I am profoundly naive in this assumption.

So, for the sake of clarification, my fellow Boomers, here is a glossary of sorts that you might find helpful if you're unfamiliar with the "current names for things."

Hermaphrodite: A person born with both male and female reproductive organs. We now call these individuals "intersex" persons. In the olden days, parents were told by doctors to choose a gender for their newborn infant. Surgeries would eventually be performed to "correct" the anomalies of the gender not chosen. Thank heavens we are far, far beyond that now. (And no, "Leilani" in Moloka'i is not a hermaphrodite. And yes, I did eventually speak up in my group and share this.)

Binary:  Either/Or; an individual who identifies as completely female or male. Sidenote: If your gender identity matches the sex you were "assigned" at birth, you are "cisgender" or "cissexual," more commonly seen now as simply "cis man" or "cis woman."

Non-binary: Individuals who don't identify entirely as one or the other (male or female). Other current terms for this are genderqueer, agender and bigender.

Transgender:  A person whose gender does not correspond with the sex they were assigned at birth. If you struggle to understand how this could possibly be, how a person born a "female" could grow up thinking, "But... I'm a guy," or vice versa, I strongly recommend you head over to Youtube and put "Transgender" in the search bar, then scroll through the many, many videos depicting explanations and/or stories of "trans" individuals. Years ago, when I sought out Youtube for the right words to enlighten some of my questioning students, there were a half dozen or so videos on the subject. Now, there are, well, lots and lots. Click on these highlighted words for a brief video that might help explain the neuroscience of being transgender.

Gender Affirmation Surgery: Previously known as SRS--Sex Reassignment Surgery--this is what occurs when, say, my friend Lee decides he is tired of walking around with breasts when he is clearly male and has felt male all his life, and now especially feels male after taking medication for some time to suppress the estrogen the ovaries in his body produce and replace it with testosterone, so he opts to have his breasts removed (and possibly his uterus and ovaries) so that his body image matches his identity--and, by the way, matches his new drivers license, which now shows his gender as male. It's much easier for him to flow through airport security these days, let me tell you.

Why is this all so important? Why do I feel the need to educate my cohorts on proper nomenclature for my transgender friends? Because names matter.

Names. Matter.

We use derogatory names for those we fear, judge, or ostracize.

My fellow Boomers, let us reflect for a brief moment upon the 1950's and 1960's of our youth. What did we call gay people? Yep, just take a minute and recall all those names you heard in school or possibly at home. (I didn't, thank goodness. My mom had gay friends all her life, and never made a big deal about anyone loving someone of the same sex. Yay, Mom!)

And what did we call Japanese people in the '50's (because they were "the enemy" during WWII)? Or Black people? Or Hispanic people, especially if they weren't born here? Mm hmm.

Names. Matter.

Odd to think now, isn't it, that referring to someone as "gay" was a difficult transition for some folks. But now you wouldn't think of calling your gay friends, neighbors, or family members "fags" or "dykes" or whatever, would you? Of course not.

As our world and our world view continue to expand with new information and new insight, let us also expand our vocabulary as needed.

Ya dig? Groovy. Peace, brothers and sisters (and those who identify as non-binary)!

Kobe

(from Kobe Bryant's Twitter profile)
My grief today is not simply for a basketball star. My grief is for an icon, inspiration to innumerable young people, and for the absent father he will be now to his surviving daughters, and for Vanessa, his wife, who has stood by this man through so much and will now have to live in that shadow world of "widow of...." Mostly, though, my grief is for my son, because I feel his own grief so deeply, I cannot help but weep for him.
My youngest son was a freshman in high school when Kobe was a senior. To my surprise, Sam decided, upon entering high school, to play basketball instead of football. From the time he was a young toddler, Sam had been my companion in watching pro football every Sunday. By junior high, he was reading the sports section of the Los Angeles Times and had far surpassed me in his knowledge of sports.
He wanted to play Pop Warner football. I wouldn't let him. We still argue about that.
Kobe was his inspiration in high school, and Sam launched into playing hoops like he did when he played soccer, learning all he could as fast as he could and practicing constantly. I credit Kobe Bryant's work ethic for that.
And I remember a discussion I had with Sam that went on for a long time, one we returned to over a period of weeks. I can still see my young son standing in the doorway of my bedroom while I sprawled on my bed, trying desperately to catch a quick nap.
"Kobe might sign with the NBA."
"I hope he does not do that."
"Why, though?"
"Because he needs to go to college first--as all young men need to do."
"But if he has that opportunity, shouldn't he take it? I mean, he can always go to college. But the NBA? Right outa high school? C'mon. He's gotta take that shot."
I said no. I was wrong. Sam was right.
Thus began the era of basketball watching for Sam and I (and my daughter, when she wasn't working or attending school or chasing her own toddlers). I knew enough about football to call plays from the couch, but I knew nothing about basketball. I quickly learned that asking Sam questions during a game was a faux pas; so intent was he on every move of the players, he didn't have time for trivial distractions. At times, his intensity was... epic, for lack of a more fitting word. He was known to frighten the dogs with his sudden outbursts about fouls or bad calls by the referees.
And we loved Chick Hearn, with all his quirky yet knowledgeable passion for the Lakers and the game of hoops.
I lost my voice screaming at Sam's final basketball game in high school--that his team won--beating their biggest rivals--in overtime--by one point--from a free throw--shot by my son. My son. A member of our school board, Sam Knight, was there that evening, sitting behind my family in the stands. I turned around--I had to, with more parental pride than I knew what to do with--and said, "Mr. Knight, that is my son about to make that shot, and his name is Sam."
"It's a good name," he said, smiling. "Let's hope he makes it."
I will never forget that moment. My son looked back at the bench, at the man who had coached him for four years, then turned back to the basket and sunk the shot. I laughed, I wept, I screamed, and then couldn't speak for the next week.
Thank you, Kobe, for that moment. And for all those car rides to and from games when my son and I talked about nothing but basketball--not his homework or his behavior or why he was grounded again, but just his passion for the game. And for the times when I became the silent chauffeur to Sam and a handful of his teammates, rolling through McDonald's countless times to try to fill the bottomless pit stomachs of these teen boys who chattered and laughed and made fun of each other while eating Big Macs and fries and sipping sodas. For all those precious moments with my son, I thank you, Kobe. And, oh yes, for all the many, many similar moments I know you inspired between other parents and their sons and daughters--because you said you didn't have to have a son to continue your legacy in basketball, your daughter could do that just fine. Bravo.
(This image was taken from pbs.org.)

The Blue Devil

Coming home from the hospital. You can see the misery on his face.
ICYMI: On January 4th, 2020—exactly six years to the day that I brought Sgt. Thomas Tibbs home—he was hospitalized for pancreatitis. For the dog-loving-faint-of-heart, he is home now, nearly fully recovered, feeling happy and back to being my walking partner, thank the Universe. But—all of his pain and trauma could have been avoided. Here’s what happened:
When I adopted Thomas, I wanted him to have a premium dog food since he’d been near starvation before his rescue. After trying a few, I put him on Ideal Balance. He liked it, did well on it, so I kept him on it for a year.
Then it disappeared from Petco and Petsmart. When I inquired, an employee told me that Target had purchased the formula and would be offering it at Target stores within the next year. (That never happened, although it is now available through Hill’s, the Science Diet folks.) On the same day of my inquiry, as I stood perusing all the brands of dog food and squinting at the tiny print on label after label, a nice, grandmotherly-looking lady handed me a coupon for a few dollars off a bag of Blue Buffalo, telling me about the “True Blue Promise” (no corn, wheat or soy, blah blah blah). I bought it. I bought the ad hype and the dog food and Thomas really, really liked it, so he’s been on it ever since.
Fast forward to 2019. Thomas began having digestive issues—lots of foul-smelling burps, mucous in his stool, and sudden bouts of oh-my-Buddha-he-pooped-on-the-kitchen-floor-again. We had a lot of those in 2019. I talked to most of my dog-loving, dog-training friends. I got advice like, “add pumpkin” (done) or “add a probiotic” (done). Most had their dogs on other foods, but when I compared ingredients, it always seemed like Blue Buffalo had the best.
Thomas is twelve now. I thought his decline, his lack of energy, lack of playfulness, his more and more frequent “accidents” had to do with his age or his anxiety or his pemphigus (an auto-immune disease probably generated by his extreme anxiety). I never once suspected the high-priced, “premium” dog food I was feeding him. I didn’t realize his gut hurt. Dear god, I wished I had realized his gut hurt. My poor, poor boy. If only dogs could talk.
On the morning of January 4th, Thomas was clearly in pain, frantically following me from room to room, stopping suddenly to stretch his belly, whimpering. I got him in to Banning Veterinary Clinic right away. This is what the vet said before she ever examined him:
“It’s probably pancreatitis. We see it all the time in dogs that have been on Blue Buffalo for an extended period of time. Great commercials. Bad dog food. Blue Buffalo is too rich for most dogs to tolerate over time.”
I was skeptical. How could this be?
“How do we pinpoint the pancreatitis diagnosis?” I asked.
“Blood work,” she replied. And then she examined him, head to tail. His heart was strong, his lungs clear. Then she dragged him away (because he won’t go with anyone else), and I sat in the exam room, crying and waiting.
She brought him back quickly, assuring me that he was a good boy, and told me we’d have to wait 20 minutes for the test results. It seemed like hours, but then she was back.
“All of his blood levels are perfect,” she said, “except his pancreas.”
The treatment required hospitalization. They would have to put him on I.V.s with antibiotics and pain medication.
I couldn’t imagine leaving him behind.
I couldn’t wait another minute for them to get started on relieving his distress.
I pulled off the flannel I was wearing over a t-shirt and handed it to the vet to put in his kennel with him, and I kissed my dear, sweet boy good-bye, hoping and praying I would see him again on Monday morning. (They would be closing for the weekend; I wouldn’t be able to visit.)
I had to sit in the truck for a long time before I could stop crying and drive home.
Those who know me well know how much I love this goofy dog. He has been my daily walking partner for six years. He has hiked up mountains and into canyons and across streams and over boulders and through fields of wildflowers with me, past deer and coyotes and bobcats (on more than one occasion) and a fox. He has gone from being a terrified, shut-down dog that hated being touched to a nutty, spoiled pup who runs to my bedroom floor and plops himself on the carpet when it’s bedtime in anticipation of his nightly “love.” When I wake in the night from nightmares—which is often—I lie in the darkness and wait until I hear his deep sighs. They comfort me greatly. He is not “just a dog” to me.
When I picked up Thomas from the vet two days later, he was a mess. Though they’d tried to clean him up, his fur was flecked with tiny pieces of dry dog shit. His nose was dry from dehydration, and his anxiety level was through the roof. He’d never stopped pacing, the vet explained, so they couldn’t keep an I.V. in. He didn’t eat or drink or sleep. He simply reverted to being a wild dog in a cage. They gave him pain meds and sub-cutaneous fluids.
“He’ll recover much more quickly at home,” the vet said.
No kidding.
He has bounced back like a super-ball. He spent the first hour at home lapping up water and eating and trotting around the house, sniffing everything, so happy to be home. Then he crashed and slept for hours. He woke up to eat and pee, then slept and slept all night.
He is back to being his goofy, happy self.
As he’s been recovering, I’ve been researching Blue Buffalo dog food. Oh lordy….
A dear friend and dog rescuer (“I wish I had known you had him on Blue Buffalo,” she said) pointed me to the Consumer Affairs website and the reviews of Blue Buffalo dog food. I am blessed that I didn’t lose him but so sad and angry for others who have lost their pets to this food. Many have mentioned pancreatitis in their reviews. And there are a lot of negative reviews.
Meanwhile, the website for Blue Buffalo continues to tout their “True Blue Promise” and the food the Bishop family formulated and began to produce after their beloved Airedale, “Blue,” was diagnosed with cancer. You’ve probably seen those TV commercials with the family members sitting around in a living room, talking earnestly about how much they loved their dog and wanted him to be healthy, so they created this great dog food. “It’s all about family,” the Blue Buffalo website says.
Yes. Yes, it is. Just not the Bishop family. It’s all about the General Mills family. They don’t mention in the TV commercial that the Bishops sold Blue Buffalo to General Mills in 2018 for millions of dollars. The family does still own 8% of the company. But General Mills owns 92%.
They also don’t mention the class action lawsuit against Blue Buffalo brought by customers who had the food analyzed and found it to contain—you guessed it—corn, wheat and soy. Blue Buffalo’s response to the lawsuit was to throw another company under the bus, a “distributor” of pet food ingredients.
Wait. What the hell does that mean?
Let us continue our education into the making of pet food products by discovering that there are very few of the major pet food companies that use American-sourced ingredients in their food.
Yes, chances are, unless you’re making it yourself, you’re feeding your dog or cat food that contains ingredients from other countries. And as we know, not all countries use the same standards the U.S. does for pet food ingredients. I am still trying to find the source of Blue Buffalo ingredients. I’m sure it’s out there… but not readily unearthed by my digging. I suspect that General Mills employs a software company to “scrub” search results, so that negative reviews and claims of sick pets and accusations of ingredients coming from China will not be easily found. I digress.
In case you’re wondering:For the first few days, I fed Thomas white rice and lean chicken. (Thank you, Carolyn Bass Burns, for the suggestion.) Then I put him on the Hill’s Science Diet prescription low fat food my vet had recommended. He’s still getting that. It’s $3 a can, even from Chewy.com. But he’s going to be on it for a good long while, until I can find a dog food that is made with integrity.
Wish me luck.

One week after he came home, he was bright-eyed and smiling again.

Six years in

  Wherever you are, whatever you're doing, please stop right now, just for a few seconds, and celebrate with us. We made it. Sgt. Thomas Tibbs, my quirky, wonderful, problematic, sweet dog and I made our goal of six years.

Six years ago I brought him home from Upland Animal Shelter. He'd been listed upon intake (by San Bernardino County Animal Control) as being five years old. When I told my vet his age, he smiled and said, "They were being kind."

"So... six?" I responded.
"Six... ish," he said.

So my deal with Thomas (of which I would remind him from time to time over the years, usually at night when I sat beside him, brushing or petting him to calm him before bed) was this: Give me at least six years, Pal. Six years to show you that humans really can be kind. You need at least as many years with kindness and comfort as you've had with starvation and deprivation and the stars only know what else you've endured.

As of January 4th, we've made it. Thomas has given me six years of daily walks, incredible hikes, contented dog sighs, floppy trotting ears, post-bath victory laps around the yard, and tail wags. (Oh, I am so grateful for all those tail wags, which took sooooo long to finally see in the beginning.)

He still loves Purrl, who was only four months old when I brought Thom home,

 and his stuffy friends


and riding in Cloud, my 2003 Ford Ranger,


an activity which is now a daily sojourn to pick up mail in the afternoon, but often it also means a mid-morning break to drive around the park and look for people out walking their dogs. Well, not the people--Thomas is only interested in spying on other dogs from the comfort of his man cave in the backseat of the truck. I think he is fascinated by how happy they all seem, trotting along in broad daylight with their people attached, seemingly without a care in the world. We still walk before the sun comes up, which is when he feels safest.

That is, unless we're going off into the hills to hike. If we head out where the coyotes sing, Thomas relaxes, trotting along the dirt trails and fire roads beside me, occasionally stopping to sniff--something that took years for him to feel comfortable doing.



And I gotta tell ya, this boy has hiked everywhere with me--up steep hills, over boulders, through fields so thick with wildflowers the trail was lost to us, across streams and past a very beautiful but amorous female coyote who thought Thomas was The One she'd been longing for.

We still walk every day, logging 350 out of 365 days for 2019. (Sciatica and a couple of short vacations out of state account for the 15 days we missed.)

With all that walking and the years gone by, has Thomas calmed down, grown out of his quirks? Absolutely not.

I still have to warn him when I'm about to print something, so he can trot out to the garage and jump into the truck, as the sound of the printer absolutely terrifies him. Not the sound of the vacuum cleaner or the garbage disposal or my blow dryer. The printer. And my cell phone, which is still always left on Do Not Disturb mode when I'm at home, as it sends him tearing through the house in a panic if it so much as quietly dings to notify me of a text message.

He still flinches when I touch him if I don't let him know in advance I'm going to do so.

Of course, he is showing signs of aging. We no longer walk miles when we hike together. He's good for a mile and a half, though. He will always have Pemphigas, the auto-immune disease, but it is currently well controlled, and only flares up when he is particularly stressed. Every few months, he has severe gastro-intestinal issues, so he's on a probiotic and gets tasty organic pumpkin added to his food.

Most days he is active and happy, and he has gone from barely tolerating my bedtime routine of petting and singing to him to eagerly anticipating it--so much so that, as soon as I begin my flossing and brushing routine, he camps out on the floor just outside the bathroom door, ears up and waiting for his ear scratch + back massage + belly rubs. Spoiled? Yes, absolutely. I can't begin to imagine the horror of his life before, having to scrounge for food and water in the desert, being literally eaten alive by mange--not for days or weeks or months, but years. Oh, my poor boy! But he's safe now. And hopefully, I have a few more years to spoil him.



 

Painted Canyon

I don't always recommend following the advice of one's dentist (because, trust me, I've had some pretty bad ones), but my current guy (Scott Parker in Calimesa) is really good at what he does, and he's also an avid hiker, bicyclist and mountain climber. After we chatted one day about hiking, he whipped out his phone and showed me pictures of Painted Canyon in Mecca, California (south of Indio, for you SoCal locals who are now searching Google Maps for it).

"You have to go," he said.

Well, then. I had to.

So last Saturday I made the trip (I-10 east to CA 86 south, then a couple of turns to finally hit Painted Canyon Road, which is five miles of rutted sand and gravel, so if you're going, be prepared). I kept thinking I would find a parking area with a Jeep or two in it. Not so. When I finally arrived at the trailhead, there were at least twenty cars there already, more when I left two hours later.

Back home, it was 55 degrees and drizzling. At the canyon, it was 71, clear and sunny. I left my jacket in the car, and off I went to wander. The photo above was taken near the mouth of the canyon. It's a broad expanse, steep sandstone on either side. But as you walk further, the canyon narrows. The type of rock changes. Deep holes have been carved simply by the wind swirling small rocks around for decades.


Those caves must be really cool inside, but there's no way to get up there unless you're a rock climber.

As I walked, I went in and out of sun and shadow, too warm one minute, a bit chilly the next. Then I came around a corner and saw this:


It may be hard to make out, but that's an aluminum ladder leading up a rock face... to another aluminum ladder leading up another rock face. Here's a more close-up view to the first:


Intriguing, no? I mean, I couldn't turn back. Look at that, my wanderers, adventurers, and dreamers. Would you turn back? Or climb the ladders? Exactly. But... here's the photo I didn't share on Instagram. (Please don't tell my niece, an ER nurse who was concerned about me climbing the ladder in the first place.)


The ladder has been used so many times, the bottom rungs are broken. Not such a bad thing going up. A bit dicey coming back down for those of us with hip and back issues. Oh well. Up I went. And look at the view from above looking back:


Cool, huh? I walked on. And... I'd love to share many more photos with you, except about 20 minutes later, I did have to turn back. It's hard to tell from the photos, but when you're hiking this trail, it's slightly uphill and in sand. Neither are good if you occasionally fight with sciatica, which I do. When the nerve in my leg started reminding me of my age, I decided to deny my heart's longing (sorry, heart!) and listen to my extremity. I turned around and went back, saving the rest of the hike (which leads into a narrower section of the canyon) for another day. I can't wait to return. When I do, you can be sure I'll post up about it here.

My Last Cat

A year ago, when I adopted Jenny, I wrote a blog post about her (find it here). The last line is: "Because I don't want another cat." Please understand, I've been saying that since 1992. I'm a dog person. I am. I really am. But... cats have been in my life continuously since 1972. No kidding. No break from cleaning litter boxes or being the victim of periodic maulings if I petted incorrectly. Sheesh.

I have to say, though, Jenny has turned out to be quite the sweet little buddy. (In most cases, she is kind enough to retract her claws before batting my hand away because she doesn't like the way I'm touching her. Sheesh! Cats!) She generally hangs out wherever I am working--on the yoga mat if I'm doing yoga (or under it), on the table or my desk if I'm writing, on the bed, diving under the covers if I'm trying to make it. You get the picture. She's just a zany girl.



She is still very kitten-ish in her behavior, zooming around the house with her tail crooked and her fur puffy when she's excited--which is usually about the time I'm getting in bed, so I can hear her galloping around the house, jumping on and off furniture (and sharpening her claws on it--garrrr! Cats! Sheesh!!), and knocking things over.

Her favorite activity, though, is finding a new place to curl up and sleep, one I am wholly unaware of, so that when I realize I haven't seen her in a while, and I start looking, I can't find her. I can remain pretty calm for the first ten minutes as I walk through the house, calling her name. (Of course she never responds when she's hiding. Because she's a cat. Sheesh!) After twenty minutes, I get concerned. After thirty minutes I am worried, backtracking in my mind, wondering how she might have gotten out or whether she somehow climbed in before I started the dishwasher. Panic rises slowly in me, but I do get there eventually. One day I finally found her sitting in the driver's seat of the truck in the garage. I'd left the windows down in it earlier, and somehow she'd climbed in and gone to sleep. Another time, after I'd searched every hidden corner in the house and under all beds and inside every cupboard three times, I happened to walk through the living room and I saw the fringe on a throw blanket move, almost imperceptibly. I lifted it. Yep, sleeping cat underneath. Several nights ago I couldn't find her, so I headed out to the garage to see if she'd climbed into the truck again. Didn't have to look that far. She was asleep on the hood, up on the vent. I'd driven the truck to pick up the mail earlier, and the engine was still warm.


See, this is the difference between a dog and a cat. If you call a dog, he jumps up and runs to you, wagging his tail and lifting his ears and eyebrows because he wants to know

Are there treats?
Are we going for a ride?
Are we going for a walk?
Is it dinner time?
Do you want to pet me??

And he's sincere about all that. He's excited to accommodate his human because he is one hundred percent loving and devoted. That's why we love our dogs so much. Because... so much love is given to us.

Jenny will come when I call her

If she thinks I have treats
If she's not sleeping
If she's not hiding
If she's not mad at me because I refused her some service or petted her incorrectly.

CATS! SHEESH!!

But... she makes me laugh every day. When I talk to her, she talks back, and not in a snotty way. She just likes to make conversation. And when I nap, all I have to do is call through the house, "Jenny! Blankie!" and she will come--eventually. When she's ready. In her own good time. Then she jumps on the bed, marches on the blanket for an inordinate amount of time, curls against my side, and purrs me to sleep.

A year ago, when I brought her home, I crossed my fingers that she and Purrl would get along. I have to say, this little girl is persistent. Purrl hated her. Chased her, growled at her, hissed at her, and scratched her. Jenny just tried to stay out of her way, occasionally checking--"Do you still hate me?"--then jumping away when the Claws of Death were unsheathed. After several months, though, I found them hiding under the bed together when a loud person came to visit. And then, just a few nights ago--a year and a week to the day after Jenny came home--I watched as Jen climbed onto the couch and curled up next to Purrl. Purrl sat up and glared at her, unmoving, for a full five minutes. Jenny ignored her. Purrl gave up and curled around again. And they slept like that for hours.

Cats. Sheesh.