S. Kay Murphy's Blog, page 2

Three trees and a dog

 

I park in thelot above the meadow in Bogart Park. It’s early and cool. As I step out of thetruck, the quiet settles on me like the light embrace of a beloved friend.

This is how Iknow it’s October: The slight bite in the air. The scent of wood smoke thatdrifts down and hovers in the meadow. The tone of the leaves rustling; soft andlilting in mid-summer when the leaves are new and tender, it is a crisper soundnow, as they dry and die and fall.

Maya alightsfrom the truck eagerly, her nostrils twitching. She knows where we are, wherethe trail begins, and she heads that way at a trot before I’ve barely had timeto close the door and hit the lock button.

Finding thetrail, she pulls to the end of her twenty-foot leash and takes the rollinghills as if they are red-carpet flat, while I laugh, struggling to keep up as Itell her, “My, slow down, honey.” But she is thrilled to be out here, so I lether charge on, and my tempo increases as my boots kick up dust.

She slowswhen we reach the big hill. She doesn’t like this trail because she cannot seearound the corners as we wind up and around on the climb, but she comes alongbeside me as I reassure her. Halfway up, she veers over to a single-tracktrail, a deer path that she has asked so many times to follow. Every othertime, I have said no. Today I tell her, “Okay, My, let’s go your way,” and onceagain she is charging along. I gently slow her down; I have to watch her feetand mine for rattlesnakes, as it is still warm enough to see them out.

I know wherethis trail goes, and I know it will double the distance of our walk today. Butit is a trail I have taken before with Sgt. Thomas Tibbs, and one I haveloved—though not chosen—for several years.

We wind downto the far side of the hill, Maya surprised to find the trail opening up andskirting an expansive meadow. She glances often to our right where she can hearthe penned sheep that sometimes graze here.

Then we cometo the first tree.

 

A fire in thefall of 2016 burned much of this side of the hill down to rubble. Black ash isstill visible in the soil along the trail. But look at these oak trees. Strong.Steadfast. Beautiful. How old is this one? How many fires have threatened it?Still it endures.

The last oakwe pass before taking the steep trail back up toward the parking lot boasts apicnic table beneath it. Maya waits patiently as I snap a photo… and I imaginemyself sitting down with a book or a notebook and a snack, whiling away a fewhours in the shade… in the quiet… in the solitude.

 

Maya doesthat all-over dog shake—as Frost’s “little horse” did when the poet stopped towatch the snow fall in a similarly hushed and serene place.

I, too, havepromises to keep.

So we tacklethe last arduous climb, then pause briefly in the shade to catch our breathbefore heading back to the truck and civilization.

There isanother way I mark the path into October, and that is by the shorter days, thediminishing light. At one time, October was my least favorite month. As thedarkness came on, my spirits would flag, my anxiety rise, often leaving medepressed until January.

No more. Thecure for darkness is light. So I will be out here as often as I can be, lettingMaya charge up the trail (as long as it’s safe to do so), pushing myself towalk farther each time, to take the longer route, the steeper trail, to hear myheartbeat pounding, to know that I am still alive, still surviving, and will bewhen the light returns once again in spring.

A Friendly Murder

 

No worries,dear Reader; I refer in my title to a “murder” of crows.

It all beganwhen I read about an experiment conducted with crows in order to determine whetherthey would recognize individual humans. Not only can they distinguish one humanfrom another, they also, it turns out, are capable of holding a grudge for aprolonged period of time. You can see the results of that experiment in thisshort video here.

Followingthat, I found another video which demonstrated how crows either believe in abarter system or are simply and sincerely grateful when humans offer gifts. Inreturn for food, they will eventually offer gifts. You can see that video here.

Jenny the Catperches on my kitchen table every morning (after her early morning patrol ofthe perimeter of the property), watching the “big squawky birds” and makingthat adorable chittering sound cats make when they watch birds. The crows comeby every morning about 7:00a.m. to eat the snails and slugs from my neighbor’syard, and we watch them hop around, squabble over territory, and steal fromeach other, shouting epithets in crow-speak. I decided, afterseeing the two above mentioned videos, to enhance the entertainment value for Jenny and possiblymake a crow friend or two myself by feeding them peanuts. (I purchased peanutsin the shell from Chewy.com that are intended for animal consumption. Never feed your local wildlife human food, please.)

That’s whenthe fun began.

It only tookone day and the tossing out of a couple peanuts for a couple of crows to becomecurious, swooping down and strutting around the peanuts, tilting their headsand eyeing them suspiciously. Then one guy grabbed a goober, flew up to the neighbor’srooftop, and began pecking away.

The nextmorning, both crows were there at 7:00 sharp, waiting. I threw down a couplepeanuts and retreated to the house. They flew down, each taking one, and flewoff to eat them.

That was threemonths ago.

Now everymorning there are no less than ten crows waiting—not so patiently—at 7:00.

"Caw! Caw! Caw!"

It’s likeTrick or Treat; I count the number of crows and dole out that same number ofpeanuts, lobbing them out into the street, then returning to the house to watchthe birds at the buffet.

So far, not asingle one of those ungrateful bastards has left me a gift. However, Jenny’senjoyment at their antics nearly matches mine. Here’s what I’ve seen:

Like humans,there is always a bold leader, first to fly down from his perch on the streetlight and grab a peanut. Conversely, there is the last guy, a small crow wholooks on nervously, not sure if it’s safe to descend, often waiting until it’stoo late to get a peanut. Because there is the one guy who is never contentwith just one. He picks up one in his beak, then hops quickly to anotherpeanut, trying to cram that one in as well, often dropping the first peanut inthe process. Most days, he is not satisfied until he has somehow shoved two inthis beak, at which point he flies to the peak of the neighbor’s roof and dropsthem, frequently losing the extra one as it rolls down onto the ground. Greedis not an attractive look for anyone, and “Hey, Pal,” I tell him, “you can’ttake it with you, can you?”

At any rate,I am still waiting for the day when I will come out in the morning, my fistfull of peanuts, to find one of them has left me some shiny trinket. (I guessthat’s my own form of greediness, isn’t it?) When that happens, you’ll be thefirst to know. After Jenny, of course.

Regarding Dolly: An Update

 

Just a quickpost here to honor a dog and her human.

Three yearsago, in August of 2021, I took my neighbor Linda on a day-long jaunt to find adog. Her beloved pug mix, Abbey, had passed away some months before, and sheand her husband were feeling the absence of a dog’s magic in the house. Youknow, that quality they have of somehow brightening everyone’s spirits. SoLinda asked me to help her find the right dog.

We wentlooking for “a younger dog” and came home with a fourteen-year-old. Yep. Youcan read that story by clicking here.

Linda and herhusband Bob took that old dog that had been uncared for (and unbathed) for solong, and they scrubbed her up, brushed her out, gave her warm, soft bedding, andstarted feeding her cooked chicken breasts every night. I kid you not. (Thusthe roly-poly Dolly you see in the photo above.) I remember Linda telling me atthe time that they were committed to giving her a great life for whatever timeshe had left, whether that be days or weeks or months or—if they were lucky—years.

And years itwas. Nearly three exactly. Dolly passed away this week at the age of seventeen.Seventeen, y’all! And that dog…. Boy howdy, was she a happy girl in herlast days! Oh, not at first. She was quiet and reserved and withdrawn (and verywary of Bob). But her humans were patient. And they had chicken. And daily loveand encouragement. And that dog finally began to respond, so much so that shefound her happy feet. I will never forget stopping by one day and Linda tellingme: “Every evening after dinner she goes into the den and dances around.” Dollymight have been too old to do zoomies, but she was never too old to dance.

A good lessonfor all of us who are easing into the silver muzzle stage of life, I reckon.

On Not Being Okay

 

Last week Iposted on Facebook that I was not okay. I am grateful for all the friends andfamily members who checked in on me—called, sent a text, sent a privatemessage, sent chocolate…. Okay, no one sent chocolate, but getting thosecheck-in messages was just as good. Better, actually.

Here’s whatwas going on:

I feltoverwhelmed.

When I feeloverwhelmed, it’s because things feel like they are spiraling out of mycontrol.

When I beginto lose control over the order of my life—the daily routine, the peace andquiet of the household, the general welfare of my dog and cat—my anxiety beginsto skyrocket.

When myanxiety skyrockets, I become paralyzed. I find myself functioning roboticallyto take care of the necessary things—pet care, etc—then becoming immobilizedand simply sitting for hours at a time, heart pounding, breath shallow.

This anxietyis rooted in childhood trauma.

I was anextremely sensitive child. (I still am that child.) And I was shamed by myparents for being so. I’m not trying to vilify them here; they thought thattelling me to “stop crying" and "stop being so sensitive” and making fun of me for doing so would help toughen me up to deal withthe real world outside. What it actually did was further isolate me, make mefeel that my being “different” from others was wrong or bad, somethingI should be ashamed of choosing for myself. And all of that led me to become quiet and shut down… for which I was further shamed.

I learned tospeak only when I absolutely had to. I learned to hang in the background, not assertmyself. I learned to be invisible.

The more Icontrolled these things, the safer I felt. The calmer I felt. In those days,the calmest I ever felt was on Saturday mornings, leaving the house wheneveryone was sleeping, riding my bike around the quiet neighborhood in the hushof early morning. I was a little girl out alone, and I felt safest there.(You’re already nodding your head if you know me well—this is me now on a hike;I feel safest there.)

Until Istarted seeing a therapist last year, I was wholly unaware of what caused myanxiety. I mean, when I was feeling anxious, I could generally track it back towhat triggered it, but I had no idea why it kept resurfacing. I kept confusinganxiety with fear. It’s the same autonomic response, right? Rapid heart rate.Shallow breathing. But I am not a fearful person.

One day mytherapist said, “So, as long as you can control things in your life—yourenvironment, your routine, your interaction with people—you feel safe. Becausewhen you were a child and a teenager, you were being bombarded with stimulithat traumatized you, and you had no control over it. You couldn’t advocate foryourself, and you had no adult advocate. So you lived with trauma. Now, youkeep that trauma at bay by creating an environment in which you are incontrol.”

Boy howdy.

Yes, Iunderstand—as I discussed with my therapist—that we cannot control everythingthat happens in our lives. Some weeks are like last week—things breaking,service people in the house to fix things, financial worries, pet worries,pressure from others to “just make a decision,” the hopeless desire to neverlet anyone down….

Last week wasa perfect storm of unpleasant events happening. So I felt out of control of mylife. So the anxiety swooshed back in hard like a tsunami.

So what did Ido? I rode it out. I saw it coming on the horizon and I ran for higher ground.I didn’t quite outrun it, but some folks were close by with life preservers andropes and that-feeling-you-get-when-you-eat-chocolate, and I survived it.

For a while,I felt like I couldn’t breathe. But the truth is, I just had to be reminded:“Breathe, Kay.” I did. I’m back. I’m okay now. If you’re not, you can alwayscall me. I have time for you. I can find a life preserver. Maybe even some chocolate.

Happy Birthday to Me?

It wassupposed to be a birthday present to myself, a road trip with my sister whoneeded a change of scenery, and a relaxing day for chatting and visiting ourfather's grave. And honestly it started out that way....

Even thoughan hour before we were scheduled to leave, I received a call from a woman whowas trying to re-home a dog. She asked if I could "come today" tomeet her, as she was going out of town.

Well, whatthe heck, it was essentially... sort of... on our way down to Corona del Mar,so yeah, we'd hop off the freeway and meet the dog.

Except whenwe arrived at exactly the appointed time, the woman responded to my textsaying, "I'm across the street at the grocery store. Be there to meet youin a minute." Which she was... sort of... after she unloaded her grocerieswhile I stood in the sun and waited for her to meet me at the gate to herapartments... only to find, when she arrived, that the dog was, um, not quite"as advertised." I'll leave it at that.

Back on theroad, my sister and I chatted about dogs and our kids and our grandkids and ourchildhood as we motored along Highway 241, a toll road cut through the hills between the Anaheim Hills and the ocean (because of courseI have a Fastrak transponder on my new truck, so we could easily cruise thetoll road). In no time, we were pulling into Pacific View Cemetery andstrolling over to Dad's grave.

It was apleasant visit. We left flowers on his headstone and sang a duet of hisfavorite song, "Danny Boy." Then it was back in the truck and a shortdrive down Pacific Coast Highway (with views of the ocean we hadn't seen in awhile) to our destination: Las Brisas Restaurant in Laguna Beach. I dropped Pegat the entrance so she could get us a table, and I went looking for parking,which I readily found, pulling into a spot where someone had just pulled out. Iknew the routine: Slide the Visa card into the slot and hope I'm not paying afortune for the hour or so we'd be eating lunch.

Lunch—wasfantastic. Great food, a terrific chocolate mousse cake, which we debated aboutgetting because, with the dog stop in the beginning of our journey, it wasgetting on toward afternoon, and we knew we had to beat the traffic home, butonce we ate it, we both agreed it was worth sitting in traffic for. Little didwe know....

We also dranklots and lots of chilled water. Here's how our very slow and often inattentiveserver offered that:

"Whatcan I get you ladies to drink? We have water or Evian, iced tea, a glass ofwine...."

"Oh, youhave Evian? We'd like that."

We did indeedlike it. So much so that we ordered a second bottle and shared it. We mighthave enjoyed it less had we known that the chilled glass bottles of Evian hebrought to the table and poured into our wine glasses with a flourish were $12a pop, adding a whopping $24 to the bill when it came. Yikes! I know, I know; afancier person would have expected that. My brother would have asked the priceof the fancy water first. But he's fancier than I am. Whatever. It's onlymoney. And I can be that cavalier about it now, because someone else ended uppaying for it. But I'll get to that....

We headedhome. Thirty minutes into the drive, my sister told me she needed a pitstop.(All that expensive water, you see.) But we were back in the canyon, drivingthe toll road. There was nowhere to stop. And she was getting desperate withevery passing minute.

"Justpull over," she said. "I'll find a bush."

Let's behonest. Guys do this all the time. One of the advantages of having a small hose(or, okay, whatever size it is) attached to your bladder is that you can drainit standing up. Women can't. And some people would be shocked at the thought ofa woman squatting behind a bush. But let me tell you, as free roaming childrenat a very young age, we did what was necessary so we could still wander andexplore (and probably get into some kind of predicament). As adults, my sisterand I both went on trail rides on our horses along riverbeds and on isolatedtrails. I still hike in wilderness areas—where no one has thought to installrestrooms. So yeah, it wasn't really a big deal.

I followedthe turn-off for Santiago Canyon Road, found a spot to pull over, and Pegwalked off into the bushes and relieved herself. We were back on the road inunder ten minutes. Easy peasy.

Except....

I merged backonto the toll road to find that apparently a few thousand of our neighbors werealso heading in our same direction, so five lanes of flowing traffic became twolanes of bumper-to-bumper traffic, the long back-up occurring when both thoselanes had to merge into one to join the 91 freeway. We were now rolling slowly,averaging 15 miles per hour.

I'm aCalifornia native. Generally speaking, traffic like this isn't an issue for me.I simply sit in the comfort of my Ford Maverick (with excellent lumbar support)and enjoy the scenery (if there is any). But on this day, I had left the houseat 8:30, taking Maya out before I left. Confident we'd be back by earlyafternoon, I hadn't arranged for my dog wrangler to come over and let her out.But now, since it was already 3:00p.m., far past the time Maya should have hada potty break, I called the teen wrangler's grandmother to ask if she couldpick the kid up and have her do me that favor.

"Sure,"was the immediate answer. Then I remembered: I'd locked the house up tightbefore I left. Damn.

The next callwas to my next-door neighbor, Gus, who told me when I moved in, "Hey, Ihave a key to your house" (from the previous owner). "Do you want itback? Or do you want me to keep it in case of an emergency?"

Thankgoodness Gus has a key, I thought. But... that was eight years ago. When Icalled, Gus couldn't remember having a key. Or our conversation. "Even ifI did have one," he said, "I would have no idea where it isnow."

Sigh. PoorMaya! She would have to wait. A much longer time than I anticipated....

About thistime, Peg started patting her pockets, scanning the floorboards, and asking,"Where's my phone?" I couldn't help her look. I had to keep my eyeson the car ahead of me so as not to bump.

"Whendid you last have it?"

"I don'tknow," she said. "At the restaurant maybe? I might've left it in therestroom. I took it out of my back pocket and put it on the toilet paperholder."

Brief asidehere: This is not the first time I've been with my sister that she's left herphone in a public restroom.

Since myphone was synced with my car, I could call Las Brisas without too muchdistraction. The very kind hostess searched the restroom and their lost andfound box. No phone.

I triedcalling Peg's phone to see if it was in the truck and she just couldn't see it.We heard nothing, and about that time traffic cleared, and Peg said,"Maybe it fell out of my pocket when I got out to pee."

Oh, lord.

We'd finallymade the transition onto the 91 and traffic was moving along at 70 miles perhour. We could be home in another hour or so. I could let Maya out. Myshoulders could go back to their normal position instead of hovering around myears with worry about my poor dog.

But what elsewas there to do?

I took thenext ramp off, crossed back over the freeway and got back on in the oppositedirection. We breezed back to the Santiago Canyon Road exit, I pulled up towhere I'd stopped to let Peg out previously, and she got out to look. She wasroaming through the brush, eyes on the ground, when I called her phone to seeif we could hear the ring.

Boy howdy,did we hear it. Or at least I did.

"Peg,come here."

Her phone wasin the passenger seat. She'd been sitting on it.

If only therehadn't been all that traffic noise earlier when I called it. If only we'dpulled over and stopped for a minute, had her get out and look. If only wehadn't stayed to eat that indescribably delicious chocolate mousse cake.

Wait. Scratchthat last bit. I will never regret ordering that cake.

Back on thetoll road with my apologetic sis, I inched into traffic again. Now, however,the traffic was worse. So when I say "inched," I literally mean wewere moving at zero miles per hour. The line of traffic stretched endlesslybefore us. I took deep breaths to belay the worry about Maya. When you're in asituation you can't control, you only make it worse by getting angry or upset.Wise words, no? Yeah, it's only taken me about 70 years to learn that lesson.

So I tried torelax into my Zen mode. We would be home when we arrived home. I would practicepatience and deep breathing until then.

Which iswhen, with a loud thump, my truck was rear-ended, and all my meditative energyexited the vehicle as I did, right in that long line of equally frustratedmotorists.

I marchedback to the car behind me, looking first at the damage to my beautiful newtruck. The right side of the license plate was crumpled. Slightly. That was it.The driver of the car that hit me was a kid, twenty years old. I told him, inmy sternest Mom/Teacher voice, to get over to the emergency lane, which meantboth of us shifting over two lanes. The cars behind us had seen what happenedand let us over.

I took aphoto of the license plate of his car, then one of his driver's license.

"Let mesee your registration," I told him.

"It'snot my car," he said.

"Who isit registered to?" I asked.

"It'snot registered," he said.

Then suddenlyhe was on the phone with his father, telling him what happened in theprofoundly mortified voice that only a young man who has previously believedhimself to be badass has when he has to call his mommy or daddy and admit tobeing a dumbass. Deepening his humiliation, I'm sure, was the fact that hisbuddy was sitting next to him in the car. Nothing worse than looking like adumbass in front of your bestie.

But Dad had aplan.

"Willyou take cash?" the boy asked, his father still shouting instructions onthe other end of the line.

We bothlooked at my license plate again.

"I don'tknow," I said. "How much does it cost to replace a licenseplate?"

"Um...."the kid said, still dazed and confused.

His pal wason it, though, showing me his phone when his search turned up the answer. Fiftybucks.

"Okay,"I said, "do you have fifty dollars cash?"

"Um... Ihave Citi Bank...?" the kid replied.

Once again,the coherent passenger was on it. There was an ATM twelve miles from ourlocation. I tapped the address into my phone.

"Followme there," I told the driver. "Meet me in the parking lot or I'mcalling the cops."

Yep, I said"calling the cops." What was it the Apostle Paul said about 'becomingall things to all people'? I learned this as a teacher. Talk kid talk to kids.And I was still using my your-behavior-was-inappropriate voice with him.

It took us anentire hour to drive those twelve miles. But that young man followed rightalong behind like a baby duckling, pulling into the parking lot and jogging forthe ATM. Moments later, he handed me three twenty-dollar bills.

"The ATMonly gives twenties," he said.

"I don'thave change for you," I said. Okay, yeah, maybe I had two fives in mywallet in my purse in the backseat of the truck, but I wasn't going to fetchthat for him.

"No,it's fine," he said, handing me the money and looking like he was about tocry.

I took themoney, showing him my phone as I deleted the photos I'd taken of his licenseplate and driver's license.

"We'resquare," I said, and I held out my hand. We shook on it and departed.

By then, itwas 5:00p.m. We hit the freeway again, and I finally arrived home after 6:00.Maya had been without a potty break for nearly ten hours. But she hadn't had anaccident in the house.

Who's a goodgirl?!? It has taken me years to get her fully housebroken as she was so usedto having to do everything in her small kennel. My poor girl. What a good, goodgirl.

DENOUMENT (ifyou're still reading, and if you wandered off, I still love you, you tried,dear soul, to get through this interminably long, self-absorbed rant):

I don'treally care about my license plate. Anyone who's bought a new car knows it'sonly a matter of days or weeks before somebody bumps, dings, scuffs, orotherwise mars it. I got away easy. I took the kid's money to teach him alesson. And besides, check this out:

Final totalfor our back and forth on the toll road:               $22

Reallyexpensive fancy water:                                             $24

Parking byLas Brisas with a view of the ocean:                   $ 1

Yep, adollar. The meter still had time on it when I parked.

Reallyexpensive fancy chocolate mousse cake:                  $13

All that addsup to fifty bucks, plus I got ten more for the inconvenience of having to go tothe kid's bank. That equals what he handed me in cash. The way I figure it, Pegand I had an adventure, no one was injured, we enjoyed a great lunch, saw theocean, and most important, we sang for Dad. All things considered, we had ablessed day. True story!

 

Ahhh, adrenaline

For the uninitiated, let me say this: There is nothing that kicks off your sympathetic nervous system response with some high octane adrenaline like seeing three hungry adult coyotes charging down a slope toward you and your not-large dog. Boy howdy. Pro tip: Do. not. run.

If you take off running, you will not gain the experience of seeing how the lead coyote splits off from the other two so that he can head you off while the other two chase from behind. It's amazing, really. They do this without verbal commands or hand signals or walkie talkies. They simply know to hunt prey this way, and it's quite fascinating. And kind of scary.

So I stood still on the trail, Maya close beside me, but I kept my eyes moving back and forth, watching the lead guy, watching the other two. As I did this, I began talking in a voice loud enough and deep enough to make the 'yotes nervous, but I kept the lid on my urge to do some excited shouting because I didn't want to terrify my dog. She knew, though. Maya knew. She'd seen them, too, so when I started making loud growling sounds--something she's never heard me do before--she understood that I was doing this to warn off the very big creatures who had come running toward us.

Also for the uninitiated: Coyotes are damn smart.

So we watch the lead guy peal off and run parallel to us and then ahead of us, crossing the trail and abruptly stopping to hide behind a tall shrub. I know he's there because I've kept my eyes on him, and now I can see the tips of his ears above the foliage. He stands as still as I had moments ago, waiting. Watching.

What to do? We walk straight toward him.

I mean, I'm not going to turn around and go back in the direction of two coyotes, and this is the only trail out, so we're going to--I'm going to--chase him off. Which is what I do, tossing rocks into the shrub, growling, shouting (but not too loud), "Go on, 'yote!"

And he goes.

But we do not stop watching, Maya sniffing the air as we pass that shrub, all senses alert, me ready to reach down and scoop up my thirty-pound dog if I have to. But the coyote disappears into the brush.

Next item on our hiking agenda: Get the hell out of there and back to the truck. Sadly, Maya is now limping badly on her left front paw. When I find a sandy section of trail surrounded only by low foliage, I bend down to check her foot, grateful that finally, after three years, she will let me touch her feet when she picks up a thorn so I can pull it out. There is nothing in her foot pad this time, though, as I suspected. When we stopped on the trail to watch the coyotes, I realized too late we were standing near an ant's nest. I suspect she's been bitten. She licks her paw over and over, then looks up at me. I know exactly what she's thinking. It's this:

Can't you make it better? You always make it better. This hurts. Please make it better.

But I can't. Not out here. So we limp slowly down the trail, me promising to get her home as soon as possible while ever vigilant lest the coyote reappear.

We've gone fifty yards when I realize I left my hiking pole in the trail when I stopped to examine Maya's paw. We have to go back for it, back toward the coyote's hiding place. Maya limps slowly beside me, I finally pick up the pole, and we reverse direction, heading back up the trail toward the truck. It's a long slog. We were nearly to the farthest point out when we saw the coyotes. Now we've got a mile to walk back. And even though it's only 7:30a.m., it's getting hotter by the second.

We stop every time we find shade. Maya immediately crouches, turning her paw up to lick it over and over. My poor girl. We walk on.

Slowly, though, the pain in her paw starts to subside. She limps less and less, and by the time we get to the final steep uphill, she trots ahead of me. She knows the truck is on the other side. Safety assured. We've made it.

Before you ask: No, I don't carry pepper spray. The coyotes would just sneeze it off. I, however, would need to call 9-1-1 for a rescue because my lungs would immediately shut down. No, I would never carry a gun and shoot a coyote. Just no. Coyotes don't attack adult humans. It's only Maya I need to worry about. Because a coyote will hide in the bushes and leap out to steal a small dog off a leash. For this reason, I am hyper-vigilant when out in the hills with her, scanning the sides of the trail ahead for snakes or predators, scanning the ridgelines for coyotes (which is how I saw these three right at the exact moment they saw us). FYI, I often slip a pocket knife into my backpack or hiking pants if I think I may be in a dangerous situation. But we were just out for "a quick walk in the hills before it gets hot." Sigh....

Maya is fine. I am fine. The coyotes are fine but probably still very hungry. For a while. The hills are covered with rabbits and voles. They'll get breakfast, don't you worry about them. I'm just glad the menu didn't include Maya.

Who Is Matt Eicheldinger and Why Does He Make Me Cry Every Day?

 

Seriously, I don't know how his posts starting coming up in my Instagram feed, but suddenly one morning there was this earnest-looking dude holding a coffee mug, apparently sitting outside his house, and with a friendly wave he began a short chat with, "Hi, my name is Matt, I'm a teacher, and today's story is called...." I don't remember which story I heard first, but Matt already had me at "I'm a teacher...." Plus the coffee mug. Plus sitting outside. Plus... Well, you just have to hear the sincerity in his voice.
Anyway, Matt isn't just a teacher (although if that were his only gift, being the great teacher that he is--just listen to some of the stories from his classroom--we would be, as a society, super-blessed). He is also a terrific story teller. And a writer. And an artist. And now an author. But that's not why he makes me cry.
I mean, not yet. His books haven't made me cry yet. I will confess that as soon as I started seeing Matt's daily heartfelt, inspirational videos on Instagram, I became a full-on fangirl, so when Matt Sprouts and the Curse of the Ten Broken Toes released, I immediately bought a copy, read it, and reviewed it. Yes, it's a middle-grade book. So? I love children's literature (and I write it, so there's that). And it's the kind of book my youngest son would have absolutely loved when he was that age--lots of hijinks and mayhem and not much girlie stuff. So yeah, five star review for Matt Sprouts. Oh--and did I mention it has illustrations drawn by the author himself?
But as I said, that's not what makes me cry. Although Matt does have a book coming out soon entitled Sticky Notes that I'm pretty sure I'm going to have to read with a box of tissues next to me, such is the tender Irish heart in me.
Matt makes me cry nearly every day because he tells stories (often originating in his classroom, though some are lessons he's learned in life) that are simple and true. About kids learning how to be better humans. About kids demonstrating empathy. About kids who thought they failed but succeeded in coming away with a wider, wiser perspective. About striving as a teacher to get through the toughest days while still being kind and compassionate. These aren't smarmy stories. Mostly, they're touched with a bit of humor and Matt's goofy expressions as he mimics the way kids talk. (And they're spot on!) But his stories always have some take away, some thought-provoking message that touches my heart, reminds me of my best days teaching, and of course, brings me to tears.
In recent years, as I have learned to overcome that childhood sense of shame instilled in me for crying or exposing my emotions, I have been more open about how often I cry. (Daily. Sometimes hourly. I buy several boxes of Kleenex tissues--thank you, Kimberly-Clark--every week.) The way I figure it, I held back tears for decades, so there clearly must be an ocean full of tears just waiting for the tide to turn (coupla times a day, no?) to be released. Okay, maybe not an ocean. Maybe just the Salton Sea. But still.
So, as a storyteller myself, and wanting to leave you with some satisfying take away, I will (almost) end with this: Find Matt Eicheldinger and follow him. He's on Instagram and now Facebook. There are some YouTube videos. He's probably on Threads by now. (Isn't everybody except me?) Possibility Twitter, but I'm no longer a partner to those shenanigans, so I don't know.
Anyway, follow him. Get your daily dose of "we're gonna be okay" stories. Keep a tissue handy if you have any Irish or Italian in you. You can thank me later.
Addendum for readers who don't know me personally: This review of Matt's work is wholly unsolicited. I received no compensation for spending 45 minutes writing this when I could have been doing something fun like pulling weeds. In fact, by now Matt Eicheldinger probably thinks I'm stalking him because I feel compelled to comment on nearly every story he tells. (What can I say? I'm a writer; I can't help myself.) But... this is what I do. Like Madeleine L'Engle, Matt tried for years to get his first book published, but it wasn't like other books out there, so he had no takers. (Boy howdy, I've been there!) Truly, though, that first book deserves all the attention it's finally getting, and I'm here to help with that however I can. But also I love you (whoever you are), and I think your life might be enriched by Matt's storytelling. So get it. It's free. And it feels good. And who doesn't want that?  

Graduating

 

WhenI had my vinyl floors put in recently, I had to empty the guest room closet. It’stiny, but it gets stuffed with all the holiday decorations plus clothing I onlyuse on occasion (like my snow jacket).

Oneof the items I pulled out was draped in a plastic garment bag, and for a momentI wasn’t sure what was inside. Was it the killer-sexy formal black dress Ibought to chaperone prom years ago? No. It was my cap and gown. From 1988.

The“flood” of memories was more like a tsunami.

Truestory:

In1984 I left my awful husband who swore he would never pay child support(and never did). At age 30, with no employment experience (despite being a published author), I was havingtrouble finding a job. A poet friend from my writers group cameover one night and read me Wordsworth’s “Lines Written a Few Miles Above TinternAbbey.” I fell in love that night—not with the friend, but with Wordsworth andcertainly the poem, which is still one of my favorites. (Thank you, William. Bythe way, I named a dog after you—but that’s another story entirely.) The poetfriend had been trying to convince me that, instead of getting a job, I couldgo to college and study such lovely compositions as Wordsworth’s poem. Thatnight, he finally convinced me.

Here'swhat happened next:

Ienrolled in our local community college (Chaffey—go Panthers!) and became afulltime student in the fall following my divorce. Keep in mind, I had four youngchildren, so mornings went like this: Get all five of us ready, including lunches made. (“Sam, for thefifth time, buddy, where are your shoes?!?”) Drop three of themat the elementary school, then drop Sam at pre-school, then drive up to thecollege and attend classes all day, then pick up Sam, pick up the other three,and head home to do homework, make dinner, get everyone bathed and sorted andbreak up one or two or ten fights, get everyone to bed. (Shali, I see you stillreading after lights out.)

Repeatevery day for five, then collapse exhausted on the weekend. Begin again the following Monday.

Intwo years, I had a 4.0 grade point average and an acceptance to the Universityof California Riverside—with a scholarship that paid my tuition. I also had alonger commute to school from Chino Hills, but the kids were two years older bythen, so things weren’t quite so crazy as they had been my first year but boyhowdy, they were still crazy.

There was that time I went out to the car, carrying backpacks and herdingkids as I went, only to find I had a flat tire on my little Toyota Corolla. Ihad a roommate at the time, and she helped me change the tire in ten minutes, Iswear. (I think she just wanted to make sure I was out of the house for theday.)

Somany memories….

Butthe kids were troopers and I passed my algebra classes and excelled in myliterature classes and two years after I transferred to UCR I was ready tograduate. by the end of my final quarter of school, I was exhausted, having written twenty English papers in ten weekswhile nursing three of my four kids through chicken pox. Shali, as a teen, hadit the absolute worst. She was so sick she laid in bed for days, commanding meto stay out of her room lest I become sick and miss my graduation. As it was, she missed it, something I felt sad about until, years later, she had her own college graduation.

ButI did it, damn it. I did it. Booyah!

At34, I was the first of my mother’s children to earn a bachelor’s degree, and Idid it with a 3.73 grade point average, awarding me, along with 19 otherstudents, the cum laude appellation in the commencement program. Momcame to my graduation and quickly noted—poking her finger repeatedly into thecommencement program page—that I had not graduated summa cum laude (“withthe highest distinction”) as only three other students had. She wantedto know why.

“Ithought you were a good student,” she said. “Why aren’t you over here?” sheasked, poking her finger at the page once again.

Shewasn’t kidding, y’all. Sigh. That was Mom. All I could do was stare at her.

Dr.Wayne Hubert, one of my favorite profs at Chaffey, gave me some great advicewhen I let him know I was headed to a career in teaching.

“Ifyou’re going to teach,” he said, “learn how to pat yourself on the back.” Hereached his arm around to indicate how I should do so. “Because you may do anexcellent job, but most years, no one is going to notice.”

His words remained with me, and despite my mother’s attempt to diminish mysuccess, I gave myself many pats on the back for being, in fact, a stellarstudent while raising four rambunctious kiddos and somehow keeping us afloatfinancially until I could get my teaching credential and get a job.

Irocked it. I am prouder of that accomplishment than anything else I’ve everdone.

SoI kept that cap and gown (and the stole I received when I earned my master’sdegree four years later—while teaching high school fulltime with threeteenagers at home so yeah, booyah again, Kay!).

Butwhen I slid the garment bag away, I saw that the gown and the stole had faded.With a sigh, I decided it was time to let them go. I’m retired now, and 70. Idon’t want my kids to take on the drudgery of determining what should go in thedumpster after I die. I’ll get this one, my loves.

Sothe gown and stole were taken out to the trash. I kept the mortarboard, though, tossing itin a drawer of the same nightstand I’ve had since I was a kid. At some point, I’lltoss the cap, too. But for now, I just love remembering, from time to time, howindescribably difficult those years were—and subsequently how empowered I felt when Ifinally achieved what I had worked so hard for.

 

Getting At Thomas's Story

 

Hardto believe that an entire decade has passed since I started taking notes on amemoir about Sgt. Thomas Tibbs. Eighteen months after being rescued fromhorrific conditions, he had made so much progress (progress that began with thelove and patience of volunteers at Friends of Upland Animal Shelter), I knew Iwanted to chronicle his story, beginning to end. If I could discover much abouthis beginning.

Turnsout, that has been a challenge.

Sevenyears ago, after I retired from teaching and returned to my first love, Ipulled out my notes from three years prior and started adding to them. At thattime, I was able to contact two gentlemen who were administrators in animalcontrol at the time of Thom’s rescue. One refused to talk to me. The otheragreed to a phone interview, then spoke incessantly about how difficult it isto be the director of a county animal shelter—one that is notorious for havinga “high-kill” rate. He kept me on the phone for four hours and never answeredany of my questions.

LastThursday was a beautiful day in the High Desert of Southern California. I droveup to Apple Valley to visit the very modern library there, to see if perhaps areference librarian could help unearth some stories that might have run in thelocal newspapers in 2013.

Nope.No reference librarian at all. And no newspapers. “We don’t keep those for morethan a week or so,” one of the kind ladies at the desk told me. There were twoof them, and in between checking out books and telling people the restroom code,they listened, intrigued, as I told them Thom’s story. Neither remembered itfrom the news. Both wanted to help. One of them began an internet search usingnames I gave her—and came up with all the information I already had.

Ileft a bit discouraged, but undaunted. From there, I did a long drive down adirt road, looking for the property where Thomas was born—Rainbow’s End AnimalSanctuary. If ever a name were ironic…. The property is allegedly (according toa Facebook page, so the info is taken with a grain of salt) on Zuni Road, so Idrove the length of that long, meandering road. No way to tell where it mighthave been.

Stillundaunted, I pulled to a stop by some rural mailboxes to snap the above photo(and check in with a friend who had been calling, worried, for hours, knowing Iwould be on this quest by myself in the middle of a rural area). As my littleSubaru idled, a white-haired woman pulled up to get her mail, and I saunteredover to ask her if she’d ever heard of the “sanctuary.”

Whatshe told me in great detail I will not discuss here, so as not to subject you,my dear, dog-loving Reader, to the horrors she shared with me. If you canfollow this thread: Her neighbor’s husband’s brother used to work at thesanctuary. The neighbor, a dear friend of the woman I was speaking to, died ofcancer.

“Soyou no longer have contact with the husband?” I asked, knowing all too well theanswer.

“No,”she said, shaking her head. “I don’t even know where he is or how to get intouch with him.”

Maybeit’s just as well.

Icouldn’t leave Apple Valley without stopping by the overflowing shelter there,walking through the kennels and finding four or five or six dogs I wanted totake home. Before that, I asked a woman at the desk if anyone working there nowhad worked there in 2013.

“No,I don’t think so,” was her reply. I gave her my contact numbers, telling herbriefly about Thomas, about why I was seeking information. She said she wouldhave someone call me if anyone knew anything.

Sofar, that hasn’t panned out, either.

Here’swhat I know, and it boils down to two dynamics:

1.Somebody up there knows something.

2.I’m not just stubborn, I’m Irish stubborn.

Soyeah, I’m not giving up. Thomas will have a book about his majestic selfbecause he’s—he was—beautiful and he deserves it, my sweet boy. And I have athing or two to say about companioning with a feral dog.

Asalways, stay tuned.

 

Thank Goodness for Dogs

 

I’vebeen busy lately, finishing the last book in my Dragon Singer Series,getting it formatted, ordering books, moving all the furniture around in myhouse to accommodate new floors, cleaning everything as I moved it, cleaning itagain as I put it back to remove the layer of flooring dust.

Ithasn’t been exactly stressful, but it has definitely upset my usual routine.Dear Reader, if you’re familiar with the particular quirks of mental illness,you know that those of us with anxiety are at our best when we can follow ageneral routine that includes making calming, self-care spaces for ourselves.

Foreight of the ten days my flooring guy, Jorge, was working, my routine was shot,and I was quite proud of how I managed my anxiety during those days. Until thelast day. On the last day, I had simply reached my limit. I needed to have thequiet sanctuary of my home returned to me, and finally, by day’s end, it was.

Letme tell you what kept me sane in the interim: Maya. Even though Jorge wasshowing up at 8:30 every morning, and even though that meant having furniture(+books, knick-knacks, etc.) moved and the room ready and the pets sequesteredby that time, I still walked Maya every morning. We’d head out around 5:30,6:00a.m. and do a mile in the hushed darkness.

Sometimes, as the sun was comingup, we’d see bunnies munching on the new spring grass. Or quail, power-walkingfor cover in the gully. Or an awesome sunrise. Or the mated pair of Canadageese winging silently overhead. One morning, just as we strolled under a verytall pine tree, a great-horned owl called “Hey!” (which sounded like “WHO?” inhis language) from the top of the tree. The hoot was so loud in the stillness, Mayaand I both startled. Then I laughed. And Maya strained on the leash. (“I don’tknow what that was, but we need to get to safety, Mom!”) Even on the day it waslightly sprinkling, we went out, both donning raincoats, unbothered by the dampwhen we knew we would be warm and dry upon our return.

Onthose walks, I sucked in the clean, fresh, cold air (since residual dustcontinued to swirl around my home for days), and I used the time to remindmyself that (1) the day would be long but not unending, (2) I maintainedcontrol of the process; if my anxiety rose to a dangerous level, I could alwaysask Jorge to leave for the day, and (3) I am extremely fortunate to be able toafford this upgrade that I’ve been looking forward to for so long. (And “solong!” old carpeting.)

Gratitude.Gratitude in everything. The clarity of the stars in the pre-dawn sky, thesharp call of the resident Cooper’s hawk as it awakens, the ability to still doa brisk walk—look, Ma, no sciatica!, the progress of the little dog trottingdutifully alongside me (even though she’d rather be hiking or back in her nicewarm bed).

Speakingof Maya’s bed: The first day Jorge worked, I kept Maya in my bedroom and stayedwith her (and Jenny the Cat) most of the day. As the days progressed, I feltcomfortable leaving the room to move things and clean, but checked on both ofthem frequently, often just lying on the floor next to Maya’s bed, stroking herhead, rubbing her back, and kissing her soft puppy ears. (Okay, yeah, she’snine, not a puppy. Her ears are still that soft, though.) This, as much as thelong early walk, helped to keep me calm and “regulated,” as the current mentalhealth jargon goes.

Sothank goodness for dogs. Everyone should have one. Or two. Or three. Staytuned….