A Poem Falls into the Silence

As my husband is currently finishing up his Master's degree in Education, I found this appropriate.

Did I Miss Anything?

Question frequently asked by
students after missing a class

Nothing. When we realized you weren't here
we sat with our hands folded on our desks
in silence, for the full two hours

Everything. I gave an exam worth
40 per cent of the grade for this term
and assigned some reading due today
on which I'm about to hand out a quiz
worth 50 per cent

Nothing. None of the content of this course
has value or meaning

Take as many days off as you like:
any activities we undertake as a class I assure you will not matter either to you or me
and are without purpose

Everything. A few minutes after we began last time
a shaft of light descended and an angel
or other heavenly being appeared
and revealed to us what each woman or man must do
to attain divine wisdom in this life and
the hereafter
This is the last time the class will meet
before we disperse to bring this good news to all people
on earth

Nothing. When you are not present
how could something significant occur?

Everything. Contained in this classroom
is a microcosm of human existence
assembled for you to query and examine and ponder
This is not the only place such an opportunity has been
gathered

but it was one place

And you weren't here


by Tom Wayman
From: The Astonishing Weight of the Dead
Vancouver: Polestar, 1994.

More gardens is good

See the garden grow!

I am winning the battle (but will always be losing the war) against weeds. I am very tickled to see all the growing that is happening outside our house. Sowing seeds is an act of faith, and I realize I seldom perform such acts (or at least, ones I notice so clearly). Some of them came up, and I was happily surprised. The roses are also MUCH happier than they were last year. I have yet to address their aphid problem, but they seem to be soldiering on. Funny how they grow so easily here. I grew up thinking of roses as the ultimate prissy flower, watching my mother try to baby them through the North Carolina heat, and the June bugs. So I watch my roses now with wary pleasure, ready to lecture them severely if they start acting uppity.

No uppity roses here. Look at all those greens! Salad, anyone?Peas. And beans. And tomatoes. Oh my.

My first poppy. And the first dahlia, which was supposed to be a late summer bloomer? Far be it for me to discourage you, dahlia, but it is June. Overachiever? Don't worry, me too.

We also planted a little rock garden with succulents in the strangely useless space between the house and the front walk. It sits under the eaves and hardly gets any rain. Perfect. All the succulents like it--they are blooming!



That's your garden update. No deep thoughts. Just dirt. Mmmm. Dirt.

THE GARDEN SAGA

So, I promised a garden sequel. Let's revisit the house:


Here we are, the 1954 single-story ranch. The previous owner took very good care of the basics and left off the frills. The roof is solid, the foundation good. Inside, all the walls were white, the curtains were white, the kitchen was white, and the bathroom you have seen. Outside, all the ferns were sad and sunburnt. And at some point, the car was parked on the lawn. We didn't really get to a garden last year, but this year we were determined. The backyard is home to the mobile destruction module of doom (otherwise known as our 50lb tortoise, Rasputin) as well as the wild and wooly doglets, so we decided to keep the tender young veggies away from the depredations of our menagerie. Plus, less to mow! Behold:

Originally, there was simply lawn choking the iris and rose bushes, as well as a chain link fence. We have no photo records of the fence, as we prefer to erase its memory completely. Now we have the new flowerbed and two large raised beds for veggies. At some point, there may erupt another one or two beds on the other side of the (BLINDING!) white door. Not to mention maybe a new paint job for the house itself.

It has been lovely this spring, and I am jealous of all the flowering plants in other yards. I am partially assuaged that the people several houses down have a large magnolia tree with fuschia blossoms. I LOVE those trees, but they get quite large. So I can enjoy the blooms vicariously. Here's spring at my house, looking south.

That is, of course, my car in the foreground. I think about taking off the Cthulu sticker, but then it makes me giggle again. Maybe it's timeless. (You can't read it completely when you click on the picture, but the caption reads: "Why vote for the lesser evil? Vote Elder Party." Hee.)

Now, if only I had planted more daffodils last November. I'm a fan. As for the vegetables--this is why it's called a saga. You now, it continues...

Who am I? Where am I? What is this blog?

I claim amnesia. Really. I only just remembered who I am and that I used to write things on the internot (a Joelism).

FINE. Like all journals, diaries or other attempts at self chronicling I suck at consistency. Most of the time, my urge to write is driven by the grumpy part of me. As in, just another forum to bitch. But I refuse to use this space to whine constantly (or, as the Brits say, whinge--I love that expression), though I do reserve the right to do it occasionally. And I do believe heartily in self-editing, something that the current climate of blogging and twittering makes (sadly) unusual. I can whinge in my own head, but I don't really think YOU want to hear it. I'm usually just home from work when I have time to write, so I'm usually thinking about work and frustrations related to, etc. Also, I am trying (believe it or not) to be professional. While dealing with clients can be tiresome, and sometimes I just want to complain about my day and blow off steam, I take my job fairly seriously and believe that being in the medical field people don't want to hear you discuss their foibles and shortcomings (maybe this is a little different for a vet, since my true "patients" are hardly ever trying in the same way that their humans are, so I'm not usually directly talking about my patient). A doctor is someone you are supposed to trust. Sometimes we give them almost super-human status. This is a little bit too high of a standard (look into Atul Gawande's essays on medicine and learning); we do have to be human (and able to make mistakes), but since a blog is a semi-public forum, posting snarky stories about clients is different than complaining to a friend or even my own head. I certainly, even when discussing a difficult day, never use names to identify anyone.

Anyway, I've decided that what I enjoy about my friends' blogs is being able to keep tabs on the small joys and events that fill their lives. While I may not be very good at keeping up regularly, I can fill you in on a few things that have happened in the past few months.

HOUSE WORK

When we moved in (March 2008), it looked like this:

The door is open in this picture, which is just as well since it's a vast expanse of hideous whiteness. One day to be changed, as will the strange pinky-brown (baby poop after beets?) color. It's a small house, 880 square feet, no basement or garage, but for all it's smallness it has an easy, open layout and a great backyard. Note the fern under the large window. Then note that the window in question faces west, which means we get a lot of very hot afternoon sun. Then consider the poor fern, who prefers damp and shade. Needless to say, he is happier after we transplanted him and his other hapless brethren to the forest behind the folks-in-law's house. Why people, why? Do you hate the fern?

Anyway. When we bought the house, the bathroom looked like this:
Note the lovely faux marble plastic shower insert. And look! An original wooden sashed window. IN the shower. WOODEN. With the cute little mini-shower curtain that together with the regular shower curtain created a vortex sucking effect so that when showering, you had to fend off an unwelcome and enthusiastic plastic hug from both sides. By the way, the depth of that tub is exactly 12 inches from basin bottom to edge. A true foot bath. And by my standards, woefully inadequate. I am an inveterate soaker. I had lived with no tub for exactly 2 years. Far too long, for someone that takes baths almost every day. Do you like the adorable shell sink? The cabinet was so rotten at the bottom that eventually the front board below the doors fell off. We still have the wooden toilet seat, I confess, but mostly this is just due to laziness.

We put in a new bathtub before we moved in. (This involved removing the wall in my closet, but I digress.) But the bathroom remained in state of transition for almost 7 months, sadly enough. We showered in plastic sheeting for longer than I'd like to remember. Finally, a good friend took pity (and now can claim my first born child), and over a series of 3 weeks helped me put this beast together. Here we are laying out tiles for one wall.

I designed the shower on graph paper first, although I really only specified where major tiles would go, and we added the different colored tiles at random when we laid the walls out on the floor.

I should mention that this project started because we have a fancy tile place in town called Pratt & Larson. Their tiles are often hand painted and cost a month's supply in groceries. Lucky for us, they have a seconds store which carries extras, slightly damaged or off color tiles. My mother-in-law has been collecting these tiles for a while, so I first got the idea to use them when we were looking through her collection. So I went over to the seconds store, found a color I liked, and bought a bunch of light green tile I wanted to use. But then, of course, the much ignored and hidden art major took over my motor centers and headed me into the fancy tile section. The rest is, as they say, history.





This is what the shower looked like before the tile. Note the new VINYL window that Joel installed. With privacy glass. As much as I miss that sensation of being encased in a wet plastic hug, we now know that there is a lack of water dripping through the wall and rotting the window frame and bracket beneath it.














The color is a little off in these pictures. This is the far left wall. You can see how at first, you start with a plank (one you hope is straight) and tile upwards. After that, it's masking tape to hold the tiles to the ones above them.



















That's me in the bathtub finishing the bottom tiles.










Here's part of the final result. I tried to make a montage of several photos to give a sense of the whole, but can't apparently master the photo program well enough to get it to work. Plus, I'm just not that motivated to learn how, since just remembering the way my back felt after three weekends of mortar and grout makes me want to stop posting this. Needless to say, I very much like my shower now and try not to notice the little places where things are not quite aligned (did I mention my inner perfectionist and my inner artist are in league and give me no peace?). The best part? I can shower now.

Here you can see the new sink. I figure if we ever leave this house, I'll just have to carve out the shower and re-install it. On second thought--I guess we just won't move. The children will just have to sleep in the shed, as there are no more bedrooms in the house. It'll be like a clubhouse-- fun! I mean, we won't lock them out so that they can still come in and use the bathroom. It'll be fine. As it is, I'm planning on attaching hooks to the (future--not pregnant!) baby's clothing so that we can just hang it from the ceiling. If I use bungee cords, it'll be just like a home-made "Johnny Jump Up." Social Services will understand; I hear they're very nice.

So ends the bathroom saga. Next up: THE GARDEN EPISODE.

Light entertainment about food

Not really normal for me, so all the better. Thanks, Jessi!

The following is a list from a blogger who has challenged omnivores everywhere to try everything on this list once in their lifetime. I must admit, I shall never meet that challenge, but I had fun thinking about it.

Directions for fun:

1) Copy this list into your blog or journal, including these instructions.
2) Bold all the items you’ve eaten.
3) Cross out any items that you would never consider eating.
4) Optional extra: Post a comment here at www.verygoodtaste.co.uk linking to your results.

The VGT Omnivore’s Hundred:

1. Venison (I've had elk, and there is some venison in my freezer, but I haven't tried it yet)
2. Nettle tea (Ugh. Tea. I can't handle it unless there is cream and sugar. I was spoiled by that trip to London at the age of 10)
3. Huevos rancheros
4. Steak tartare
5. Crocodile
6. Black pudding
7. Cheese fondue
8. Carp
9. Borscht (Not a big fan, but I've eaten it. The best thing to do with beets, in my opinion, is to slice them, cook them, and then stab then, while saying in an evil creepy voice "BLEEDING BABY BEETS." Great fun when you are young and forced to eat beets. At least everyone suffers.)
10. Baba ghanoush
11. Calamari (YUM)
12. Pho
13. PB&J sandwich
14. Aloo gobi
15. Hot dog from a street cart
16. Epoisses
17. Black truffle
18. Fruit wine made from something other than grapes (No wine for me, can't have sulfites)
19. Steamed pork buns
20. Pistachio ice cream
21. Heirloom tomatoes
22. Fresh wild berries
23. Foie gras (Sorry, this is one food I won't eat for ethical reasons. I guess we all draw line somewhere. Plus it sounds gross. The liver is the body's detoxifier. I choose not to eat it.)
24. Rice and beans (I should technically cross this one out. I hate beans. But I'd eat it if I were really hungry, with less protest than some of the crossed out things.)
25. Brawn, or head cheese (Umm. No.)
26. Raw Scotch Bonnet pepper (Eek. Mouth on fire! Bad pepper!)
27. Dulce de leche
28. Oysters
29. Baklava
30. Bagna cauda
31. Wasabi peas (see number 26. Except substitute peas in the last statement.)
32. Clam chowder in a sourdough bowl (Actually, I really like clams. But they don't like me. After three entirely separate incidents, I got the message and stopped eating shellfish in general.)
33. Salted lassi (No salty drinks, please.)
34. Sauerkraut
35. Root beer float (Boy, I'm weird. I hate rootbeer. Funny how opinions are so strong and so individual. However, I love a coke float with chocolate ice cream--go figure).
36. Cognac with a fat cigar (No strong alcohol. I find it too strong and exceedingly bitter. Just ask my husband. Hey-he gets a designated driver built-in, mostly.)
37. Clotted cream tea
38. Vodka jelly/Jell-O (Vodka's about the only thing I can handle, since it is disguiseable. However, I'd just as soon have the Jell-O without the vodka)
39. Gumbo
40. Oxtail
41. Curried goat
42. Whole insects (Maybe, but I doubt it)
43. Phaal (Again with the spicy. I'd eat curry, but I have wussy American taste buds, plus spicy make my mouth itch. Is that normal?)
44. Goat’s milk
45. Malt whisky from a bottle worth £60/$120 or more (see number 36)
46. Fugu
47. Chicken tikka masala (My favorite Indian dish)
48. Eel
49. Krispy Kreme original glazed doughnut (The Krispy Kreme doughnut originated in my home town. One of the most divine items. But secretly, even better: take a slightly stale glazed Krispy Kreme, melt a little butter in a frying pan, and re-fry that doughnut. You CAN improve on perfection. Plus, I grew up in the South-everything's better fried.)
50. Sea urchin
51. Prickly pear (Tastes like apple. Only more dangerous to eat.)
52. Umeboshi
53. Abalone
54. Paneer
55. McDonald’s Big Mac Meal (I probably have had certain portions of this, but I think I can safely say I've never eaten a Big Mac. Just the plain old cheeseburgers.)
56. Spaetzle
57. Dirty gin martini (Revisit #36)
58. Beer above 8% ABV (ditto)
59. Poutine
60. Carob chips
61. S’mores
62. Sweetbreads (Being in the veterinary trade, just can't eat certain organs, sorry.)
63. Kaolin
64. Currywurst
65. Durian (Have smelled it, and that's as close as I EVER want to get.)
66. Frogs’ legs
67. Beignets, churros, elephant ears or funnel cake (Oh yes, all of these!)
68. Haggis
69. Fried plantain
70. Chitterlings, or andouillette (See 62. Actually, I'd much rather eat a thymus than offal. I've seen too much E.coli in my time to eat intestines.)
71. Gazpacho
72. Caviar and blini
73. Louche absinthe (Alkyhol. Nope.)
74. Gjetost, or brunost
75. Roadkill
76. Baijiu (Also alcohol)
77. Hostess Fruit Pie
78. Snail
79. Lapsang souchong (TEA--run away!)
80. Bellini (more alcohol)
81. Tom yum
82. Eggs Benedict
83. Pocky
84. Tasting menu at a three-Michelin-star restaurant.
85. Kobe beef
86. Hare
87. Goulash
88. Flowers
89. Horse
90. Criollo chocolate
91. Spam (Sorry Monty Python.)
92. Soft shell crab
93. Rose harissa (Apparently spicy. No can do.)
94. Catfish
95. Mole poblano (Have eaten, do not like.)
96. Bagel and lox
97. Lobster Thermidor
98. Polenta
99. Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee (No coffee either--how do I survive?)
100. Snake

And people say I'm picky....well. Maybe. Truth is, I find many foods bitter that others like, such as the coffee and alcohol. Even coffee ice cream is gross to me. I have gotten a little better, since I can take a little coffee in my chocolate cake, but given a choice I'll eat some other dessert than tiramisu. And then there's the allergies--sulfites, clams. And did I mention the texture thing? Pudding, creme filled pastries, custard, yogurt--they all give me the gag factor. The bean thing? Kind of a combo texture bitter thing. Damn. I really do like a lot of foods, I swear. And I have a few thing to add to the list. I've eaten squirrel, octopus, conch, star fruit, tobikko, anchovies, green tea ice cream (hideous and awful, but I've had it), and an entire seven course dinner based on mushrooms. So much to eat. Mmmmmm. Too bad it's bedtime.

P.S. I'm sorry I had to remove all the links, but I'm not versed enough in html to make the blog do what I want (namely bold, link AND keep things the same damn color at the same time) and with the links the format was getting confusing. So if you need to n=know what the heck everything is, either Wiki it, or go back to the original blog page (linked above), where everything is linked still.

Endings

Funny way to start a blog post after almost a year, I guess. But this week has been dramatic, making me wonder if there's something about the end of March that I should hide from next year (considering my March of 2007), or just sort of pushing me back into needing to say something about life by shouting it into the electronic soup.

Part the first. This has been one of those death/crisis weeks at work. As a veterinarian you do see plenty of death, and plenty of heartbreaking diseases and/or circumstances that lead to death. You don't get used to it, and you shouldn't. The best news for anybody who wants to get out of the ER and into private practice is that 1) you see way less death and, 2) often it has more meaning because the animals you see that are dying you know, you grieve for. Maybe number 2 should make it sound worse, but somehow, at least for me, it isn't. It's not easy, and it sometimes makes me cry later on that night, at home, where I try to leave work behind, but there's something noble? ethical? at least decent about providing that one final service for a patient; making it as quick and as peaceful as possible, and providing their family with compassion and understanding during a tragic and heart-rending decision.

Many weeks, I see no grieviously ill patients at all. It's been quite some time since I euthanized a patient, and I am grateful to the universe for that. And yet, this week many dear and beloved patients have struggled to their utmost and failed. The elderly dog with terrible immune-mediated joint disease that finally no longer responded to medication. The neurologic dog who howled and circled and stumbled all night. The 21 year old, 5 pound cat whose kidneys finally failed her. And we have had some near misses with grave undertones: the newly diagnosed congestive heart failure dog; the ferret with abdominal effusion likely from cancer; the ferret with a blood sugar too low to measure. Somehow this week has felt less like "the universe hates us" or perhaps "why do bad things happen to good people" and more like a gentle "all things end in their time; acquiesce to the slow march of time." I don't really know why, because I have definitely spent a lot of time in the why do bad things happen camp, but I am moved profoundly and quietly by this sense of grace in the face of grief.

Part the second. Several of my friends may be emotionally where I was last year; stunned, broken and full of doubt. From relationships lost to abrupt loss of future paths, this week has been scattered with little emotional shock-waves. To those I love I send as much support as I can. Whether that be talk or not, a silly card, or complete disregard of the subject at hand and a deep insightful discussion of the best easter candy to be had in the US, I'm there. It's spring here in Oregon, please call.

Stray Poems

I was sitting in my car, on the way to lunch after doing some volunteer neuters at the county animal shelter (Note to self: kittens are way too cute. That's how they sucker you. Must resist all cuteness, for the dogs are plenty of trouble already.) And I happily caught the daily "Writer's Almanac" on NPR. Now some may not like Mr. Keillor (My stepdad has never been a big "Praire Home Companion" fan, finding it too saccharine, but I have always been an unashamed enthusiast. First of all, it's funny. Second of all, I'm a sucker for folk music. I am also sometimes a sucker for saccharine. And truthfully, the show also reminds me of my father, who died when I was eleven. It's a small connection through the years to his character and his life.), but I confess I brighten to hear his quiet and measured voice making connections to history. And, even better--there's POETRY. I'm hopelessly hooked. Today's poem hit me just right; the kind of moments where I involuntarily exclaim or grunt, as some image hits me in the literary solar plexus; quiet punches to the gut that have come to be my markers of a good poem. Grunt on, oh readers.

Advice to Myself

Louise Erdrich

Leave the dishes.
Let the celery rot in the bottom drawer of the refrigerator
and an earthen scum harden on the kitchen floor.
Leave the black crumbs in the bottom of the toaster.
Throw the cracked bowl out and don't patch the cup.
Don't patch anything. Don't mend. Buy safety pins.
Don't even sew on a button.
Let the wind have its way, then the earth
that invades as dust and then the dead
foaming up in gray rolls underneath the couch.
Talk to them. Tell them they are welcome.
Don't keep all the pieces of the puzzles
or the doll's tiny shoes in pairs, don't worry
who uses whose toothbrush or if anything
matches, at all.
Except one word to another. Or a thought.
Pursue the authentic--decide first
what is authentic,
then go after it with all your heart.
Your heart, that place
you don't even think of cleaning out.
That closet stuffed with savage mementos.
Don't sort the paper clips from screws from saved baby teeth
or worry if we're all eating cereal for dinner
again. Don't answer the telephone, ever,
or weep over anything at all that breaks.
Pink molds will grow within those sealed cartons
in the refrigerator. Accept new forms of life
and talk to the dead
who drift in though the screened windows, who collect
patiently on the tops of food jars and books.
Recycle the mail, don't read it, don't read anything
except what destroys
the insulation between yourself and your experience
or what pulls down or what strikes at or what shatters
this ruse you call necessity.

Savage momentos indeed. I like that poems find you like stray dogs sometimes; you didn't even know you needed a furry greeting or a friendly tongue at home, but then one finds you and your days somehow become infinitely better.

There oughta be a word....

Since the advent of computers and the internet, we've developed new terminology to help us grapple with all these new developments. This fact is really not all that surprising, considering the number of technical dialects we humans create when new areas of expertise arise (consider the jargon of the medical profession--that example, or course, comes easily to my mind). In fact, it's hard to believe that most folks around the globe don't know these words. (Doesn't everybody know what a web site is? Apparently not. It seems very strange to us when we are reminded that this language is not universal. And yet, I remember the time before the virtual takeover, much the way my parents remembered getting their first television. In 4th grade, my school got its first computer; it was kept in the library and it was a huge and awesome responsibility when you got to try out your handwritten attempt: a program that made Logo the turtle draw a flower, or a rocket, or, more often than not, a random smattering of colored lines that was obviously NOT the flower or rocket you had in mind.) So I think there should be a word for that sense of guilty inadequacy of having not once written anything (clever or otherwise) in your blog, leading to procrastination and a compounding of said emotion. And due to the current cultural trend of flippancy leading to "i"everything or "e"this, it should include some clever reference to blogging, or virtualness. Blogofear? As in "blogofear of the blogosphere?" Gack.
Whatever it's called, I've got it, leading to days where I randomly remember that old post where I gamely called blogging my new attempt to get in touch with my inner self and cringe. Ahh, well. I guess that inner self is still somewhere around here. (Hello? Hey inner self--what gives?) I was never that great at journals either. Good thing I'm not Catholic. (Dear Diary, Forgive me. It has been 4 years since my last entry/post/confession. I'm sorry about the mildew, and promise to reform.) In truth, sometimes my inner self isn't interested in exposing itself and its messiness to anybody but my nearest friends, who will at least pat her inner back and not hold the worry and tears against her. So, in short, much has been happening outside the laptop for the last several months, and I can finally give you the run down in short, business like blurbs. Assuming you are not mildewed.

1. I'm getting married. In August. People keep asking me if I'm excited. To be honest, the feeling I have when I think about it is just more a sense of expectant pleasure, and a feeling of rightness. Joel and I have been together for 5.5 years and through three moves across the country, and I can't imagine a better future. But to me, my wedding day is about celebration and having a nice party with friends and family. Elegant? Sure. But fairy princess wedding day industry by the book planning? Ugh. The whole commercial aspect is disgusting. Doesn't anyone else find it ridiculous to spend over 1000 dollars on a dress you wear once? And a bachelor/bachelorette party? Catering to that notion that the night before you get married is somehow the end of freedom, and freedom has something to do with getting really trashed and watching other people get naked? I know that many people don't follow these rules (you go, people!), but the connotations make me itchy with revulsion. I'm kind of enjoying discovering how different I feel about all the traditions, and a lot of what I find about the expectations of planning a wedding are amusing. I have to have colors? Does puce count? Ring bearer? Well maybe the dog--no, she'd run past us and try to catch squirrels. Bridal shower? Umm--isn't this just an underhanded way of getting more presents? What would I do with lingerie? I like pretty panties as much as the next girl, but truly, I have no use for rash inducing lace or wedgie themed teddies. Bridal games? Shudder. Let's go out for breakfast and talk about our lives, or books, or reminisce about the times we went skinny dipping in college. Please, keep the impractical underwear at home.

2. I quit my internship. Big surprise, maybe--maybe not. Considering the bitterness and crankiness of the last 9 months (and mostly, I try not to blog out bitter and cranky, but I've bet you noticed anyway), maybe others could see it coming more than me. However, it was at least three weeks of wailing and gnashing of teeth and trying to pit mental sanity against the fear of the "f" word (FAILURE), or the "q" word (QUITTER) provided by my own sense of ambition combined with the "oh-but-you're-almost-done" comments I got from most people when I mentioned my turmoil. It's hard to choose yourself over an image of yourself. Harder than I have ever imagined. Considering how driven we in the medical profession have to be to get where we are, quitting things that bring us prestige, and knowlege and a certificate often makes us feel like we are no longer deserve to be in our profession. And yet. And yet, crying whenever anyone asked me how my job was, starting on anti-depressants simply to get through the next three months and having panic attacks when walking in the door may seem, to sane people, too great a sacrifice for knowlege. Had I been required to complete this internship for entry into a residency program (unlike medical doctors, veterinary internship and residency are not required unless one wants to specialize) I might have stuck it out. But the basic truth was, not a year out of school and I hated being a veterinarian. Having put both a huge amount of effort (not too mention money) into the pursuit of this goal, this feeling was terrifying. I had to get out of the emergency room. One thing people hope for, when they walk into a room with a doctor (human or otherwise) is someone who cares, who listens and tries to help. I was having a hard time getting there. And that is the kind of doctor I want to be. My mentors and classmates said you could do anything for a year. I'm sure that's true. But should you? In the end, I chose myself. It feels good.

Really, there is no other major news. I'm broke, unemployed, and feeling more myself than I have in ages. I've been sleeping, weeding, riding horses at my old barn where I worked before vet school, walking the dogs, and reading voraciously. In the past month I have read:
"There and back again" by Pat Murphy (still in the middle of this one)
"I'll be watching you" and "From a whisper to a scream" by Charles de Lint writing as Samuel Key, and "Seven wild sisters" by Charles de Lint
"Princess Academy" and "River Secrets" by Shannon Hale
"Fairest" by Gail Levine
"Plainsong" by Kent Haruf
"Mystic and Rider" and "The Thirteenth House" by Sharon Shinn
"A Storm of Swords" and "A Feast of Crows" by George R.R. Martin (write the next one, George!!!)
"The Pinhoe Egg" by Diana Wynn Jones
"Music to My Sorrow" by Mercedes Lackey
"Sister Emily's Lightship and other stories" by Jane Yolen

Hooray for the library when you're broke. You may notice a theme, here. Almost all these books are fantasy/sci fi, which is my version of brain candy. I also read fast. I expect that by the end of May I'll have finished a couple more. Many of these books can be found in the young adult section, as well, a fact which amuses me. About 5 or 6 years ago, most of them would have been found in straight sci fi. I simply think of the quote from Maurice Sendak: "Kid books...grownup books...That's just marketing. Books are books!" and laugh. Here's to my inner self, who apparently has come back to visit.

COUNT DOWN

Looking at this makes me happy. The snail, however, has a certain symbolic thrust.

People keep saying, "Oh, you're so close to finishing your internship." However, every shift to me is frigging interminable. To the those of you out in the ether who may be related to the medical profession, or more specifically, laboring under the medical version of hazing known as "being an intern," I salute you. To those of you considering this noble form of slavery, I must tell you: although everyone you ask will say " Oh, it's only a year," in this breezy, cavalier kind of way, as if to say, " how bad can one year be?" A YEAR IS A LONG TIME. Maybe not when you're 80 and looking back on your beautiful life, but otherwise it is 365 days, 8760 hours, 525,600 minutes, and most of those minutes are spent in the service of an evil and spiteful god known as education who requires his worshippers to abase themselves in exchange for hard work, long hours for little payment and demands all their self-confidence be shredded into little bits. Bitter? I'm not bitter. And I'm NOT EVEN DONE.

To the critics: so yeah, I've learned stuff. And mostly what I've learned is that valuable, painful lesson of snooty zen sages everywhere, "I know nothing*." I have also learned that I have almost crippling anxiety when it comes to going to work, night sweats, 13-16 hour shifts 4-5 days a week, the easiest way to make me cry is to mention the ER, and I clearly must not be normal to consider finishing this thing. I have been asking my own self what I hope to gain by not just walking away, and I have only nebulous thoughts of "but you're so close to finishing" (thanks, guys), and "crap--that would mean writing a cover letter." Not great reasons to stay. And yet I find myself reluctant. Lest we get into the whirling maelstrom that is my anxiety and emotional state, I shall only say that my new motto is "blame not thyself." This sounds eminently reasonable and self-evident, and perhaps all you readers are well-balanced folks who are faintly puzzled by my proposal. But I think this is the hardest lesson I have ever tried to learn, and one I'm bad at, and one that I may never get a firm grip on. But the only way to get through the next 3 months, one week and 3 days until freedom (besides a new job, a hole in the head or a sudden lottery windfall) are me saying to myself "you can only do this much, and that's OK." It the that's OK part that is especially hard for us over-achiever types. See--I should go back to art, where the crazier you are, the more OCD you are, the better your work becomes! Maybe if that lottery money comes through....

There's been a lot of exhausting emotional work going on over behind the slowed to a crawl blog entries, much of which I shall keep to myself. Believe me, when this sh#t is over, I am taking a big old vacation. And there will be NO emergency anythings allowed.

*"Especially when it comes to cats, who have never read a medical textbook and would be horrified if someone suggested they follow proper patterns when they are ill."

Mirrors

"...the stories I want to tell you will light up part of my life and leave the rest in darkness. You don't need to know everything. There is no everything. The stories themselves make the meaning.

The continuous narrative of existence is a lie. There is no continuous narrative, there are lit-up moments, and the rest is dark.

When you look closely, the twenty-four hour day is framed into a moment; the still-life of the jerky amphetamine world. That woman--a pieta. Those men, rough angels with an unknown message. The children holding hands, spanning time. And in every still-life, there is a story, the story that tells you everything you need to know.

There it is; the light across the water. Your story. Mine. His. It has to be seen to be believed. And it has to be heard. In the endless babble of narrative, in spite of the daily noise, the story waits to be heard.

Some people say that the best stories have no words...It is true that words drop away, and that the important things are often left unsaid. The important things are learned in faces, in gestures, not in our locked tongues. The true things are too big or too small, or in any case the wrong size to fit the template called language.

I know that. But I know something else too...Turn down the daily noise and at first there is the relief of silence. And then, very quietly, as quiet as light, meaning returns. Words are the part of silence that can be spoken."

---Jeanette Winterson, lighthousekeeping

I'm not able to articulate my interior silences at this moment. But I thought to make an attempt to mirror that place like a magpie, borrowing and stealing meaning. Better that than no attempts to reach deeper at all.

Is Therapy a Bad Word?

Because if it is, you'll be washing out my mouth with soap weekly. I meant to start this post with "My therapist suggested to me this week that I should have a spiritual practice, if I considered myself a spiritual person" (which is sort of an obvious statement, I'll admit--I mean spiritual person = someone who should spend some time being spiritual, right? Like cheerful person = someone who at least some of the time is cheerful), however, then I got all hung up on the fact that I had to then use the word therapist, introducing this whole 'nother element to the self-revelatory aspect of the blog, and all of a sudden I found myself acutely uncomfortable. As if I were now some new, sordid sort of person who "seemed, so normal ya know, but then, like, we found out that, like, she was in therapy (hushed tones)." I thought I was immune to the cultural stigma of admitting that now and then goddammit I'd like someone to talk to about life stuff who isn't involved personally; someone to just listen to me mostly cry and carry on and talk out loud about stuff I'd like to figure out about my life. I'm all for self-awareness, and reflection and crying and carrying on, if it will help you. So why does it feel like a dirty secret? And can I say, in defiance of this nagging feeling that I've suddenly farted at a fancy party, that one of the coolest people I ever met as a kid was my therapist? She was the first adult that ever cursed in my presence, as if it was natural. I was so impressed. Lest you think this was superficial on my part, I should explain. I was in the throes of the classic "everyone at school hates me and I have no friends" middle school experience. I know this is a common one, but if you are in the know on this one you'll also remember how alone you felt, how abandoned, how desperate. And it wasn't just that my therapist cursed--it was that she cursed for me, in favor of me, against those kids who were hurtful and mean, and she meant it. All of a sudden my nagging sense of self-worth and righteousness was invoked, because someone else suggested that it was OK not to care what those kids said and thought. "F*** them," she said to me, and all of a sudden it was OK to be me; maybe it was them who were wrong. That curse was powerful medicine for a twelve year old. (I guess you could insert joke here, about therapists and cursing being linked in my mind...)
It's been almost 15 years since I went for therapy, and that is still a powerful memory. Such a positive one, and yet I find it really hard to type about revisiting therapy, even though the point was to make a leaping off point for a blog about spiritual practice. Hmmph. I guess I'll just figure that squirming is better than silent embarrassment, especially when I can't quite figure out why it should be embarrassing in the first place.
So, is it too late to ask the original question "what the heck is spiritual practice anyway? Does blogging count?" These are mostly rhetorical questions, because I suspect that spiritual practice is whatever you want it to be. For me, blogging isn't it, not really. My spiritual practice involves me without an audience, and it may involve more than one activity, and I definitely don't do it often enough. In fact, my spiritual practice may often involve four feet, a tail and a saddle. What strikes me as odd about this is how easily things that are sometimes spiritual practice are also often not spiritual at all, like the days where I really don't know if I want to go the barn, or the days when I'm frustrated and my horse is being a blinking idiot because he didn't get any turnout and the wind is up his tail wheeee! So how is this spiritual practice? I have often gotten the feeling that people think of intention when they talk about this issue. So if you intend it, and are aware of it, and work on this awareness in a consistent manner, you're doing it. And that makes a certain amount of sense, at least, you've got the practice part down. But maybe the truth is even more depressing; it's really HARD to have a spiritual practice. Hell, it's hard for me to consistently floss, much less schedule time for spirituality. And us non-organized religion types I think get a little nervous about ritual, and kind of hope spirituality is this independent spontaneous type that should just drop in when the mood is right, because it's more genuine, I mean, look, it came for a visit without asking, right? But what if the days that I get all pissed off because my horse is resisting the bit or falling in is also my spiritual practice? And then you wonder: is this bad practice? Like practicing the same mistake over and over in a piano piece? Or, if this is spiritual practice, than what in the world is not spiritual practice? Because I may not be able to draw clear lines, but I'll tell you right now flossing my teeth, in my world, is NOT spiritual practice. Here I think organized religion maybe has one up on us: there's this framework for you, if you so choose to use it (shhh! don't tell them I said that). But no, there I go being all difficult and sarcastic and rejecting that whole pre-made thing, so I've gotta just make this crap up as I go along (Attention, this is sarcasm. Sorry to suggest it's easy--honestly I think despite the organized part, we all still have a heap of trouble trying to figure this kind of stuff out).
I do see this longing in our world for it to be easy, for the struggle to be over. This kind of yoga, that kind of diet, it'll all make sense if I just take Wednesday off for meditation or horseback riding or teeth flossing. And I'm definitely here on the bed with the rest of you, kicking my heels and whining while begrudgingly admitting that I'm not gonna just magically become centered and balanced, or suddenly begin seeing the truth in all things.
You do have to start somewhere, though. I can't just throw up my hands and say to heck with it now. I suspect my true spiritual practice is gonna suck hard sometimes, and involve things that are really hard for me, like being nicer to myself when I screw up, or being good enough rather than the best. I'm not really looking forward to that part of my spiritual practice. Sure, there's still horses in there, and the woods; some poetry and art and good friends, but if it was that easy I'd wouldn't be talking to a therapist, or feeling overwhelmed at work, or writing this blog entry.
I also meant to talk about Thanksgiving, seeing as how it's about focusing on the positive, the things you ARE happy about, and this is something I feel I've been lacking a lot of lately. Despite the fact that I always sort of thought of this holiday as some smarmy day where we say what we're grateful for but then run off and buy crap for Christmas. Poor Thanksgiving--I used to feel sort of patronizing towards you, some stupid holiday that celebrates the sweetness before the massacre of the natives or the mass marketing frenzy--but now it's just sad. The fricking holiday songs were playing before you ever happened. It was Halloweenmas this year. I find myself wanting to resurrect you, and play along with your however brief gratefulness, and be glad of things. So instead of thinking about work tomorrow night, I'm trying to think of gratefulness. I'm grateful for my bed, which will receive me in a few minutes, and for my dear old ferret who is just hanging in there, naked tail and all, and for the boy in the bed who will snuggle up, and the goofy dogs, and the fact that I do get to ride now after 4 long years of horse drought, and for pciking up the drawing charcoal again (I attended my first life drawing session in over 10 years last week), and for therapy and crying and for hot showers and clean socks and good food (sometimes it happens) and good books and for being six months into the internship which means six months to go, and even for painful life lessons that are knocking at my door (I guess). A toast. And happy Thanksgiving.

Compassion Fatigue

I think a good writer is partially defined by their ability to shape a thought; to cut out extras; to craft a piece of work where at first seemingly unrelated paragraphs are later revealed to be integral and precisely inserted. I don't feel much like a good writer tonight. I start my first overnight shift tomorrow night and so I'm up tonight, trying to push the sleep away so that I'm not undead in the wee hours of the morning tomorrow. And my thoughts are swirling and buzzing and glancing on each memory, trying to impart meaning, to make an image into a symbol of my mood, or an explanation for my emotional busyness. It feels like a vigil of sorts, only most vigils I can think of aren't conducted with a can full of soda and a laptop computer. And the word vigil seems to make it heavier than I want. Perhaps it's just this up late at night when the world is asleep vibe. Emotional busyness seems more apt than turmoil or confusion. It wasn't a bad day, or even a bad week. Here's why I write: not to be a good writer (although I figure I can at least spell, string a sentence together and maybe know how to use a semicolon properly), but to hone myself; to figure out what is extra; to make connections.

I want to whine about evening news programs, which I have to admit I watch rarely (and by that I mean maybe once every six months? Every eight?), but tonight I was trying the bad TV method to start off the hopeful insomnia fest. And hey, if you don't watch I guess you can't complain, so now I can just go right ahead. I mean, what is the deal with some couple's private infertility troubles headlining the news? Now I'm usually the first to complain about all the depressing murder/gunshot/car crash/reads like a combination of an episode of "COPS" and some made for TV detective movie crap they like to show (nowhere is life so depressing as when one considers the possible truth in demographics revealed by ratings), but I'm sorry, I really don't want to know about some poor couple's fertility issues, no matter whether there's a putative legal issue that somehow catapults this into the "public" forum. Aren't you folks suspicious when the first story is just interviews between the TV news people and the newspaper journalists who are also making this the headline news of tomorrow's local newspaper? Oh, and THEN on to the body parts and mayhem. And the only news of Iraq is another local man killed, and some local peace protesters arrested, without any true commentary. Needless to say, I turned off the TV before I became some cynical private version of MST3K in my one living room. (Newscaster: "Tell us, oh expert psychology witness, what could it mean that the victim was chopped into pieces before he was thrown into the river?" Expert: "Well, it could be that it was a professional job--purely business--or perhaps the victim and the killer had some kind of relationship [my emphasis]." Me: "Of course there was some kind of relationship, you idiot! It's awfully difficult to chop your own self up and throw yourself in the river!")

And then I look over on the couch where Foo Foo is sleeping the contented sleep of the well-fed dog allowed on the furniture, head on a pillow and one foot dangling off the sofa, and I think, a little guiltily, about my ranting post of a few weeks ago. And while the rant is still very true in some sense, it, of course, is a rant. Something to blow off frustration, and to hide the other parts of self-doubt and exhaustion, and something that is only one sliver of a complicated whole. I don't want to be sorry, because I'm sorry too often anyway, and I feel the need to claim my own anger and frustrations that come with dealing with stressed (or drunk, or angry, or manipulative) people in any people service job. (Talk to your friends who wait tables, if you have them--they'll tell you.) And while it's medicine, people, it is ALSO a service job.

But tonight I'm thinking about other aspects of what I do. And I'm thinking about my own dogs, who have to put up with things normal dogs don't (I guess sort of a twisted kind of analogy to kids whose parents make them endure profession related embarrassment, like coming to their school to teach sex ed, or something--sorry, it's late, my analogies are growing weak). My dogs have a mother who palpates their abdomens for practice, or lends them to the cardiology department to try out their new ultrasound machine, or gives them a wacky hair cut so that she can try out her ultrasound skills. And I look at my dogs and tell them fiercely that they are NOT allowed to get old, they are NOT allowed to get sick and die. The thought just wrecks me.

This is the crux of tonight: this post is for the ones I couldn't save. You know, I don't have any time to stop and absorb things during a shift, especially when receiving emergencies. So I often feel like I'm handling things fine. But truly, these days catch up with you when you are sitting up, trying to stay awake, watching trashy TV. And you find yourself weeping over the overplayed drama because you need to, you need to cry about something, evening if it's something else. Now I realize that this is what they're talking about when they bring up the danger of "compassion fatigue" in the medical profession. It's only three months in, people, and I have seen so much death. I'm not talking about any deep ethical debate on euthanasia in this moment. I'm just simply thinking of the ones that were broken, that were not saved, for whatever reason. This is not about judgement.

This is about the terrible balance between a heart that has trouble pumping and a potentially lethal threat to the kidneys. This is for the 13 years you spent with him, and the car that ended it. This is for all you foolish ones who ate what you weren't supposed to, who got old, who never had a chance, who were loved, who were never loved.

I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I could not save you, that I could not fix everything, that I never had a chance to even start. I never walked into this expecting to be able to heal everyone; I expected death as an inevitable companion. And yet, I am still sorry.

This poem has always been an amulet, an instruction manual; a way to encompass grief.

In Blackwater Woods

Look, the trees
are turning
their own bodies
into pillars

of light,
are giving off the rich
fragrance of cinnamon
and fulfillment,

the long tapers
of cattails
are bursting and floating away over
the blue shoulders

of the ponds,
and every pond,
no matter what its
name is, is

nameless now.
Every year
everything
I have ever learned

in my lifetime
leads back to this: the fires
and the black river of loss
whose other side

is salvation,
whose meaning
none of us will ever know.
To live in this world

you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it

against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.

Mary Oliver

An apology in advance for the upcoming rant.

First of all, I will try to soften this post with poetry. If you are an pet owner, then perhaps you will become distracted, and forget to continue. Lest you hold this post against me, let me caution you that all jobs, no matter how nobly pursued or loved, have their days, and that I am as human as they come. While I shall always attempt to do my best for your animal, I don't have to always like you. Sorry.

all our lives dreamdogs, dreamcats have lived
with us, rising up when we lie down
to prowl the house that we presume to own.
no nightbird sings for them, but they survive
those hours of the absence of our eye
by sniffing at the hem of the nightgown
you've kicked the covers off or listening to the moan
i make, beside you. the world they improvise
out of the random buzz and clatter of our sleep's
the world we wake to: paw prints on the sills,
fur balls in the corners, echoes of nails
clicking across oak floors, hisses and growls
of the busy demiurge that our dreams keep
up all night licking our days into shape.
--Alvin Greenburg

Now. To preface. I am working in an ER, not a day practice. We are the ones open 24 hours so that other vets can get some sleep. It's a different kettle of fish, mostly. Yes, vets are vets to some extent. But those of us who choose to work in ER did so to get away from the management of skin and ears and vaccinations. So.

ADVICE TO ER CLIENTS:

1. Your dog's ears ARE NOT AN EMERGENCY. Sorry. If your pup's been shaking his head for two weeks, why in all that's holy was today (a Sunday) the day that you decided he should come in?

2. This also follows for your dog's rash, dental disease, or overgrown toenails. I will give you the benefit of the doubt for a nasty hot spot.

3. Skin mass? NOT AN EMERGENCY.

4. Please understand that if you bring your animal to me, that sometimes I will not know what's wrong just by looking at it. The power of the physical exam is pretty awesome sometimes, but when your budgie is sick I may have to do some other tests. If you did not come prepared to deal with this, why did you come? If only I had holy healing hands I would be set.

5. Money sucks. Believe me, I have been poor for most of my adult life, and I have shelled out a few pretty pennies for my ferrets (hence their unofficial title, solid gold weasels). And it sucks that pet health insurance is not really a great deal yet. (Although I would never ever want animal health insurance to resemble people insurance in many regards, but that's another story.) However, have you ever stopped to think what you would have to pay for your ER visit if you had no insurance? A pretty penny, my friend. I have all the training and most of the tools they have at human hospital. And everyone at the hospital has to get paid so they can eat and live like the rest of us. And the equipment will need care--oh you get the idea. It's expensive, but I cannot give free care out of my innate caring heart. (Newsflash to those who think that loving animals is the sole reason to be a vet. Sorry. Loving animals is great--get a pet, love it, care for it. Most of us in this profession love animals, but we also love people--despite our rants--and we love medicine and science).

6. Science sometimes sucks. It is our greatest ally and has many shortcomings. There are NO blood tests for cancer. Wouldn't that rock if there was? The only cancer you see in the bloodstream is leukemia. Most others are a lot harder to find, and more common. Sometimes I do not know what is going on with a patient. Believe me, I wish I always did. But the body is often a mystery, despite our greatest desire to know its secrets.

7. Sometimes you have to wait to see a doctor. I hate that too. Believe me, I am not in the back picking my nose or playing cards with the techs. I am sorry your pet is scared/hurting/vomiting, etc. But your dog's bum leg is not going to kill him in 5 minutes, or probably ever. As opposed to the cat or dog that was rushed in 5 minutes ago hit by a car. Your pet is your best friend, or your baby, or your life and you are freaking out. I get that. But I am one person and cannot be everywhere at once. Being rude to me is not helpful.

8. Birds and ferrets, etc. deserve regular medical attention too. Why do you bring me your exotic pet when it has never seen a vet before and expect me to fix it now that it's at the end of its lifespan? A pet is a pet. They need yearly physicals just like your kids.

'Nuff said. I just get annoyed sometimes. It's not fun to be bitched at, or have to remove a skin mass at the end of a 12 hour day when you have at least 3 more hours of paperwork ahead of you. Be gentle, people.

Git in tha Cellar, Ma! A Storm's a Comin' !

As most people can tell you, there's always the inevitable jokes made about your name. People named Gloria are probably so sick of the 1982 one-hit Laura Branigan wonder with the same name. If you have an embarrassing last name, you've probably heard every imaginable crude joke there is (An unfortunately named veterinary student I met once took her last name in stride. She had another friend with a similarly unfortunate moniker. "All we need now," she told me ,"is one other vet--maybe someone named 'Gay'? Then we could open a practice called 'Gay, Butt and Cox'"). Everyone somewhere has some song with their name in it, that some unfeeling clever stranger belts out when they're introduced to you (unless you are someone with unusually creative parents, in which case, you usually have a different sort of embarrassing label problem). I've always counted myself lucky, as there are only two songs that involve my name, both somewhat obscure, and my name really rhymes with very few things. But the spector of my shortened name has loomed. Now, I don't mind being called "em," generally. I answer to it; it just sort of happened over the years, an organic change. But I could see as my friends and family hit their child bearing years that it was coming. And, as of August 16th, it's official. I AM "AUNTIE EM."

Too late, it's just too late to avoid the image: Clara Blandick, crotchety and hairbunned, no-nonsense, trying to keep that girl Dorothy in line-- a dear girl , but foolish like all young people are. Since I can never free myself, I have embraced it. Hmmm. I'm not sure where we'll put the pigs, though. Come to find, I'm excited to be an auntie. I get the good bits--the presents, the holiday visits. And you never know, maybe there will be cousins for her to play with, down the road. Funny what babies do to otherwise sane people--I've already sent her my favorite book from when I was small, and she's not even learned about focusing her eyes yet! I am often pessimistic about the future of humankind, and yet I cannot regret anywhere in my heart that she has been born. Welcome to you, niecekin. Come up and visit sometime--I'll let you slop the hogs and feed the chickens. Just watch out for that Toto dog--he likes to run off!

My niece. Pretty disgusting, eh? I'm smitten.

Hey baby, where you been all my life?

Well now, there's been a little drought over here at Chez Blog. Sorry folks, that's what happens when you pack/work for three weeks, graduate from veterinary school (that's Ms. Docktah to you, suckah!), drive a very large rental truck across the country and start an internship one after the other. I can't promise as frequent an internal checking in, either, considering the internship schedule, but hey, there may be months where I'm awake on my overnight schedule where I can't do squat on my day (nights?) off except sit in my apartment while the world sleeps. Right now I have a bit of the cushy schedule--although last year's interns had to work 5 days in a row with one day on call and one day off, they have modified our schedule this year (we have a resident this year, which means extra bodies) and sometimes we get two whole days off with one day on call. So I effectively got a three day weekend this week, albeit in the middle of the week, since no emergency surgeries happened while I was on call. Now, lest you get dismissive of my easy schedule, let me tell you that on my other days at work, the shortest shift so far has been 14 hours long. So there.

It may also be hard to write without a) boring the pants off anyone who actually looks at this site, and b) compromising patient confidentiality. I hate to say it, but my life is filled with good old veterinary stuff, which gets old really fast to most people. Just try going to a vet school party. You'll see what I mean. I even dream about it, a fact that I'm really hoping will go away soon. Even I have my limits. And also, I really can't talk about cases on the internet--do doctors publish stuff about you online? Nope. Maybe it's a good thing--a place to make an effort to find the other, non-doctorly parts of myself. But I suspect it will be hard this year to focus on those bits. I'm still in the throes of the newness of being a doctor at long last, and learning all the stuff that goes with it. I've actually been surprised--I haven't had nearly the trouble I expected talking to clients about difficult things, like money, or death. Lots of stuff is hard, but that part has gone better than expected. But hoo boy is there a whole lot of paperwork!
Anyway. On the job front, I have euthanized my first pet without owners present (I cried) and with owners present (I didn't cry). I have seen a bunch of interesting stuff so far, and I guess I'm developing my spiel for various and sundry diseases (it's hard to be organized when you explain things to people, so a general spiel is a good thing). All my internmates are awesome, although we barely see one another out of work, since we're all on different schedules. AND I got my first paycheck. Believe me, I may be making diddlysquat--but it's a vast improvement on making nothing.

On the life front, it's so good to be back in Portland I can barely stand it. Mass seems like a distant bad dream I barely remember. Sorry you guys I left behind--I miss you, but NOT living there. This is the best place ever. In these last three? weeks or so I have been to Powell's twice, eaten mud pie at Montage, flaming bananas foster at The Pied Cow, had breakfast at Fat City, shopped at Food Front and seen movies all around in cool old theaters with beer and pizza. Worcester, you can send me hate mail if you want, but you cannot even begin to compare. We have a local dog park that is full of mellow folks and mellow dogs, and the Foo and the Fluffy get to go most every day. Today we went for a two hour hike in Oneonta Gorge out in the Columbia River Gorge, and yesterday I went back to my old barn and rode a horse for the first time in two years. And I have a NEW car. Yup, can't complain.

So, coming soon are photos from the trip (have to wrangle them from the boy, who is the keeper of the digital camera). Maybe pics of the apartment? Don't get too excited. We do actually fit (sort of) in the apartment. It's nothing fancy, and it's full of icky carpet, but it's big, cool in the summer, and CHEAP. Very good. Come visit--the couch is long enough for a 7 foot man. So, the rain falls again in blog land. Admit it--you missed me.

If there are priests for dog owners,

...then please, I must confess. I'm not even Catholic, not even remotely. But hey, it's a culture of confession--just watch a talk show. My main problem is that I need some absolution here, not just a listening ear. So let's get it right.

Forgive me Father (? Do you suppose that would be the proper form of address?) for I have sinned. First of all, I feel silly starting off like this in the first place, and secondly, I guess I'm not sure that in the scheme of things, difficulties in dog training would really count as "sins" in my world, and even more truthfully, as a secular humanist, I'm pretty uncomfortable with the liturgical language and the word "sin" itself. Let's just say I'm feeling guilty and leave it at that. I feel guilty, and angry, and like a big frustrated failure. Oh, right--you need to know why.

All right. We have two lovely dogs, let's call them Foo Foo and Fluffy (the names have been changed to protect the guilty--or the innocent, as the case may be). Foo Foo has been with us for two years, and is altogether a bit mellower and less pushy than Fluffy. He has his moments, though. These moments consist of either jumping our fence, or his problem with other dogs while on leash. Lest you think Foo Foo is a big hideous meany, let me explain: Foo Foo gets so excited by other dogs that he gets what dog folks call "aroused." Although perhaps the word is unfortunate (especially if you consider the possible key search words for this post on Google), it means simply that his energy levels go way up. Dogs in this state are much more likely to tip towards other high energy states, such as fear or aggression. We've figured out that Foo Foo is afraid while on leash. Perhaps this comes from some deep seated pychological incident--but he's not telling. And neither of us can think of any such incidents. But essentially we figure he's decided that he's both genuinely excited to see the other dog and he also thinks he has to take care of the situation because nobody else will, and this involves getting big and giving warning signs. We know it's not true aggression, because he's damned friendly off leash, and has never attacked a strange dog for any reason. It also is telling that this started off as simply getting excited and barking on leash, which is often how he tries to play with other dogs. HOWEVER. Can I tell you how embarrassing it is to have your otherwise sweet tempered dog start barking and growling and lunging at other dogs? It's like saying you're a Republican at an enviromentalist rally. You get nasty looks--judging looks--looks that say: "I can't believe you walk such an aggressive vicious beast in public." If you say he's afraid, you get the look that says "yeah, buddy, pull the other one." Our dog is sending mixed signals, and this sucks for eveyone involved, including the other dog, who eyes him with some distrust. It would be like if a stranger came up to you and hit you hard on the arm and said, "hey, wanna play with me, m*therf#@!!?"

Fluffy is a different ball of wax. We've only had her about 4 months. She was a shelter dog, and came to us as almost an adult. She's got a heart of gold (well, so does Foo Foo), but her heart of gold is hidden by a very busy brain and a pushy nature. We can speculate that either her doggie momma didn't teach her no manners, or her first human parents let her get away with murder. It doesn't really help her that she's at least part Border Collie, so her tenaciousness tends show itself in inconvenient moments, such as those where the toy is taken away but she really still wants it! She has improved greatly, but her basic desire is to push. If Fluffy could talk, we would have these kinds of conversations:
Me: "Fluffy, leave it (referring to the good smelling thing on the counter)."
Fluffy: "Are you sure? Cause it smells really good. Can't I have just a teensy bite?"
Me: "No."
Fluffy "Well, I mean, OK, but if you change your mind, I'll be right over here."
Her modus operandi with other dogs is to run and jump on them bodily, because surely, that must be endearing and will entice them to play with her.

So. We have been going to dog classes. Both dogs have passed Basic Obedience with flying colors. And diplomas. Really. They are both very smart, eager to learn, and know both verbal and hand signal commands for sit, down, stay, wait, leave it, paw (and lately they have been learning "knock it off" and other less polite commands. It has been an impatient week). What we have discovered is that they are excellent--BUT--only when there are no to very few distractions. Like other strange dogs. So the first couple of classes can be a little wearying, but after that, the classmates are no longer strange dogs. Foo Foo is in an intermediate class, which we then take home and apply to both dogs. And we have been having the trainer out for both dogs one hour a week. So we have been working on how not to pull on a leash. At first, it was amazing. Both dogs walk by our sides beautifully. But walking both dogs at once and encountering such exciting things as other dogs? Or dare I mention C-A-T-S? Even other people are distracting, since they would both like to be petted. And hence, my sorry tale.

I took both dogs for a nice walk tonight. At first, we were doing great. A few people distractions, doin' pretty well. A barking dog, not too bad. So I said, with the naivete of the optimistic, boy, we need a bigger challenge. Let's cross the street and go to the other neighborhood. So Foo Foo's lagging a little, like ususal, and Fluffy is trying to get ahead of me every other step, a thing that seems to be much harder to control when I have both dogs. And I'm getting a little annoyed at her. And then: the OTHER DOG on a leash (thank goodness) must walk by. And instead of the calm controlled I'm - in - charge - let's - keep - walking - nothing - to - see - here - move - along mode, I can't get either dog behind me; they're both out in front, pulling my arms off, trying to leap off the leash. I make them both sit. It works, sort of. And I am so livid at this point I could kick both of them (OK, now that I write this, it seems sort of more trivial. But people, I can't believe that I can't even walk my own dogs properly!) and am convinced that 1) I am doing something completely wrong for them to be so obnoxious. 2) I am failure as a dog trainer and should simply get some cats. Or fish. 3) I am a bad person and a bad owner because I am so angry at these two creatures I can't even communicate with them properly, and I'm sure, knowing just enough to be dangerous, that I am confusing the hell out of them, ruining their training, their trust in me, and our future relationship.

What's worse is that this happens A LOT. So maybe that's why it's so upsetting. And the thought that we are about to move to a city, and they really will have to behave on leash. And of course, in my true perfectionist fashion, I envision my dogs as eventually beautifully well-behaved creatures who never jump on others or fail to come when they're called. And I can't stand bad manners in any creature; I can't just say "oh, dogs are just like that" because they can be beautifully well-behaved. It just takes WORK. I didn't know this for many years, and many people just figure Fido should hit the end of the leash and keep on pulling; chew the carpet; leave footprints on your new pants. I'm sorry, y'all, I have been converted. I cannot look at that kind of dog without comparing it to some sort of three-year old run rampant. Would you let your toddler run into the living room full of guests and leap onto people without invitation? Or eat whatever he or she wanted? All I see is my badly behaved dogs, and I'm embarrassed. Now, most of our friends tell us what well-behaved dogs we have, and--another confession--I often wonder what non-jumping, non-pushy, non-obnoxious animals they are referring to. So I am all wrapped with guilt and shame, because sometimes I don't love my dogs. Sometimes I want to come home to an empty house and not have to worry about the walk, the pushing, the training. Is it because I spend most days lavishing care on animals, most of whom are either too sick to behave badly, or behave far worse than my own, to have patience with my own dogs? I sure hope not, or it's gonna be a sucky lifetime for all concerned. Is it OK to want to throttle your dog when they give you that "hey mom, f- you look?" (If you've ever had a dog disobey the come command, you know the look I mean.) You read far too much drivvle about the sweet dopiness of dogs; the slobber, the oops-I'm-sorry-about-the-carpet-mistake-but-aren't-I-cute personality, the unconditional love. It makes them seem like over-sized pillows with an appetite. My dogs are good dogs, fundamentally. I wouldn't give them up for the world, and they ARE making progress. But sometimes they are bad dogs, and they make me really mad. And intellectually I figure this is OK. But the guilt about feeling angry is huge and boomerangs into a sense of failure. It's probably magnified by my profession, which paints me as a caring animal lover that would never consider bodily harm to an animal, right? And therein lies my desire for expiation.

I guess it's nice it'd be nice to hear from you, Mr. Dog Priest/Bishop/Cardinal thingy. But really, we all know who really needs to hand out the forgiveness here. The trouble is, she's got such high standards she has to post about it on her blog in order to recognize who has to be the true absolver in this story. Damn. I'm awfully hard on myself, aren't I. Busted.