BEFORE THERE WERE COMPUTERS THERE WAS PEACE AND HARMONY IN MY LIFE


ONCE UPON A TIME...


...I would call and write letters. Life was simple. If someone wanted to get hold of me they would call. About the most complicated thing was programming the answering machine. Oh, Wait, they didn't need programming then. One just called and the tape on the answering machine would pick up if you weren't home. It took awhile for me to have just the right message for the machine, but that wasn't difficult.

In 1996, my life got complicated. I guess I used the PC we got from IBM before going online, but for the most part it was easier than a typewriter...once you knew how to format a 5" floppy disk. I don't think I stored anything on the computers in that day and age. I still have the useless floppys for lack of any old enough computers to translate them.

It used to bother me that all that wonderful stuff I wrote back then is trapped like dinosaurs' bones in tarpits. Maybe, like those bones, someone will find an old working original PC and download my floppys once I've been dead for 50 years or more, and discover how trivial those trapped thoughts actually were.

But life was definitely simpler even then. I didn't spend hours answering email or just reading through. And, yet, I still felt attached to the rest of the world. It's funny how things you never had can eventually be something you cannot fathom being without once you've become addicted to having them at your disposal.

All this reminiscing leads to my latest conclusion: The Gods Must Be Crazy. Do you remember that movie. A little bushman in the heart of Africa living close to the earth and having a wonderful uncomplicated life found a Coke bottle. He couldn't figure out what it was for. I forget how it got thrown in the bush country of Africa, but he decided he must find the edge of the earth and throw this thing off of it or it would change his world the way he knew it. A great adventure followed which made the story on film, but what I'm talking about here, is I feel like that bushman. Computers have invaded my simple life and made it too complicated. I would like to return to the old days of typewriter which always typed out in hard copy... something that couldn't be lost.... but could be lost in the dust of ages or in fire, but not like nowadays when the computer crashes for no reason at all... Like clockwork... just about every two years, I figure. The first time was with a computer borrowed from our son Jim. When that one broke down trapping all the files and information inside for the several months we had it I learned that the best thing to do is make a hard copy.

We bought our first PC since the IBM-er's first special employee's offer. The old one had broken down. It went to the "tarpits" of the dump on my brother in law's farm. When the computer we got from Jim broke down, he took it back leaving the monitor. We got another good deal on an Aptiva, offered to retired and working IBM'ers, and got back on the internet. This was in 1997. We still have that relic, on which I now warm up simply to play Free Cell. You see, the only game that comes with an Apple computer is Chess. The intellectual's game. I, of course, do not play chess.

But, I'm getting ahead of myself here. While using the Aptiva, it was the ONLY time we got hit with a virus. It wiped out everything. We had to have a repairman set it up all over again ...at a price. But we were back in business. I learned the hard way before in not backing up my files, but rather than just putting them on now the 3" floppies, I was doing both saving the files on the computer and printing out all the worthwhile email. I have crates of the stuff. I even decided I was going to save all the jokes worth saving and truly have a plastic milk crate file full to the brim with jokes all filed and classified.

I can see that the Gods could think ME crazy by this point. Why save jokes. For one thing, if anyone can get online from anywhere, they probably could Google-up every single joke that every hit the Internet Never-Never Land. And that's a good analogy as the jokes show me that I have a Peter Pan complex, with my misplaced value system of giving them some kind of importance.

Backing up somewhat, even when I've been at my atheistic lows I never gave up the idea that things happened for a reason, and I was going to rationalize that my PCs always crashing, were for the reason to get an Apple, as I should have in the first place. So, after years and years, I decided ...after I'd just the day before bought a an expensive new HP computer from Circuit City, to bring it back and get my money back before I even unpacked it. When someone sells you something; has already rung up the machine and all the extras that you are convinced you need, you don't like to say at that point that you've changed your mind. After convincing me to purchase their Fire Dog warranty where if anything happens, rather than to hapve to ship it to the HP factory if still under warranty, I could just take it down there for the next 3 years and they would repair or replace it for free. When I said I hadn't expected to again have this problem with my PCs, they assured me, if that's want you want to call it, that within the first 6 months I'd probably be bringing the computer down there for something or another. All sorts of bells and whistles sounded off inside my brain, but wouldn't change my mind until a night's sleep on it. In the wee small hours of the morning, I awoke and realized that to not take it back would be insanity--that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again expecting a different outcome. I felt almost like a Higher Power was backing my decision to return the PC, and get an Apple. I brought it back and got refunded as much money as I could, and got an Apple computer. An iMAC!

I remembered that Jeff Goldblum commercial when the iMac first came out. He just set it up and plugged it in, and it was ready to use... that simple. What could be simpler.

WRONG:
FIRST PROBLEM: I couldn't get email. Then I got my email set up only to find that I couldn't SEND OUT email. For the first two weeks of getting the Mac, I think I spent at least 20 hours on the phone with Epix/or Frontier tech support; Apple support; and my son August's support... the only person I've known that was an Apple computer owner. He used to work for MacIntosh, so he was the expert, but even he couldn't help me get my email move when I'd click on send. After calling all over, finally a tech-ie from Frontier was able to figure out that it was some security screen .Mac had that would have to be disabled or I couldn't send email from my carrier's email--- epix.net email account. So...for a week or so my email worked. My son wanted me to use the .Mac account to be able to chat with him online. I was afraid of screwing up my email. "...Give me a week or so, Son."

SECOND PROBLEM: I couldn't get the printer to print from the iMac. So... I began calling again. They had to first uninstall whatever I'd already downloaded, then they tried me putting in the CD and getting it started. It was recommended that I'd go to Lexmark in case I needed an drive to make the printer work. I went to Lexmark and tried. After downloading stuff and it still didn't work, I tried downloading it again. Then again. Finally I called Lexmark. They tried to open my page so they could view it from there. I guess Apple security doesn't allow that, and it was too complicated to figure out why, so I had to be Lexmark's tech support's eyes, and described every page that came up with the proper click of the mouse. Even they couldn't get it to work. They told me to call Apple and get a drive with "cups" on it...whatever that was. So I went back to Apple... and was online with them for about an hour. The tech would go off to find out info, then come back to let me know he was still looking elsewhere for more info. Then after about another half hour, ...a disconnected signal came on and I flipped. "TO HELL WITH IT!" My patience had more than worn thin. I'd let HIM call me back.

The phone rings, and it's someone else with other business. A real estate agent who is trying to find the price of the land above which had just gone up for sale, and we'd been trying to buy that land for years. (Years ago we asked the owners to tell us first if they were ever to sell) The agent was calling to tell us that they had taken it off the market. The family was going to discuss it over the weekend.

At that point I didn't care about the computer anymore, but I still thought of one last thing for Lexmark. There were two drivers and I could have downloaded either. So I went back to that bookmarked page, and downloaded the first one, that didn't look like what I'd needed first time around when I downloading a driver. I clicked on that, downloaded it, and in the rapid fire files that were flipping over the screen... I couldn't believe my eyes... I saw "CUPS".... along with every other coded stuff. I thought for sure I'd found the problem and solved it myself. Before I started patting myself on the back, I restarted the computer as sometimes newly downloaded stuff operate better if the computer if restarted. Once up again, I went to a document could have printed out; clicked on "file;" then on "Print;" and waited... The same G-D box that denounced my capabilities to print came up to my dismay. THAT WAS IT. I WAS DONE FOR THE DAY...

...OH, BUT WAIT A MINUTE:
THIRD PROBLEM: I had sent an email out to my son August about what had happened, knowing that his being in the middle of a big move wasn't going to be much help. I was just venting. It went out okay... this was just before supper. After supper I came back downstairs to see if he answered. He hadn't. I checked my email, and went to forward some pretty pictures of the Chinese preparations for the Olympics. All addressed, I clicked SEND... AND, AND, AND... I couldn't believe it. I got the old message of my not being able to send out email again!!

I shut down the machine for the night.

Next day... I go to the email thinking it was just a fluke... guess I was thinking it would behave like a PC, as sometimes things worked; sometimes they didn't. With an Apple, they mean it. If it doesn't work, you are back to square one. I now want to take this freakin machine and walk to the EDGE of the WORLD, and TOSS IT!!!!! Return to the bush with that little bushman who found the Coke bottle, and live a simpler life.

[Following is first blog from my new computer... an iMac. I'm still learning how to operate this totally new computer.]

Chapter 16 Polly Remembers Domino (Freedom and Animals, cont.)

Millie had died... I wasn't too unhappy about that, as she bit me twice when I was a mere pup, and the first time she knocked out one of my teeth and it never grew back... And we don't have Tooth Fairies like you people do... so I got nothing but grief from her attacks. The next time... when still a pup, she pierced my ear, and I didn't get an earring either... it would have gone in nicely... she pierced it right through.

Then the first time I saw the little people she taught me to fear them, but one of my favorite people, Trese, had a baby, and I got to like HER baby, and realized they were just puppy-people. But Millie was so utterly afraid of young humans, as she thought of them as aberrations of nature. What did "I" know... I was only a dog... and a puppy dog at that. So I was afraid of babies too... even young children who looked a lot like the adult version of humans. One of those bigger ones visited and would chase me all around, so I hid behind the couch the whole time she was here. Maybe Millie was right after all--she was older and wiser than me.

While growing up I was so cute that I got much of the attention, so Millie didn't like that one bit. When no people were around, she was nice to me. It wasn't me she hated, just the attention being lost to me. I know she was a prettier dog, as she was a pure bred English Springer Spaniel, whereas I was just a mix.

I guess one of the things I later understood about Millie was grief. She absolutely loved some dog the people here had called Gayle. She never quite got over losing her. For awhile after Gayle died, she was the only dog, and really liked the extra attention. She also was allowed up on the bed. When I came along, they let me sleep up between them on the bed, not down at the foot, where Millie slept. It felt snuggly and safe. But... she didn't like it one bit and would whisper swears that humans couldn't hear.

I will have to admit that the day that Millie died was hard on me. I felt lonely at first. But I became the only dog, and that was good. I was a little worried all the time while Millie was around that I'd get bitten when people would make a big fuss over me. I began to relax.

One day I heard the humans talking... they had gone out to look at another dog. "... a German Shorthair," they said... whatever that meant. Mom was crying, she said she wasn't sure she'd like the dog... she missed Millie. But they went out again with the checkbook, and came back with the funniest looking dog I'd seen yet. He almost made me laugh. His name was Domino... why I don't know... something about his spots looking like spots on whatever a domino is. To me he looked kinda naked. Long skinny legs, skinny body, and a nice looking face. Judging from his face, I didn't think he'd bite me. At first when he liked wrestling I was afraid I'd get hurt, but I quickly realized that this dog was my brother under his skin [which looked like tight long underwear... ha ha.] Domino made me happy all over. I wasn't only in love with him, but we had great adventures together. He was a better hunter than I was, and I had both Basset Hound and Beagle Hound in my blood. He knew how to take a three day trip through the woods and not get caught and brought home again... but, after three days, we'd get hungry and come home again by ourselves. The first time we did this was the same week he lived with us. We hadn't gone far when a car stopped and picked him up, but I wouldn't let them get near me. I went home. Here I had just found the most fun and closest doggie friend in the world, and he was gone for days. I already missed him. Then my people... they refer to themselves as Mom and Dad... went up to the Humane Society and picked him up, and brought him home again.

He didn't go anywhere for about a week or so, but they always took him out on a leash. Then there was the lessons. They took him over to some building while I went to just watch, while they tried to train him tricks like how to walk on a leash... How to sit-stay... And how to come when called. He finally learned, but he didn't listen when we both were outside at the same time and he wasn't tied up. Boy do I miss those hunting trips. We had such a good time... sniffing and just following our noses. We'd run, run, and run. I caught a rabbit with his help on one of those trips. I don't think I could have stayed the whole time without something to eat. We chased deer, but never caught them. Domino just liked the run... like it was a race. He'd run like the wind. I had to follow his scent, as he'd be out of sight in seconds.

When we'd get home from the hunt, Mom would have a fit. She'd yell and at the same time, I knew she was happy and relieved to see us... she had given us up for dead. I didn't want to worry Mom or make her angry, but I couldn't resist, as I had the best time with Domino than with any dog in my entire life. Everybody loved Domino, but I didn't care. He had a great personality and showed everyone he loved them. I never saw a dog get away with so many pranks. He'd chew the rug at the front door. It had to be replaced twice, and even the last rug got somewhat chewed... and we didn't have Domino for that long.

I think Dad liked Domino because they both were great hunters. It's like they were of the same mind. Maybe he got angry with us when we went on our hunts because he wanted to go too... I'll bet that was it. Anyhow, Mom had just about had it. One time after we got back she got ranting and raving about "one of the dogs has to go... One won't run away without the other, and I can't stand them running away for days and not knowing whether they are living or dead!" I was afraid, but Domino said, "She didn't really mean it... she really loves us a lot!"

So life went on ...we went for walks with Domino wearing a special collar... or once in awhile they put it on me. When they couldn't see either of us, they would press a button and the collar would make my neck feel all prickly... it hurt. Once when they put it on me, Mom couldn't see me even though I was nearby, because I'm so short. She kept pressing on the button. When she finally saw me, she felt bad, as she knew it hurt me. So, she usually kept it on Domino, but Domino knew if he got far enough away, the collar would no longer hurt. We were driving Mom crazy, and knew it, but couldn't help ourselves. We were just obsessed with hunting.

We also liked roadkill...especially if it has seasoned for a day or two...or longer. If too long, we could at least rub our bodies in it and sneak up on other wild animals. They would think, "I smell something dead... it reeks, but at least it's dead...," and we could get close enough to give them a good run for their money.

Then one winter's day, we both smelled a dead deer across the road in front. It had snowed, and Dad was shoveling. Mom was careful not to let me out, but let Domino out, as Dad was out there. But Dad knew about the road kill, and had to keep an eye on Domino just in case he caught on, not realizing that Domino already knew and was waiting for an opportunity to run over and give it a chewing... maybe bring back a leg for later. So... I was inside with Mom, and Dad and Domino were outside. Later was to be the heartbreak of my life. Dad came running up to the balcony of the house, opened the door, and said, "Domino got hit on the road... he's dead!"

Mom yelled, "No... No... He can't be! I don't believe it. Where!?"

"Dad had tears in his eyes and said nothing could be done, that he was hit pretty bad. "I pulled him off the road."

Mom didn't want to believe that Domino was really dead, and ran down the driveway. I think she was going to try to save him. I was just sitting there knowing that something really terrible was happening. I smelled the sorrow; I sensed the fear. Mom disappeared down the driveway, and then I heard her screaming and crying. I knew... I knew then that Domino and I would never go hunting again.

Dad took the tractor down the driveway. I didn't want to see, but had to, as I didn't believe it either. When he came back, Domino was in an awkward heap on the front loader of the tractor. I think he was very dead. But I wasn't sure it was him. I couldn't catch his odor... not a live odor of my best friend in the world. I watched from the balcony as they loaded him into a black plastic bag from the front loader, and into the back of the car. I couldn't believe it was him any longer, so I just waited for him to come home while I watched them load the trash bag into the car... the dead thing... the road-kill... the fresh one...not the deer. Couldn't be him, because I saw him last and he was alive when I did. He wasn't dead. We don't recognize death. But we miss that which dies. I missed him right away, and thought I'd get over it. I thought it would be nice to be the only dog. It wasn't. It was so lonely.

It was a long time before Mom and Dad got another dog... it was a new season they call Spring. Three months... seemed like years. They brought home this black thing they ended up calling Bear. Bear was NOTHING like Domino. He didn't know a mouse from a rabbit, and wouldn't stick to one trail or another. He was the damnd-est dog I ever met, and here they expected me to feel like a sister to him. He was no brother of mine. He wasn't Domino. I'll keep waiting for Domino to come home. I know that someday I'll see Domino again... and as I get older and older, I'm feeling closer and closer to seeing my good old friend. I know I'll recognize him, as he'll always be a part of me, and it will be like that part will make me whole again when he's back-- When I'm happily hunting with him again.

--Polly

Chapter 15 (Freedom and Animals cont.)
CHLOE

I know how old our cat Chloe is because it was the autumn before of one of the biggest tragedies of our lives happened, when our son-in-law, Ray Williams got killed in an auto accident when a teenage girl, distracted by something, drove into his car killing him instantly in May of 1996. In late October of 1995, a stray cat wandered on to their driveway. Having two young cats already they couldn’t keep Chloe, so Trese called us to ask if we could have a cat now that we lived in the country. “You know how your father feels about cats,” I replied.

“We can bring him up to the house while Dad’s in Tunkhannock, and when he gets home we can show him how well she does in the house.” I think they even brought over an extra kitty litter box, or bought one on the way. The mid-sized kitten was already litter trained. I find that cats or kittens prefer to use litter, and are very clean animals in the house. We put the litter in the laundry room and left the cat there and closed the door after making enough a fuss so the cat felt quite content.

When Tom got home he could tell something was going on just by the expressions on our faces. When we finally told him, and showed him that she could stay in the laundry room until she got acclimated to the place, he looked at the kitty litter and said, “As long as the kitty litter is in the laundry room, and as long as she’ll always use it, I have no problem with having a cat in the house.” I couldn’t believe it. Tom’s family never had a “pet” cat. There were always ample cats at any farm, as there were always those people with fertile female cats who wouldn’t pay to have them spay, but just take the kittens and drop them off near a farm, knowing they’d find their way to the barn and be one of the many mousers--more than needed-- to keep the mouse population down. The cats would reproduce too rapidly for their job, and the surplus ones had to be dealt with, and Tom’s job as a young child was to drown the kittens. I personally think he had to hate the cats to do that horrible job. I think if his parents were still alive, I’d have told them that I thought giving that job to a child was a terrible thing. That they should have done it covertly so the children wouldn’t know the difference. But that was all in the past. At the time I got Chloe even the drop offs down at the farm were well fed by Tom’s brother John, and he would make pets out of the favorites, as he spent more time in the garage during the day, than he did in the house. John’s garage was called “the Church,” as their loosely held meetings where hunters and friends would gather, were usually held on Sunday, though people would drop in at any time during the week. And if John wasn’t out planting corn, cutting hay, or doing any chores out in the fields, he could usually be found in the garage, fully equipped with an old refrigerator with a beer tap on the side, and a wood stove for the cold weather. This church was never closed. The guys would stop and talk with John, and solve all the world’s problems, as well as spread all the newest gossip from the locals. Many people hunted up on Miller Mountain, and as a result, got to know John as a good friend. Some would also come and help him out as a friend at haying time or when the corn would be reaped. Tom loved the work and found it a way to use his restless energy usefully now that he was retired from IBM. Tom would come back with tales of the cutest cat that John had adopted and kept in the garage, spoiling the kitty with food and attention. Now we had our own cat, and we named her Chloe, as she looked Siamese, and the name sounded exotic.

Chloe is in her 13th year, and is still a beautiful cat. When I took her to an appointment Trese had already made at Owego Veterinary for her first shots, I asked what kind of cat she was, as she looked like a pure bred Siamese, except that her markings had tri colored stripes through them. The vet said, “We call these Siamese Tigers.” I thought that so exotic. I had never seen a prettier Siamese, and was sure she was rare …for about ten minutes. As I was leaving that vet, someone brought in a mother cat and about six kittens with the identical markings of my rare cat. So, Chloe wasn’t extraordinary… except to us.

She just got a long overdue rabies shot. She’s such an old cat that we didn‘t think regular booster shots all that necessary, but we were fearful that, being an outdoor cat not only during the day but sometimes be gone for weeks at a time, and that she could be wounded by a rabid animal, and spread the disease to us. She had one about eight or nine years ago, but is such an outdoor cat, that it is difficult to find her when taking the dogs for annual boosters. When we finally caught her on the same day as the dogs shots were to be given, we mainly wanted her just to get the rabies shot, but didn’t want to sound calloused by saying so, so the vet just gave her the boosters shots at the same time. She a lone hunter, and discourages other cats from wandering in, so I didn’t have her retested for leukemia nor have her feline leukemia shot given. I told him that we expect that she‘ll be killed by a coyote someday, and Dr. Crowley gave me a strange look and said, “We sure hope that‘s not going to happen.”

Chloe is very photogenic, and I even made a kids picture book about How to Live According to Chloe, showing her doing things that had a look of whatever slogan I put under the picture… like her walking along the top of a wooden fence, “One should practice how to balance.” Another was her giving herself a bath just inside the bathroom door which was wide open. “If you need privacy, don’t leave the bathroom door open.” The end of the book said, “Accept love,” with a picture of Chloe being held lovingly by our daughter-in-law, Aimee Jurista.

Chloe has the best of two worlds. She can be as wild and free as she cares to be, but she can also come inside and be petted, have companionship of both us and the dogs, as well as all the food she can eat. When she does eat, she eats a lot, and still keeps her girlish feline figure. At twelve years old, she’s still a very pretty and exotic cat.

Answers to the World's Problems:

Each morning I sit at the kitchen island with great thoughts roving through my brain but at a level somewhere between conscious and unconscious, and as soon as I start looking to jot down some of my ideas, something mundane will interrupt my train of thought--as simple as the dog wanting out--and those great earth shaking ideas poof away like a burst bubble.

Before this morning’s second idea disappeared, I wrote it down in my notebook. It was of what I think of the recent turmoil over higher gas prices. At first I was despairing, and “looking through a glass darkly.” Now I look at this fuel crisis as GOOD. First reason: It has our nation trading in their gas eating cars for more fuel efficient ones. For the same reason, I just purchased a Hyundai Elantra GLS, trading in my Santa Fe, weighing it against the Civic with almost comparable fuel economy, and way better price. And in the news just yesterday, the Honda Civic just exceeded the SUVs in car sales.

The second reason I think this crisis is a "good thing" is because the scientists, inventors and entrepreneurs are revving up their gray matter to find solutions other than oil, and as a result they are finding ways of using alternative fuels and energy that not only run engines more efficiently, but also reduce pollution at a time when this earth is needing a reduction of green house gasses in order to survive.

These solutions to the fuel shortage are forcing us to enter a new era of multifaceted dimensions that are so exciting that, when we think we are scared, it could be that we only feel strange because of the extreme changes it’s bringing to our ways of life. Some think, "If we use our grains for ethanol, then there will be a food shortage.” True, but it's about time the farmers of America had a hand in the money game instead of being pawns while big business gets the greater percentage of money with its manipulations and price fixing. Farmers will now be more valued and have reason to expand their crops instead of being paid NOT to plant so surpluses will bring down prices […Remember that?]. And perhaps ethanol doesn't need the refineries for that black tarry polluting oil we get from the depths or our planet.

Another thing that has happened simultaneously with the green house gas problem and with the oil shortage is the new ways of tapping on the natural gas that is now entrapped in shale, making for a new "gold rush" for the gas companies in their buying mineral rights to the farmer's land. And once gas is found, the farmer can still do their regular or more enhanced farming with their dollars per acre profit, while the NG companies tap the earth's less polluting natural gas resources.

Those inventors and entrepreneurs are also looking into the natural energies of the wind, the tides, and solar power as well as developing ways of tapping our oceans for the non polluting hydrogen to power almost everything! …AND, why not hydrogen powered electric instead of the nuclear generated with its problem of what to do with the nuclear waste.

We've dabbled in solar power for a long time now, and we are only now getting serious. It's too bad man cannot profit from the "Solar Rights" of tapping into that energy. Where's the profit on solar power? Only in those who manufacture the panels, the generators, and the storage batteries and such. If someone could have profited from selling sunshine, we probably would have had our engines and vehicles run by its power long ago. If that was so, maybe there would be no longer be wars had we concentrated on solar energy... Well...I guess it couldn't change our genetic tendency to fight and have wars, and force our ideologies upon others.

I haven’t heard these observations of the oil crisis to be seen as a positive thing with the advent of the need of developing alternative energies--Not on morning shows on TV …Not in the evening news--this new era of entrepreneurship.

We are at the dawn of a new and wonderful era where all things are going to click together for the same purpose: to save our planet; to improve our economy; to have all the energy we will ever need. We will have the ability to control our environment while at the same time leaving an inhabitable planet for generations and generations to come ad infinitum.

Chapter 14 Gayle's Death

These next chapters will be those that I couldn't deal with before.

Gayle was such a special dog that it's difficult to this day for me to think about that last year of her existence. The earlier years bring smiles to my face, but that last 9 months, after we learned she had lymphoma, were the closest to my having a family member die of cancer. I know it's nothing like having a person die of cancer ...just ask my stepchildren or Tom whose first wife succumbed to liver cancer. But neither of my parents died that way, and none of my siblings. Thank God, none of my children, and God Bless them with good health ...Please! That goes for all of my 14 grandchildren as well.

But, when Gayle had a growth under his chin, on his neck, I thought it was the same affliction as Jeanie, the collie my mother had when I was a kid. She had some kind of cyst that was removed. Simple. So we fearlessly took Gayle over to the Owego Vets, her vet ever since she was still a Guiding Eyes Puppy, to have her examined. They extracted a sample from the growth by needle, already knowing what it looked like. I forget if they told us right away, or if we had to wait until they called us with the bad news that it was lymphoma. We asked what the prognosis was when they told us what they thought it was, and they said there was no cure, and letting it take it's natural course, she could last a few weeks or up to about a month. I looked at our healthy yellow Lab, and couldn't believe this dog was even ill. We asked what could be done. They said there was no cure, but through chemotherapy she could probably live for another year at the most. It seemed like maybe the treatments would be worse than letting her die naturally, so we kind of opted for that at the vets office. Later that day, that time after supper when we watch the last of the news and maybe a game show on TV, and the dog usually tries to get our attention to play, Gayle did her funny dance of a few steps, and then rolled onto her back giving herself was wiggle-waggle back rub that somehow demonstrated "Happiness" in a way that words couldn't if we could have discussed her illness with her. This was a happy dog. This was a faithful dog. This was the dog of heroine like dimensions that I wrote about in picture books for my grandchildren. This was Millie's pal, and our best friend. I'd earned money that year before doing early Census 2000 work, and I could afford it, and I turned to Tom and said, "I'm going to help her to live as long as possible as long as she isn't suffering. She's family... She's worth it!"

Then we started treatments several times a week. I'd drive her back and forth to the Owego Vets, listening to the radio while she enjoyed the ride from the back seat. Millie sometimes accompanied us, and after she was left in the car, rather than go in the scary vet's waiting room, she decided she wanted to come in too. When she realized she wasn't going to be picked and prodded like the normal annual vet visit, she came out from under the chair in the waiting room, and enjoyed the scenery and the communication that wordlessly goes on between the varied animals on the scene.

Someone said through this course of treatments while we were waiting, "It's good to have two dogs. The older dog teaches the younger one, and the younger one helps us get through the grief when the older one dies." I always remembered that, and it was true. But, while Gayle was going through the treatments, she taught US how to face a fatal illness. She was always so glad to see the vet, Dr. Roberts. There came to be a relationship there between this friend of Gayle's she visited three, then two times a week. There didn't seem to be side effects to the chemotherapy, and Gayle just lapped up all the attention. While other dogs hovered between the legs of the chair where their owner's sat, Gayle sat forward and at ease. She knew she was in good and loving hands, whether home with us, or visiting her favorite vet. She was an inspiration. I thought how us humans are too aware of chemotherapy and probably have more side effects because of that. I know I'd be measuring the way I felt before and after. Gayle just enjoyed everything but the IV being inserted, but was more curious than flinching. The vet loved her too, as I guess she was the prime example of a good patient. Everyone who worked there knew Gayle's name better than mine, and those last nine months of Gayle's life, though poignant, were to me a lesson in what it is to be a hero. Gayle was my hero. She took her medicine like a champ. She was my good and faithful wonder dog for nine expensive month's which were worth that extra time ...And every single dollar.

It was that last trek to the vet's that haunted me for a long, long, time. We had already dug her grave in the woods between the main trail and the middle one. Though well into the woods, it was an almost rootless area, and I was lucky to find a good spot in which there were no big rocks impossible to remove. It was kind of eerie that she could be cavorting through the woods while I was digging her grave. Dogs have no perception of their own demise. They are alive; they are happy; they are miserable or sad; they are in the NOW. Though we can know things will get better when things CAN get better, I should be so lucky as to NOT know when they are only going to bet worse. I knew what this grave was for, and that her days were numbered. Though she acted happy most of the time, she was getting very lame... her bowel movements were diarrhea and she no longer had an appetite. I had to help her to her feet in the morning. She'd limp along the trail, as we'd walk to the lake... taking the lower path so she wouldn't have to climb the hill anymore. But when we got to the lake, she'd go in for her swim, and feel light and buoyant, like her young self again. She took a swim even on the day of the fateful appointment at the vets. The night before, I had my book club at the house, and they didn't know how sick Gayle was, and it bothered me afterwards when someone said, "Why did she have to be put down? She looked fine when I saw her." For a moment you doubt that you did the right thing... "Had I put her down too soon? ...Couldn't she have lasted a little longer? Maybe she would have died in her sleep." But our decision had to be made in a kind and rational manner. Gayle wasn't to be kept alive for us, but for her. This whole expensive treatment was for her, not us. If she was in any kind of agony, I couldn't have stood it, and she was as close to that point as she could get without our getting our emotions involved in keeping her alive because of our own fear of death.

That day was planned. The doctor was going to meet us in the parking lot. We'd take her into the vet's to have her leg shaved, and then the overdose of anesthesia would be given her in the back of my car, on the blanket in which she would be wrapped when we'd bury her. Our beautiful dog. It would be all overwith... but not until we had her home and buried. It went like clockwork, except after she was pronounced dead she gave a final sigh, making us wonder if she'd awoken. The vet was still standing by the car with tears in his own eyes. He kind of jumped when Gayle sighed, tested her for signs again, but assured us that it was a lethal overdose, and her fight for life was over. Our fight to keep her alive was at an end. We drove home, talking about everything else so we wouldn't have to pull over if our tears were blurring our sight. We talked about stupid things... turned up the radio... talked over the loud radio... somehow getting home, then carrying that dead weight that seemed twice as heavy as ever before to her final resting place. It was over.

That night was the longest ever. I couldn't sleep, and found out how boring TV was in the wee small hours of the morning, but needed it on to distract me from my horrible grief. The next day I was on this computer letting everyone who was a part of Gayle's life know that her fight with her disease was over, and there wasn't a dry eye on the other end of my messages. I got beautiful messages back from friends and family, and will never forget how wonderful people could be when it was only a pet, not a family member...and they knew better, and were there for us.

I thought of putting a gravestone on the grave. It bothered me every time I walked by the grave. For some strange reason I couldn't stand the thought that my lovely Lab was buried there each time I passed that spot. At that time, because of my feelings, I decided for sure that I want to be cremated... and any other dog that dies is going to be cremated. I didn't need her ashes, but it just bothered me having her there. I can't explain it... I just felt it for years, and now, 11 years later, I'm more used to the fact, and I have trouble finding the spot where she was buried. We've lost two dogs since, and we had them cremated. Their ashes are not with us, but we know they are in Heaven. ...With Gayle.

The Last Chapter of Freedom and Animals

Suggestions from Experience When It Comes To A Puppy

My son August’s black Labrador dog just died after a long drawn out illness, and here is what I didn't send along with my condolences, as it’s probably too early to even think of getting a new pup.

Hello August,

I know it's early to be thinking of getting another dog. I'm not too much for replacing an irreplaceable dog, but most dogs are so different that there are no comparisons to be made, so it's more like getting another kind of animal.

But it's difficult when you have a new puppy no matter what breed. It means house training, and it's best if someone is home all the time. When having to be away for several hours, I recommend having a crate (or dog carrier for a crate until he grows out of it) if you don't want to cordon off a kitchen or other tiled floor and put down papers for the pup for those times and its sleep area. We've ended up having the pup sleep with us, as they will wake you when they have to go to the bathroom... in the middle of the night. It's a bit like having to get up for the baby, and then having to change the baby's diaper in the back yard. Many a shivery morning I've been outside with a pup saying, "Get Busy!" until he'd get busy, then lavish praise as if his accidental peeing on the grass was something genius. When you do get a pup, the schedule for his house training is first thing in the morning; after breakfast; an hour later; and before lunch... Sometimes for a young pup, you just take him out every time he gets restless. If you haven't gotten another dog in between, getting a new pup in between, you forget how difficult it is having a puppy. In fact, you forget all the bad stuff, but just remember how cute and lovable the little pup was. But there are many books and puppy guides.

I've sworn off puppies, partially because an older dog's personality has already developed, but mostly because I'm getting too old for all the ins and outs of house training a pup. I'm sure I can come up with a house trained really lovable mongrel from the Humane Society, and end up saving a dog's life as well as giving him a home.

Here's my run-down on breeds I've experienced, and I'll take it from my first home dog for whom I have a conscious memory:

Heather... Mongrel dog who wasn't spay. Get your dog neutered... not worth the trouble finding homes for the pups even if they were thorough bred, but not to the kids...they love puppies, and would be willing to keep every one.

Jeanie [...with the Light Brown Hair] Scotch Collie. [...AKC regis.] Mom going into pure bred puppy raising. The pure bred puppies money raiser didn't work out, but had a nice litter of Collie/Wire Haired Terriers. Would not recommend raising pups for earning extra money.
The collie has too heavy a coat of hair. Needs grooming when all the winter coat wants to leave at one time. Otherwise nice family dog that likes to keep the family together because of her herd dog tendencies. Not likely to roam. Females are notably smaller than males. I think miniature collies would have the same personality, and either sex would be a nice size.

Blitzen... German Shepherd. When that stray was found it already had distemper. As a result, lost his ability to find his way home when out wandering. Another dog later on had distemper and couldn't stand noise. Do not get a dog that is prone to get distemper (like...who would?) But, get his shots, and remember... sometimes there are dogs who get the disease anyway. As for the breed being kind, remember Claude... that breed has been bred to protect or as police dogs. Good with families, but not with visitors. Don't do it. Maybe a female, but why? They shed a lot also.

Toby....Miniature Spitz. Yippy little dog. Again, not neutered. [Probably would have been nice if neutered]. Toby used to hump everything in sight but a female dog, but did so only once, and it was to another miniature spitz; beautiful puppies resulted, but old Toby went home with your grandmother and died with a smile on his face. His work was done.

Kiyoodle...Wonderful Wiemaraner. Judge not by Kiyoodle, we had one later that couldn't stand being alone, and learned how to open every door in the house, and if you left it locked, you ended up sorry while repairing the damage... also couldn't be left alone in the car. But Kiyoodle was wonderful. We could leave him better than take him until he got used to riding in the car and no longer tossed his cookies each time. Great with kids. Big dog.

Pup-up...Weimaraner #2... not so wonderful... see Blitzen... was the other one that got distemper even though he got his shots. Died diving under a noisy milk truck...couldn't stand any noise as an after effect of its distemper.

Kaiser... Weimaraner #3... see above described as not like Kiyoodle and became a Houdini.

Wendy... English Springer Spaniel... field breed. Wonderful with children. Good all round dog. [Tip]: Friends got male dog because of liking Wendy, only the male smelled stronger... so they said. Think theirs went hunting by himself or otherwise got in trouble roaming. Any hunting dog is going to want to team up with another hunting dog and ...go hunting. Wendy teamed up with a beagle next door... would come home to eat, otherwise, out hunting, until the beagle and family who owned him moved.

Claude... Male German Shepherd. Great with family, but wanted to be King of the World. Wanted to be the only male dog, then only male anything. Only Muffin the cat could live around him, be a smaller male animal, and live. Make good guard dogs if that's what you want or need.

Gayle... Yellow Lab... bred to be a Guiding Eyes Dog. Was wonderful with everybody, and practically invited company to come in even if a burglar... "Come in... take anything... Here... Woof! Woof!... take my chewy bones even!" But, then, you know a totally other story on Labs.

Millie...English Springer... not so wonderful with children: "What the hell are those mis-formed humans... Yuck! Growl! Keep those midgets away from me...Grrrr..."

Polly... Beagle/Basset mix... good hunter until later became gun shy. Millie jealous of Polly and knocked a tooth out... later pierced one of her ears for same reason. Polly not jealous until after Domino, and we got Bear... The "Bad News Bear." Polly was great with children until she adopted Millie's attitude about children, but is coming around again because of Bear's saving grace... I'll get to that.

Domino... German Shorthair... think personality of Kiyoodle. The second most loved dog I've ever owned. Unable to get through writer's block to write about him. However, wanted to hunt and with the company of Polly. If let outside together, they'd leave for days. Wouldn't do that alone, so we had to let out separately, and had to have one or other leashed when taking walks. Definitely needs confinement... But, a shame not to use for hunting... bred for that. Domino made a perfect retrieval of a pheasant when he went hunting with Tom.

Bear...English Cocker Spaniel...Good dog if you don't mind having a ONE PERSON dog around. He'll fixate on one person and hardly let that person out of his sight. Bear is a bit hard to bear. He's very wound up. Cannot control his zeal if he thinks I'm going outside. Always tries to get ahead of me, sometimes tripping me up. Likes to bite the outside doorknob for good luck when leaving the house. Don't let him bite your hand if you are coming in and he's going out. Don't have to worry about this dog's wandering, as he's so obsessed with me, he stays close to home. Good on walks, but likes to dig, dig, dig. Also thinks his job in life is to carry an 8' stick through the woods without getting stuck between close set trees... and has been quite adept at doing so. He was so excitable and zany I was worried about how he'd be with small children, and he turned out to be absolutely enchanted with small children...especially infants. It was his saving grace. If he is teased by older children...or me, he'll sometimes growl. He has never snapped... at least not without giving a really good growling as a warning. They have to be groomed and have their hair trimmed about three times a year. Their hair tangles terribly. They have a top notch of curls on their head that kind of gives their clownishness away. Should take care not to ever let him get fleas. That's how he got so impossible for me to groom. He always blamed me for the problem, as if my grooming him gave him fleas and made him itch. It's also how I know that he'll snap after a really good growling warning. However, he's never purposely connected and bit me. Only time bitten, by which dog I don't know, was when in a battle for my attention in the middle of the night when both Polly and Bear wanted to accompany me to the toilet and jealously fought for my attention. I tried to break up the fight. Still have the scar. Don't know which actually bit me. Bear likes to get all the attention. Poor Polly, having loved Domino so, hated Bear from the beginning... And still does. They fight quite regularly like competitive kids. Bear likes to challenge poor Polly, and Bear always has the upper paw. Though the younger dog, he's the Alpha dog. Both Polly and Bear are good riders in the car, and it's the ONLY place that you can count on Bear to be quiet and placid. But he's king of the back seat, and unless Polly gets in first, she has a hard time taking her side in the back seat without Bear challenging her. [Maybe I should have called him Fluffy or some other wimpy name...wonder if that would have made all the difference. Oh, if it were only that easy.]

So... there is my experience. I think next time I'll get a Shiatzu or however you spell it. But it will have to be able keep up with my few brisk walks a day... so, I don't know. We'll see what the Humane Society has to offer if that time ever comes.

Good luck with your next dog.

Much Love,
Mom


NOTE: This was to be the last chapter of the book, but somehow this chapter, or my mood lately has loosened up my writer's block, and I can now face writing about the end of the lives, and the short but beloved life of some of our recent favorite pets of the last 11 years.

Chapter 13 (Freedom and Animals, cont.)

Gayle‘s Companion, Millie

Tom’s dear little beagle, Holly, had the best ending to her life, being able to be unleashed because of her deafness and aged eyesight, she knew a new kind of freedom, exploring all the woods about us without restraint, but with the company of my Lab, Gayle, and myself. When Holly died, it left us with a feeling of something missing in our life, and especially with Gayle. Tom missed having a good hunting dog, and I don’t think he even realized he was looking for just that to replace Holly.

Tom and I were eating breakfast one Sunday at the Stables Restaurant in Montrose, and before going in we had seen an advertisement: “Springer Spaniel Puppies for Sale.” Over breakfast we discussed getting another dog. Having always felt responsible for anything to do with Gayle, I didn’t want to have another for whose mistakes or faults I was to be the blame. If we got another dog, I insisted it would be a dog for Tom.

Tom always liked to poke fun at me… get my goat… get me going. I guess I was funny when defending my dogs, or whatever was near and dear that he was poking fun at, or blaming it for some broken item or chewed up shoe.

Despite his barbs about Wendy, the Springer I already had when we married, who had previously proved to be a good hunting dog to the neighbor’s beagle way back when, he really had nothing against the English Springer breed, and thought they were good hunting dogs. So, we took the telephone number for the puppies, called it while still in Montrose, and having nothing better to do, went to see the puppies that very moring. There is NOTHING cuter than an English Springer spaniel puppy, and we liked one black and white female the best. The people raising the pups were from the city, and I think they had the misconception that raising puppies could be profitable. They even kept pigeons for the pups to practice their retrieving skills, and having bound a wing, would release them, and our little pup retrieved… kind of… the poor little pigeon, unharmed, but scared to death.

After worming, puppy shots, tails docked, and advertisements in the paper for pups for none under $500 and few takers, they were forced to lower the prices. We got our beautiful black and white Springer for around $300, putting what little cash was in our pockets at the time as a down payment to save this pup for us. We were already in love with her, Gayle included, as we had taken her over to meet her young companion to give her approval. We said we had to make sure the chemistry was good between the Lab and our new pup, and Gayle sniffed her approval. Later we called, and made arrangements to go down and pick up our new pup, Millie .

We still had that pet carrier, and it was just the right size for a crate for a Springer, so we decided she was to make that her crate, and she’d sleep there at night. What a baby! We were going to be hard hearted and bear with the crying for the first night, but couldn’t stand it. Little Millie, being used to sleeping with her parents and sibling pups was lonely and breaking our hearts. We knew that she’d let us know if she had to use the newspapers in the kitchen, rather than soil their place for sleep, but having brought up Gayle properly, we thought the idea of a dog having it’s own sleeping quarters was good for the dog. We finally gave in, not being able to stand the howling pup, and took her into bed with us, and before she settled down …even with our cuddling and babying her… she had those gasping sobs that a person gets who has been crying for too long a time without comfort. It still pulls at my heartstrings thinking about those puppy sobs. She claimed a spot on our bed by Tom’s feet, and was to sleep there at night for the rest of her life, and Gayle, who preferred the floor wasn‘t at all jealous.

Our new pup, Millie, seemed to want to bite Gayle’s neck in a kind of joyful glee when we’d set out to take a walk. I tried to train it out of her, though Gayle seemed to take her puppy expressiveness in stride, and in time she grew out of it, but never grew out of loving her companion Gayle.

Before long Tom was hunting and showing Millie the game… he shot a squirrel and gave Millie the skin. She dashed about the yard tossing it up and catching it and playing with it like her favorite stuffed toy. Later she went pheasant hunting with Tom, and had the same delight with the dead pheasant, not really wanting to give it up to the hunters, but did, and proved to be a good hunting dog.

Millie was Tom’s first indoor dog that was truly his own. I wouldn’t let him get away with letting me do all the exercising, though she went along on Gayle and my walks. First thing each morning when Tom went down the long driveway to get the newspaper, he was to take Millie on a leash. If Millie was sitting by anyone in the living room, it was to be Tom. Though I was equally responsible for house training--our training manual for bringing up Gayle being a big help--we raised this dog together. In looking back at the journals, I realized how alone I was at the job of bring up a Guiding Eyes Puppy, and how responsible I was for anything she inadvertently chewed or clumsily broke. I took a lot of crap, and I wasn’t going to let that be my responsibility with Millie. I even would get to say what I’d heard so often when Gayle was a pup, “Look what YOUR dog did!” It’s tough to bring up a pup. Every time I do from back when until now, I say, “Never again.” However, Millie was a gentle and lovable pup, making her puppy-hood more pleasurable than not.

Best of all, Gayle had a companion to play with, and she gladly shared her games with tennis balls and both could chew on the rawhide bones without fighting over them. When they got restless in the evening while Tom and I watched TV, we invented the game, “Hide the Bones!” They would patiently await with anticipation in the bedroom while we took fragments of Milk Bones, and hid them all around the living room and kitchen. Every place we could think to where they could track them down with their great sense of smell we’d put a fragment. Then we’d release them to find the bones. Somehow they never tired of that game… duh! Anything that involved a bone--meaning a dog treat--they would do. I can understand why dogs are so trainable, however, there’s a screw missing in my mind when it comes to dog training, as I always let them manipulate me instead. I never liked being strict with children or animals, and if I could curb their bad manners in a loving way, and as long as they didn’t do anything dangerous, I kept either on a pretty loose leash sort to speak.

To keep my grandchildren up on what was going on, I added to their photo story collection a book, Gayle’s Companion, and how she was lonely and everyone and everything had a companion in life except her until there was Millie.