Dog Tales

This weekend was for the dogs. They had fun; I didn't. I intended to work on my novel and have it finished by Monday. Saturday morning, my wife and I decided to kick-start the day with a fun run for our dogs, then we'd busy ourselves tackling our goals. She'd clean the house, and I'd write. We decided to take our dogs to Dog Park. Dog Park is like heaven on earth for dogs. Canines come from everywhere to run, swim, and smell each other's butts. My wife leashed our three dogs while Mom climbed in the car. Everything was fine until my mother tried to sit down. Her attempt to seat herself failed, and she fell out of the car, landing on her back. I jumped out of the driver's seat and ran to the other side. There she lay, stretched out on the driveway, staring at the clear blue sky. With my wife's help, we lifted Mom to her feet. She couldn't walk because her knee hurt, but otherwise felt fine. After we arrived at the park, I helped her hobble to a bench. She had to sit down and watch the dogs from a distance.

Later, her knee still hurt, so we drove to an urgent care facility. The doctor thought her knee was sprained or fractured. She showed me the X-ray and said she wasn't sure about the fracture part. We'd have to wait a few days for the radiologist to make that determination. Meanwhile, someone had to stay with Mom twenty-four hours a day to assist her. My wife and I could manage the weekend, but what about during the work week? I looked to my kids for their assistance and they jumped at the opportunity. Offering them money also helped. Somehow, my wife and I got through the weekend, tired, yet showing few scars. Watching your mother sounds easy, but it's not. It's a draining experience. Mothers who taught their children how to take their first steps, aren't very good at listening to their adult children tell them how to walk. Our talking was bold, imaginative and incessant: "You're not supposed to walk without your walker;" "the doctor said to stay off your knees;" "you need to eat more food;" "why didn't you ask for help?" When we'd catch Mom walking on her own, she'd smile at us. That's her way of letting us know who's boss. Needless to say, it's Monday morning and my wife and I are whipped. I'll let you know how this progresses. As for my plans to finish my novel? Catching up on sleep sounds better.

Until later.

Between Two Worlds

My mind's swirling. Two of my children graduated, one from high school and the other, college. There's little time for me to take it all in. I wish life would slow down, so I could stop to savor important events. Instead, the weekends race by, Monday shows up, and it's time for work again. My schedule's too hectic, and there' s little time to reflect; only enough time to wish for more.

Nevertheless, I feel fortunate to have good memories to hold and cherish. My kids won't always be with me, and their recent graduations reminded me of that fact. When they were little, they looked forward to "special time." I'd take them on day trips, to the movies, or we'd eat desserts. Being at their graduation was just as special for me.

Until later.

How to be a Dork

Today I woke up at the crack of dawn and decided to get in a morning run. I drove to the fitness center, laced up my running shoes and set out the door for a five mile loop. The morning air was fresh, and a pleasant breeze coursed over my hair.

Then it happened. As I was making my way down a tree-lined road, someone shouted from a passing car, "HEY, DORK!" It took a few seconds for the words to register. I didn't like being the target of a joke. Besides, it was early morning and not a time to be humorous. I channeled my anger into faster running. At the finish I checked out my watch and noticed I had a fast run. At least my time was good.

Until later.

Marathon Facts

Dear Readers:

Yesterday I ran a marathon. You can tell, because today, I move very slowly and ache in a lot of places. It was one of my slower races and humbled me, again. Running 26.2 miles is really a challenge. Most of the time, no matter how much preparation you give it, something goes wrong, either before or during the race. Usually it's minor, like aches and pains, but sometimes it's more substantial, like no strength, no stamina. The stamina part is the hardest for me to figure out. Sometimes you have it, and other times you don't. This was one time I didn't have it.

My wife said I looked exhausted halfway through the race, and had bags under my eyes. Truth is, I felt like I had bags under my eyes, and I was tempted to quit after the first ten miles. It was a small marathon in Buffalo, New York. I've run there before, and usually do very well. Yesterday seemed like any other race day morning. Runners collected around the announcer, a singer belted out the Canadian and United States national anthems, the horn sounded and we were off. I spent the next 26.2 miles huffing, puffing and plodding along, and had to resort to many walking periods in the latter part of the race. I think what kept me going was knowing how bad I'd feel if I didn't finish. Finish I did, but with difficulty.

Ironically, I ran the Boston Marathon a few years ago and "quit" two times during that race. It was a hot day, and I was light-headed and beat. I remember standing in a gas station watching all the runners go by, while I waited for someone to pick me up. Minutes passed and no one came to get me, so I got back in the race and ran some more. I eventually finished the race in under four hours. Yesterday, the weather was cool and I ran a much easier course, but it took longer than Boston to complete, and I was tired the whole time. Go figure. At least I finished, so I got a medal to take home.

Until later.

Thar She Blows

Okay, so I didn't see any whales. But my car did blow a gasket. At least, that's what the mechanic figured. He couldn't be sure, unless I forked out twenty-five hundred dollars, so he could take the engine apart to see what ailed it.

I was on my way home, when all of a sudden the car died. It coasted to the side of the road. When I restarted it, a rattle could be heard under the hood when I drove off. It died again and hobbled to the side of the road. This time I got out, popped up the hood and looked inside. Some steam, but no other clues.

The wise physician engaged his mental faculties. I'd just wait for my car to get over it's hissy fit, then restart the car and slowly drive it to the nearest service station. Even a wimpy engine could make it if I was easy on it. This strategy worked for about one minute before the car died a third time. Now the dial on the dash indicated it was running a fever; Damn! I pushed it too hard. Now my car was really sick, and I was the reason. An hour later I was sitting in the cab of a tow truck next to the driver. My old car dragged along till she found a place to rest at a car hospital nearby. The mechanic said her condition was terminal, and I had to let her go. It was difficult, but I managed.

Until later.

Pick Your Pain

Dear Readers:

Today I'm having a good day. That's because last week and the week before it are behind me. The dreaded visit at the dentist's office is over, and I've finished my maiden voyage in the underground world visited by proctologists.

The dentist was bad enough. No matter how much anesthetic is given, I can always count on an uncomfortable experience. Usually, I get reassuring words like, "The shot will take the pain away," and I'm left with a drooling lip, but a partially anesthetized tooth. Halfway through the procedure I'm likely to be in a suspended state of animation, levitated several inches above the dentist's chair, my hands firmly gripping both arm rests. Somehow, the dentist got it right this time, and there wasn't any pain. But it was too late. The mental stress from years of dental work had taken its toll. I felt like I was sitting next to a guy trying to reassure me I was safe, while he defused a bomb.

The dentist was followed by another trauma -- the colonoscopy. I'm over fifty, so I'm supposed to get one to make sure I don't have colon cancer. I asked my family doctor to schedule one, since I've put it off for so long. The worst part of the procedure wasn't the colonoscopy, but the preparation; a liquid diet and laxative the day before, and no liquids the day of the procedure. That worked out to about thirty hours of no real food. By the time my scheduled colonoscopy arrived, I was feeling crummy and listless. The nurse noticed my haggard appearance and asked if I was okay. I said I wasn't. She asked if I did anything unusual. I told her I ran 10 miles, because I felt lousy. Then I knew I was in trouble. She told me I was a doctor and should have "known better" than to run on a empty stomach and dehydrate myself. I told her I felt just as lousy before the run, but no matter how much I tried to convince her, she stood her ground. Then she rounded up the troops and told more nurses. I tried a lame joke: "Hey, I'm a child psychiatrist. I never grew up." But they didn't look amused. Then I tried another one, "You know, doctors make horrible patients." They still weren't amused.

Well, the colonoscopy wasn't a big deal. No pain and I can't remember anything except telling the doctor, "Don't put this on the Internet." I was really thirsty when I got home, so I downed a milk shake, a slushy, an iced tea and some other drink. Then it all came up later when I ate dinner.

Yep, today's a good day.

Until later.

Flying Turtles

Dear Readers:

My wife and I traveled to Lake Erie this weekend for some R & R, and we checked out a bird sanctuary in a nearby marsh. It was migrating season, and warblers, some a brilliant yellow, flitted from branch to branch, high in the trees. They were hard to see with the naked eye, but my wife's binoculars brought them right up to my nose. Imagine perfectly-formed yellow balls of fluff. We saw other birds also: several eagles, an owl, and a whip-poor-will, to name a few. Serious birders were everywhere, clutching cameras and tripods, and wearing khaki outfits and broad brimmed hats. We quickly discovered if birders grouped together and pointed their cameras in the same direction, it meant there were good sightings ahead.

As I walked along the wooden walkway, I noticed something moving on the ground. A turtle, her head sticking high and sporting a bright yellow throat, was navigating over twigs and leaves. I stopped and watched her while people walked past me. They seemed disinterested in her and were focused on the air-borne creatures. But I stayed longer. Finally, a male birder walked up, and I pointed toward the turtle. He became excited and invited others to take a look. It was a Blanding's Turtle, an unusual find, and considered threatened or endangered in several states. Another man, a naturalist, stopped to give his commentary. He took some pictures and talked into a recorder. People collected around him and lingered. Soon, a crowd formed and telescopic camera lenses and tripods were all around me. I had to move away to allow a camera man a better angle for his turtle picture.

At last, my turtle found her moment of glory and her honor was restored. If only she had wings.

Until later.

Dog's Best Friend?

Why do dogs stay with their owners? And who's really in charge? Think about it. Dogs are using us. We are the ones that do all the work. Dogs don't have to take their humans out for a walk, yet we have to be their chauffeur every day. And when is the last time you saw a dog work an honest 40 hour week? They lie around every day of the year, but we only get two weeks vacation. Dogs are smarter than we might imagine. In fact, I think it's all part of some kind of dog propaganda to have us believe we're in charge. Truth be told, they hire us to take care of them. We're just a bunch of lackeys.

First we had to pay money to get one. No honest dog would cohabit with a human for free. Secondly, they make sure we promise them a lifetime supply of food and toys, before they sign on. They have a dog union, Dog Society, to make sure we get it right. If we don't, the police come and free them. Dogs pretend they're dumb just to keep us unsuspecting and under their control. They tolerate orders like, "Sit," "Bark," and "Rollover," just so they can get free treats. I heard a dog talking over Puppy Chunks one day. He was a back-alley mutt who was frustrated that his human took three weeks to learn how to give a treat. He started to miss his life on the streets and almost left, but he hung on until his master finally got it. After that I guess things worked out okay.

See you next week.

Racing Grandmas

Dear Readers:

Today, I’m at Grandma’s house. I’m helping her with leaky basement issues, bills and the like. She just came back from church and looked disgusted, waving a piece of paper. Turned out she was speeding, and the police officer awarded her a ticket. It was the first time she ever got one. I told her it was like winning the lottery, except someone else won, and she’d have to give them her money. Then I got to be the parent for a bit, and discussed the virtues of safe driving habits, all the gas money she blew, and other important lessons to learn -- sort of like what I’d heard her say when I was a teenager. I encouraged my other siblings to call her and congratulate her for reaching a major milestone and winning her first ticket. I’m tired from all the hard work and phone calls, but it was worth it.

Today, I’m going to be very careful. She might try to swat me with the paper when I’m not looking.

Juicy Lips

Dear Readers:

Another day, and what should come to mind but a man called Juicy Lips. No, this isn't X-rated stuff. More like greasy pimple-faced teenager stuff. Juicy Lips was a name the waitresses gave to a testy patron at a local restaurant. I worked one summer as a bus boy (I was the pimply teenager). This man showed up for coffee and donuts and always left a ten cent tip. He was demanding and often barked orders at the waitresses. I think what really ticked them off was the chump change he left on the table for their efforts to please him.

So the waitresses decided to organize one day. A plan to neutralize him galvanized out of thin air. Juicy Lips, a large, rotund man, so named because he had thick, round lips, shouted out his order one day for more coffee. A waitress promptly showed up and "accidentally" spilled coffee on his lap. She apologized profusely, but I could see her smiling as she headed back for more coffee. All the other waitresses hid behind a counter to watch the scene unfold. They couldn't stop laughing. I got to see it too -- that experience was worth more than ten cents.

Later gator.