What I Learned From Molly

                                                                      
                                                                                                                 
                                                                             

In the early morning hours of Thursday, May the 9^th, we lost our sweet Golden Retriever, Molly. Three weeks ago she had been diagnosed with cancer and given two weeks to live. She lived three weeks and two days before passing away at the age of 11 years, 7 months. Her last three weeks were largely spent doing all of her favorite things. Pam created a “bucket list” and took pictures of all of her adventures. Most of the time these past weeks she has been pain free, happy, and close to her old self, but the last 24 hours were quite terrible. Even so, when the end came Pam and I were both holding her and reminding her of how much she was loved and just what an indescribable blessing she had been to our lives. When we think of her, we will forget this last day and be grateful for all the many wonderful days of joy that she brought to all of us.

Like anyone lucky enough to own a dog, I have learned many things from mine over the years. But, Molly took me to school all of her life. From Molly I learned that I should accept anyone, regardless of who they are, what they look like, or how old they are. Molly believed that everyone she ever met was a potential scratcher and that if she loved them enough and they ever got invited over to dinner, they would probably love her back by slipping her some food. From Molly I learned to take my medicine, every day, without whining. From Molly I learned that a house full of teenagers was possibly the best thing ever, and I was crazy for not having a house full every night.

 From Molly I learned to never bother my neighbors, and stay in my own yard unless invited over. From Molly I learned that I should always be extra nice to young children, even if they were annoying, and loud, and pulled on your ears, because they were just kids and didn’t mean any harm. From Molly I learned that you always feel better about yourself after a bath. From Molly I learned that if you haven’t seen someone you love for a while, you should show them how much you missed them by bringing them a gift and making a big fuss. From Molly I learned to turn the other cheek, to forgive everyone for every stupid thing they ever did, because surely they didn’t mean it. 

From Molly I learned that the only two things on the face of the earth that weren’t any good to eat were uncooked celery, and uncooked carrots, everything else was nothing short of awesome. From Molly I learned that if someone leaves you alone, if you love them enough, they will always come back. From Molly I learned that the world is chocked full of millions upon millions of potential friends, those who you know, and those you haven’t met yet. From Molly I learned the value of a good nap, and that the best way to ride in a car is with your smiling face hanging out of the window.

Someone asked me once whether or not I thought that dogs go to heaven when they die. I replied, “If not dogs…who?” If our lives are judged solely on the merits, the streets of gold will be teeming with dogs with only a few humans to clean up the mess. But just to prevent some insufferable spiritual snob out there from writing me a theological dissertation of the doctrine of salvation, let me close this tribute to Molly with the lyrics of a song my brother taught me over forty years ago when my dog, Roman, had died:

                        “When I was a lad and old Shep was a pup,

                         Over fields and meadows we’d stray.

                        Just a boy and his dog, we were both full of fun,

                       We grew up together that way.

                      I remember the time by the old swimming hole

                     When I would have drown beyond doubt.

                     But old Shep, there he was, to my rescue he came.

                    He jumped in and helped pull me out.

                   Now old Shep he has gone where the good doggies go,

                  No more with old Shep will I roam.

                 But if dogs have a heaven, then there’s one thing I know,

                 Old Shep has a beautiful home.”

                                   

                                                                                

Zero Tolerance

Suffolk, Va.

Wednesday, May 8

Associated Press:

Two 2^nd grade boys from Driver Elementary school were suspended today for making shooting noises while pointing pencils at each other. The boys, aged 7, had no previous history of violence, and both ceased the forbidden activity when asked to do so by their teacher. Suffolk Public School spokesperson, Bethane Bradshaw said that a number 2 pencil is in fact considered a weapon when it is pointed at someone in a threatening way and gun noises are made. When questioned about the incident, one of the boys said that he was pretending to be a Marine and his friend was pretending to be a bad guy.

In a related note, three other male students at Driver Elementary were given suspensions last week for various infractions of the school’s tough “zero-tolerance” behavior policy. A third grade boy was sent home for making flatulent noises with his underarm, a fourth grade boy for claiming that girls have “cooties”, and a fifth grader for excessive doodling during math class. Ms. Bradshaw offered the following explanation:

“Making fake flatulent noises is potentially hurtful and embarrassing to children who inadvertently let one slip during class. At Driver, we are an accepting community, and want all of our children to feel nurtured and valued, regardless of the level of anal control they may have. As far as the “cooties” incident is concerned, we don’t think that infectious diseases, be they real or imagined, are anything to joke about.”

Ms. Bradshaw could not be reached for comment about the doodling episode, but sources have revealed that this was not the first infraction of its type in this particular math class, that in fact something close to an epidemic of such doodling has been going on in math classes throughout the Suffolk Public School system for years. It is unknown what connection, if any, might exist between long division and doodling rates.

 

For the record, the first paragraph of this blog was taken verbatim from my morning news feed. The rest of it was taken from my exasperated imagination which has come to the conclusion that public schools in this country have LOST THEIR FREAKING MINDS.  

My Amazing Niece

                                                                               

I come home from the gym yesterday afternoon to find a large box on my front steps. The label says that it is from the Bow Wow Gift Basket Company from Indianapolis, Indiana. I bring it inside and set it on the kitchen table. Molly seems to instinctively know that it is for her. Much to her dismay, I go upstairs to change out of my sweaty clothes first. When I come downstairs 10 minutes later, she is sitting in the same place she was before, patiently waiting.

Inside, there is a treasure trove of all-natural, doggy treats with bizarre names and descriptions so succulent it made me want to eat them. There were beefy cheese dogs, barkin’ blueberry bites and itty-bitty busters, all baked fresh by the good people over at the Nutty Mutt Bakery. Molly was delighted.

I tore through the box looking for a card. Who on earth could have sent such an amazing gift to my very sick dog? Then I found the note. In truth, I wasn’t surprised at all. I know very few people who would have taken the time surfing the web to find an outfit called the Bow Wow Gift Basket Company, so she could spend probably a ridiculous amount of money brightening someone else’s day. It had to be my tender hearted niece from San Diego, Lauren. A month ago, for my birthday, she was the one who sent me a box crammed full of electronic, computerized practical jokes. Thus began a week long reign of terror at my office, courtesy of the coolest, most remarkable girl I know.

There are many people I know with soft hearts, people who are easily moved, quick to feel compassion. But there are few who so eagerly attach wings to their sentiments. Many feel compassion, few demonstrate compassion. This bias towards action is what transforms mere sentimentality into grand gesture. Lauren has that rare gift, the desire to put feet to her thoughts, and that gift made for Molly and her owners a very special day.

Thanks, sweetheart.

                                                                           
                                                                             

 

Obama Is Right!

Whenever I find myself in agreement with the Obama administration about something, I usually chalk it up to that old saying about a broken clock being right twice a day. Such is the case with this administration’s approach to the increasingly dangerous situation in Syria.

Over the weekend Israel began a series of targeted airstrikes to take out newly arrived missile shipments from Iran. Before that, last week, came word that evidence has been found of chemical attacks by the Assad regime on the Syrian people. Previously, Obama had said that the use of such weapons would be crossing a “red line” that would bring some unspecified American response. Once the evidence was found, talk of red lines ceased and diplomatic double talk and ass-covering began in earnest. Good. An un-named Obama aide was quoted in the papers over the weekend asking the rhetorical question, “So, if Assad is stupid enough to use chemical weapons on his own people, how is that an American problem?” Excellent question.

An even better question would be, “As bad as gassing your own citizens is, there are far worse atrocities happening every day in Africa, but there is no talk of “red lines” being crossed. Why not?”  Come on Dunnevant, some of you will say, the Middle East is different! Yes, it is, it’s worse. If we were to intervene in some African country where some drugged out leader is committing genocide, we might actually save some innocent people. Intervening in the Middle East gets us…what exactly? What innocent people will we be rescuing in Syria? The rebels fighting Assad are as degenerate a group of thugs as has ever walked the earth! If history has taught us anything about the Middle East it’s this; the hatred and violence is unsolvable this side of eternity. Theirs is a family feud that has been raging since Eden. The United States of America has no compelling national interest in that cesspool, and even if we did, we are broke. If there isn’t enough money to keep air traffic controllers on the job, how can we afford fighting a war in freaking Syria? Besides, from the looks of things over the weekend, the Israeli air force seems more than equal to the task.

So, bravo to the Obama Administration for a healthy dose of skepticism, and an unwillingness to be dragged in to another endless Middle Eastern quagmire.

14 Days and Counting

I’m in a holding pattern. The official countdown is 14 days. That’s when I will get to see both of my children again, under the same roof, at the same time, granted, that “roof’ will be a Holiday Inn Express near Winston-Salem, NC, but beggars can’t be choosers! Kaitlin will be receiving her Masters Degree in English Literature from Wake Forest University, and we are flying Patrick down for the event.

We have reached the season in life where we can count on one hand the number of times we are all together as a family, which is natural I suppose since for 20 years we could count on one hand the number of times that we weren’t all together! We see Kaitlin much more than Patrick, and now that she has a job teaching English in Henrico County starting in August that discrepancy will grow even larger. Even though this bothers me…a lot, it falls into the ever expanding category of things about which I can do nothing. I can’t imagine many scenarios which will bring Patrick back to Richmond upon completion of his Masters studies at Westminster, so I will have to get used to these infrequent family reunions. Actually I consider myself fortunate that I will have Kaitlin so close. Many parents can't even say that.

I look at the calendar and see Thanksgiving, Christmas, perhaps Easter, and summer vacation as the four opportunities for family togetherness in the years ahead. Of course there will be many other trips to see one or the other of them, especially once they marry and especially once grandchildren arrive. But for now, it’s those four. This is not a bad thing, something to lament and complain about. It means that my children are getting on with life, becoming functioning adults, fully participatory citizens. It also means they haven’t become unemployed, aimless wastrels living rent free in their old bedrooms, good thing since Patrick’s old bedroom is now a movie room. Sorry Bud.

What this all means is that we will have to make the most of our opportunities. Two weeks from today will be a fabulous day. We will celebrate Kaitlin’s accomplishments; we will go to see the Great Gatsby, we will eat an expensive dinner somewhere, then sit around drinking coffee and having fun.

Can’t wait!  

More War Stories From Dad

Last night we took dinner over to Dad. After the dishes had been put away, we sat down in the den with him to visit for awhile. Out of nowhere he started talking about his time in the Navy during WWII. For the first time, he told the story of how he came home. It was fascinating stuff and illustrates just how small our world has become.

Dad had been sent with four others from the New Hebrides Islands to another base a thousand miles away for purposes that were unclear. When the job was done, he and his mates hitched a ride on a merchant marine tanker for the thousand mile trip back to the New Hebrides Island base that was his home. The voyage took 5 days, and by the time he finally made it back, he was informed that he had missed the troop ship that was supposed to take him back to the states, and another one wouldn’t be available for three weeks! The duty officer gave him a jeep to drive and told him that he would be duty free until his ship arrived. Two and a half years since leaving home, 8,000 miles from family, 110 degrees in the shade, and nothing to do for three weeks!

Finally, his ship arrived and he made the voyage from the South Pacific to San Francisco. Once there, he boarded a troop train that meandered across the country to Little Creek, Virginia near Newport News. There he was debriefed, and checked for diseases, then discharged. He boarded a bus that delivered him to Farmville, then a taxi that drove him the last 17 miles to the home he hadn’t seen in 2 and a half years. The first person to see him was my Grandmother, who burst into tears at the sight of her boy and said, “God has brought you back to me!” Then my Aunt Emma, who had become a beautiful 13 year old teenager while Dad was away, ran up to hug him. Quite a scene.

I cannot imagine as a parent, sending my child off half way around the world into harm’s way for 2 and a half years, knowing that I would never see them or hear their voice the entire time they were away. When Kaitlin spent 12 weeks in China a couple of years ago, we would have skype dates where we could look at her and catch up as if she was in the room. Despite those virtual visits, it was nerve-wracking to be so far from my only daughter. I can’t imagine how much worse the sense of isolation and helplessness would be if she had been at war and I had no communication with her. The technological advancements we take for granted have indeed made our world a much smaller, less foreboding place. My Grandmother wouldn’t recognize this world. It makes me wonder what’s in store for my unborn grandchildren.

My New Machine

Any motivational speaker worth his salt will tell you that your attitude determines your altitude, or something like that. In other words, how you choose to think about something goes a long way towards determining how you feel about it. Is the glass half empty or half full? Is that a light at the end of the tunnel or a train? Does that envelope you just got in the mail from the IRS contain a refund check or an audit notification?

I am the new owner of a Phillips Respironics Remstar Pro C-Flex+ with a System One Heated Humidifier and the Resmed full face mask, deluxe model 2. I have been avoiding this purchase for over 15 years but was recently lured back into the CPAP world with promises of newer, sleeker designs which were much less “intrusive” than older models. One advertisement I read, while waiting to be fitted for the above device, claimed that its product was so comfortable; I might forget that I was even wearing it! Unfortunately for me, that particular model didn’t work for my particular “face shape”, which was a very polite term my technician used when she meant to say, “ginormous nose”. So, I am stuck with a full face mask that I feel certain I will never forget that I’m wearing.

The physics behind this contraption is rather straight forward. To prevent you from snoring and gasping for breath all night, the machine forces air at varying degrees of pressure through your mouth and nose. The pressurized air forces your nose and lungs to stay sufficiently open all night which allows you to sleep peacefully and quietly through the night. Think of that Golden Retriever with his head out the window of a car driving down the interstate, jowls flapping in the 70 mph breeze and you’ve got the picture. Or at least that’s how they drew it up back at the lab. The problem is…getting comfortable with the mask. If the fit is too loose, air rushes out all around the fit, making a noise something like a level 5 hurricane and waking you and everyone within a two mile radius up 7-10 times a night. But, if the fit is too tight you wake up with deep red lines imprinted in your face, making you look like the psycho villain in all those slasher movies. This is where this attitude business comes in.

When I put the mask on and look in the mirror, I have to decide who it is that I see. I am either a dying asthmatic, Hannibal Lecter when the cops first arrested him and slapped that thing on his face to prevent him from eating his guards, or a brave and heroic B-17 pilot braving a sky full of flak, flying day time bombing missions over Berlin in WWII, or even a Top Gun pilot flying an F-14 Tomcat somewhere in harm’s way. It’s all about attitude.

Last night, I fell asleep with scenes from “Memphis Belle” playing in my head, and slept straight through the night. This morning I feel well rested and energetic. As a bonus, that ammunition factory on the outskirts of Berlin is a smoking pile of twisted metal baby!!