Lucy

Her name is Lucy, we think. I wanted Maggie, but my two grown children shot it down because it sounded too much like her sainted predecessor, Molly. We had introduced them to her via a group skype date on something called Google chat, all very 21^st century. They were thrilled that we finally had gotten a new puppy, and immediately wanted to come home to play with her, our diabolical plan working perfectly!

 

48 hours in, Lucy is a delight. She is sweet, playful yet under control, and nothing short of adorable. She is also nothing at all like Molly, which actually is a good thing. It was surprising just how much we missed Molly once a new puppy arrived. Each Golden we have had established themselves uniquely within our hearts, making the new one no mere “replacement.” Lucy has already made her mark.

Here are the ways that she has distinguished herself from all those who came before her:

1.     She is skittish, afraid of practically everything except people.

2.     She totally ignores us at mealtime, having never been given “people food” by her first owners.

3.     Before settling down in her bed she scratches it furiously, like a cat does to a litter box.

4.     She loves to sit, gazing out of windows, and whenever she spots other dogs, barks…a practice we will break her of, since we have never owned a “barker” and don’t intend to start now.

5.     She loves to eat grass.

6.     She is an ice cube eating fiend.

7.     She is remarkably well behaved for a puppy, even knows how to sit, lay down, stay and even “wait”, skills that even I have never mastered.

8.     A true retriever, she recently brought us a pine cone in from the back yard and pranced around the family room several times with her prize.

So far, she has been the most unobtrusive dog ever, maybe owing to the fact that she is our first obedience school graduate, proving that even in the animal kingdom, education matters!

Lucy it is.

Our New Puppy!!!

It is 6:15 am and I’ve been awake for over an hour. I’m as excited and nervous as a six year old on Christmas morning. Why? Because this morning I’m getting a puppy! She is due to arrive at 8 am. She is a beautiful 5 month old Golden Retriever who we only met last night. Here’s how it happened…

Yesterday around noon Pam got an email from my niece Christina informing us that she had just had a conversation with a friend who was in the midst of several life changes that had forced her to give up her puppy. When Christina discovered that the dog was a Golden Retriever, she immediately thought of us. Several e-mails and phone calls later, there we were in our family room last night being introduced to this adorable bundle of energy with the highly problematic name of Siera.

It has been 16 months since last we had a dog in our home, but a full 13 years since we have had a puppy in our home, which is no mere distinction without a difference. Although she is a dynamo of energy and curiosity, and in the midst of the “everything goes in the mouth” stage, she is already house-trained, already knows the “sit” command, already has been introduced to car travel, and already uses and apparently loves her crate. In other words, her resigning parents are better than her new ones will be!

Pam and I are nervous. As regular readers of this space know, I have been engaged in a month’s long lobbying campaign to convince Pam to get another dog. Persistence has paid off. But now that she’s about to be delivered, we are both a bit overwhelmed at the prospect. Last night we sat on the end of the bed trying to make the decision. Yes, it will be a huge adjustment, a 24/7 responsibility which will limit our mobility, at least for a while. Yes, it will be a lot of work. Yes, it will be a not inconsequential expense. In this way, the decision to buy a dog is not unlike the decision to bring a child into the world. The plus side of the ledger contained more mystical, transcendent entries. Having a dog brings things like “joy” and “life” to us. In our newly empty house, she will inject much needed noise and activity. She will love us and be loved by us, a condition that makes any home a happier place to come home to.

“-------------,” (enter name here, suggestions would be appreciated) will change the dynamics around here. She will give both of us something new to care for, something new to nurture, something new to love. We will be made better as a result.

Totally Confused

“PROGRAMS!! PROGRAMS!! Get your programs!! You can’t tell the players without a program!!”

This old line from ballpark venders seems especially appropriate now that we are entering another war on terror in Syria and Iraq. Now that our Noble Peace Prize winning President has authorized the bombing of the third Arab country of his presidency, I as a citizen am thoroughly confused. My confusion stems from two sources.

First of all, where in the name of Jane Fonda is the American Anti-War Movement? You remember them, right? They are the guys who spent the eight years of George W. Bush’s presidency carrying signs calling for his arrest as a war criminal. They had those catchy chants, “BUSH LIED, PEOPLE DIED” and my personal favorite, “NO BLOOD FOR OIL.” With every stray bomb that killed even one Iraqi civilian, everyone from Code Pink to the New York Times would produce running counts of civilian deaths, insinuating that civilian deaths were proof positive of the darkness of Dick Cheney’s feeble heart. I could practically hear the drum beats from Pennsylvania Avenue all the way in Short Pump. But now that we are once again dropping stray bombs all over the place in Syria, hitting grain silos and killing Syrian civilians, suddenly the New York Times seems to have discovered the inevitability of collateral damage. I say this because I have yet to see any banner headlines decrying their deaths. As far as I can tell, the Anti-War people aren’t particularly incensed with President Obama’s unwillingness to obtain Congressional authority or even U.N. authority. I have spent most of my life listening to the Anti-War left prattle on about it being their duty to speak truth to power. Well, I’ve got a news flash for you guys…your guy IS the power. Speak to him!

Secondly, and just as mystifying to me. What’s with the talking heads on Fox News? Under normal circumstances, the projection of American military power in far flung places around the world is something to be celebrated no matter how dubious a connection there exists to our national security. When George W. Bush was President, his decisive, forceful interjection of our military into Iraq, especially during the famous surge was hailed from the rafters by the very same people who now project nothing but doubt and diffidence. It’s as if Charles Krauthammer has suddenly come down with a rare case of humility. In their defense, at least National Review has praised the President for doing the "right thing", but for the most part the usual war cheer-leaders have shown more passion in criticizing the President’s poor saluting skills than anything having to do with what looks to be an open-ended, multi-generational commitment of the United States military to war in the Middle East. It appears that their biggest problem seems to be that Barack Obama is the Commander In Chief.

So, I’m just totally confused.

Hamstrings From Hell

I love yard work. I always have. When I was ten years old, my Dad gave me the job of cutting the grass of our rather large yard. The first time I cranked up that lawn mower, something clicked. When my own son turned ten, I wouldn’t let him near my Toro, something for which he must have been eternally grateful. The last time my wife cut the grass was from atop her Dad’s brand new John Deere riding mower, wearing a bikini, trying to jumpstart her tan back in high school. No, at the Dunnevant estate, the yard is my thing.

Part of the attraction is the simplicity of the work. I advise people about where and how to invest their money. I implore them to plan for the future, to protect their assets from the risks associated with life’s unknowable variables, like an unexpected disability, or untimely death. It’s all very complicated and the pressure of all that cajoling, and the inherent possibility of error combine for a high stress existence. Yard work, on the other hand is gloriously straight forward. See grass, cut grass. See weed, pull weed. The best part of it is that after a couple of hours you can stand back and admire the completion of the thing. There is a marvelous sense of accomplishment that comes with finishing something.

However, not all yard work is created equal. Recently I scheduled my annual aeration and over seeding with the good people at Virginia Green Lawn Care. They gave me the following instructions: “Prior to our arrival, please try to rake out any moss you find in the back yard. This will insure proper seed growth.” My back yard has quite a bit of shade so moss does have a tendency to accumulate back there. So, Saturday morning I stepped off of my deck at 8 am, rake in hand, to get the job done. Three hours later I had a hand full of blisters and 7 fifty gallon trash bags full of moss stacked against the back fence.

I consider myself an extremely fit 56 year old. I spend close to four hours a week on a tread mill. I do curls and bench presses. I sweat profusely on the hated abdominal crunch machine. Nevertheless, when I woke up Sunday morning, both of my hamstrings were on fire. The simple act of getting out of bed sent waves of pain through my legs. It was as if I had spent ten hours being tortured by a sadistic guard at Guantanamo. Apparently, the motion of bending over to scoop up armfuls of freshly raked piles of moss was just too much for my 56 year old hamstrings to endure.

It is now Monday morning, a full 48 hours has passed since all the moss raking and I’m still moving gingerly, sitting and rising very carefully, closely resembling a much older man. The last time the back of my thighs hurt this much was after I got paddled by the principal in junior high for flying a classmate’s pants up the flagpole.

So, I suppose this is how it’s going to be going forward. Routine physical labor will visit extreme discomfort upon me the older I get, is that how it’s going to be? Well, let me tell you something. I will never give up yard work. I don’t care if it sends me to the ER, no teenager is going to touch my yard…EVER.

I think I’ll buy some Advil stock.

Meeting Denise

An idea sprang forth out of the dark corners of my imagination a week or so ago to gather together all of the blog posts that I have written over the last two years about death and dying, and format them into a book, (tentative title, “Losing My Parents”). Having just read that sentence, it sounds like a terribly depressing project, but it actually isn’t. It’s more like family history. In the past two years, I’ve lost my mother, my father and my dog. My way of dealing with it all has been to write. Some of it was born of frustration and anger, but much of it was out of admiration for not only my dying father, but the resilience of my amazing family. Gathering it all together into a narrative form might serve two purposes: to preserve an informal history of my parents for our family, and to give aid and comfort to other families who might be struggling with their own dying parents.

To that end, I reached out to my biggest fan and proofreading Nazi from North Carolina for help in getting it all organized. It just so happened that she and her husband were going to be in town this weekend for a family celebration in Mechanicsville. We decided to finally meet, for lunch at Rock Bottom at the Short Pump mall. What a delight.

Denise and her husband Herb could not have been any nicer. Up until yesterday my conversations with her had been limited to emails and texts. It’s always a bit nerve-wracking to meet someone in person with whom you have had an ongoing business relationship. I always worry what they will actually think of me. I have been told more than once that I am an acquired taste. Maybe she will discover that the quirky aspects of my personality she finds so endearing in writing will turn out to be annoying in person! And what about her? Maybe she will turn out to be a creeper/stalker type who thinks my writing is a portal to the mother ship of new consciousness! Turns out that the two of them were the nicest things ever and disturbingly similar to the two of us. We are all pretty much at the same place in life, with kids getting married and leaving the house. So we have officially made some new friends, not a bad way to spend a sunny afternoon.

So, I will let you all know how this project develops. I know how to write, but little else. The nuts and bolts of the publishing side of writing overwhelm me to the point of exasperation and dismay. Be in prayer for Denise!

Being There for the Kids

This morning my son sent me a text with a link to a story about some high-flying hedge fund manager who abruptly resigned his nine figure job after being presented with a list of twenty things he had failed to show up for by his ten year old daughter. Patrick went on to thank me for always being there for all of his games and concerts. I have been thinking about this all morning. I can’t get it out of my head. Did I really do the right thing?

It is easy to jump to the easy conclusion that, “Of course you did the right thing!! You were there for your kids!!” Part of me has no regrets since watching your kids play baseball or hearing them perform beautiful music is about as good as it gets as a parent. But, the truth is, I have always jumped at any chance to get away from the relentless pressure of my job. Having active children was a convenient and admirable excuse for walking away from the pursuit of my career periodically.

I have always fought an internal battle with myself over, for lack of a more descriptive term, success. I don’t know where it comes from, but being judged to be successful and relatively well-off has always brought with it a strange tinge of embarrassment. Growing up, I never much cared for rich people. They always seemed to be the ones who caused my Dad the most trouble at church. At school, especially college, I always resented the rich kids from New Jersey who all drove BMW’s around campus and threw their money around on the weekends while I was slaving away in a freezing cold warehouse building pallets 30 hours a week.

So, there grew up within me a raging battle between the guy who desperately wanted to make something of himself, and the guy who promised himself that he would never ever be like those New Jersey boys. The battle still rages.

So, yes, Pam and I never missed events in our kids’ lives, great and small. But I can come up with my own list of things I missed because of my choices. Had I been more committed to my job perhaps I could have:

1.     Had enough money to pay for my Son’s two year grad school degree, saving him that debt.

2.     Been able to have built that lake house in Maine by now, a place where my kids and one day their kids could gather for vacations.

3.     Been debt-free myself by now, giving me the freedom to devote more time to writing

4.     Taken my family to Europe over the summer to tour the great capitols of Western civilization.

5.     Given more money to charity

Decisions we make have consequences. For me, choosing to underachieve has had many up sides. But, these five consequences add up to a formidable down side. And they are just the first five that have come to mind. I’m sure that if I thought about it longer, the list would grow.

No matter, I made my choice. There are no do-overs. I got two great kids out of the bargain, and despite my ambivalence, having money is better than being poor. Just as being rich does not bestow goodness on the rich, there is also nothing noble about poverty. So, I suppose that if I had it to do all over again…I would.

Hannah Graham

The horrible story of Hannah Graham took an ominous turn this morning with the arrest of a suspect in Galveston, Texas. The UVA girl is still missing. It doesn’t look good.

I have watched this sad story play itself out on the news and on social media over the past couple of weeks. As a father who nervously sent his daughter 7 hours away to attend college, I know a little of the anguish Ms. Graham’s parents must be feeling at this moment. But in my case, the anguish lasted only a few minutes after I received a telephone call from an Ohio State Trooper informing me that he was with my daughter at the hospital after she had slid off the road and crashed into a guard rail off of highway 35. My heart nearly leapt out of my chest, all the air rushed out of my lungs until the moment he told me that she was unhurt and that his call was merely to verify her ownership of the vehicle. I only had to endure 90 seconds of terror. I simply cannot imagine what Hannah Graham’s parents have endured for over two weeks now.

Unfortunately, I have seen more than once an opinion expressed by people on Facebook which I think is quite disturbing. It goes something like this, “Well, it’s horrible what happened to that girl, but, for goodness sakes, any 19 year old girl dressed like a slut who gets herself all liquored up is asking for trouble.”

Where to begin?

First, it is a fact that getting drunk impairs our ability to make clear judgments, getting stumbling around drunk, even more so. It is also true that how we dress does communicate to others what we expect from an evening out. Human beings generally dress in black when in mourning, we wear sports jerseys to signify allegiance to our favorite team, and when women want to be noticed by men, generally they dress accordingly, and I for one am so glad that they do. However, was in fact Hannah Graham asking for it when she got drunk and dressed in a skimpy top? To answer yes to this questions assumes several terrible things about men and women. It paints men as knuckle dragging apes unable to control sexual urges at the mere sight of cleavage. It serves to tacitly justify criminal assault based solely on visual stimulus. It also assumes that every girl who steps out in a low neck sweater does so because she wants to be attacked by a total stranger. My experience with women, even the ones back in my college days taught me that tons of 19 year old girls LOVE to flirt, but I never met one who longed to be sexually assaulted. To equate one with the other is insulting.

As far as the drinking goes, there is little doubt that if Ms. Graham had not been drunk, she would have made better decisions that fateful night. Still, a girl who gets drunk does not forfeit her rights as a human being not to be molested. I know of no legal defense for rape that starts with, “she was drunk, so…” Furthermore, all of these accusations of drunkenness and slutty attire tend to take the focus of what really happened that night which is that a girl, someone’s precious child, in all probability got abducted, raped and probably murdered by some lunatic. Let’s save our rage and indignation for the perpetrator, shall we?