BbbbBbbbbbaby Itttttttt's COLD Outside! An Ode To First Responders

I woke up on December 10th just like any other winter day -- Wishing I didn't have to get out of my warm bed.  But the cold nose pressing on my cheek nudged me to my senses.  Enzo had to pee.  He's a great alarm clock.  If I wait more than two more minutes, he will be hopping up and down by the gate like a kangaroo.   Groaning, I get myself up.  I clap my hands, shout out to my cold-hating-at-all-costs iggie, Mia, who just peeks her nose out from the pile of blankets she's buried under and gives me the look.  The look that says, "You have GOT to be kidding me!    I can hold it at least two more hours mom."     Whipping the blankets off her hot body,  I nudge her off the bed.  Yup, if I gotta face the frozen tundra this morning, so do you....C'mon kids...lets GO POTTY!

Enzo runs to the sliding glass door to our three-seasoned porch and starts his kangaroo jump....boinga, boinga, boinga.   Hurry Mom!   I have to PEEEEEEEE.    I slip on my nightgown.  Bed clogs too.  Grab my house phone...a habit I started this spring after fracturing numerous bones in my foot -- so that I wouldn't have to try to get to it quickly if someone calls, or in case I were to fall and need help...clip it onto my not-quite-see-through nightie.   Coat?   Naw....I'll only be out a second.

I open the sliding glass door, go through the three season porch, our little orange mischief cat, Finnegan,  indy 500 racing between my feet to join us.  Unlock the glassed-in screen door that goes to the outside, and let both dogs out.   I stand inside the protective glass windows of the three season porch with Finny, watching the dogs intently.   Enzo does number one.  Check.  He races back up the stairs to be let in.  I tell him NO -- go back out and make a poopie.  He knows what it means....he may be simple, but he knows the difference.   And he obeys.  He poopies.  Check.  Mia squats and pees too, then lifts two legs and looks pitiful.  I know better than to lock wills with her.  Once she lifts two cold feet, she's done.  She will stand there for eternity, giving me that "I will not do one more thing, 'cause it's too darn cold out here!" stare.  Recognizing her glare, knowing I cannot force her to poop when she's cold, I let them both in.  Okay, one down.   I'll need to wait until Miss Mia warms up totally now, and then try her again.   Sometimes it takes up to four warm up times to get a poop out of her.  It's exasperating to me.  The Upside though, is that it is teaching me to be a patient person.   Well....that's at least what I like to tell myself.   (Good friends will tell you otherwise).

I flick on the weather channel.  Oh My.  Wind Chill is - 15 degrees.  Wind 16 miles per hour.   It REALLY IS nasty out there.   Click off the television.  Time for another poopie try with Mia.  This time I will go outside with her, to encourage her.  I clap my hands, coo at Mia encouragingly, begging her  to come with me outside.  She sits, looks at me like I am crazy, and then slinks to go hide behind the couch.  I make my voice a little more stern, hoping to sound like an alpha dog.  HA!  THAT doesn't work.  So, I get trickier.  I sit my butt on the couch and start loving on Enzo.  My dogs are jealous of each other....I know this will bring Mia out from behind the couch because she cannot stand Enzo getting all the loving.   Yup.  It works.  Up she jumps, nuzzling her big white body under Zo's to get the closest proximity to me.  I love on her a little, talk in a high squeaky voice, grab her collar.  Gotcha!     We ARE going outside.  You WILL poop outside.   I walk her to the glass door, open it, and out we go...Once again, Finny runs into the glassed in porch.

Brrrr.    Mia runs out to the shoveled grass.  Circles. Circles again.  This is her typical pre-deposit dance.  I think we are going to have a touchdown here.   Then, up comes the foot.   No more circles.  No poopie.  Foul.  No touchdown.  Instead,   The two legged stare.
I realize this is going to take a few more tries.     Okay, lets go in.

I reach up to the handle of the door,  press in the nob, and nothing happens.  It won't press in.  Somehow, in a freak turn of events, the door has automatically locked behind me.  I jiggle the  handle.  Nothing.  I punch it.  Nothing.   My heart starts to race.   I try the windows.  Locked.  Tight.  I kick the door with my bad foot.  BAD idea.  Ouch.  That was REALLY dumb!

It is minus 15 degrees out here.  The wind is howling.  Mia is shaking, her teeth chattering so loud I can actually hear them.  And she's starting to cry.    I begin to panic.  My husband works 20 minutes away. I dial his cell number.   No answer.    My panic notches up.  MY teeth are chattering now.  It's been at least 10 minutes trying to problem solve.  My cell phone, which has all my numbers in it, is in the house.  So, even though I do have the house phone clipped on my nightie, I have no numbers programmed into it...and my mind has gone blank.   

Under a normal situation, I'd call my neighbor Sandi, a few blocks away.  She has a house key.  But my mind seems to have frozen shut.  The only number I can think of is of a friend 45 minutes away.  I try her.  No answer.    I jiggle the door a few more times.   Bang on it hard.   Finny watches me from inside.  I can see him shivering too now.

Okay, simple,  just walk around to the front of the house....then I realize I can't.   Just two weeks ago we had a 6 foot high fence installed in our back yard, with three gated entryways, all of which I have padlocked.  And the keys are inside the house.  

As I've shared before, I am a fat woman.  In this situation, that proves to be both good and bad.  Good, because I have enough extra flesh that I won't freeze to death in ten minutes.  Bad, because there is no way in this universe that I am going to be able to hike this enormous body six feet up and over a fence.  I am trapped.   LIterally, held prisoner, in my own back yard.  Approximately 11 minutes into this ordeal, my brain instructs me to call 911.   My fingers are already numb.  Clumsily I punch in the numbers.   

I try to not sound like I am ridiculously cold.  But I am.   I tell the 911 dispatcher that I am outside, in a very thin nightie, with an almost fur-less dog (who she can hear iggie-screaming in the background because she is so cold).   She instructs me to do all the same things I have already done -- with the exception of kicking the door with my already broken foot.  (Smart Lady).  She tries to call my husband.  No answer.  She calls another neighbor.  Nada.  And another.  Nyet.  By now, it's been at least 15 minutes outside and I revert to babbling...berating myself, and sadly, swearing.  I grew up in a family where swearing is an every sentence conversation pattern.  I've tried to change.  And for the most part, I have.  But now, in this crisis, I revert back.  I am embarrased.  But I don't really care.    The dispatcher tells me that police and paramedics are en route.   

She keeps me on the phone.  But I'm hardly listening to her anymore.  I've got to save my dog.  Mia looks like she's in shock.  Quaking.  I bend down and pick her up, and even though my hands barely work now, I manage, somehow, to stuff her down the neckline of my nightie.  I wrap my arms around her.   She still has some warmth to her -- but I can feel it ebbing away.  I begin to cry, telling her how sorry I am for being such a bad iggie mama.  I should have thought to make sure she had her sweater on.  I should have let her crap in the house instead of going outside...

Twenty two minutes now since I took her outside.  I can no longer feel my toes.  Not even the broken ones.  I rage at the 911 operater, asking her what is taking them SO LONG!   My nose is running.  My tears are freezing to my cheeks.  She tells me to start counting backwards from 100.  I tell her to go to hell.  Then I apologize to her.  Though hell sounds pretty good about now -- at least it would be warm.

She reminds me over and over that help is on its way.   Amidst my tears I tell this all-too-monotone- and calm-lady that I've imagined my death before.   I always thought I'd die of a heart attack...or maybe from cancer.  Never from freezing to death.  Not in my back yard.  Then I start to laugh.  Almost maniacally.  It dawns on me now why they call dead people stiffs.   Especially if they are cold, which they are, in a morgue.  Just like me, now.  I'm stiff.  And, I'm gonna die.  I think she realizes I've about lost it....because she keeps telling me they're coming.   Soon.  Hang on.    I just laugh.   And I babble to Mia, apologizing to her over and over for the predicament we're in.

It's been 33 minutes.  I have nothing to break the windows with - just my bare hands.  And I realize if I do that, Finny will be shattered with glass, and could possibly jump out the window too.  The 911 gal informs me that help is out front.  I stand up, holding Mia, my nightgown tucked under her, leaving my all togetherness....well, not quite all together.  Three minutes pass.  I scream at Mrs. 911 and tell her I see no signs of any help.  She tells me to be patient.  Bleep.  Too embarrased to repeat my response here....

Then I see him.  Cutest damn cop I've ever laid eyes on.  Blue eyes, black hair, gorgeous.  He comes over the fence.  Like in a single effort, too.  He acts like I am fully clothed.  He pounds on my lock.  Tries the windows.  Within minutes he is joined by several other cops and some paramedics.  They put blankets over me and Mia, and proceed to try to find a way into the house.  They'd rather not break a window or ruin anything -- it takes them approximately 7 more minutes to figure out a way in.  

At the 40 minute mark, Mr. Blue eyes opens my door from the inside, back into heaven.  Heat.  The door automamtically locks behind him, locking out the others.   Handsome tells me that we better replace that lock or the door completely -- and reopens it to the rest of the first responder entourage.

They want to check me over.  Listen to my heart, examine my feet and hands.  Miss Vannah White paramedic courages me to go with them to the ER.  I tell them thanks, but no thanks.  I'll call them back if I think I need that.  Honest, I will.  Once they are sure I am not going to die on the spot, they reluctantly leave.   

I am alive.  But I am still really really cold.   Mia hasn't budged from her frozen state since I put her on the floor.  I pick her up, walk to the bathroom, step in to the shower, nightie and all, and turn the water on as hot as either of us can handle.   I sit on the shower chair, holding my white iggie popsicle, and I weep.  Thirty minutes of full-on hot shower and Mia finally stops trembling.  I still feel chilled to the bone.

I get out of the shower and blow dry my baby.  She is happy now -- her tail wags and she licks my face.  We both go to my bed and crawl under the blankets, along with Enzo, who just looks at us quizzically, but cuddles with us.

I think about my nephew-in-law, Matt, who is a volunteer firefighter in another town, another state.  I think about Mr. Blue eyes.  And I am thankful.   Thankful for 911 and for the training they must go through to be so calm.  Thankful for first responders who come to our aid.   Thankful that I'm not a dead stiff.  

My alarm goes off, and the music comes on.   "Oh, the weather outside is frightful, but the fire is so delightful...."     Ironic, I think.   The next song plays.....   "Baby, it's cold outside."   Yes, indeed, it is.

Thank you, first responders.

Normay: My Other Mother

Hi Y'all,

I'm not sure about you, but every once in a while I have one of "those" days.

Usually, I'm pretty much an optimist. I mostly wake up on the right side of the bed, ready to face the world.   I see the glass half full.  Look for the silver lining.  Dig until I see the "Up Side" to any given situation -- even the difficult or seemingly tragic ones.

But this week, well, I had one of THOSE days.  I woke up and wished I could just color the sky dark, go back to sleep, and not have to walk in my own shoes or my own skin.

Granted, I had a "bug" that was wearing me down.  One of those cold-turned-into-chills, running-a-temp kind of days.  I'm sure that had something to do with it.  Other than that, the world was still on it's axis, my relationships were relating, and I still had all the normal blessings that I had in my life same as the day previous.  I just felt like crying.   I wanted to feel sorry for myself.  I wanted to take a vacation from being upbeat and positive.  I even felt like questioning God....and suggested to him that perhaps he wasn't playing fair.  

Usually, when I encounter one of these rare days, I suck it up.  I look at my daily calendar and start ticking off my list.  By the time I reach the second or third item on that list, I am usually back in the saddle and the cloud has lifted.  But not this day.  This day I just couldn't seem to get a leg up.  I forced myself to get up, showered, dressed.  Loved on my Critters.  Called a couple of friends to ask how THEY were doing.  (Focussing on others is usually the best medicine for one of those moods).

Yet, by the end of the day, I still felt hollow.  Like my soul, itself, was sad.  As I tried to sleep that night I tossed and turned.  I ached inside.  And then it dawned on me...the day before had been my late mother's birthday.  She's been gone 11 years now.  I had talked with my sister and we had reminisced about some of my mother's finer points.  It's something we do together every year....call each other on our parent's birthdays.  Both are gone.  They died 18 days apart.  We remembered her long lost recipes, which neither of us had written down, and are now gone forever.  It had been a good conversation.  Yet, this time, I guess it just left me missing her.   It reminded me of all the things I wished I had said to her when I still could.  Brought to mind all the regrets I had from being a selfish person in my young life...especially in my twenties.   I longed to hug her.  Tell her she was a good mother.  That I was sorry for the times I wasn't very loving.

Finally, just before dozing off, I realized -- even though I could not go back and do those things....I could pay it forward.

Let me explain.

Several years before my mother (parents) died, a very special woman entered my life.  Her name was (is) Normay.  We met at church.  She was in her late 70's at the time, and even though 35 years apart in age,  we hit it off right from our first encounter.  Our friendship flourished.  We spent many hours talking, laughing, and sharing life stories.  Little did I know then, that the relationship would become very much like a mother/daughter.  Or that just a few years after our meeting,  my biological mother would die, going into a coma before I could get to her side and say goodbye.

Normay loved me through that time.  She shared stories from her life.  Good and bad.  And she spoke truth to me.  When I was being a brat, she told me so.  And when I was on the right track, she was my best cheerleader.

As I lay in bed thinking about my mother, I thanked God that he in some ways, had given me a chance to have a "do over."  I asked God to help me.  To allow me to let my regrets go, and help me to pass on love to this second mother figure instead.  I needed to see Normay.  I wanted to touch her hand.  Tell her how much she means to me. 

But here's the problem.  I am currently on crutches and can't drive due to spontaneous fracturing in my right foot and am temporarily dependent on others to provide transportation for me.  I didn't want to put anyone out with an "extra" ride request, since my friends are already helping me out a lot with other transportation "needs."

The amazing thing:  The next day a mutual friend asked me about Normay.  Since I've not only been Normay's friend and "adopted" daughter" for many years now, but have also been her Health Care Power of Attorney for some time, I get regular updates on how she is doing, even if I currently don't get a chance to visit her much.  I was able to share with this person that the last report was discouraging because Normay was feeling very depressed and had expressed thoughts about giving up.  This person could tell just how much I really wanted to see Normay.  And bless her heart,  she offered to take me for a visit.  

So today, we spent a nice chunk of the afternoon visiting Normay.   We brought a special visitor along as well.

You see, when Normay had to give up her independence and move to a nursing home, she couldn't bring her cats with her.  She is an animal lover like me...and having to give up her fur babies was really difficult for her.  (One of her sons, Matt, took them in).  I wasn't able to bring her own cats to visit her.  But I was able to bring our adolescent kitten, Finnegan.   She had met Finney once before, right after we adopted him.  And then my foot fell to pieces, literally.   She wasn't expecting to see me.  And indeed, it was clear when I saw her that she was going through a rough spell.  

I took pictures of the transformation that a little orange kitty can have on a tired and depressed old woman.  I'd like to share my visit with you.

I also wanted y'all to know:  you may not always be able to have what you want.  But if you dig deep enough to figure out what is going on inside, and you decide to pay it forward to someone else when you are feeling blue yourself, you just might find a hidden blessing in having one of "those" days.

Normay, I love you.  I'm glad I could cheer you up, even just a little.   Your presence in my life has nourished my soul.  You'll always be:  my other mother.

Heaven's Hound: In Memory of Kirby, My First Soul Dog

Hi Y'all,

When I wrote blog #2, I mentioned that Enzo is my second soul dog, and that I never thought I'd have another dog that I could possibly love or be loved by as much as my first soul dog, Kirby.

I wrote this story back in June, 2010, just a few days after Kirby died.... A tribute of sorts, to a dog that taught me how to love.  Who saved me.  When I wrote this, it was a catharsis.  A way of grieving.  And oh, did I grieve.   To any of you who have ever had, and then lost, a soul dog....you will understand like no other.

I was so blessed to have Kirby for two weeks shy of 16 years. He truly was my soul dog. Incredibly, I can now say, sometimes lightening strikes twice in the same place.  I now have a second soul dog, Enzo.   He will never take Kirby's place.  But I consider myself blessed, to have loved and lost, and now to be able to love again.  

Join me, please, as I tell you the story of my first love, Heaven's Hound...

July, 1994 brought devastating news.  The dreaded disease that seemed to haunt my entire family came to visit me.  The Big "C."  Cancer.  I was living in Austin...far away from my family.  I had been married only three years.  My husband's job had moved us from the Midwest to his native state of Texas:  a very foreign and lonely place for me...especially since Del traveled almost full-time with his job.  He'd fly home on Friday night, and be headed out by Sunday evening for another week away.

There are many kinds of therapies one can choose when fighting cancer.  I chose two.  The first, chemotherapy.  The second, a seven and one-half-week old miniature dachshund named Kirby.

Kirby was short, squatty, and full of personality.  His head was too big for his body; his ears longer than he was.  He fit in the palm of my hand, and molded to the shape of my heart.  It was love at first sight.  With Del gone so much of the time, facing cancer alone was daunting.  Kirby made it bearable.  No matter how low I got, Kirby made me laugh.  Chemo took it's toll, and at times it was all I could do to crawl out of bed.  Nausea came in waves, bringing me to my knees.  I often felt like giving up.  But then, there was that little reddish-brown, long-eared squatty body, eyes dancing, bouncing with life, little boy-puppy who needed me to care for him.  He'd peer out of the netted playpen where I kept him safe when I couldn't keep an eye on him.  One look at his sparkling eyes and the sound of his plaintive little squeaks reminded me that you can't lie down and welcome death when you have a little bundle of energy to walk, feed, play with, and nurture.

We bonded intensely.....so much so that my husband coined a nickname for him.  The name?  "Umbilical Boy!"  He was my sidekick.  My constant companion.  Even my protector.  At the tender age of one, while my husband was away, we were burglarized in the middle of the night.  I was sleeping fitfully, and thought I heard a sound like a zipper being unzipped.  It was my master bathroom screen being cut.  A STRANGER WAS IN MY HOUSE!  Kirby literally flew off the bed with and with a  vengeance, attached himself to the burglar's leg.  I rolled off the bed onto the floor.  The 911 operator assured me help was on the way.  A pungent odor of strong aftershave and cheap booze stung my nose.  I thought the deafening beat of my heart in my own ears was going to give my hiding place away.  I could hardly breathe.  Kirby was shaken off and kicked repeatedly.  Tenaciously he grabbed the intruder's leg again and again.  His yelps of pain caused me to fear for my life, and for Kirby's.  The 911 operator kept talking to me, encouraging me to remain quiet and still.  Although it seemed an eternity, within minutes the house was surrounded and the robbers were apprehended.  The police advised me that my little super hero probably saved my life.  The men were high on drugs and alcohol and were known to be unpredictable and dangerous.  Kirby limped over to me, blood seeping from his ear and nose.  Even then, after sustaining four broken ribs and internal bleeding, Kirby brought laughter.  When I let the police into the house, Kirby's greeting was to roll over and baptize the officer's shoe...and with more than a little sprinkle I might add.  He had that way about him...always able to break the tension.

Chemo continued to ravage me - leaving me depressed and angry.  Losing my hair caused me to feel ugly and freakish.  I felt my dignity ebbing away with each clump left behind on my pillow.  Then I found out that all those toxic chemicals assaulting my body had left me sterile as well.  I would never hold a child of my own in my arms -- something I wanted almost more than life itself.  At times I felt so hopeless and alone I wanted to die.  But somehow, I found the courage to pray and ask God to give me the will to fight.  He gave me that will in the form of my little wiener dog.  In my moments of deepest despair, Kirby would sense my mood. At these times he would boldly demand my attention, distracting me from my emotional descent.  He would bark, all four wrinkly feet lifting off the floor, as if he were saying "Hey Mom, Look at me!  Come throw me the ball!  Can't you see how adorable I am?  Don't you know how much I love you?  His zest for life - and love for me - gave me much-needed doses of hope and encouragement.

Often I felt myself nursing bitterness towards God because of the toll cancer had taken on my family -- on me.  But each time my heartache and pain caused me to wrestle with these feelings, Kirby's unconditional love helped erase the bitterness.  Kirby's ability to trust and love me so completely, taught me slowly over the years, to trust God, and to transfer my abiity to love to HIM.  If a tiny barking bundle of spit and vinegar could trust and love me, how much more could I trust and love the Creator of the Universe?

Kirby's zeal and gusto for life won my heart...and not only mine, but everyone who ever met him.  If there was such a thing as a dog smiling with his whole body...that was Kirby.  This little pup didn't walk...he bounced.  He didn't just greet you...he GREETED you.  He was SURE that when you came to visit, you were there to see him.

Kirby loved people of every color, shape and size...his myriad of tricks entertained young and old alike. Children clapped their hands with delight, never tiring of his antics and arsenal of tricks.  Seniors warmed their laps with him, and in the nursing homes we frequented, they eagerly anticipated the thrill of throwing him a ball to fetch, waiting with wide grins to watch him prance his way back to them, ball in mouth, eyes alive and tail wagging.  He knew when to be calm and tender with them, and when to turn on his glorious energetic charm.

And he was never so happy as when he got to go car riding...folks always recognized my car by my license plates....WNRDAWG.  THAT'S RIGHT.......D.A.W.G.   He was, of course, a TEXAS wiener dog!

Little did I know when I got Kirby to help me fight that first battle with cancer, that he would help me fight that wicked disease two more times.  He always seemed to know when the war raging within me was at its worst...he'd crawl up next to me and refuse to leave my side.  Nothing could budge him.  Not his favorite toy.  Not his favorite treat.  He knew his job was to love me back to health...and he did his job valiantly.

At age 14 he began to slow down.  Arthritis brought on from all his bouncing and super-dog antics took its toll.  But the cataracts shadowing his eyes refused to shadow his heart.  He kept loving, touching every life he came in contact with, albeit a little less exuberantly.  At age 15 I began to see more decline, and on three separate occasions I carried my little guy to my vet's office.   Pam had been Kirby's vet for his last 12 years.  She knew him well.  On each occasion I sought her advice.  Was it time?   Each time Pam's response was, "No, not yet...he's still got some good quality of life."

Kirby was my life-gift.  And I knew in my heart of hearts that I would not allow my own selfish desire to have him with me always, keep me from doing the thing any animal lover hates to do...put their beloved companion to sleep.  

But then, he began to lose weight....rapidly.  His spine began to protrude.  His belly became distended.  And he slept.  A LOT.  He no longer followed me from room to room, like my shadow.  He stopped asking to go out.  More often than not, he just piddled wherever he stood.

Two weeks before he died, he began to whimper.  First a little...then more each day.  With almost daily progress reports, Pam and I set up a time for her to come to the house to check on him...with a contingency plan for her to bring euthanasia supplies along, just in case.  

The day before the anticipated visit, I stayed home all day.  I refused most phone calls.  Every minute was spent by my buddy's side, cuddling him, talking softly to him, telling him what a miracle and gift he was.

The next morning, while we were on the phone confirming the time she would come, Pam heard his whimpers.  She could tell the difference between his "senile" sounds and these whimpers.  These were cries of pain, she said.  When Pam arrived, she didn't even have to touch him.  She knew immediately that he had developed a mass in his belly....probably the big "C."  She could tell by the classic signs...protruding spine, bulbous belly...drastic weight loss.  Her exam confirmed the worst.

She looked me in the eyes...tenderly, tearfully.  She said the words I dreaded most.  "It's time, Peg.  Kirby's counting on you to do the right thing.  He was there for you; now you need to be there for him."

So, with daggers of grief ripping my heart wide open, I held my little guy in my arms as she gave him a sedative to make the passing easier.  His little head draped over my arm.  He looked up at me with his big brown eyes, and I could see deep into his very being...I could almost read his mind...."Mommy, I hurt.  I'm tired.  My job is over.  I taught you to love and receive love.  Now Jesus can do my job.  Let me go to HIM, because now I need healing..."    And so, in the end, though Cancer tried to take me, and ultimately tried to take my wonder weenie dog...Jesus won out.

As Kirby breathed his laslt breath and my ear against his chest heard the last beat of his heart while on this earth, healing became complete.  We were both cancer free.  Love was victorious.

I held his limp body in my arms.  And though my heart was breaking, a scripture came to mind..."I make all things new."

I know Kirby is having the time of his life playing fetch with Jesus.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I'll always love you Wiener Boy.  You taught me so much.  Thank you.  You owned my heart.  And because of you, I'm able to share it with another.  I'll see you again on the other side.  Be watching for me.  Love, Mom.

Kirby and Inky:  They died a year apart.  Kirby, my soul dog.   Inky:  My psycho iggy who taught me that no matter how hard things get, if you dig deep enough, there's always more to give.  I miss you both.

My Fur Babies: An introduction

Hi Y'all,

First of all, thank you for giving my first post a look-see.  As of today, I've had 148 hits.  And yes, since I'm a little OCD (Just a little), I've checked the number about 30 times in three days!   (My settings don't register when I visit my blog).   I just can't help myself!   To think that 148 people would take the time to read my blog post....well, let's just say, y'all made my day.

Now, you'll notice I use the phrase y'all a lot.  First:  I'm not from Texas.  I'm not even from the south.  My husband is the Texan.   And yes, the accent is rather endearing.  But friends, I'm a Yooper.  And for those of you who don't know what that means:  I'm from the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.  We're a special breed up there.  We have our own language and our own colloquialisms...Like...."Ya, Sure, Youbetcha, hey?"   Or,  "I think we're out of paper towelling."  Or, "Youse Guys coming with us?"

But the Y'all....that's something I picked up from my hubby...

I mentioned the loves of my life in my first post.  Today, I'm going to introduce the fur-babies.   Some of my future posts will be about them....so you might want to recognize these lovely faces:

That's Del and me.  His smile is infectious.  When I married him 22 years ago, he had a LOT of hair, both on his head and on his face. Because of that, he qualified as one of my fur babies.   Let's just say....time changes things.  ;-)   In this picture I think I had just stuck some goodie in my mouth (a chronic habit of mine!)!.  

Del's a good guy.  He's got the best sense of humor, although it can be on the dry side.  

He shares the same love for animals that I do.  The only exception...BIRDS LOVE HIM!    Me, they hate.  He's been the proud owner of some very special birds in our 22 years of marriage.  To name a few:  A Yellow Nape Amazon by the name of Lizzie, who willingly regurgitated her food at him anytime she laid eyes on him (a sign of true love in the bird world), a beautiful senegal parrot named Zeke, (Del's soul bird) who we had to put to sleep due to lead poisoning (a story I'll share in another blog), a breathtaking,  sweet, hand-tame, nectar-eating Rainbow Lorikeet named Liz (who became un-hand-tame when I stuck her under a warm faucet to remove all the sticky nectar on, in, and under all her feathers while Del was on a business trip).  After that experience it dawned on me why birds hate me - and I was no longer permitted to care for his birds.   DUH?!!!

Back to Del.   The more tired he gets, the sillier he gets.  By 9:30 at night it is not uncommon to hear him laughing like a heyena in the bathroom as he shaves and gets ready for bed.   I'm usually not privy to the private jokes he's telling himself, but I gotta tell you, just hearing his hoots from the bathroom gets me to laughing too.

Del is not a morning person.  Me?  I wake up with a smile on my face ready to engage with the world.   Suffice it to say, best to not talk to "you know who"  until he's had a few cups of coffee,  his snuggle time with all four critters in this house, and he's spiffed up to go to work.  Even then, he's a man of few words.

We're different in a lot of ways.  He's introverted; I'm extroverted.  He's a thinker; I'm a talker. Actually, I process my thoughts as I talk.  

He's thin.  I'm.....NOT.  (Already told y'all about THAT)!

We both like Art.  The Theater.  Music.   He's instrumental and rock; I'm Country through and through with a little Christian Pop.

Next comes Enzo.  Enzo is my 7 year-old male Italian Greyhound.    I got him from the late Lifeline Italian Greyhound Rescue in June, 2011,  three days afer having to put my first "iggy" (Inky) to sleep.

Just a year before that,  I had to put my soul dog, Kirby, to sleep at the ripe age of 16 due to cancer. (I'll post about that experience another time).   I never imagined I'd have another soul dog in my lifetime.  Enzo was being fostered in Minneapolis, MN., a 4 1/2 hour drive from Madison, WI.  Both my husband and my BFF, Jenn,  were unsure about me getting another dog so shortly after the death of Inky.  So, they made a pact.   They would humor me.  Jenn and I would drive to Minneapolis to to do a meet-and-greet.  However, no way, no how, would we be leaving with this dog UNLESS and UNTIL Jenn and I left the premises, WENT AND HAD LUNCH to DISCUSS this dog, and then discussed it some more.  Then, and only then, IF I had Jenn's blessing, would that dog be coming home with us.

Somehow I knew, tho.   You see, Inky had the same ears.  One up, one down.  And all my animals have quirks.  So, that silly tongue sticking out of Enzo's mouth surely fit as a qualifier.  My heart fell in love with his picture.

All the way up to Minneapolis Jenn tried to keep me from getting excited.  She told me not to get my hopes up.  She reminded me about the lunch requirement....over.  And Over.  

            

We drove up to this cute little house.  I sat in the car for a few minutes deep breathing.  Terrified.  What if I wouldn't be able to discern whether this dog was the right dog for me?  What if the foster mom didn't like me?  What if I liked the dog and wanted to bring him home, but Jenn didn't?

Mustering up the courage to walk to the door, I rang the bell.   A beautiful lady answered...the squeaky clean kind of beauty that shines from inside out.  She ushered Jenn and me into her living room.   Her dog Titus jumped up on the couch to say hello, and Enzo, before I had time to even look at him, literally FLEW onto my lap, wrapped his arms around either side of my neck, laid his head against my extra large chest, and let out this huge sigh.    His tongue...that glorious big tongue, plastered against my face.  Katie said, "I've never seen him do that to anyone like that...I think he's claimed you."    I took one look at Jenn.  She took one look at me.  Then, with a half grin on her face, she announced..."Guess we won't be needing to go have that lunch talk."     And that was that.   Enzo came home.  Jenn drove.  I passionately held, cuddled, and nuzzled my new soul dog.    From the very first second we were bonded.  He is quirky, funny, and makes me laugh often.  When I'm not paying enough attention to him, he nibbles my chin and ear lobes.  And when he goes to sleep at night, he backs himself up to my belly and spoons with me.  My hand rests on his chest and I feel his heart beat and his chest rise and fall.  And no matter how stressful my day has been, at that moment, all is right with the world.  I kept his name Enzo.  But added a middle name -- Emmanuel, which means, "God With Us."  Truly, God had hand picked this dog for me.  God, indeed, was with me.

Next comes Mia:  Mia is my 6 year-old female Italian Greyhound.  After falling in love with Enzo, I decided I would like to get another Iggy.  A companion, of sorts, for my little tongue boy.  Most iggy owners agree that they're like potato chips, you can't have just one.   And since I like potato chips...A LOT and iggies...A LOT, makes sense to me!   

I contacted Lifeline once again and asked that they be on the lookout for a good match.  The gal who ran that rescue, Jenny, was very skilled at matching up dogs with dogs and dogs with people.  She just has the knack.  Eight months later she called me about a rescue for which she didn't have a foster home.  She made me an offer:  Would I drive up to Upper Wisconsin and pick up this biggie iggie, (MIA), and foster her for two weeks while she looked for another foster home?  IF, in the two weeks I agreed to foster her, I fell in love with her and she turned out to be a good match with Enzo

and my hubby, I would have first dibs on her.    Two weeks later, she was ours -- though it took less than a week to decide that she was definitely a part of our family.  Mia is a needy girl.  She loves passionately.  And she wants you to love her passionately....Every.  Minute.  And.  Every.  Second.  Of. Every. Day. And. Night.  She is a little skittish with some men.  But when she decides you are on her "acceptable" list, she will worship you.  Openly.  Unabashedly.  And she loves my BFF most.  We joke, saying that Jenn just lets us keep her here.   You see, when we picked her up she was terrified.  She shook like a rattling pressure cooker.  This time, on the way home, I drove.  Enzo as my backseat driver.

Jenn sat in the backseat with arms wrapped around Mia.  She became Mia's savior.  Her God.

I'm number one when Jenn is not here visiting.  I do not exist, however, when Jenn is at our house.     Mia is a good fit.  And she is beautiful.  

And then came Rocket Man.  When Del and I moved to Madison, WI from Yorktown, VA, we decided to get a cat.  We adopted a black and brown tabby named Ghettie.  We had her for 15 years.  She worshiped Del; He adored her.  Unfortunately, she, too, had to be put to sleep just this past July due to renal failure.   For awhile, Del said he didn't want to get another cat.   But I could tell....his soul needed one.   I tried not to push the subject....we all have our grieving to do.    One day, several months later, while he was painting a room in the house, I suggested we go look at a local humane society....just to see what was out there.  No commitments.  No expectations.  Just a cheap date.  :-)     After a little hemming and hawing he decided a break would be nice, and he would humor me.    We looked at several cats (most of their kittens were adopted the weekend before), but there was this one year old....a brown and black tabby....that Del took a liking to.  We were about to leave, when Del asked the worker there if he thought "July" would be adopted very quickly.   He was advised that because July was only a year old, in good health, and was quite social, that he would probably be one of the first adopted.    Del, one who takes a while to make a final decision about most things, asked if there was a way to put July on "hold."  We walked out 15 minutes later having put a $20 hold on the little guy, so that Del could think it over.   Forty Eight  hours later "July" got sprung from jail and came to his forever home...   He has a kitten-like mew in a cat body.  He is sweet and mischevious and absolutely loves everybody, although he's a little laid back.  His favorite activity:  Being held in Del's arms, hiding his face.  And.   Counter surfing!    Ahem!   He DOES NOT like squirt bottles.  Especially when they are pointed right in his face.  Which, I might add, is often.

   

And then came Finn....

Finnegan, AKA Finn, or sometimes more frequently called Little S_ _ t, is the shot of expresso in our house.  

After we decided to officially adopt Rocket Man, we knew we needed to buy some Cat Trees.  Rocket Man still has his claws, and part of the adoption agreement stipulated that we would not de-claw him.  So, I had two days to go out and research Cat Trees.  I looked on-line at local cat suppy stores to narrow the running around to a minimum.  I finally decided to visit a Store on the West Side of Madison called MAD CAT.   I was to go an hour and a half ahead of Del, narrow the selections to just a couple, and then he would come and look them over.    HA!    I walked into the store with one intention....find a cat tree.  But there, in a little cage, sat this orange 3-month-old beauty they were calling Frodo.  There ARE priorities in life, you know.   And this little imp became mine.   I immediately forgot my cat tree mission, picked up the kitty from the cage, and proceded on to my next mission...

Cat toys....I was there for cat toys!  (If you're going to have A.D.D., you might as well enjoy it, right?).    So, after looking at cat toys for at least an hour, all the while carrying said little orange kitty in my arms like a baby, I finally did make it over to the cat trees.   And yes, eventually we bought one.   (Really, we bought two....)

I'm not sure how long it was before Del showed up.

 

He walked into the store, took one look at the kitty in my arms and says, "No, we are not getting two cats...Absolutely not."

Well here, my friends, is the pay off of being married 22 years and knowing how to manipulate your husband.

I agreed with him.

We walked out of that store having ordered one cat tree, to be delivered the next day.  Once it was in place, we would go get Rockt Man.   Signed, sealed, delivered.

We did not walk out with an orange kitty.

The following day I called MAD HAT from the privacy of my bathroom and asked if the orange kitty was still there.  Answer:  yes.  I inquired about how one could go about adopting him.   (They showcase them in the store for a local rescue: Dane County Friends of Ferrals).  Later that night, after filling out an on-line adoption request, I sat back and prayed.   Yup.  I prayed that they would choose us.  I prayed that my husband wouldn't kill me.  Then I went and broached the topic with Del again.....

He wasn't thrilled....his answer was still No.  I think he thought he had a good "out" in his pocket.    He said, "Call Pam.  Ask HER what she thinks about the idea."    Pam is our vet.  She's also a dear friend.  So, even though Pam was on vacation, I texted her.  She said, "Only get a second kitty if you want a second kitty.  Don't do it because you want a companion for the other one.  BUT:   if you do get a second kitty, make sure both kitties are male, that both have been neutured, and that the new one is quite a bit younger than the first one.   I texted back that Rocket Man was fixed and one year old.  Finney, a male, was 3 months old and neutered.  Neither tested positive for Feline Leukemia.  She texted back her blessing!

Presented with this information, Del still said no.  But, however, he said he would give it some thought.  He said he'd let me know in the morning.

Like I said, after 22 years of marriage I've learned a few things.  With Del, you don't push.  You suggest.  You pray.  You wait.  

Saturday morning I got up, hoping he'd be up, jumping up and down with a positive answer.  But he wasn't.  Dejectedly, I dressed and left for a standing meeting that I attend.    

I knew it was a long shot.  Yet, something inside me felt like that kitty was supposed to be ours.

The meeting was just about to commence.  I happened to look up, and there was my husband's face looking in the window.   He pointed at me....crooked his finger to step out.

Once the door was closed behind me, he took my hand and said, "You really really want that kitty, don't you?"   I had tears in my eyes.  I told him yes.  He said, "Okay....I'll meet you there around 12:30."

Three hours later Frodo, renamed "Finnegan" came home to meet his brother Rocket Man.  Within 24 hours they were the best of friends.

                                                                     

Finnegan is a walking purr factory.  He plays hard, He sleeps hard.   He can be ping-ponging around the house, knocking things from counters, bookshelves, china hutch, and then fall in a golden heap and sleep like an angel.  He eats paper.  Any kind of paper.  Mail especially.  (Wish he'd just eat the bills and not the handwritten letters).    He and Rocket sleep together, groom each other, and both follow Del around like they are dogs instead of cats.  

Recently Del came in to the room I was sitting in, hands in his side pockets.  He wanted to talk.  And since he's not really much of a talker....when he says he wants to, I'm all ears.   After a momentary pause, he said, "You were right PeggyAnn.  I needed Rocket Man.  And I needed Finnegan too.  Thank you."

Music to my ears....

With two dogs and two cats in our home there's a lot of chaos:  running, chasing, playing, swatting biting, and barking.   There's a lot of life here.  

...and a lot of love.  

I wouldn't have it any other way.  

An Introduction

Hi Y'all,

Welcome to Much Ado About Something, a personal blog written by yours truly, PeggyAnn C. Poss.

 I've had a lot of people tell me that If I don't write, I'm missing my calling.  I've heard those words enough lately, that I have finally considered starting a blog...testing the waters, so to speak.  A blog.....hmmmm.  Why a blog?  Well, I do love to write.   And I have a lot of thoughts on a lot of things, so maybe this is a way to give my opinions life.  A way to think things through.  A venue to share the stuff of my life.  The funny stuff.  The Sad Stuff.  The learning stuff.  The God stuff.   Maybe this blog thing will be my way of connecting to myself.  Or maybe it will be a way of connecting with you

So let me tell you a little about myself.   I'm fat.  And not just a little fat.  I'm A LOT fat.  From the neck down, well, let's say, it's not a pretty sight.   From the neck up, I'm pretty.  Especially when I smile.  Which I try to do a lot.  It's good exercise.

When I was born I was 3 pounds 3 oz. Yup.  A 7 month preemie.  And somehow, way back when, the nurses fed you sugar water to help that "failure to thrive" issue that preemies often have.  Well, they did a good job.  I beat that failure.  I'm a quick learner.   And now, sugar is my best friend.   Or should I say, my worst enemy.

The first thing most of my friends would tell you if you asked what I am like, is that I'm very direct.  I like honesty.  You know, you be you, I'll be me, authentically, and all that sort of crap.  I believe that honesty begets honesty; vulnerability, vulnerability, and so on and so on....  If I show you the real me, the good, the bad, the ugly....the happy, the sad, the mad....maybe it will encourage you to peek your head out of your own inner self and be brave enough to show me who you are.  Because you know
what....

We're all works in progress.  We all have wonderful things about us.  And we all have baggage.  Sometimes the baggage looks bigger on the outside and you have to dig a little deeper to get to the beauty.  But it's there.  In each and every one of us.

I already told you about  some of my baggage.  I'm fat.  But you know what else?  I'm a neat person.  I love deeply.  I care intensely about people.  I am really funny sometimes, and I laugh a lot.

At first blush when someone meets me, all they see is an outer shell of a body that is way bigger than what is the "norm."  And they do what we all do when we see someone who is way
different....they drop their jaw, maybe point, look away, whatever....because they have a feeling inside and they don't know what to do with it.

So me, I don't get mad if kids point or laugh.   I'd be a liar if I said I didn't feel hurt sometimes.  But I also know kids are kids...people are people.   Some just don't know what to do or how to act around
someone who is so different from them.   Some are just mean, because they are just mean.  Some just need to be educated....(now that's ANOTHER blog topic!)!!

But the great thing is this, I know I was created by God.  And I know that I have gifts that He put inside me.  And friend, if you take the time to look beyond my shell, and if you are willing to risk your inside with my inside, you will probably really like me.  Who knows, I may be that best friend you've always wanted.  The one who doesn't judge you because you look different, or act different, or are different.

Sometimes being me is a drag.  It's really hard to carry around 3 people on your back instead of one.  But sometimes being me is wonderful, too.    I have a unique way of looking at things.  God gifted me with a fantastic sense of humor...albeit a little strange at times.  And he put inside me the desire to care.  To not sit on the sidelines and do nothing, but to reach out.   I know AT&T and Hallmark say they have the market on that....reaching out and touching someone....but I do that quite well myself.  

I've been through a lot.  No kidding on that one.   And because of the stuff I've shouldered....I have a lot of empathy for others.  Oh yeah, I'm also smart.  Not in an Einstein sort of way...but in a common sense sort of way.  I love words.  I'm their greatest fan.  Ask any SCRABBLE game and the tiles will jump out and scream, "She loves my letters because they make words!"  I love to play with them, read them, write them, speak them!  Whoo Hoo!   Love Words!

So, now that we have THAT issue out of the way.....(can you tell that being BIG is a REALLY BIG issue to me?)  I can share a little more of what makes me tick.

Here's a little secret.  I love critters.  Most critters, that is.  Dogs are my favorite.  Cats come next.  Then anything else thats furry....ferrets, gerbils, guinea pigs, chinchillas...you get the picture.  I like birds too, but they don't usually like me.  Another secret....(sorry reptile lovers)...not a fan of snakes.  At All.  I like lizards, salamanders, frogs, tadpoles, fish.  But snakes.....and spiders, bees, wasps, hornets, ants, flys, mosquitos....let's just say when it comes to those, my personality changes...

I have two dogs, Enzo and Mia, both Italian Greyhounds.  They rock my world.  I also have two cats, Finnegan, also known as "Little S_ _ t" and Rocket Man, both recent rescues.  There's something very comforting about a cat purring on your chest.   I also have a husband.  These are the loves of my life.  Don't ask me who I love the most.  Not a fair question!   Totally depends on the day.  And the side of the bed I got up on.  

I have two favorite hobbies other than friendship, dogs, cats, husband, reading, words, Scrabble, and playing Canasta.   Knitting.   And.  Skinny Dipping.   Not sure which I love more.  One's a creative process, the other, a Creation process.  

Knitting is a wonderful art.  To take string and two or more sticks and turn the string into something lovely is very rewarding, except when you drop stitches on a complicated pattern.

Then there's Skinny Dipping.  All's needed is you...and water.  And the only thing that gets dropped is your skivvies.    Ahhhhhhh.

Hmmmmmm

It's a hard call....

But...

Skinny Dipping wins.

And you want to know why?  The REAL reason?

Shhhhhhh.  Come closer and I'll whisper in your ear...

Fat Floats!  :-)

Thanks for letting me introduce myself and my blog:  Much Ado About Something - PeggyAnn